The Chronicles of the Cheysuli:

An Overview

THE PROPHECY OF THE FIRSTBORN:

"One day a man of all blood shall unite. In peace.
four warring realms and two magical races.

Originally a race of shapechangers known as the
Cheysuli, descendants of the Firstborn, Homana's
original race, held the Lion Throne, but increasing
unrest on the part of the Homanans, who lacked
magical powers and therefore feared the Cheysuli,
threatened to tear the realm apart. The Cheysuli
royal dynast voluntarily gave up the Lion Throne
so that Homanans could rule Homana, thereby
avoiding fullblown internecine war.

The clans withdrew altogether from Homanan
society save for one remaining and binding tradi-
tion: each Homanan king, called a Mujhar, must
have a Cheysuli liege man as bodyguard, council-
lor, companion, dedicated to serving the throne
and protecting the Mujhar, until such a time as
the prophecy is fulfilled and the Firstborn rule
again.

This tradition was adhered to without incident
for nearly four centuries, until Lindir, the only
daughter of Shaine the Mujhar, jilted her prospec-
tive bridegroom to elope with Hale, her father's
Cheysuli liege man. Because the jilted bridegroom
was the heir of a neighboring king, Bellam of So-
linde, and because the marriage was meant to seal
an alliance after years of bloody war, the elope-

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Jennifer Roberson

ment resulted in tragic consequences. Shaine con-
cocted a web of lies to salve his obsessive pride,
and in so doing laid the groundwork for the anni-
hilation of a race.

Declared sorcerers and demons dedicated to the
downfall of the Homanan throne, the Cheysuli
were summarily outlawed and sentenced to imme-
diate execution if found within Homanan borders.

Shapechangers begins the "Chronicles of the
Cheysuli," telling the tale of Alix, daughter of
Lindir, once Princess of Homana, and Hale, once
Cheysuli liege man to Shaine. Alix is an unknown
catalyst bearing the Old Blood of the Firstborn,
which gives her the ability to link with all lir and
assume any animal shape at will. But Alix is
raised by a Homanan and has no knowledge of her
abilities, until she is kidnapped by Finn, a Chey-
suli warrior who is Hale's son by his Cheysuli
wife, and therefore Alix's half-brother. Kidnapped
with her is Carillon, Prince of Homana. Alix learns
the true power in her gifts, the nature of the
prophecy which rules all Cheysuli, and eventually
marries a warrior, Duncan, to whom she bears a
son, Donal, and, much later, a daughter, Bronwyn.
But Homana's internal strife weakens her de-
fenses. Bellam of Solinde, with his sorcerous aide,
Tynstar the Ihlini, conquers Homana and assumes
the Lion Throne.

In The Song of Homana, Carillon returns from
a five-year exile, faced with the difficult task of
gathering an army capable of overcoming Bellam.
He is accompanied by Finn, who has assumed the
traditional role of liege man. Aided by Cheysuli
magic and his own brand of personal power, Caril-
lon is able to win back his realm and restore the
Cheysuli to their homeland by ending the purge
begun by his uncle, Shaine. Alix's grandfather. He
marries Bellam's daughter to seal peace between

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

xf

the lands, but Electra has already cast her lot with
Tynstar the Ihlini, and works against her Homa-
nan husband. Carillon's failure to father a son
forces him to betroth his only daughter, Aislinn,
to Donal, Alix's son, whom he names Prince of
Homana. This public approbation of a Cheysuli
warrior is the first step in restoring the Lion
Throne to the sovereignty of the Cheysuli, required
by the prophecy, and sows the seeds of civil
unrest.

Legacy of the Sword focuses on Donal's slow as-
sumption of power within Homana, and his per-
sonal assumption of his role in the prophecy.
Because by clan custom a warrior is free to take
both wife and mistress, Donal has started a Chey-
suli family even though he will one day have to
marry Carillon's daughter to cement his right to
the Lion Throne. By his Cheysuli mistress he has
two children, lan and Isolde; by Aislinn, Carillon's
daughter, he eventually sires a son who will be-
come his heir. But the marriage is rocky immedi-
ately; in addition to the problems caused by a
second family, Donal's Homanan wife is also
under the magical influence of her mother, Electra,
who is mistress to Tynstar. Problems are com-
pounded by the son of Tynstar and Electra, Strahan,
who has his father's powers in full measure. On
Carillon's death Donal inherits the Lion, naming
his legitimate son, Niall, to succeed him. But to
further the prophecy he marries his sister, Bron-
wyn, to Alaric of Atvia, lord of an island kingdom.
Bronwyn is later killed by Alaric accidentally
while in /ir-shape, but lives long enough to give
birth to a daughter, Gisella, who is mad.

In Track of the White Wolf, Donal's son Niall is
a young man caught between two worlds. To the
Homanans, fearful of Cheysuli power and inten-
tions, he is worthy only of distrust, the focus of

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xU

their discontent. To the Cheysuli he is an "un-
blessed" man, because even though far past the
age for it, Niall has not linked with his animal.
He is therfore a lirless man, a warrior with no
power, and such a man has no place within the
clans. His Cheysuli half-brother is his liege man,
fully "blessed," and lan's abilities serve to add to
Niall's feelings of inferiority.

Niall is meant to marry his half-Atvian cousin,
Gisella, but falls in love with the princess of a
neighboring kingdom, Deirdre of Erinn. Lirless,
and with Gisella under the influence of Tynstar's
Ihlini daughter, Lillith, Niall falls prey to sorcery.
Eventually he links with his lir and assumes the
full range of Cheysuli powers, but he pays for it
with an eye. His marriage to Gisella is disastrous,
but two sets of twins are bom—Brennan and Hart,
Corin and Keely—which gives Niall the opportu-
nity to extend his range of influence via betrothal
alliances. He banishes Gisella to At via after he
foils an Ihlini plot involving her, and then settles
into life with his mistress, Deirdre of Erinn, who
has already borne Maeve, his illegitimate
daughter.

A Pride of Princes tells the story of each of Niall's
three sons. Brennan, the eldest, will inherit Ho-
mana and has been betrothed to Aileen, Deirdre's
niece, to add a heretofore unknown bloodline to
the prophecy. Brennan's twin. Hart, is Prince of
Solinde, a compulsive gambler whose addiction
results in a tragic accident involving all three of
Niall's sons. Hart is banished to Solinde for a year,
and the rebellious youngest son, Corin, to Atvia.
Brennan is tricked into siring a child on an Ihlini-
Cheysuli woman; Hart loses a hand and nearly his
life in a Solindish plot; in Erinn, Corin falls in
love with Brennan's bride, Aileen, before going to
Atvia. One by one each is captured by Strahan,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              xiii

Tynstar's son, who intends to turn Niall's sons
into puppet-kings so he can rule through them. All
three manage to escape, but not until after each
has been made to recognize particular strengths
and weaknesses.

For Keely, sister of Niall's sons, things are dif-
ferent. In Daughter of the Lion, Keely herself is
caught up in the machinations of politics, evil sor-
cery, and her own volatile emotions. Trained from
childhood in masculine pursuits such as weap-
onry, Keely prefers the freedom of choice and life-
style, and as both are threatened by the imminent
arrival of her betrothed, Sean of Erinn, she fights
to maintain her sense of self in a world ruled by
men. She is therefore ripe for rebellion when a
strong-minded, powerful Erinnish brigand—and
possible murderer—enters her life.

But Keely's battles are increased tenfold when
Strahan chooses her as his next target. Betrayed,
trapped, and imprisoned on the Crystal Isle, Keely
is forced through sorcery into a liaison with the
Ihlini that results in pregnancy. But before the
child can be born, Keely escapes with the aid of
the Ihlini bard, Taliesin. On her way home she
meets the man believed to be her betrothed, and
realizes not only must she somehow rid herself of
the unwanted child, but must also decide which
man she will have—thief or prince—in order to be
a true Cheysuli in service to the prophecy.

Flight of the Raven is the story of Aidan, only
son of Brennan and Aileen. Hounded in childhood
by nightmares, Aidan grows to adulthood con-
vinced he is not meant to hold the Lion Throne
after all, but is intended to follow a different path,
This path becomes more evident as he sets out to
visit his kin in Solinde and Erinn in order to find
a bride; very quickly it becomes apparent that
Aidan has been singled out by the Cheysuli gods

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xtv

to complete a quest for golden links personifying
specific Mujhars. In pursuing his quest, Aidan be-
comes the target of Lochiel the Ihlini, Strahan's

son.

Bound by their mutual Erinnish gift of kivama,
a strong empathy, Aidan and Shona of Erinn
marry. The child of this union wilt bring the Chey-
suli one step closer to completion of the prophecy,
and is therefore a grave threat to Lochiel. The Ih-
lini attacks Clankeep, kills Shona, and cuts the
child from her belly. Aidan, seriously wounded,
falls victim to epilepsy; in his "fits" he prophesies
of the coming of Cynric, the Firstborn. To get back
his stolen child, Aidan conquers his weakness to
confront Lochiel in Valgaard itself, where he wins
back his son. But Aidan realizes he is not meant
for thrones and titles; he renounces his rank, gives
his son, Kellin, into the keeping of Aileen and
Brennan, and takes up residence as a shar tahl on
the Crystal Isle, where he begins to prepare the
way for the coming of the Firstborn.

Prologue

In thread, on cloth, against a rose-red stone wall
gilt-washed by early light: Lions. Mujhars. Chey-
suli, and Homanan; and the makings of the world
in which the boy and his grand-uncle lived.

"Magic," the boy declared solemnly, more in-
tent upon his declaration than most eight-year-
olds; but then most eight-year-old boys do not dis-
cover magic within the walls of their homes.

The old man agreed easily without the hesita-
tion of those who doubted, or wished to doubt, put
off by magic's power; magic was no more alien to
him than to the boy, in whose blood it lived as it
lived in his own, and in others Cheysuli-bom.

"Woman's magic," he said, "conjured from head
and hands." His own long-fingered left hand, once
darkly supple and eloquent, now stiffened bone be-
neath wrinkled, yellowing flesh, traced out the intri-
cate stitchwork patterns of the massive embroidered
arras hung behind the Lion Throne. "Do you see,
Kellin? This is Shame, whom the Homanans
would call your five times great-grandfather.
Cheysuli would call him hosa'ana."

It was mid-morning in Shaine's own Great Hall.
Moted light sliced through stained glass case-
ments to paint the hall all colors, illuminating the
vast expanse of ancient architecture that had
housed a hundred kings long before Kellin—or
lan—was born.

/5

16              Jennifer Roberson

The boy, undaunted by the immensity of history
or the richness of the hammer-beamed hall and
its multitude of trappings, nodded crisply, a little
impatient, black brows drawn together in a frown
old for his years; as if Kellin, Prince of Homana,
knew very well who Shaine was, but did not count
him important.

lan smiled. And well he might not; his history is
more recent, and his youth concerned with now, not
yesterday's old Mujhars.

"Who is this?" A finger, too slender for the char-
acteristic incomplete stubbiness of youth—Chey-
suli hands, despite the other houses thickening his
blood—transfixed a stitchwork lion made static by
the precise skill of a woman's hands. "Is this my

father?"

"No." The old man's lean, creased-leather face
gave away nothing of his thoughts, nothing of his
feelings, as he answered the poorly concealed hope
in the boy's tone. "No, Kellin. This tapestry was
completed before your father was born. It stops
here—you see?—" he touched thread, "—with
your grandsire."

A dirt-rimmed fingernail bitten off crookedly in-
serted itself imperatively between dusty threads,
once-brilliant colors muted by time and long-set
sunlight. "But he should be here. My father.
Somewhere."

The expression was abruptly fierce, no longer
hopeful, no longer clay as yet unworked, but the
taut arrogance of a young warrior as he looked up
at the old man, who knew more than the boy what
it was to be a warrior; he had even been in true
war, and was not merely a construct of aging

tales.

lan smiled, new wrinkles replacing old between
the thick curtains of snowy hair. "And so he would
be, had it taken longer for Deirdre and her women

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

17

to complete the Tapestry of Lions. Perhaps some-
day another woman will begin a new tapestry and
put you and your father and your heir in it."

"Mujhars," Kellin said consideringly. "That's
what all of them were." He glanced back at the
huge tapestry filling the wall behind the dais, fix-
ing a dispassionate gaze upon it. The murmured
names were a litany as he moved his finger from
one lion to another: "Shaine, Carillon, Donal,
Niall, Brennan . .." Abruptly the boy broke off and
took his finger from the stitching. "But my father
isn't Mujhar and never will be." He stared hard
at the old man as if he longed to challenge but
did not know how. "Never will be."

It did not discomfit lan, who had heard it
phrased one way or another for several years. The
intent was identical despite differences in phrase-
ology: Kellin desperately wanted his father, Aidan,
whom he had never met. "No," lan agreed. "You
are next, after Brennan .. . they have told you
why."

The boy nodded. "Because he left." He meant to
sound matter-of-fact, but did not; the unexpected
shine of tears in clear green eyes dissipated former
fierceness, "He ran awayl"

lan tensed. It would come, one day; now I must
drive it back, "No." He reached and caught one
slight shoulder, squeezing slightly as he felt the
suppressed, minute trembling. "Kellin—who said
such a monstrous thing? It is not true, as you well
know . . . your father ran from nothing, but to his
tahlmorra—"

"They said—" Kellin's lips were white as he
compressed them. "They said he left because he
hated me."

"Who said this?"

Kellin bit into his bottom lip. "They said I
wasn't the son he wanted."

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Jennifer Roberson

"Kellin—"
It was very nearly a wail though he worked to

choke it off. "What did I do to make him hate me

so?"
"Your jehan does not hate you."

"Then why isn't he here! Why can't he come?
Why can't I go there?" Green eyes burned fiercely.
"Have I done something wrong?"

"No. No, Kellin—you have done nothing wrong."

The small face was pale. "Sometimes I think I
must be a bad son."

"In no way, Kellin—"

"Then, why?" he asked desperately. "Why can't

he come?"
Why indeed? lan asked himself. He did not in

the least blame the boy for voicing what all of
them wondered, but Aidan was intransigent. The
boy was not to come until he was summoned. Nor
would Aidan visit unless the gods indicated it was
the proper time. But will it ever be the proper time?

He looked at the boy, who tried so hard to give
away none of his anguish, to hide the blazing pain.
Homana-Mujhar begins to put Jesses on the fledgling.

Strength waned. lan desired to sit down upon
the dais so as to be on the boy's level and discuss
things more equally, but he was old, stiff, and
weary; rising again would prove difficult. There
was so much he wanted to say that little of it
suggested a way to be said. Instead, he settled for
a simple wisdom. "I think perhaps you have spent
too much time of late with the castle boys. You
should ask to go to Clankeep. The boys there know

better."
It was not enough. It was no answer at all. lan

regretted it immediately when he saw Kellin's

expression.

"Grandsire says I may not go. I am to stay here,

A TAPESTRY OF LlOfVS

19

he says—but he won't tell me why. But I heard—
I heard one of the servants say—" He broke it off.

"What?" lan asked gently. "What have the ser-
vants said?"

"That—that even in Clankeep, the Mujhar fears
for my safety. That because Locniel went there once,
he might again—and if he knew / was there .. ."
Kellin shrugged small shoulders. "I'm to be kept
here."

It is no wonder, then, he listens to castle boys. lan
sighed and attempted a smile. "There will always
be boys who seek to hurt with words. You are a
prince—they are not. It is resentment, Kellin. You
must not put faith in what they say about your
Jehan. They none of them know what he is."

Kellin's tone was flat, utterly lifeless; his at-
tempt to hide the hurt merely increased its poi-
gnancy. "They say he was a coward. And sick- And
given to fits."

All this, and more . .. he has years yet before they
stop, if any of them ever will stop; it may become a
weapon meant to prick and goad first prince, then
Mujhar. lan felt a tightness in his chest. The win-
ter had been cold, the coldest he recalled in sev-
eral seasons, and hard on him. He had caught a
cough, and it had not completely faded even with
the onset of full-blown spring.

He drew in a carefully measured breath, seeking
to lay waste to words meant to taunt the smallest
of boys who would one day be the largest, in rank
if not in height. "He is a shar tahl, Kellin, not a
madman. Those who say so are ignorant, with no
respect for Cheysuli customs." Inwardly he chided
himself for speaking so baldly of Homanans to a
young, impressionable boy, but lan saw no reason
to lie. Ignorance was ignorance regardless of its
racial origins; he knew his share of stubborn Chey-

20              Jennifer Roberson

suli, too. "We have explained many times why he
went to the Crystal Isle."

"Can't he come to visit? That's all I want. Just
a visit." The chin that promised adult intransi-
gence was no less tolerant now. "Or can't I go
there? Wouldn't I be safe there, with him?"

lan coughed, pressing determinedly against the
sunken breastbone hidden beneath Cheysuli jerkin
as if to squeeze his lungs into compliance. "A shar
tahl is not like everyone else, Kellin. He serves the
gods ... he cannot be expected to conduct himself
according to the whims and desires of others." It
was the simple truth. lan knew, but doubted it
offered enough weight to crush a boy's pain. "He
answers to neither Mujhar nor clan-leader, but to
the gods themselves. If you are to see your jehan,

he will send for you."

"It isn't fair," Kellin blurted in newborn bitter-
ness. "Everyone else has a father!"

"Everyone else does not have a father." lan
knew of several boys in Homana-Mujhar and Clan-
keep who lacked one or both parents. "Jehans and
jehanas die, leaving children behind."

"My mother died." His face spasmed briefly.

"They said I killed her."
"No—" No, Kellin had not killed Shona; Lochiel

had. But the boy no longer listened.

"She's dead—but my father is alive' Can't he

come?"

The cough broke free of lan's wishes, wracking

lungs and throat. He wanted very much to answer
the boy, his long-dead brother's great-grandson,
but he lacked the breath for it. "—Kellin—"

At last the boy was alarmed. "Su'fali?" lan was
many generations beyond uncle, but it was the
Cheysuli term used in place of a more complex
one involving multiple generations. "Are you sick

still?"

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS               21

"Winter lingers." He grinned briefly. "The bite
of the Lion .. ."

"The Lion is biting you?" Kellin's eyes were
enormous; clearly he believed there was truth in
the imagery.

"No." lan bent, trying to keep the pain from the
boy. It felt as if a burning brand had been thrust
deep into his chest. "Here—help me to sit . . ."

"Not there, not on the Lion—" Kellin grasped a
trembling arm. "I won't let him bite you, su'fali."

The breath of laughter wisped into wheezing.
"Kellin—"

But the boy chattered on of a Cheysuli warrior's
protection, far superior to that offered by others
unblessed by lir or shapechanging arts and the
earth magic, and guided lan down toward the
step. The throne's cushion would soften the harsh-
ness of old wood, but clearly the brief mention of
the Lion had burned itself into Kellin's brain; the
boy would not allow him to sit in the throne now,
even now, and lan had no strength to dissuade
him of his false conviction.

"Here, su'fali." The small, piquant face was a
warrior's again, fierce and determined. The boy
cast a sharp glance over his shoulder, as if to ward
away the beast.

"Kellin—" But it hurt very badly to talk through
the pain in his chest. His left arm felt tired and
weak. Breathing was difficult, Lir ... It was imper-
ative, instinctive; through the fir-link lan sum-
moned Tasha from his chambers, where she lazed
in a shaft of spring sunlight across the middlemost
part of his bed. Forgive my waking you—

But the mountain cat was quite awake and mov-
ing, answering what she sensed more clearly than
what she heard.

And more— With the boy's help lan lowered
himself to the top step of the dais, then bit back a

^              Jennifer Roberson

grimace. Breathlessly, he said, "Kellin—fetch your

grandsire."
The boy was all Cheysuli save for lighter-hued

flesh and Erinnish eyes, wide-sprung eyes: dead
Deirdre's eyes, who had begun the tapestry for her
husband, Niall, lan's half-brother, decades before

—green as Aileen's eyes— ... the Queen of Ho-
mana, grandmother to the boy; sinter to Sean of
Erinn, married to Keely, mother of Kellin's dead
mother. So many bloodlines now .. . have we
pleased the gods and the prophecy?

The flesh of Kellin's Cheysuli face was pinched
Homanan-pale beneath thick black hair. "Su'fali—"

lan twitched a trembling finger in the direction
of the massive silver doors gleaming dully at the
far end of the Great Hall. "Do me this service,

Kellin—"

And as the boy hastened away, crying out loudly
of deadly lions, the dying Cheysuli warrior bid his

mountain cat to run.

One

'' Summerfair,'' Kellin whispered in his bed-
chamber, testing the sound of the word and all its
implications. Then, in exultation, " Summefiair\"

He threw back the lid of a clothing trunk and
fetched out an array of velvets and brocades, toss-
ing all aside in favor of quieter leathers. He de-
sired to present himself properly but without
Homanan pretension, which he disliked, putting
into its place the dignity of a Cheysuli.

Summerfair. He was to go, this year. Last year
it had been forbidden, punishment as much for his
stubborn insistence that he had been right as for
the transgression itself, which he still believed nec-
essary. They had misunderstood, his grandsire and
granddame, and all the castle servants; they had
all misunderstood, each and every one, regardless
of rank, birth, or race.

lan would have understood, but Kellin's harani
was two years' dead. And it was because of lan's
death—and the means by which that death was
delivered—that Kellin sought to destroy what he
viewed as further threat to those he loved.

None of them understood. But his mind jumped
ahead rapidly, discarding the painful memories of
that unfortunate time as he dragged forth from
the trunk a proper set of Cheysuli leathers: soft-
tanned, russet jerkin with matching leggings; a

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Jennifer Roberson

26

belt fastened with onyx and worked gold; soft,
droopy boots with soles made for leaf-carpeted
forest, not the hard bricks of the city.

"—still fit—?" Kellin dragged on one boot and
discovered that no, it did not fit, which meant the
other didn't either; which meant he had grown
again and was likely in need of attention from Ai-
leen's sempstresses with regard to Homanan cloth-
ing ... He grimaced- He intensely disliked such
attention. Perhaps he could put on the Cheysuli
leathers and wear new Homanan boots; or was
that sacrilege?

He stripped free of Homanan tunic and breeches
and replaced them with preferred Cheysuli garb,
discovering the leggings had shrunk; no, his legs
had lengthened, which Kellin found pleasing. For
a time he had been small, but it seemed he was
at last making up for it. Perhaps now no one would
believe him a mere eight-year-old, but would under-
stand the increased maturity ten years brought.

Kellin sorted out the fit of his clothing and
clasped the belt around slender hips, then turned
to survey himself critically in the polished bronze
plate hung upon the wall. Newly-washed hair was
drying into accustomed curls—Kellin, frowning,
instantly tried to mash them away—but his chin
was smooth and childish, unmarred by the disfig-
uring hair Homanans called a beard- Such a thing
marked a man less than Cheysuli, Kellin felt, for
Cheysuli could not ordinarily grow beards—al-
though some mixed-blood Cheysuli not only could
but did; it was said Corin, in distant Atvia, wore
a beard, as did Kellin's own Errinish grandfather,
Sean—but he would never do so. Kellin would
never subscribe to a fashion that hid a man's heri-
tage behind the hair on his face.

Kellin examined his hairless chin, then ran a
finger up one soft-fleshed cheek, across to his nose,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

27

and explored the curve of immature browbone
above his eyes. Everyone said he was a true Chey-
suli, save for his eyes—and skin tinted halfway
between bronze and fair; though in summer he
tanned dark enough to pass as a trueblood—but
he could not replace his eyes, and his prayers in
childhood that the gods do so had eventually been
usurped by a growing determination to overlook
the improper color of his eyes and concentrate on
other matters, such as warrior skills, which he
practiced diligently so as not to dishonor his heri-
tage. And anyway, he was not solely Cheysuli; had
they not, all of them, told him repeatedly he was
a mixture of nearly every bloodline there was—or
of every one that counted—and that he alone could
advance the prophecy of the Firstborn one step
closer to completion?

They had. Kellin understood. He was Cheysuli,
but also Homanan, Solindish, Atvian, and Erin-
nish. He was needed, he was important, he was
necessary.

But sometimes he wondered if he himself, Kel-
lin, were not so necessary as his blood. If he cut
himself, and spilled it, would that satisfy them—
and then make him unimportant?

Kellin grimaced at his reflection. "Sometimes
they treat me like Gareth's prize stallion ... I
think he forgets what it is to be a horse, the way
they all treat him.. . ." But Kellin let it go. The
image in the polished plate stared back, green eyes
transmuted by bronze to dark hazel. The familiar-
ity of his features was momentarily blurred by
imagination, and he became another boy, a strange
boy, a boy with different powers promised one
day-

"Ihlini," Kellin whispered. "What are you really
like? Do you look like demons?"

"I think that unlikely," said a voice from the

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28

doorway: Rogan, his tutor. "I think they probably
resemble you and me, rather than horrid specters
of the netherworld. You've heard stories of Stra-
han and Lochiel. They look like everyone else."

Kellin could see Rogan's distorted reflection in
the bronze. "Could you be Ihlini?"

"Certainly," Rogan replied. "I am an evil sor-
cerer sent here from Lochiel himself, to take you
prisoner and carry you away to Valgaard, where
you will doubtlessly be tortured and slain, then
given over to Asar-Suti, the Seker—"

Kellin took it up with appropriate melodrama:

"—the god of the netherworld, who made and
dwells in darkness, and—"

"—who clothes himself in the noxious fumes of
his slain victims," Rogan finished.

Kellin grinned his delight; it was an old game,
"Grandsire would protect me."

"Aye, he would. That is what a Mujhar is for.
He would never allow anyone, sorcerer or not, to
steal his favorite grandson."

"I am his only grandson."

"And therefore all the more valuable." Rogan's
reflection sighed. "I know it has been very difficult
for you, being mewed up in Homana-Mujhar for
so many years, but it was necessary. You know
why."

Kellin knew why, but he did not entirely under-
stand. Punishment had kept him from attending
Summerfair for two years, but there was much
more to it than that. He had never known any free-
dom to visit Mujhara as others did, or even Clan-
keep without constant protection.

Kellin turned from the polished plate and looked
at Rogan. The Homanan was very tall and thin
and was inclined to stoop when he was tired, as
he stooped just now. His graying brown hair was
damp from recent washing, and he had put on

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

29

what Keltin called his "medium" clothes: not as
plain as his usual somber apparel, but not so fine
as those he wore when summoned to sup in the
Great Hall with the family, as occasionally hap-
pened. Plain black breeches and gray wool tunic
over linen shirt, belted and clasped with bronze,
replaced his customary attire.

"Why?" Kellin blurted. "Why do they let me go
now? I heard some of the servants talking. They
said grandsire and granddame were too frightened
to let me go out."

The lines in Rogan's face etched themselves a
little more deeply. "Even they understand they
cannot keep you in jesses forever. You must be
permitted to weather outside like a hawk on the
blocks, or be unfit for the task. And so they have
decided you may go this year, as you have im-
proved your manners—and because it is time. I
am put in charge . . . but there will be guards
also."

Kellin nodded; there were always guards. "Be-
cause I'm Aidan's only son", and the only heir," He
did not understand all of it. "Because—because if
Lochiel killed me, there would be no more threat."
He lifted his chin. "That's what they say in the
baileys and kitchens."

Rogan's eyes flinched. "You listen entirely too
much to gossip—but I suppose it is to be expected.
Aye, you are a threat to the Ihlini. And that is why
you are so closely guarded. With so many Cheysuli
here Lochiel's sorcery cannot reach you, and so
you are closely kept—but there are other ways,
ways involving nothing so much as a greedy cook
desiring Ihlini gold—" But Rogan waved it away
with a sharply dismissive gesture. "Enough of a
sad topic. There will be guards, as always, but
your grandsire has decided to allow you this small
freedom."

Jennifer Robersoa

30

Summerfair was more than a freedom. It was
renewal. Kellin forgot all about rumor and gossip.
Grinning, he pointed at the purse depending from
the belt. His grandfather had given Rogan coin for
Summerfair. "Can we go? Now?"

"We can go. Now."

"Then put on your Summerfair face," Kellin or-
dered sternly. Rogan was a plain, soft-spoken man
in his mid-forties only rarely given to laughter,
but Kellin had always known a quiet, steady
warmth from the Homanan. He enjoyed teasing
Rogan out of his melancholy moods, and today
was not a day for sad faces. "You will scare away
the ladies with that sad scowl."

"What does my face have to do with the ladies?"
Rogan asked suspiciously.

"It's Summerfair," Kellin declared. "Everyone
will be happier than usual because of Summerfair.
Even you will attract the ladies ... if you put
away that scowl."

"I am not scowling, and what do you know
about ladies?"

"Enough," Kellin said airily, and strode out of
the room.

Rogan followed- "How much is enough, my
young lord?"

"You know." Kellin stopped in the corridor. "I
heard Melora. She was talking to Belinda, who
said it had been too long since you'd had a good
woman in your bed." Rogan's face reddened im-
mediately. It was the first time any of Kellin's sal-
lies had provoked such a personal reaction, and
the boy was fascinated. "Has it been?"

The man rubbed wearily at his scalp. "Aye, well,
perhaps. Had I known Belinda and Melora were
so concerned about it, I might have asked them
for advice on how to change matters." He eyed his

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             31

charge closely. "How much do you know about
men and women?"

"Oh, everything. I know all about them." Kellin
set off down the corridor with Rogan matching his
longer strides to the boy's. "I was hoping I might
find a likely lady during Summerfair."

A large hand descended upon Kellin's shoulder
and stopped him in his tracks. "My lord," Rogan
said formally, "would you be so good as to tell
your ignorant tutor precisely what you are talking
about?"

"If you mean how much do I know," Kellin
began, "I know. I learned all about it last year.
And now I would like to try it for myself."

"At ten?" Rogan murmured, as much for him-
self as for Kellin.

"How old were you?"

Rogan looked thoughtful. "They say Cheysuli
grow up quickly, and there are stories about your
grandsire and his brothers. ..."

Kellin grinned. "This might be the best
Summerfair of all."

"Better than last year, certainly." The under-
stated amusement faded from Rogan's tone. "You
do recall why you were refused permission to go."

Kellin shrugged it away. "Punishment."

"And why were you punished?"

Kellin sighed; it was very like Rogan to impose
lessons upon a holiday, and reminders of other
lessons. "Because I set fire to the tapestry."

"And the year before that?"

"Tried to chop the Lion to bits." Kellin nodded
matter-of-factly. "I had to do it, Rogan. It was the
Lion who killed lan."

"Kellin—"

"It came alive, and it bit him. My harani said

so.

Jennifer Roberson

32

Rogan was patient. "Then why did you try to
burn down the tapestry?"

"Because it's made of lions, too. You know
that," Kellin firmed his mouth; none of them
understood, even when he explained. "I have to
kill all the lions before they kill me."

Summer was Kellin's favorite season, and the
fair the best part of it. Never searingly hot, Ho-
mana nonetheless warmed considerably during
midsummer, and the freedom everyone felt was
reflected in high spirits, habits, and clothing. Ban-
ished were the leathers and furs and coarse wool-
ens of winter, replaced by linens and cambrics and
silks, unless one was determinedly Cheysuli in
habits at all times, as was Kellin, who wore jerkin
and leggings whenever he could. Everyone put on
Summerfair clothing, brightly dyed and embroi-
dered, and went out into the streets to celebrate
the season.

Doors stood open and families gathered before
dwellings, trading news and stories, sharing food
and drink. In Market Square Mujharan merchants
and foreign traders gathered to hawk wares. The
streets were choked with the music of laughter,
jokes, tambors, pipes and lutes, and the chime of
coin exchanged. The air carried the aromas of
spices and sweetmeats, and the tang of roasting
beef, pork, mutton, and various delicacies.

"Sausage!" Kellin cried. Then, correcting him-
self—he had taken pains to learn the proper for-
eign word: "Suhoqla! Hurry, Rogan!"

Kellin's nose led him directly to the wagons at
the outermost edge of Market Square, conspicu-
ously far from the worst of the tangle in the center
of the square. Already a small crowd gathered, Ho-
manans nudging one another with elbows and
murmuring pointed comments about the foreign-

A TAPESTRY OF LtOIVS             33

ers and foreign ways. That other traders were as
foreign did not seem to occur to them; these for-
eigners were rarely seen, and therefore all the
more fascinating.

Kellin did not care that they were foreign, save
their foreignness promised suhoqla, which he
adored, and other things as intriguing.

Rogan's voice was stem. "A more deliberate
pace, if you please—no darting through the crowd.
You make it difficult for the guard to keep up in
such crowded streets—and if we lose them, we
must return to the palace at once. Is that what
you wish to risk?"

Kellin glanced around. There they were, the
guard: four men of the Mujharan Guard, hand-
picked to protect the Prince of Homana. They were
unobtrusive in habits and clothing generally, ex-
cept now they wore the crimson tabards of their
station to mark them for what they were: body-
guards to the boy in whom the future of the Chey-
suli—and Homana herself—resided.

"But it's suhoqla ... you know how I love it,
Rogan."

"Indeed, so you have said many times."

"And I haven't had it for almost two years!"

"Then by all means have some now. All I ask is
that you recall I am almost four decades older
than you. Old men cannot keep up with small—"
he altered it in midsentence, "—young men."

Kellin grinned up at him. "A man as tall as you
need only stretch out prodigious legs, and he is in
Ellas."

Rogan smiled faintly. "So I have often been
told," he looked beyond Kellin to the wagon. "Su-
hoqla it is, then- Though how your belly can abide
it . .." He shook his head in despair. "You will
have none left by the time you are my great age."

"It isn't my belly I care about, it's my mouth."

34 Jennifer Roberson

Kellin edged his way more slowly through the
throng with Rogan and the watchdogs following
closely. "By the time it gets to my belly, it's
tamed."

"Ah. Well, here you are."

Here he was. Kellin stared at the three women
kneeling around the bowl-shaped frying surface.
They had dug a hollow in the sand, placed heated
stones in the bottom, then the clay plank atop the
stones. The curling links of sausage were cooked
slowly in their own grease, absorbing spiced oil-

The women were black-haired and black-eyed,
with skins the color of old ivory. Two of them were
little more than crones, but the third was much
younger. Her eyes, tilted in an oval face, were
bright and curious as she flicked a quick assessive
glance across the crowd, but only rarely did she
look anyone in the eye. She and her companions
wore shapeless dark robes and bone jewelry—
necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The old women
wore cloth head-coverings; the youngest had pulled
her hair up high on the back of her head, tying it
so that it hung down her back in a series of tight
braids. Two yellow feathers fluttered from one
braid as she moved-

"A harsh place, the Steppes," Rogan murmured.
"You can see it in their faces."

"Not in hers," Kellin declared.

"She is young," Rogan said sadly. "In time,
she'll grow to look like the others."

Kellin didn't like to think so, but filling his
mouth was more important than concerning him-
self with a woman's vanishing youth. "Buy me
some, Rogan, if you please."

Obligingly Rogan fished a coin out of the purse
provided by the Mujhar, and handed it to one of
the old women. The young one speared two links
with a sharpened stick, then held it out to Kellin.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             35

"Ah," Rogan said, looking beyond. "It isn't merely
the women, after all, that attract so many . .. Kel-
lin, do you see the warrior?"

Tentatively testing the heat of the spiced sau-
sages, Kellin peered beyond the women and saw
the man Rogan indicated. He forgot his suhoqla
almost at once; Steppes warriors only rarely showed
themselves in Mujhara, preferring to watch their
womenfolk from the wagons. This one had altered
custom to present himself in the flesh.

The warrior was nearly naked, clad only in a
brief leather loin-kilt, an abundance of knives, and
scars. He was not tall, but compactly muscled.
Black hair was clubbed back and greased, with a
straight fringe cut across his brow. He wore a plug
of ivory on one nostril, and twin scars bisected
each cheek, ridged and black, standing up like
ropes from butter-smooth flesh,

K-ellin lost count of the scars on the warrior's
body; by their patterns and numbers, he began to
wonder if perhaps they were to the Steppes war-
riors as much a badge of honor and manhood as
/ir-gold to a Cheysuli.

At the warrior's waist were belted three knives
of differing lengths, and he wore another on his
right forearm while yet another was hung about
his throat. It depended from a narrow leather
thong, sheathed, its greenish hilt glinting oddly in
the sunlight of a Homanan summer. The warrior
stood spread-legged, arms folded, seemingly deaf
and blind to those who gaped and commented,
but Kellin knew instinctively the Steppesman was
prepared to defend the women—the young one,
perhaps?—at a moment's notice.

Kellin looked up at his tutor. "Homana has
never fought the Steppes, has she?"

Rogan sighed. "You recall your history, I see-
No, Kellin, she has not. Homana has nothing to

36 Jennifer Roberson

do with the Steppes, no treaties, no alliances,
nothing at all. A few warriors and woman come
occasionally to Summerfair, that is all."

"But—I remember something—"

"That speaks well of your learning," Rogan said
dryly. "What you recall, I believe, is that one of
your ancestors, exiled from Homana, went into the
service of Caledon and fought against Steppes bor-
der raiders."

"Carillon." Kellin nodded. "And Finn, his Chey-
suli liege man." He grinned. "I am kin to both."

"So you are." Rogan looked again at the scarred
warrior. "A formidable foe, but then Carillon him-
self was a gifted soldier—"

"—and Finn was Cheysuli." Kellin's tone was de-
finitive; nothing more need be said.

"Aye." Rogan was resigned. "Finn was indeed
Cheysuli."

Kellin stared hard at the Steppes warrior. The
forgotten suhoqla dripped spiced grease down the
front of his jerkin. It was in his mind to make
the warrior acknowledge the preeminence of the
Cheysuli, to mark the presence of superiority; he
wanted badly for the fierceness of the scarred man
to pale to insignificance beside the power of his
own race, men—and some women—who could as-
sume the shape of animals at will. It was impor-
tant that the man be made to look at him, to see
him, to know he was Cheysuli, as was Finn, who
had battled Steppes raiders a hundred years before.

At last the black, slanting eyes deigned to glance
in his direction. Instinctively, Kellin raised his
chin in challenge. "I am Cheysuli."

Rogan grunted. "I doubt he speaks Homanan."

"Then how does he know what anyone says?"

The young woman moved slightly, eyes down-
cast. "I speak." Her voice was very soft, the Homa-

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              37

nan words heavily accented. "I speak, tell Tuqhoc
what is said, Tuqhoc decides if speaker lives."

Kellin stared at her in astonishment. "He
decides!"

"If insult is given, speaker must die." The young
woman glanced at the warrior, Tuqhoc, whose
eyes had lost their impassivity, and spoke rapidly
in a strange tongue.

Kellin felt a foolhardy courage fill up his chest,
driving him to further challenge. "Is he going to
kill me now?"

The young woman's eyes remained downcast. "I
told him you understand the custom."

"And if I insulted you?"

"Kellin," Rogan warned. "Play at no semantics
with these people; such folly promises danger."

The young woman was matter-of-fact. "He would
choose a knife, and you would die."

Kellin stared at the array of knives strapped
against scarred flesh. "Which one?"

She considered it seriously a moment. "The
king-knife. That one, one around his neck."

"That one?" Kellin looked at it. "Why?"

Her smile was fleeting, and aimed at the ground.
"A king-knife for a king—or a king's son."

It was utterly unexpected. Heat filled Kellin's
face. Everyone else knew; he was no longer re-
quired to explain. He had set aside such explana-
tions years before. But now the young woman had
stirred up the emotions again, and he found the
words difficult. "My father is not a king."

"You walk with dogs."

"Dogs?" Baffled, Kellin glanced up at Rogan.
"He is my tutor, not a dog. He teaches me things."

"I try to," Rogan remarked dryly.

She was undeterred by the irony. "Them," Her
glance indicated the alerted Mujharan Guard,

38 Jennifer Roberson

moving closer now that their charge conversed
with strangers from the Steppes.

Kellin saw her gaze, saw her expression, and
imagined what she thought. It diminished him. In
her eyes, he was a boy guarded by dogs; in his,
the son of a man who had renounced his rank and
legacy, as well as the seed of his loins. In that
moment Kellin lost his identity, stripped of it by
foreigners, and it infuriated him.

He stared a challenge at the warrior. "Show
me."

Rogan's hand came down on Kellin's shoulder.
Fingers gripped firmly, pressing him to turn. "This
is quite enough."

Kellin was wholly focused on the warrior as he
twisted free of the tutor's grip. "Show me."

Rogan's voice was clipped. "Kellin, I said it was
enough."

The watchdogs were there, right there, so close
they blocked the sun. But Kellin ignored them. He
stared at the young woman. "Tell him to show
me. Now!"

The ivory-dark faced paled. "Tuqhoc never
shows—Tuqhoc does."

Kellin did not so much as blink even as the
watchdogs crowded him. He pulled free of a hand:

Rogan's. "Tell him what I said."

Tuqhoc, clearly disturbed by the change in tone
and stance—and the free use of his own name—
barked out a clipped question. The young woman
answered reluctantly. Tuqhoc repeated himself, as
if disbelieving, then laughed. For the first time
emotion glinted in his eyes. Tuqhoc smiled at Kel-
lin and made a declaration in the Steppes tongue.

Rogan's hands closed on both shoulders deci-
sively. "We are leaving. I warned you, my lord."

"No," Kellin declared. To the young woman;

"What did he say?"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            39

"Tuqhoc says, if he shows, you die."

"Only a fool taunts a Steppes warrior—I thought
you knew better." Rogan's hands forced Kellin to
turn. "Away. Now."

Kellin tore free. "Show me!" Even as Rogan
blurted an order, the watchdogs closed on the
warrior, drawing swords. Kellin ducked around
one man, then slid through two others. The dark
Steppes eyes were fixed on the approaching men
in fierce challenge. Kellin desperately wanted to
regain that attention for himself. "Show me!" he
shouted.

Tuqhoc slipped the guard easily, so easily—even
as the challenge was accepted. In one quick, effort-
less motion Tuqhoc plucked the knife from the
thong around his neck and threw.

For Kellin, the knife was all. He was only pe-
ripherally aware of the women crying out, the gut-
tural invective of the warrior as the watchdogs
pressed steel against his flesh.

Rogan reached for him—

Too late. The knife was in the air. And even as
Rogan twisted, intending to protect his charge by
using his own body as shield, Kellin stepped nim-
bly aside. For ME—

He saw the blade, watched it, judged its arc, its
angle, anticipated its path. Then he reached out
and slapped the blade to the ground.

"By the gods—" Rogan caught his shoulders and
jerked him aside. "Have you any idea—?"

Kellin did. He could not help it. He stared at
the warrior, at the Steppes women, at the knife in
the street. He knew precisely what he had done,
and why.

He wanted to shout his exultation, but knew
better. He looked at the watchdogs and saw the
fixed, almost feral set of jaws; the grimness in

40 Jennifer Roberson

their faces; the acknowledgment in their eyes as
they caged the Steppesman with steel.

It was not his place to gloat; Cheysuli warriors
did not lower themselves to such unnecessary
displays.

Kellin bent and picked up the knife. He noted
the odd greenish color and oily texture of the
blade. He looked at Rogan, then at the young
woman whose eyes were astonished.

As much as for his tutor's benefit as for hers,
Kellin said: "Tell Tuqhoc that I am Cheysuli."

Two

Rogan's hand shut more firmly on Kellin's shoul-
der and guided him away despite his burgeoning
protest. Kellin was aware of the Mujharan Guard
speaking to Tuqhoc and the young woman, of the
tension in Rogan's body, and of the startled mur-
muring of the crowd.

"Wait—" He wanted to twist away from Ro-
gan's grasp, to confront Tuqhoc of the Steppes and
see the acknowledgment in his eyes, as it was in
the woman's, that a Cheysuli, regardless of youth
and size, was someone to be respected. But Rogan
permitted no movement save that engineered by
himself. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he know?

Unerringly—-and unsparing of his firmness—the
Homanan guided Kellin away from the wagons to
a quieter pocket in the square some distance
away. His tone was flat, as if he squeezed out all
emotion for fear of showing too much. "Let me
see your hand."

Now that the moment had passed and he could
no longer see the Steppes warrior, Kellin's elation
died. He felt listless, robbed of his victory. Sullenly
he extended his hand, allowing Rogan to see the
slice across the fleshy part of three fingers and the
blood running down his palm.

Tight-mouthed, Rogan muttered something
about childish fancies; Kellin promptly snatched
back his bleeding hand and pressed it against the

41

Jeaalfw Robersoa

sausage-stained jerkin. The uneaten suhoqla
grasped in his ether hand grew colder by the
moment.

Rogan said crisply, "I will find something with
which to bind these cuts."

Blood mingled with sausage grease as Kellin
pressed the fingers against his jerkin. It stung
badly enough to make the comers of his mouth
crimp, but he would not speak of it. He would
give away nothing. "Leave it be. It has already
stopped." He fisted his hand so hard the knuckles

turned white, then displayed it to Rogan. "You

i"
see.-*

The tutor shook his head slowly, but he gave the
hand only the merest contemplation; he looked
mostly at Kellin's face, as if judging him.

/ won't let him know, Kellin put up his chin. "I
am a warrior. Such things do not trouble warriors."

Rogan shook his head again. Something broke
in his eyes: an odd, twisted anguish. His breath
hissed between white teeth. "While you are fixed
wholly on comporting yourself as a warrior, ne-
glecting to recall you are still but a boy—I realize
it will do little if any good to point out that the
knife could have killed you." The teeth clamped
themselves shut. "But I'll wager that was part of
the reason you challenged him. Yet you should
know that such folly could result in serious reper-
cussions."

"But I could see—"

Rogan cut off the protest. "If not for yourself,
for me and the guard! Do you realize what would
become of us if you came to harm?"

Kellin had not considered that. He looked at
Rogan more closely and saw the very real fear in
his tutor's eyes. Shame goaded. "No," he admit-
ted, then anxiousness usurped it, and the need to
explain. "But I needed him to see. To know—"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              43

"Know what? That you are a boy too accus-
tomed to having his own way?"

"That I am Cheysuli." Kellin squeezed his cut
hand more tightly closed. "I want them all to
know. They have to know—they have to under-
stand that I am not he—"

"Kellin—"

"Don't you see? I have to prove I am a true man,
not a coward—that I will not turn my back on
duty and my people—and—and—" he swallowed
painfully, finishing his explanation quickly, un-
evenly, "—any sons 7 might sire."

Rogan's mouth loosened. After a moment it
tightened again, and the muscles of his jaw rolled
briefly. Quietly, he said, "Promise me never to do
such a thoughtless thing again."

Feeling small, Kellin nodded, then essayed a
final attempt at explanation. "I watched his eyes.
Tuqhoc's. I knew when he would throw, and how,
and what the knife would do. I had only to put out
my hand, and the knife was there," He shrugged
self-consciously, seeing the-arrested expression in
Rogan's eyes. "I just knew. I saw." Dismayed, he
observed his congealing sausage as Rogan fixed
him with a more penetrating assessment. Kellin
extended the stick with its weight of greasy 5M-
hoqla. "Do you want this?"

The Homanan grimaced. "I cannot abide the
foul taste of those things. You wanted it—eat it."

But Kellin's appetite was banished by after-
math. "It's cold." He glanced around, spied a
likely looking dog, and approached to offer the
sausage. The mongrel investigated the meat, wrin-
kled its nose and sneezed, then departed speedily.

"That says something for your taste," Rogan re-
marked dryly. He drew his own knife, cut a strip
of fabric from the hem of his tunic, motioned a
passing water-seller over and bought a cup. He

44 Jennifer Roberson

dipped the cloth into the water and began to wipe
the cut clean. "By the gods, the Queen will have
my hide for this .. . you are covered with grease
and blood."

Rogan's ministrations hurt. No longer hungry,
Kellin discarded the suhoqla. He bit into his lip as
the watchdogs came up and resumed their places,
though the distance between their charge and
their persons was much smaller now.

Humiliation scorched his face; warriors did not,
he believed, submit so easily to public nursing. "I
want to see the market."

Rogan looped the fabric around the fingers and
palm to make a bandage, then tied it off. "We are
in the market; look around, and you will see it."
He tightened the knot- "There. It will do until we
return to the palace."

Kellin's mind was no longer on the stinging cut
or its makeshift bandage. He frowned as a young
boy passed by, calling out in singsong Homanan.
"A fortune-teller!"

"No," Rogan said promptly.

"But Rogan—"

"Such things are a waste of good coin." Rogan
shrugged. "You are Cheysuli. You already know
your tahlmorra."

"But you don't yet know yours," Grinning antic-
ipation, Kellin locked his bandaged hand over Ro-
gan's wrist. "Don't you want to find out if you'll
share your bed with Melora or Belinda?"

Rogan coughed a laugh, glancing sidelong at the
guards. "No mere fortune-teller can predict that.
Women do what they choose to do; they do not
depend on fate."

Kellin tugged his tutor in the direction the pass-
ing boy had indicated. "Let us go, Rogan. That
boy says the fortune-teller can predict what be-
comes of me."

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              45

"That boy is a shill. He says what he's told to
say, and the fortune-teller says what he's paid to
say."

"Ro-gan\"

Rogan sighed. "If you desire it so much—"

"Aye!" Kellin tugged him on until they stood
before a tent slumped halfheartedly against a
wall. A black cat, small version of the Mujhar's Hr,
Sleeta, lay stretched out on a faded rug before the
entrance, idly licking one paw; beside him curled
a half-grown fawn-hued dog who barely lifted an
eyelid. The tent itself was small, its once-glorious
stripes faded gold against pale brown, so that it
merged into the wall. "My grandsire gave you coin
for such things," Kellin reminded his tutor. "Surely
he could not count it ill-spent if we enjoyed it!"

Graying eyebrows arched. "A sound point. That
much you have mastered, if not your history."
Rogan gestured for the guardsmen to precede
them into the tent.

"No!" Kellin cried.

"They must, Kellin. The Mujhar has given or-
ders. And after what you provoked in the Steppes
warrior, I should take you home immediately."

Kellin compromised immediately. "They may
come wait here." His gesture encompassed the rug
and entrance. "But not inside the tent. A fortune
is a private thing."

"I cannot allow the Prince of—"

"Say nothing of titles!" Ketlin cried. "How will
the fortune-teller give me the truth otherwise? If
he knows what I am, it cheats the game."

"At least you admit it is a game, for which I
thank the gods; you are not entirely gullible. But
rules are rules; the Mujhar is my lord, not you."
Rogan ordered one of the guardsmen into the tent.
"He will see that it is safe."

Kellin waited impatiently until the guardsman

46 Jennifer Roberson

came out again. When the man nodded his head,
Rogan had him and his companions assume posts
just outside the tent.

"Now?" Kellin asked, and as Rogan nodded he
slipped through the doorflap.

Inside the tent, Kellin found the shadows stuffy
and redolent of an acrid, spice-laden smoke that
set his eyes to watering. He wiped at them hastily,
wrinkling his nose at the smell very much as the
street dog did to the suhoqla, and squinted to peer
through the thready haze- A gauzy dark curtain
merged with shadow to hide a portion of the tent;

he and Rogan stood in what a castle-raised boy
would call an antechamber, though the walls were
fabric in place of stone.

Rogan bent slightly, resting a hand on Kellin's
shoulder as he spoke in a low tone. "You must
recall that he works for coin, Kellin. Put no faith
in his words."

Kellin frowned. "Don't spoil it."

"I merely forewarn that what he says—"

"Don't spoil it!"

The gauzy curtain was parted. The fortune-teller
was a nondescript, colorless foreign man of inde-
terminate features, wearing baggy saffron panta-
loons and three silk vests over a plain tunic: one
dyed blue, the next red, the third bright green.
"Forgive an old man his vice: I smoke husath,
which is not suitable for guests unless they also
share the vice." He moved out of the shadowed
curtain, bringing the sweet-sour aroma with him.
"I do not believe either of you would care for it."

"What is it?" Kellin was fascinated.

Rogan stirred slightly. "Indeed, a vice. It puts
dreams in a man's head."

Kellin shrugged. "Dreams are not so bad. I
dream every night."

"Husath dreams are different. They can be dan-

A TAPESTRY OF Lioivs             47

gerous when they make a man forget to eat or
drink." Rogan stared hard at the man- "The boy
wants his fortune told, nothing more. You need
not initiate him into a curiosity that may prove
dangerous."

"Of course." The man smiled faintly and ges-
tured to a rug spread across the floor. "Be in com-
fort, and I will share with you your future, and a
little of your past."

"He is all of ten; his past is short," Rogan said
dryly. "This shouldn't take long."

"It will take as long as it must." The fortune-
teller gestured again. "I promise you no tricks, no
husath, no nonsense, only the truth."

Kellin turned and gazed up at Rogan. "You
first."

The brows arched again. "We came for you."

"You first."

Rogan considered it, then surrendered grace-
fully, folding long legs to seat himself upon the
rug just opposite the fortune-teller. "For the boy's
sake, then."

"And nothing for yourself?" The fortune-teller's
teeth were stained pale yellow. "Give me your
hands."

Kellin dropped to his knees and waited eagerly.
"Go on, Rogan. Give him your hands."

With a small, ironic smile, Rogan acquiesced.
The fortune-teller merely looked at the tutor's
hands for a long moment, examining the minute
whorls and scars in his flesh, the length of fingers,
the fit of nails, the color of the skin. Then he linked
his fingers with Rogan's, held them lightly, and
began to murmur steadily as if invoking the gods.

"No tricks," Rogan reminded.

"Shhh," Kellin said. "Don't spoil the magic."

"This isn't magic, Kellin . . . this is merely
entertai nment.''

48 Jennifer Roberson

But the fortune-teller's tone altered, interrupting
the debate. His voice dropped low into a singsong
cadence that made the hair rise up on the back of
Ketlin's neck: "Alone in the midst of many, even
those whom you love ... apart and separate, con-
sumed by grief. She lives within you when she is
dead, and you live through her, seeing her face when
you sleep and wake, longing for the love she cannot
offer. You live in the pasts of kings and queens and
those who have gone before you, but you thrive upon
your own. Your past is your present and will be your
future, until you summon the strength to give her
life again. Offered and spumed, it is offered again;

spurned and offered a third time until, accepting,
you free yourself from the misery of what is lost to
you, and then live in the misery of what you have
done. You will die knowing what you have done, and
why, and the price of your reward. You will use and
be used in turn, discarded at last when your use is
passed."

Rogan jerked his hands away with a choked, in-
articulate protest. Kellin, astonished, stared at his
tutor; what he saw made him afraid. The man's
face was ashen, devoid of life, and his eyes swam
with tears.

"Rogan?" Apprehension seized his bones and
washed his flesh ice-cold. "Rogan!"

But Rogan offered no answer. He sat upon the
rug and stared at nothingness as tears ran down
his face.

"A harsh truth," the fortune-teller said quietly,
exhaling husath fumes. "I promise no happiness."

"Rogan—" Kellin began, and then the fortune-
teller reached out and caught at his hands, trapped
the fingers in his own, and Kellin's speech was
banished.

This time there were no gods to invoke. The
words spilled free of the stranger's mouth as if he

A TAPESTRY or LIONS            49

could not stop them. "He is the sword," the hissing
voice whispered. "The sword and the bow and the
knife. He is the weapon of every man who uses him
for Hi, and the strength of every man who uses him
for good. Child of darkness, child of light; of like
breeding with like, until the blood is one again. He
is Cymric, he is Cynric: the sword and the bow and
the knife, and all men shall name him evil until Man
is made whole again."

The voice stopped, Kellin stared, struggling to
make an answer, any sort of answer, but the sound
began again.

"The lion shall lie down with the witch; out of
darkness shall come light; out of death: life; out of
the old: the new. The lion shall lie down with the
witch, and the witch-child born to rule what the lion
must swallow. The lion shall devour the House of
Homana and all of her children, so the newbom
child shall sit upon the throne and know himself
lord of all"

A shudder wracked Kellin from head to toe, and
then he cried out and snatched his hands away.
"The Lion!" he cried. "The'Lion will eat me!"

He scrambled to his feet even as the guardsmen
shredded canvas with steel to enter the tent. He
saw their faces, saw their intent; he saw Rogan's
tear-streaked face turning to him. Rogan's mouth
moved, but Kellin heard nothing. One of the
guards put his hand upon his prince's rigid shoul-
der, but Kellin did not feel it.

The Lion. The LION.

He knew in that instant they were unprepared,
just as the Steppes warrior had been unprepared.
None of them understood. No one at all knew him
for what he was. They saw only the boy, the de-
serted son, and judged him worthless.

Aren't I worthless?
But the Lion wanted him.

50 Jennifer Roberson

Kellin caught his breath. Would the Lion want
to eat a worthless boy?

Perhaps he was worthless, and that fact alone
was why the Lion might want to eat him.

To save Homana from a worthless Mujhar.

With an inarticulate cry, Kellin tore free of the
guardsman's hand and ran headlong from the
tent. He ignored the shouts of the Mujharan guard
and the blurted outcry of his tutor. He tore free of
them all, even of the tent, and clawed his way out
of pale shadow into the brilliance of the day.

"Lion—" Kellin blurted, then darted into the
crowd even as the man came after him.

Run—

He ran.

Where—?

He did not know.

Away from the Lion—

Away,

—won't let the Lion eat me— He tripped and fell,
facedown, banging his chin into a cobble hard
enough to make himself bite his lip. Blood filled
his mouth; Kellin spat, lurched up to hands and
knees, then pressed the back of one hand against
his lower lip to stanch the bleeding. The hand
bled, too; Rogan's bandage had come off. The cut
palm and his cut mouth stung.

It smells— It did. He had landed full-force in a
puddle of horse urine. His jerkin was soaked with
it; the knees of his leggings, ground into cobbles
as well, displayed the telltale color and damp tex-
ture of compressed horse droppings.

Aghast, Kellin scrambled to his feet. He was filthy.
m addition to urine and droppings weighting his
leathers, there was mud, grease, and blood; and
he had lost his belt entirely somewhere in his mad

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS

51

rush to escape the Lion. No one, seeing him now
would predict his heritage or House.

"Rogan?" He turned, thinking of his tutor in-
stead of the Lion; recalled the fortune-teller's
words, and how Rogan had reacted- And the
watchdogs; where were they? Had he left everyone
behind? Where am—

Someone laughed. "Poor boy," said a woman's
voice, "have you spoiled all your Summerfair
finery?"

Startled, he gaped at her. She was blonde and
pretty, in a coarse sort of way, overblown and
overpainted. Blue eyes sparkled with laughter; a
smile displayed crooked teeth.

Humiliated, Kellin stared hard at the ground
and tried to uncurl his toes. / don't want to be here.
I want to go HOME.

"What a pretty blush; as well as I could do,
once." Skirts rustled faintly. "Come here."

Reluctantly Kellin glanced up slantwise, mark-
ing the garish colors of her multiple skirts. One
hand beckoned. He ignored it, thinking to turn his
back on her, to leave the woman behind, but the
laughter now was muted, replaced with a gentler
facade.

"Come." she said. "Has happened to others,
too."

She wasn't his granddame, who welcomed him
into her arms when he needed a woman's comfort,
but she was a woman, and she spoke kindly
enough now. This time when she beckoned, he an-
swered. She slipped a hand beneath his bloodied
chin, forcing him to look up into her own face. At
closer range her age increased, yet her eyes seemed
kind enough in an assessive sort of way. Her hair
was not really blonde, he discovered by staring at
exposed roots, and the faintest hint of dark fuzz
smudged her upper lip.

52 Jennifer Roberson

The woman laughed. "Don't blush quite so
much, boy. You'll have me thinking you've never
seen a whore before."

He gaped. "You are a light woman?"

"A light—" She broke off, brows lifting. "Is that
the genuine accent of aristrocracy?" She leaned
closer, enveloping him in a powerful, musky scent.
"Or are you like me: a very good mimic?"

She is NOT like granddame after all. Kellin
tugged at his ruined jerkin, than blotted again at
his split lip. She watched him do it, her smile less
barbed, and at last she took her hand from his
chin, which relieved him immeasurably. "Lady—"

"No, not that. Never that." Her hand strayed
into his hair, lingered in languorous familiarity.
Her touch did not now in the least remind him of
his grandmother's. "Why is it," the woman began,
"that boys and men have thicker hair and longer
lashes? The gods have truly blessed you, my green-
eyed little man." The other hand touched his leg-
gings. "And how little are we in things that really
matter?"

Kellin nearly squirmed. "I—I must go."

"Not so soon, I pray you." She mocked the elab-
orate speech of highborn Homanans. "We hardly
know one another."

That much Kellin knew; he'd heard the horse-
boys speaking of whores. "I have no money."
Rogan had plenty, but he doubted the Mujhar
would approve of it being spent on women-

The whore laughed. "Well, then, what have you?
Youth. Spirit. Pretty eyes, and a prettier face—
you'll have women killing over you, when you're
grown." Her eyes lost their laughter. "Men would
kill for you now." The smile fell off her face. "And
innocence, which is something everyone in the
Midden has lost. If I could get some back, steal it
back, somehow—"

A TAPESTRY OF Uoivs             53

Kellin took a single step backward. Her hand
latched itself into his filthy jerkin; she did not
seem to notice her hand now was also soiled. "I
must go," he tried again.

"No," she said intently. "No. Stay a while,
Share with me youth and innocence—"

Kellin wrenched away from her. As he ran, he
heard her curse.

This time when he fell, Kellin managed to avoid
urine and droppings, landing instead against hard
stone cobbles after his collision with a woman car-
rying a basket. He feared at first she might also
be a whore, but she had none of the ways or coarse
speech. She was angry, aye, because he had upset
her basket; and then she was screaming something
about a thief—

"No!" Kellin cried, thinking he could explain
and set everything to rights—the Prince of Ho-
mana, a thief?—but the woman kept on shrieking,
ignoring his denials, and he saw the men, big men
all, hastening toward him,

He ran again, and was caught. The man grabbed
him by one arm and hoisted him into the air so
that one boot toe barely scraped the cobblestones.
"Give over, boy. No more kicking and biting."

Kellin, who had not thought to bite, squirmed
in the tight grasp. He intensely disliked being
hung by one wrist like a side of venison. "I am
not a boy, I'm a prince—"

"And I'm the Mujhar of Homana." The man
waited until Kellin's struggles subsided. "Done,
are we?"

"Let me go!"

"Not until I have the ropes on you."

Kellin stiffened. "Ropes!"

"I and others like me are sworn to keep the rab-
ble off the streets during Summerfair," the big

54 Jennifer Roberson

man explained. "That includes catching all the lit-
tle thieves who prey on innocent people."

"I'm not a thief, you ku'reshtin—"

The big hand closed more tightly. "Round speech
for a boy, by your tone."

"I am the Prince of Homana!"

The man sighed. He was very targe, and red-
haired; he was also patently unimpressed by Kel-
lin's protests. "Save your breath, boy. It only
means a night under a decent roof, instead of some
alley or doorway. And you'll be fed, so don't be
complaining so much when you're better off now
than you were."

"But I'm—" Kellin broke off in astonishment as
the men looped a rope around one wrist, then the
other- Prince or no, he was snugged tight as a
gamebird. "Wait!"

The man nodded patiently. "Come along, then,
and I'll see to it you have a decent meal and a
place to sleep. I'll free you first thing in the morn-
ing if anyone comes to fetch you."

The furious challenge was immediate. "If I had
a lir—"

"What? Cheysuli, too?" The giant laughed, though
not unkindly. "Well, I'm thinking not. I've never
yet seen one with green eyes, nor leathers quite so
filthy."

Three

Kellin did not know Mujhara well. In fact, he
knew very little about the city he would one day
rule, other than the historical implications Rogan
had discussed so often; and even then he was igno-
rant of details because he had not listened well.
He wanted to do something much more exciting
than spend his days speaking of the past. The fu-
ture attracted him more, even though Rogan ex-
plained again and again that the past affected that
future; that a man learning from the past often
avoided future difficulties.

Because he was so closely accompanied each
time he left Homana-Mujhar, Kellin had come to
rely on others to direct him. Left to his own de-
vices, he would have been lost in a moment as he
was lost now. The big red-haired man led him like
a leashed dog through the winding closes, alleys,
and streets, turning this way and that, until Kellin
could not so much as tell which direction was
which.

He felt the heat of shame as he was led unrelent-
ingly. Don't look at me— But they did, all the peo-
ple, the Summerfair crowds thronging the closes,
alleys, and streets. Kellin thought at first if he
called out to them and told them who he was, if
he asked for their support, they would give it
gladly. But the first time he tried, a man laughed
at him and called him a fool for thinking they

55

S6 Jennifer Koherson

would believe such a lie; would the Prince of Ho-
mana wear horse piss on his clothing?

Don't look at me. But they looked. Inwardly, Kel-
lin died a small, quiet death, the death of dignity.
/ just want to go home.

"Here," his captor said. "You'll spend the night
inside." The giant opened the door, took Kellin
inside, then handed over the "leash" to another
man, this one brown-haired and brown-eyed, show-
ing missing teeth. "Tried to steal a goodwife's bas-
ket of ribbons,"

"No!" Kellin cried. "I did not. I fell against her,
no more, and knocked it out of her hands. What
would I want with ribbons?"

The gap-toothed man grinned. "To sell them,
most like. At a profit, since you paid nothing for
them in the first place."

Kellin was outraged. "I did not steal her ribbons!"

"Had no chance to," the redhead laughed. "She
saw to that, with her shrieking."

Kellin drew himself up, depending on offended
dignity and superior comportment to put an end
to the intolerable situation. Plainly he declared, "I
am the Prince of Homana."

He expected apologies, respect, and got neither.
The two men exchanged amused glances. The gap-
toothed Homanan nodded. "As good a liar as a
thief, isn't he? Only that's not so good, is it, since
you're here?"

Courage wavered; Kellin shored it up with a
desperate condescension. "I am here with my
tutor and four guardsman, four of the Mufharan
Guard." He hoped it would make a suitable im-
pression, invoking his grandfather's personal com-
pany. "Go and ask them; they will tell you."

"Wild goose chase," said the redhead. "Waste of
time."

Desperation nearly engulfed injured pride. "Go

A TAPESTRY OF Lims            S7

and ask," Kellin directed. "Go to Homana-Mujhar.
My grandsire will tell you the truth."

"Your grandsire. The Mujhar?" Gap-tooth
laughed, slanting a bright glance at the giant.

Kellin bared his teeth, desiring very badly to
prove the truth of his claims. But his leathers were
smeared with filth, his bottom lip swollen, and his
face, no doubt, as dirty. "My boots," he said
sharply, sticking out one foot. "Would a thief have
boots like these?"

The redhead grinned. "If he stole them."

"But they fit. Stolen boots would not fit."

Gap-tooth sighed. "Enough of your jabber, brat.
You'll not be harmed, just kept until someone
comes to fetch you."

"But no one knows where I am! How can they
come?"

"If you're the Prince of Homana, they'll know."
The giant's eyes were bright. "D'ye think I'm a
fool? You've my eyes, boy, plain Homanan green,
not the yellow of a Cheysuli. Next time you want
to claim yourself royalty, you'd best think better
of it."

Kellin gaped. "My granddame is Ermnish, with
hair red as yours—redder! I have her eyes—"

"Your granddame—and your mother to boot—
was likely a street whore, brat ... no more chatter
from you. Into the room. We're not here to harm
you,'just keep you." The red-haired giant pushed
Kellin through another door as Gap-tooth un-
locked it. He was dumped unceremoniously onto
a thin pallet in a small, stuffy room, then the door
was locked.

For a moment Kellin lay sprawled in shock,
speechless in disbelief. Then he realized they'd
stripped the rope from his wrists. He scrambled
up and hammered at the door.

"They won't open it. They won't."

58 Jennifer Roberson

Kellin jerked around, seeing the boy in the cor-
ner for the first time. The light was poor, admitted
only through a few holes high up in the walls. The
boy slumped against the wall with the insouciance
of a longtime scofflaw. His face was thin, grimy,
and bruised. Lank blond hair hung into his eyes,
but his grin was undiminished by Kellin's blatant
surprise.

"Urchin," the boy said cheerfully, answering the
unasked question.

Kellin was distracted by newborn pain in his
cut hand, which now lacked Rogan's bandage. He
frowned to see the slices were packed with dirt
and other filth; wiping it against his jerkin merely
caused the slices to sting worse. Scowling, he
asked, "What kind of a name is that?"

"Isn't a name. Haven't got one- That's what they
call me, when they call me." The boy shoved a
wrist through his hair. His eyes were assessive far
beyond his years, "Good leathers, beneath the dirt
.. . good boots, too- No thief, are ye?"

Kellin spat on the cuts and wiped them again
against his jerkin. "Tell them that."

Urchin grinned. "Won't listen- All they want is
the copper."

"Copper?"

"Copper a head for all the thieves they catch."

Kellin frowned, giving up on his sore hand.
"Who pays it?"

Urchin shrugged. "People. They're fed up wi"
getting their belt-purses stolen and pockets picked."
He waggled fingers. "Some o' them took up a col-
lection, like . ,. for each thief caught during Sum-
merfair, they pay a copper a head- Keeps the
streets clean of us, y'see, and they can walk out
without fearing for pockets and purses." Urchin
grinned. "But if you're good enough, nobody catches
you."

A TAPESTRY OF Lio\s            59

"You got caught."

"Couldn't run fast enough with this." Urchin ex-
tended a swollen, discolored foot and pufty ankle.
"Dog set on me." He was patently unconcerned by
the condition of foot and ankle. "If you're not a
thief, why're you here?"

Kellin grimaced. "I was running. They thought
it was because I was stealing."

"Never run in Mujhara," the boy advised sol-
emnly, then reconsidered. "Unless you be a fine
Homanan lord, and then no one will bother you
no matter what you do,"

Kellin glanced around. On closer inspection, the
room was no better than his first impression, a
small imprisonment, empty save for them. "Not
so many copper pieces today."

Urchin shrugged. "The other room is full. They'll
put the new catches in here. You're the first, after
me."

Kellin peeled a crust of blood from his chin.
"How do we get out?"

"Wait till someone pays your copper. Otherwise
we stay here till Summerfair is over, because then
it won't matter."

"That's three days from now!"

Urchin shrugged, surveying his injured foot. "Be
hard to steal with this."

Kellin stared at the swollen limb, marking the
angry discoloration and the streaks beginning to
make their way up Urchin's leg. It was a far worse
injury than the few slices in his hand. "You need
that healed."

Urchin's mouth hooked down. "Leeches cost

coin.

Morbidly fascinated by the infected limb, Kellin
knelt down to look more closely. "A Cheysuli could
heal this, and he would cost nothing."

Urchin snorted.

60 Jennifer Roberson

"He could," Kellm insisted. "/ could, had I a
Ur."

Urchin's eyes widened. "You say you're Cheysuli?"

"I am. But I can't heal yet." Kellin shrugged a
little. "Until I have a Hr, I'm just like you." The
wound stank of early putrefaction. "My grandsire
will heal you. He has a lir; he can." And he will
heal my wounds, too.

Urchin grunted. "Will he come here to pay your
copper?"

Kellin considered it. "No," he said finally, feel-
ing small inside. "I think Rogan will do that, and
I doubt he will like it."

"Few men like parting with coin."

"Oh, it is not the coin. He will not like why he
has to do it, and it will give him fuel to use against
me for months." Kellin cast a glance around the
gloomy room. "He would say I deserved this, to
teach me a lesson. But it was the Lion—" He
looked quickly at Urchin, breaking off.

The Homanan boy frowned. "What lion?"

"Nothing." Kellin left Urchin's side and re-
treated to a pallet near the door. He pressed shoul-
der blades into the wall. "He will come for me."

"That tutor?" Urchin's mouth twisted. "I had a
tutor, once. He taught me how to steal."

Kellin shrugged. "Then stop."

"Stop." Urchin stared. "D'ye think it's so easy?
D'ye think I asked the gods for this life?"

"No one would ask it. But why do you stay in
it?"

"No choice." Urchin picked at his threadbare
tunic. His thin face was pinched as if his leg
pained him. "No mother, no father, no kin." His
expression hardened. "I'm a thief, and a good one."
He looked at his swollen ankle- "Sometimes."

Kellin nodded. "Then I will have Rogan pay

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             61

your copper, too, and you will come back with
me."

Urchin's dirt-mottled face mocked. "With you."

"To Homana-Mujhar."

"Liar."

Kellin laughed. "As good a liar as a thief."

Urchin turned his shoulder: eloquent dismissal.

With his pallet nearest the door, Kellin awoke
each time a new arrival was pushed into the room
throughout the night. At first he had been in-
trigued by the number and their disparate "crimes,"
but soon enough boredom set in, and later weari-
ness; he fell asleep not long after a plain supper
of bread and thin gravy was served, and slept with
many interruptions until dawn.

The commotion was distant at first, interesting
only the few recently imprisoned souls who hoped
for early release. That hope had faded in Kellin,
who found himself reiterating to a dubious Urchin
that indeed he was who he said he was, and was
restored only when he heard-the voice through the
door: the red-haired man, clearly frightened as
well as astonished.

Kellin grinned at the young thief through pale
dawn. "Rogan. I told you, Urchin."

The door was opened and a man came in. It
wasn't Rogan at all, but the Mujhar himself, fol-
lowed by the giant.

Kellin scrambled hastily to his feet. "Grandsire!
You?"

The giant was very pale. "My lord, how could
we know? Had we known—"

Stung by the outrage, Kellin turned on the man.
"You knew," he declared. "I told you. You just
didn't believe me." He looked at his grandfather.
"None of them believed me."

"Nor would I," Brennan said calmly. He arched

62 Jennifer Robersoa

a single eloquent brow. "Have you taken to swim-
ming in the midden?" Yellow eyes brightened
faintly, dispelling the barb- "Or was it an entirely
different kind of Midden?"

Kellin recalled then the whore's words, her
mention of the Midden. It basted his face with
heat. Such shame before his grandsire! "My lord
Mujhar . . ." He let it trail off. Part of him was
overwhelmed to be safe at last, while the other
part was mortified that his grandsire should see
him so. "No," he said softly, squirming inside
filthy leathers. "I fell ... I did not mean to get so
dirty."

"Nor so smelly." Brennan's gaze was steady.
"Explain yourself, if you please."

Kellin looked at the giant. "Didn't he tell you?"

"He told me. So did the other man. Now it is
for you."

Kellin was hideously aware of everyone else in
the room, but especially of his grandfather, his
tall, strong, Cheysuli grandfather, whose dignity,
purpose, and sense of self was so powerful as to
flatten everyone else, certainly a ten-year-old grand-
son. The Mujhar himself, not Rogan, standing in
the doorway with the sunrise on his back, ^r-gold
gleaming brightly, silver in his hair, stern face
even sterner. The wealth on his arms alone would
keep Urchin and others like him alive for years.

In a small voice, Kellin suggested, "It would be
better done in private."

"No doubt. I want it done here."

Kellin swallowed heavily. He told his grandsire
the whole of it, even to the woman.

Brennan did not smile, but his mouth relaxed.
Tension Kellin had been unaware of until that mo-
ment left the Mujhar's body. "And what have you
learned from this?"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

63

Kellin looked straight back. "Not to run in
Mujhara."

After a moment of startled silence, the Mujhar
laughed aloud, folding bare bronzed arms across
his chest with no pretensions at maintaining a
stem facade, even before the others. Kellin gaped
in surprise; what was so amusing, that his grand-
sire would sacrifice his dignity before the others
without hesitation?

"I had expected something else entirely." Bren-
nan said at last, "but I cannot fault your state-
ment- There is truth in it." Amusement faded.
"But there is also Rogan."

Kellin's belly clenched. He nodded and stored
at his boot toes. "Rogan," he echoed. "I meant not
to make him worry."

"Tell him that."

"I will."

"Now."

Kellin looked up from the ground and saw
Rogan in the doorway just behind his grandsire.
The man's face was haggard and gray, his eyes
reddened from sleeplessness. Kellin thought then
of the aforementioned repercussions, Rogan's own
question regarding what would become of him
and the Mujharan Guard if harm came to Kellin.

"I am unharmed," Kellin said quickly, grasping
the repercussions as he never had before. "I am
whole, save for my lip, and that I got myself when
I fell down."

"And your cut hand; Rogan told me." Brennan
extended his own. "Let me see."

Kellin held out his hand and allowed his grand-
sire to examine the cuts. "Filthy," the Mujhar
commented. "It will want a good cleaning when
we return, but will heal of its own." His yellow
eyes burned fiercely. "You must know not to test

64 Jennifer Robersoa

others, Kellin. No matter the provocation. If you
had not been so quick—"

"But I knew I was," Kellin insisted; couldn't any
of them see? "I watched him. I watched the knife.
I knew what it would do,"

Brennan's mouth crimped. "We will speak of
this another time. For now, I charge you to recall
that for such a serious transgression as this one,
you endanger others as well as yourself."

Kellin looked again at Rogan. He tugged ineffec-
tually at his ruined jerkin. "I am sorry."

The tutor nodded mutely, seemingly diminished
by the tension of the night. Or was it the Lion,
biting now at Rogan?

"Well." The Mujhar cast a glance around the
room. "It is to be expected that you smell like the
Midden, or a midden—though I suppose it is less
your own contribution than that of everyone else."

Kellin nodded, scratching at the fleas that had
vacated his pallet to take up residence in his
clothing.

Brennan considered him. "I begin to think you
are more like my rujholli than I had believed
possible."

It astonished Kellin, who had never thought of
such a thing. "I am?"

"Aye. Hart and Corin would have gotten them-
selves thrown into a room just like this, or worse,
for about the same reason—or perhaps for a crime
even worse than thievery—and then waited for me
to fetch them out." He looked his grandson up and
down. "Are you not young to begin?"

Ashamed again, Kellin stared hard at the ground.
Softly, he said, "I did not expect you to come."

"Hart and Corin did. And they were right; I al-
ways came." Brennan sighed. "You did expect
someone."

A TAPESTRY OF LIOIVS             65

t
^

"What else?" It startled Kellin. "You would not
leave me here!"

Brennan eyed him consideringly. "I did leave
you here. I knew where you were last night."

"Last night\" It was preposterous. "You left me
here all night?"

Brennan exchanged a glance with Rogan. "In
hopes you might profit from it, albeit there were
guardsmen—and a Cheysuli—just across the street."
His eyes narrowed. "You said you have learned
not to run in Mujhara . .. well, I suppose that is
something." His tone was ironic. "Surely more
than Hart or Corin learned."

"Grandsire—"

"But whether you learned anything is beside the
point. Your granddame made it clear to me that
if I did not fetch you out at once come dawn, she
would have my head." He smiled slightly. "As you
see, it is still attached."

Kellin nodded, not doubting that it was; nor his
granddame's fiery Erinnish temper.

"So Rogan and I are here to fetch you, very
much as you expected, and will now take you back
to Homana-Mujhar, where I shall myself person-
ally supervise the bath just to make certain the
body in it 15 that of my grandson, and not some
filthy street urchin masquerading as the Prince of
Homana."

"Urchin!" Kellin cried, turning. "We have to
take him with us!"

"Who?"

"Urchin. Him." Kellin pointed to the astonished
boy. "I told him you would pay his copper and
bring him with us—well, I said Rogan would—"
Kellin cast a glance at his tutor, "—so you could
heal him."

"Volunteering my services, are you, you little
wretch?" But Brennan crossed the room and knelt

66 Jennifer Roberson

down by the boy thief. "How are you hurt? Ah, so
I see. Here—"

"No!" Urchin jerked away the infected foot.

"There is no need to fear me," Brennan said qui-
etly. "I will look, no more; if you are in need of
healing, it shall be done in Homana-Mujhar."

"I can't go there\"

"Why not?" Brennan examined the infected
bite. "Walls and a roof, no more .. . you are as
welcome as Kellin."

"I am?"

"For now. Come. Trust me."

Kellin looked at his grandfather through Ur-
chin's eyes: tall, dark warrior with silvered hair;

yellow eyes clear and unwavering as a wolf's, with
the same promised fierceness; Ur-goid banding
bared arms; the soft, black-dyed leathers clothing
a powerful body. He was old in years to Kellin,
but age sat lightly on Cheysuli; Brennan was still
fit and graceful, with a cat's eloquent ease of
movement.

"He won't hurt you," Kellin explained matter-
of-factly. "He is my grandsire."

Brennan smiled. "The highest of compliments,
and surety of my goodwill."

Urchin's eyes were wide. "But—I'm a thief."

"Former thief, I should hope. Come with me to
Homana-Mujhar, and you need never steal again."
The Mujhar grinned. "Where you may also shed
forty layers of dirt, ten years' worth of fleas, and
fill that hollow belly."

"No!" Urchin cried as Brennan made to pick
him up. "You'll catch my fleas!"

"Then I shall bathe also."

"I am too heavy!"

"You are not heavy at all." Brennan turned
toward the door, toward the red-haired giant. "I
will have the fines paid for everyone in this room,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              67

and the other; you will see to it they are released
at once. But I sympathize with those who fear for
their purses; if any of these are caught again, keep
them here till Summerfair is ended: in the name
of the Mujhar." He smiled briefly at Kellin, slip-
ping into the Old Tongue. "Tu'halla dei." He cast a
glance at gape-mouthed faces, then settled Urchin
more firmly against his chest. "The Guard has
horses waiting. You'll ride behind me."

"My lord," Rogan said quietly, following his
lord from the room as Kellin slipped out. "There
is the matter of the fortune-teller."

"Ah." Brennan's face assumed a grim mask. He
glanced down at Kellin as he carried Urchin into
the street. "What did he say to you, Kellin?"

Kellin shrugged. "I couldn't understand it all.
They were just—words."

"Tell me the words anyway."

Kellin squirmed self-consciously; he did not
want to admit to his fear of the Lion. "Cynric."

Brennan's mask slipped, baring naked shock be-
neath. "Cynric? He said that?"

"A name." Kellin frowned. "And a sword, and a
bow, and a—knife?"

"Gods," Brennan whispered. "Not my grandson,
too." •

It terrified Kellin to see his grandfather so
stricken. "Not me?" he asked. "Why do you say
that? Grandsire—what does it mean'?"

"It means—" Brennan's mouth tightened into a
thin, flat line. "It means we will go visit your
fortune-teller—who speaks to you of Cynric—be-
fore we go home."

"Why? What did he mean?" Desperation crept
in; did it have to do with the Lion? "What does
'Cynric' mean?"

" 'Cynric'?" The Mujhar sighed as he handed Ur-
chin to a guardsman and ordered him put up on

68 Jennifer Roberson

his own mount. "It is a name, Kellin ... an old,
familiar name I have not heard in ten years. Since
your jehan first brought you to us—"

"Before he left." Kellin blurted it out all at once;

bitterness encased it. "Before he left\"

"Aye." Brennan rubbed absently at the flesh of
a face suddenly grown old. "Before he left." He
looked at Rogan. "Can you direct us?"

Rogan glanced very briefly at Kellin before look-
ing back to the Mujhar: a subtle question to which
the boy was not blind, though adults believed he
was. "My lord, perhaps later would be better."

"No." Brennan threaded reins through his hand,
turning toward his mount. "No, I think now. He
has spoken the name to Kellin without knowing
who he was—or so you would have me believe...."
He patted Urchin's stiff thigh, then climbed up
easily. "And even if he did know who Kellin was,
he also knew the name. I want to ask him how he
came by it, and why he speaks of it now to a ten-
year-old boy."

"Aye." Rogan moved like an old man toward his
own mount. "Of course, my lord, I can direct you
to him at once. Although I must warn you—" the
tutor mounted with effort, as if his bones hurt,
"—he smokes husath. It is possible . .." He made
a gesture with one hand that suggested such a
man was unpredictable, and his employment.

Brennan's face was grim. "Aidan never did. But
he knew the name, also."

"Grandsire?" Kellin stood in the street, staring
up. It seemed to him Urchin had usurped his
place. "Is there a horse for me?"

"Rogan's," his grandfather told him, "so you
may say more privately how sorry you are for the
worry you caused."

Ashamed, Kellin nodded. "Aye, grandsire. I will."

A TAPESTRY w LIONS            69

Summerfair revelers still gathered in the streets,
making it difficult for a mounted party to pass
through; Brennan gave orders that his presence
not be cried, since he wanted to come upon the
fortune-teller unaware, and so the Mujharan Guard
merely suggested people move, rather than forcing
it. The journey took longer than Kellin recalled to
reach the faded, striped tent, but then he could
not remember for how long he had run.

"Here," Rogan murmured.

The cat and the dog were gone- Flies sheathed
the doorflap. "My lord." One of the guardsmen
swung down and then another. Kellin watched as
two of the crimson-tabarded men entered the tent
while the other two stood very close to the Mujhar
and his heir,

One of the men was back almost immediately,
face set grimly. "My lord."

Brennan hooked his leg frontwise over the pom-
mel to avoid Urchin and slid off, throwing glitter-
ing, gold-banded reins to Rogan. "Stay here with
Kellin."

"Grandsire!"

The Mujhar spared barely a glance. "Stay here,
Kellin-"

It burst from Kellin's throat: "Don't let the Lion
eat you!"

Brennan, at the doorflap, turned sharply. "What
do you mean?"

Oh, gods, now it was too late; he had let it slip;

he had said it; and his grandsire would laugh; all
of them would laugh—

"Kellin."

Kellin pressed himself against Rogan's back.
"Nothing," he whispered.

Rogan stirred. "A childhood tale, my lord. Noth-
ing more."

70 Jennifer Robersoa

Brennan nodded after a moment's hesitation,
then went into the tent.

Don't let the Lion eat him—

"Kellin." Rogan's voice, very soft. "What is this
lion?"

"Just—the Lion. You know. I told you."

"There is no lion in there."

"You don't know that. The fortune-teller said—"

"—too much," Rogan declared. "Entirely too
much."

"Aye, but ... Rogan, there really is a lion. The
Lion—he wants to eat Homana."

"A dog bit my ankle," Urchin offered. "But
that's not the same as a lion biting it."

Kellin stared at him. "The Lion bit my harani.
And he died."

Rogan began quietly, "Kellin, I think—"

But he never finished because the Mujhar came
out again, yellow eyes oddly feral as he stared at
his grandson. "Kellin, you must tell me what the
fortune-teller said. Everything."

"About Cynric?"

"Everything." The Mujhar's mouth was crimped
tight at the comers. "About the lions, too."

It alarmed Kellin. "Why? Was it the Lion? Did
it eat the fortune-teller?"

"Kellin—wait—''

But Kellin slid off over the horse's rump and
darted between his grandfather and the doorflap.
He stumbled over a rucked-up rug just inside,
caught his precarious balance, then stopped short.

Sprawled on his back amid blood-soaked cush-
ions and carpets lay the fortune-teller. A gaping,
ragged hole usurped the place his throat had been.

Four

Torches illuminated the corridor. Kellin crept
through it silently, taking care to make no sound;

he wanted no one to discover him in the middle
of the night, lest they send him off to bed before
his task could be accomplished.

Ahead— He drew in a deep breath to fill his
hollow chest, then turned the comer. Massive sil-
ver doors threw back redoubled torchlight, so
bright he nearly squinted. They must have polished
them today. But that was not important. Impor-
tance lay beyond, within the Great Hall itself.

Ten more steps, and he was there. Kellin filled
his chest with air again, .then leaned with all his
weight against the nearest door. Hinges oiled, too.
It cracked open mutely, then gave as he leaned
harder, until he could slide through the space into
the dimness of the Great Hall.

He paused there, just inside, and stared hard
into darkness. Moonlight slanted through stained
glass casements, providing dim but multicolored
illumination. Kellin used it in place of torchlight,
fixing his gaze upon the beast.

There— And it was, as always: crouched upon
the dais as if in attack, rampant wood upon gold-
veined marble, teeth bared in ferocity, gilt gleam-
ing in mouth and eyes.

There— And him here, pressed against the silver
doors, shoulder blades scraping-

71

72 liinifil Hoberaoa

Twice he had come, since lan had died. First, to
chop the Lion into bits; again to bum the tapestry
hanging just behind, lest the Lion summon confed-
erates in his bid to devour the Mujhar, the queen,
and perhaps Kellin himself.

The fortune-teller said so— Kellin shivered. He
came now with no ax, no torch to set name to
tapestry, but alone and unweaponed, intending no
harm at all this time but warning in harm's place,
to make the Lion know.

He sucked in a noisy breath, then set out on the
long journey. Step by step by step, pacing out the
firepit, until he reached the dais. Until he faced
the beast.

Kellin balanced lightly, distributing weight as
he had been taught: upon the balls of his feet,
knees slightly bent, arms loose at his sides, so he
could flee if required, or fight-

"You," he exhaled. "Lion."

The throne offered no answer. Kellin swallowed
heavily, staring fixedly at the shadow-shrouded
beast.

"Do you hear?" he asked. He disliked the quaver
in his tone and altered it, improving volume also.
"It is I: Kellin, who will be Mujhar one day. Kellin
of Homana." He leaned forward slightly, to make
certain the Lion heard. "I am not alone anymore."

Still there was no answer.

Kellin wet his lips, then expelled the final warn-
ing: "I have a friend."

"Kellin?"

He twitched; was it the Lion? No— He spun.
"Urchin!"

The Homanan boy squeezed his way through the
doors just as Kellin had done. "Why are you—"
He broke it off, staring beyond Kellin. "Is that the
Lion Throne?"

A TAPESTKY OF LHWS

73

Kellin was very aware of the weight crouched
behind him. "Aye."

Urchin's steps were steady as he approached,
showing no signs of limp. The Mujhar's healing a
week before had proved efficient as always; once
over the shock of being touched by legendary
Cheysuli magic. Urchin had recovered his custom-
ary spirit. "What are you doing here? Talking to
it?"

Before Urchin, Kellin did not feel defensive.
"Warning it."

"About what?" Urchin arrived before the dais,
brushing aside still-lank but now-clean hair. "Does
it answer?"

"It eats people." Kellin slanted Urchin a glance.
"It killed my su'fali."

"Your what?"

"Su'fali. Uncle—well, great-uncle. It bit him,
and he died." The pain squeezed a little, aching
inside his chest. "Two springs ago."

"Oh." Urchin stared at the throne: wary fascina-
tion. "You mean—it comes-alive?"

It was hard to explain. Others had told him not
to speak such nonsense, and he had locked it all
within. Now Urchin wanted the truth. It was eas-
ier to say nothing. "It wants my grandsire next."

"It does?" After a startled reassessment, Urchin
frowned. "How do you know?"

"I just know. In here." Kellin touched his chest.
"And the fortune-teller said so. It ate him, too."

"Rogan said—"

"Rogan said what the Mujhar told him to say."
Kellin scowled. "They don't want to believe me.
They didn't believe me when I told them about
lan, and they don't believe me now." He looked
hard at Urchin. "Do you believe me?"

Urchin blinked. "I don't know. It's wood—"

"It's the Lion, and it wants to eat Homana."

74 Jennifer Koberson

Kellin lifted his chin. "I told it I had a friend, now;

that I wasn't alone anymore."

Urchin blinked. "You mean—me?"

"Aren't you my friend?"

"Well—aye. Aye, I am, but . . . you're the Prince
of Homana."

"Princes need friends, too." Kellin tried to keep
the plea out of his voice.

"But I'm only a spit-boy."

"Grandsire will give you better when you've
learned things," Kellin explained. "He told me it's
best if you start there, then move up, because a
castle is strange to you."

"It is," Urchin agreed. He eyed the Lion again,
then glanced back to Kellin. "Rogan doesn't teach
the other spit-boys."

"No. I asked grandsire because I said we were
friends."

Urchin nodded, looking around the massive
Great Hall. "This will be yours, one day?"

"When grandsire dies."

"He's strong; he'll live a long time." Urchin
slanted a sidelong glance at Kellin. "Why isn't
your father here? Shouldn't he be next?"

Kellin's belly hurt, as it often did when someone
mentioned his father. "He gave it up. He re-
nounced his title." His spine was rigid. Words
spilled out, and virulence; he had learned to say
it first, before anyone else could, "He is mad. He
lives on an island and talks about the gods."

Urchin blinked. "The priests do that all the
time, and they're not mad."

"My father sees things. Visions. He has fits."
Kellin shrugged, trying not to show how much it
hurt. Urchin was his friend, but there were things
Kellin could not share. "Grandsire says he is a
shar tahl—that is Old Tongue for 'priest-
historian'—but I say he is something else. Some-

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             75

thing more: part priest, part warrior, part fortune-
teller—and all fool."

"He gave away everything?"

Kellin nodded mutely.

"He could have been Mujhar . . ." Urchin looked
at the Lion again. "He could have been Mujhar.'1

"A fool," Kellin declared. "And one day I will
tell him. I will go to the Crystal Isle, and find him,
and tell him."

Urchin grinned at him. "Can I go with you?"

Kellin smiled back. "You will be my captain of
the guard. Commander of the Mujharan Guard,
and I will take you everywhere."

Urchin nodded. "Good." He stared up at the
Lion, studied it, then drew himself up before it.
He slanted a grin at Kellin, then turned back to
the throne. "I am Urchin, Lion! In the name of
Kellin, I command the Mujharan Guard! And I say
to you. Lion, you shall set no teeth to his flesh,
nor spill royal blood!"

It echoed in the hall. Gilt eyes glinted faintly.

Kellin stared at the Lion. "You see? I am not
alone anymore."

The Queen of Homana, in her solar, approved of
them both. Kellin could tell. He had pleased her
by working harder at his studies, and by being
altogether less obdurate about learning his duties
as Prince of Homana. When she was pleased, her
green eyes kindled; just now, he felt the warmth
redoubled as she smiled at him and Urchin.
"Rogan says both of you are doing very well."

Kellin and Urchin exchanged glances. Urchin
was stiff, as he always was before the queen or the
Mujhar, but his smile was relaxed and genuine.
Cleaned up, he was altogether presentable, even
for a spit-boy. The weeks had improved him in
many ways.

76 Jennifer Roberson

"In fact," the queen went on, "he told me yester-
day he was quite impressed with both of you. Ur-
chin is yet behind you, Kellin, but 'tis to be
expected. He's had no proper lessons before now."
Her expression softened as she glanced at the
taller boy. "You are to be commended for your
diligence."

Urchin's face reddened. "Kellin helps me."

"But he leams on his own," Kellin put in
quickly. "I only point out a few things here and
there. He does most of it himself."

"I know." Aileen of Homana had lost none of
her vividness with the passage of time, though her
color had dimmed a trifle from the brilliant red
of youth to a rusted silver. But she was still Erin-
nish. born of an island kingdom, and she still
boasted the tenacity and fiery outspokenness that
had nearly caused a political incident between her
realm and Homana when she had professed to
love Niall's third-born son in place of the prince
she was meant to wed; Conn himself had pre-
vented it by taking up his tahlmorra in Atvia, and
Aileen had married Brennan after all. "He's as
quick at his learning as he is his duties at the spit;

'twill not be long before he outgrows the kitchens
and enters into more personal service."

"With me?" Kellin blurted.

Aileen laughed. "In time, Kellin—first he must
leam the household. Then we'll be seeing if he's
ready to become the Prince of Homana's personal
squire."

"But he has to be," Kellin insisted- "I want to
make him commander of the Mujharan Guard."

"Oh?" Rusty brows lifted. "I think Harlech
might be wishing to keep his post."

"Oh, not yet." Kellin waved a hand. "When he
is older- When I am Mujhar."

Aileen's mouth crimped only slightly. "Indeed."

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            77

She looked at Urchin. "Do you feel yourself fit for
such duty?"

"Not yet," Urchin replied promptly. "But—I
will be." He cast a sidelong glance at Kellin. "I
mean to guard him against the Lion."

Aileen's smiled faded. Her glance went beyond
the boys to the man in the doorway.

"The Lion," echoed the Mujhar; both boys swung
at once. "The Lion is no threat, as I have said
many times. It is a throne, no more. Symbolic of
Homana, the Cheysuli, and our tahlmorra, which is
of no little import—" he smiled faintly, "—but as-
suredly it offers nothing more than the dusty odor
of history and the burdensome weight of
tradition."

Kellin knew better than to protest; let them be-
lieve as they would. He knew better.

Now, so did Urchin.

"I, too, am pleased/' the Mujhar declared. "Rogan
has brought good tidings of your progress." He
glanced briefly at his wife, passing a silent mes-
sage, then touched each boy-on the shoulder. "Now,
surely you can find better ways to spend your time
than with women and women's things," he
grinned at the queen to show he meant no gibe,
"so I suggest you be about it. Rogan has the day
to himself and has gone into the city; I suggest
you see if Harlech has something to teach you of
a commander's duties."

Urchin bowed quick acquiesence, then followed
Kellin from the chamber.

"Wait." Kellin stepped rapidly aside to the wall
beside the still-open door, catching Urchin's arm
to halt him. "Listen," he whispered.

Urchin's expression was dubious; blue eyes flicked
in alarm toward the door. "But—"

Kellin mashed a silencing hand into his friend's
mouth. He barely moved his lips. "There is some-

78 Jennifer Roberson

thing he wants to tell her . . . something I am not
to hear—" Kellin bit off his sentence as his grand-
mother began speaking-

" Tis Aidan, isn't it?" she asked tensely in the
room beyond- "You've heard."

"A message." The Mujhar's tone was curiously
flat, squashed all out of shape. Without seeing his
grandsire, Kellin heard the layered emotions: res-
ignation, impatience, a raw desperation. "Aidan
says, 'Not yet.' "

His granddame was not nearly so self-controlled.
"Didn't ye tell him, then?"

"I did. In the strongest terms possible. 'Send for
your son,' I said, 'Kellin needs his father.' "

"And?"

"And he says, 'Not yet." "

Urchin's breath hissed. Kellin waved him into
silence.

"Gods," Aileen breathed. "Has he gone mad, as
they say?"

"I—want to think not. I want to disbelieve the
rumors. I want very much to believe there is a rea-
son for what he does."

"To keep himself isolate—"

"He is a shar tahl, Aileen. They are unlike other
Cheysuli—"

Her tone was rough, as if she suppressed tears.
"There's Erinnish in him, too, my braw boyo—or
are you forgetting that?"

"No." The Mujhar sighed. "He shapes others,
Aidan says, to understand the old ways must be
altered by the new."

"But to deny his own son a father—"

"He will send for Kellin, he says, when the time
is right."

For a long moment there was silence. Then the
Queen of Homana muttered an oath more appro-
priate to a soldier. "And when will it be right?

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            79

When his son is a grown man, seated upon the
Lion Throne Aidan himself should hold?"

The Mujhar answered merely, with great weari-
ness, "I do not know."

Tension filled the silence. Then Kellin heard a
long, breathy sigh cut off awkwardly.

"Aileen, no—"

"Why not?" The voice was thick, but fierce. "He
is my son, Brennan—I'm permitted, I'm thinking,
to cry if I wish to cry."

"Aileen—"

"I miss him," she said. "Gods, but I miss him!
So many years—"

"Shansu, meijhana—"

"There is no peace!" she cried. "I bore him in
my body. You're not knowing what it is."

"I am bonded in my own way—"

"With a cat1." she said. " 'Tisn't the same, Bren-
nan. And even if it were, you have Sleeta here. 1
have nothing. Nothing but memories of the child
I bore, and the boy I raised. .. ." Her voice thick-
ened again. " 'Tisn't fair to any of us. Not to you,
to me; and certainly not to Kellin." Her voice
paused. "Is there no way to make him come? To
compel him?"

"No," Brennan said. "He is more than our son,
more than a jehan. He is also a shar tahl. I will
not compel a man blessed by gods to serve a mor-
tal desire. Not for me, nor for you—"

"For his son?"

"No. I will not interfere."

Taut silence, as Kellin spun tightly away. Ur-
chin hesitated only a moment, then hastened to
catch up. "Kellin—"

"You heard." It took effort not to shout. "You
heard what he said. About my father—" It filled
his throat, swelling tightly, until he wanted to
choke, or scream, or cry. "He doesn't want me."

Jennifer Roberson

ae

"That's not what the Mujhar said. He said your
father would send when the time was right."

Kellin strode on stiffly. "The time will never be
right!"

"But you don't know th—"

"I do." Venomously. "He renounced the throne,
and renounced me. He renounced everything"

"But he's a priest. Don't priests do those things?"

"Not shar tahls. Not most of them. They have
sons, and they love them." Kellin's tone thinned,
then wavered. He clamped down on self-possession
with every bit of strength he had. "Someday I will
see him, whether he wants me or no, and I will
tell him to his face that he is not a man."

"Kellin—"

"I will." Kellin stopped and stared fiercely at
Urchin. "And you will come with me."

He dreamed of gods, and fathers, and islands;

of demanding, impatient gods; of Lions who ate
humans. He awoke with a cry as the door swung
open, and moved to catch up the knife he kept on
a bench beside his bed, with which he might slay
lions.

"Kellin?" It was Rogan, bringing with him a
cupped candle. "Are you awake?"

Kellin always woke easily, prepared for lions.
"Aye." He scooched up in bed. "What is it?" His
heart seized. Not the Lion—"

There was tension in Rogan's tone as he came
into the chamber, swinging shut the door behind
him. He did not chide his charge for speaking of
the Lion. "Kellin ..." He came forward to the bed,
bringing the light with him. It scribed deep lines
in a haggard face. "There is something we must
discuss."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I can think of no better time." A slight dryness

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

81

altered the tension. Rogan put the candle cup on
the bench beside the knife, then sat down on the
edge of the huge tester bed. "My lord, I know you
are troubled. I have known for some time. Urchin
came to me earlier, but do not blame him; he
cares for you, and wants you content."

"Urchin?" Kellin was confused.

"He told me what you both overheard today,
when you eavesdropped on the Mujhar."

"Oh." Only the faintest flicker of remorse pinched,
then was consumed by remembered bitterness.
"Did he tell you—"

Rogan overrode. "Aye. And after much thought,
I have decided to do what no one else will do."
The tutor's eyes were blackened by shadows,
caved in unreadable darkness. "I offer you the op-
portunity to go to your father."

"To—" Kellin sat bolt upright. "You?"

Rogan nodded. His mouth was tight. "I make
no attempt to explain or excuse him, my lord .. .
I merely offer to escort you to the Crystal Isle,
where you may ask him yourself why he has done
as he has."

"My father," Kellin whispered. "Jehan—" He
stared hard into darkness. "When?"

"In the morning."

"How?"

"We will say we are going to Clankeep. You
wish to take Urchin there, do you not?"

"Aye, but—"

"I shall tell the Mujhar you wish to introduce
Urchin to Clankeep and the Cheysuli. He will not
refuse you that. Only we shall go to Hondarth
instead."

"But—the Mujharan Guard. They'll know."

"I have prevailed upon the Mujhar to allow us
to go without guards. You are Cheysuli, after all—
and I know how much close confinement chafes

82 Jennifer Robersoa

the Mujhar. He understands the need to allow you
more freedom . .. and there has been no trouble
for quite some time. If Clankeep were not so close,
it would be different."

"But won't he know? Won't he find out? It is
two weeks' ride to Hondarth."

"It is not unusual for a Cheysuli boy, regardless
of rank, to desire to spend some time among his
people."

Kellin understood at once. "But we will go to
the Crystal Isle while he believes we are at
Clankeep!"

The tutor's silence was eloquent.

Kellin drew in a breath. "You will have to send
word."

"From Hondarth. By then it will be too late for
the Mujhar to stop us."

Kellin looked into the beloved face. "Why?"

Rogan's smile was ghastly. "Because it is time."

Five

They left early, very early, with only a loaf of
bread and a flagon of cider serving as breakfast.
Kellin, Urchin, and Rogan made a very small
party as they exited Homana-Mujhar before the
Mujhar and the queen were even awake.

"Where is Clankeep?" Urchin asked.

Kellin flicked a glance at Rogan, then grinned
at his Homanan friend. "We aren't going to Clan-
keep. We are going to the Crystal Isle. To my
jehan."

Urchin absorbed the new information. "How far
is the Crystal Isle?"

"Two weeks of nding," Kellin answered
promptly. Then, evoking his Erinnish granddame,
"And but a bit of a sail across the bay to the is-
land." Inwardly, he said, And to my Jehan.

"Two weeks?" Urchin scratched at his nose. "I
didn't Imow Homana was so big."

"Aye." Kellin grinned. "One day all of it will be
mine, and you will help me rule it."

Urchin was dubious. "I'm only a spit-boy."

"For now." Kellin looked at his tutor. "Once,
Rogan was only a man who gambled too much."

Rogan's face grayed. Even his lips went pale.
"Who told you that?"

Kellin stiffened, alarmed. "Was I not to know?"

The tutor was plainly discomfited. "You know
what you know, my lord, but it is not a past of

S3

84 Jennifer Roberson

which to be proud. I thought it well behind me-
When I married—" He broke it off, abruptly, nos-
trils pinched and white.

Alerted, Kellin answered the scent. "You are
married?"

"I was." Rogan's face was stiff, and his spine,       c,
"She is dead. Long dead." He guided his mount       ^
with abrupt motions, which caused the gelding to       A
protest the bit. "Before I married Tassia, I gam-       a
bled away all my coin. She broke me of the habit,       |,
and made me use my wits for something other       t
than wagering."                                     ^

"And so you came to Homana-Mujhar." Kellin       (
nodded approvingly. "I recall the day."                H

"So do I, my lord." Rogan's smile was twisted.
"She was one month dead. You were all of eight,
and grieving for your great-uncle."

"The Lion bit him," Kellin muttered. "He bit
him, and lan -died,"

"How far do we go today?" Urchin asked, oblivi-
ous to dead kinsmen and dead wives,

"There is a roadhouse some way out of Mujhara,
on the Hondarth road," Rogan answered. "We will
stay the night there."

The common room was dim, lighted only by a
handful of greasy tallow candles set in clay cups.
The room stank of spilled wine, skunky ale, burned
meat, and unwashed humanity. It crossed Kellin's
mind briefly, who was accustomed to better, that
the roadhouse was unworthy of them, but he
closed his mouth on a question. They were bound
for the Crystal Isle in absolute secrecy, and for a
boy to complain of his surroundings would draw
the wrong sort of attention. Instead, he breathed
through his mouth until the stench was bearable
and kept a sharp eye on the purse hanging at Ro-


A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              85

gan's belt. He had learned that much from Urchin
who had grown up in the streets-

"Look." Kellin leaned close to Urchin and nudged
him with an elbow as they slipped into the room
behind Rogan- "See the one-eyed man?"

Urchin nodded. "I see him."

"You've been places I have not—what is he
doing?"

Urchin grinned. "Dicing. See the cubes? He'll
toss them out of the leather cup onto the table.
The highest number wins."

Rogan halted at a table near the center of the
room and glanced at his two young charges. His
face was arranged in a curiously blank expression.
"We will sit here."

Kellin nodded, paying little attention; he watched
the one-eyed man as he shook the leather cup and
rolled the dice out onto the table. The man
shouted, laughed, then scooped up the few coins
glinting dully in wan light.

"Look at the loser/' Urchin whispered as he
slipped onto a stool- "D'ye see the look? He's
angry."

Kellin slid a glance at the other man. The loser
made no physical motion that gave away his
anger, but Kellin marked the tautness of his
mouth, the bunched muscles along his jaw. Delib-
erately the loser tossed two more coins onto the
table, matched by the one-eyed man. Each man
tossed dice again.

A knife appeared, glinting dully in bad light.
The one-eyed man, wary of the weapon displayed
specifically for his benefit, did not immediately
reach to gather up his winnings.

Urchin leaned close. "He thinks the one-eyed
man is cheating."

It fascinated Kellin, who had never been so close

86 Jennifer Roberson

to violence other than the Lion. "Will he kill
him?"

Urchin shrugged. "I've seen men killed for less
reason than a dice game."

Rogan's lips compressed. "I should not have
brought you in here. We should go upstairs to our
room and have a meal sent up."

"No!" Kellin said quickly. Then, as Rogan's
brows arched, "I mean—should not the future
Mujhar see all kinds of those he will rule?"

The taut mouth loosened a little. "Perhaps. And
an astute one will recognize that to some Homa-
nans, the man on the Lion Throne means less than
nothing."

It was incomprehensible to Kellin who had been
reared in a household steeped in honor and re-
spect. "But how can they—"

A shadow fell across their table, distracting Kel-
lin at once. A slender, well-formed hand—unlike
the broad-palmed, spatulate hands of the one-eyed
man and his angry companion—placed a wooden
casket on the table. A subtle, muted rattle from
the contents was loud in the sudden silence.

Kellin glanced up at once. The man smiled
slightly, glancing at the two boys before turning
his attention to Rogan. He was young, neatly
dressed in good gray tunic and trews, and his blue
eyes lacked the dull hostility Kellin had marked
in the dicers. Shining russet hair fell in waves to
his shoulders. "Will you play, sir?"

Rogan wet his lips. He moved his hands from
the table top to his lap. "I—do not play."

"Ah, but it will take no time at all ... and you
may leave this table with good gold in your
purse." An easy, mellifluous tone; a calm and be-
guiling smile.

Kellin glanced sharply at Rogan. He would not—
would he? After all his dead wife had done?

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

87

But he could see the expression in the tutor's
eyes: Rogan desired very badly to play. The older
man's mouth parted slightly, then compressed
again. Rogan's gaze met the stranger's. "Very
well."

"But—" Kellin began.

The stranger overrode the protest easily, sliding
onto a stool before Kellin could finish. "I am Cor-
wyth, from Ellas. It is my good fortune that we
are chance-met." He cast a brief glance around the
room. "The others do not interest me, but^ou are
obviously a man of good breeding." He spared a
smile for Kellin and Urchin as he addressed
Rogan. "Your sons?"

"Aye," Rogan said briefly; he did not so much
as glance at Corwyth, but stared transfixed at the
casket.

It fascinated Kellin also. A passing glance marked
nothing more than plain dark wood polished
smooth by time and handling, but a second glance—
and a more intense examination—revealed the
wood not smooth at all, b'ut carved with a shallow
frieze of intricate runes. Inside—? Kellin leaned
forward to peer into the mouth of the casket and
saw only blackness. "Where are the dice?"

Corwyth laughed softly. "Be certain they are
there." He sat at Rogan's right hand. with Urchin
on his right; Kellin's stool was directly across the
table. "Have you played before?"

The Ellasian addressed him, not Rogan; he
seemed to know all about Rogan. Kellin shook his
head quickly, slanting a glance at his tutor, "My—
father—does not allow it."

"Ah, well . , . when you are older, then." Cor-
wyth ignored Urchin utterly as he turned his at-
tention to Rogan. "Will you throw first, or shall
I?"

98

Rogan's taut throat moved in a heavy swallow.
"I must know the stakes first."

Corwyth's smile came easily, lighting his mobile
face. "Those you know already."

A sheen of dampness filmed Rogan's brow. "Will
I lose, then? Or do you play the game as if there
might be a chance for me?"

The odd bitterness in the older man's tone
snared Kellin's attention instantly. But Rogan
said nothing more to explain himself, and Cor-
wyth answered before Kellin could think of a
proper question.

The Ellasian indicated the rune-carved casket
with a flick of a fingernail. "A man makes his own
fortune, regardless of the game."

Rogan scrubbed his face with a sleeve-sheathed
forearm, then swore raggedly and caught up the
casket. He upended it with a practiced twitch of
his wrist. Six ivory cubes fell out, and six slender
black sticks.

All of them were blank.

Urchin blurted surprise. Rogan stiffened on his
bench, transfixed by the sticks and cubes. Breath
rasped in his throat.

"Did you lose?" Kellin asked, alarmed by Ro-
gan's glazed eyes.

Corwyth's tone was odd. "How would you like
them to read?" he asked Rogan. "Tell me. and I
shall do it."

Rogan's fingers gripped the edge of the table.
"And if—if I requested the winning gambit?"

"Why, then I should lose." Corwyth grinned and
glanced at Kellin and Urchin. "But, after all, it is
my game, and I think I should still find a way to
win." His gaze returned to Rogan's face. "Do you
not agree?"

"Kellin—" Rogan's tone was abruptly harsh.

A TAfwntv OF Lims

89

:      ',
»•

"Kellin, you and Urchin are to go upstairs at

once."

"No," Corwyth said softly. A slender finger
touched each of the blank ivory cubes and set
them all to glowing with a livid purple flame.

"Magic—" Urchin whispered: dreadful fasci-
nation-

Kellin did not look at the cubes or the black
sticks. He stared instead at Corwyth's face, into
his eyes, and saw no soul.

He put out his small hand instantly and swept
the cubes from the table, unheeding of the flame,
then scattered all the sticks. "No," Kellin de-
clared. "No."

Corwyth's smile was undiminished; if anything,
it increased to one of immense satisfaction. "Per-
ceptive, my lord. My master has indeed done well
to send me for you now, while you are yet Hrless
and therefore without power. But I think for all
your perception you fail to recognize the extent of
his power, or mine—" his tone altered from con-
versational, "—and that the game we initiated has
already been played through." Smoothly he caught
Rogan's arm in one hand. and the wristbones
snapped,

Rogan cried out. Sweat ran from his face. His
shattered wrist remained trapped in Corwyth's
hand, who appeared to exert no pressure whatso-
ever with anything but his will.

Kellin leapt to his feet, thinking only that some-
how he must get Rogan free; he must stop Rogan's
pain. But the instinct was abruptly blunted, the
attempt aborted, as Corwyth shook his head. He
will injure Rogan worse. Kellin knew it at once.
Slowly he resumed his seat, aware of a minute
trembling seizing all his bones. "Who?" he asked.
"Who is your master?"

"Lochiel, of course." Corwyth smiled. His cor-

90 Jennifer Roberaoa

dial attitude was undiminished by the threat he
exuded without effort, which made the moment
worse. "Do you know of another man who would
presume to steal a prince?"

"Steal—" Kellin stiffened. Me? He wants—me?

Urchin stirred on his stool. His thin face was
white. "Are you—Ihlini?"

The dead cubes and sticks scattered on the floor
came abruptly to life again, flying from the dirt-
pack to land again upon the table and commence
a spinning dervish-dance across the scarred sur-
face. Purple godfire streamed from the cubes; the
black sticks glistened blood-red.

Urchin sucked in an audible breath. Kellin, infu-
riated by Corwyth's audacity, smashed a small fist
against the table top. "No!"

The cubes and sticks fell at once into disarray,
rattling into silence as the dance abruptly collapsed.

"Too late," Corwyth chided. "Much too late, my
lord." He looked at Rogan and smiled.

The awful tension in the Homanan's body was
plain to see. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Oh,
gods, I cannot—I cannot—"

"Too late," Corwyth repeated.

Rogan looked at Kellin. "Run!" he cried. "Run!"

Six

Kellin lunged to his feet, grasping for and catching
a fistful of Urchin's tunic. He saw the blue blaze
in Corwyth's eyes, sensed the pain radiating from
Rogan's shattered wrist. / must do something.

"Urchin—" He tugged on the boy's tunic, who
needed no urging, then together they scrabbled
their way across the room, jerked open the door,
and fell out into the darkness.

"Did you see—" Urchin choked.

"We have to run. Rogan said run." Kellin yanked
at Urchin's tunic.

Urchin was clearly terrified. "H-horses—"

"They will lie in wait for us there—we must run,
Urchin!"

They ran away from the roadhouse, away from
the road itself, making for the trees. They shared
no more physical contact; Urchin had at last mas-
tered himself. The Homanan boy, accustomed to
fleeing, darted through the wood without hesita-
tion. City-reared Kellin now was less certain of his
course and followed Urchin's lead.

A branch slapped Kellin across the eyes, blur-
ring his vision. He tasted the sourness of resin in
his mouth, spat once, then forgot about it in his
flight. He could see little of the ground underfoot,
trusting instinctively to the balance and reflexes
of youth as well as the training begun in Homana-
Mujhar.

91

92 Jennifer Kobesyon

"Urchin—?"

"Here—" Ahead still, and still running, crashing
through deadfall and undergrowth.

Kellin winced as another branch clawed at his
tunic, digging into the flesh of bare arms. And then
he saw the glint of silver in the trees and slipped
down into the creek before he could halt his flight.
Kellin fell forward, flailing impotently as cold
water closed over his head.

He kicked, found purchase, if treacherous, not
far under his feet, and thrust himself upward to
the surface. Kellin choked and spat, coughing,
shivering from fright and cold.

"Kellin—" It was Urchin, bankside, reaching
down. Kellin caught the hand, clung, and scrab-
bled out onto the creek bank. Urchin's face was
seamed with branch-born welts. "We can't run all
night!"

Kellin tried to catch his breath. "We—have to
get as far—far from them as we can—"

"There was only that one. Corwyth."

"More." Kellin sucked air, filling his chest.
"Kick over one rock and find a single Ihlini ...
kick over another and find a nest." He scraped a
forearm across his face, shoving soaked hair from
his eyes. "That's what everyone says."

Dry, Urchin nonetheless shivered. "But if they're
sorcerers—"

"We have to try—" Kellin began.

The forest around them exploded into a spectral
purple glow. Out of the blinding light came two
dark shadows, silhouetted against livid godfire.

Kellin grabbed at Urchin and swung him back
the way they had come. "Run!"

But Corwyth himself stood on the other side of
the creek. With him was Rogan.

Urchin blurted his shock even as Kellin stopped
short. Breathing hard, Kellin nonetheless heard

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

93

the soft susurration of men moving behind them.
The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. "I taste
it," he murmured blankly. "I can taste the magic."

Corwyth smiled. Rogan did not. The godfire
painted them all an eerie lavender, but Kellin
could see the pallor of his tutor's face. Rogan's
eyes glistened with tears.

Pain—? Kellin wondered.

"My lord," Rogan said. "Oh, my lord . . . forgive
me—"

Comprehension  brought  sickness.  Sickness
formed a stone in Kellin's belly. "Not you!" No, of
course not; Rogan would deny it. Rogan would
explain.

"My lord .. . there was nothing left for me. I
had no choice."

Corwyth lifted a minatory hand. "There was
choice," he reproved. "There is always choice. I
may be, to you, an enemy, but I suggest you tell
the truth to this boy, who is not: it was neither I
nor my master who forced you to this."

Kellin's conviction was undiminished. Rogan
will deny it—he will tell me the truth. After all, how
many times had Kellin been told of the perfidi-
ousness of Ihlini? This is some kind of trick. "He
hurt you," Kellin declared. "He broke your wrist;

what else can you say?"

"There was no threat," Corwyth countered qui-
etly. "The wrist was merely to prove the need for
care. I have no need of threats with Rogan. All I
was required to do was promise him his dearest
desire."

"Ihlini lie," Kellin declared, even as Urchin
stirred in surprise beside him. "Ihlini lie all the
time. You are the enemy."

"To assure our survival, aye." Corwyth's young
face looked older, less serene. "To Ihlini, you are
the enemy."

94 Jennifer Roberson

It was an entirely new thought. Kelhn rejected
it. He looked instead at Rogan. "He's lying."

"No." Rogan's mouth warped briefly. "There
was no threat, as he says. Only a promise."

It was utter betrayal. "What promise?" Kellin
cried. "What could he promise you that the Mujhar
could not offer?"

Rogan shut his eyes. His face was shiny with
sweat.

"Tell him," Corwyth said-

"You would have me strip away all his
innocence?"

The Ihlini shrugged, "He will lose it soon enough
in Valgaard."

Urchin's face was a sickly white in fireglow. He
breathed audibly. "Valgaard?"

"Rogan?" Kellin swallowed back the fear that
formed a hard knot in his throat. "Rogan—this
isn't true?"

The tutor broke. He spoke rapidly, disjointedly.
"It was him ... a year ago, he came—came and

asked that I betray you to the Ihlini."

mi i"
Me'

"Lochiel." Rogan shuddered. "Lochiel wants
you." His entire body convulsed. "He could not
reach you. He could get you no other way- Cor-
wyth promised me you would be unharmed."

Kellin could not breathe- "You agreed?"

"My lord—if he had intended harm—"

"You agreed\"

"Kellin—"

It was the worst of all. "He is Ihlini\"

"Kellin—"

"How could you do this?" It was a refrain in
Kellin's mind, in Kellin *s mouth. "How could you
do this?"

Rogan's face was wet with tears. "It was not—
not of my devising . . . that I promise you. But he

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

95

promised. Promised me ... and I was weak, so
weak...."

Kellin shouted it. "What did he promise you?"

Rogan fell to his knees. "Forgive me—forgive—"

The stone in Kellin's belly grew. He felt it come
to life. It pushed his heart aside, then squeezed up
into his throat. His body was filled with it.

And the stone had a name: rage.

Kellin heard his voice—mine?—come from a
vast distance. It was an ordinary voice, shaped by
normal inflections, with no hint at all of shock, or
terror, or rage. "What did he promise you?"

"My wife!" Rogan cried.

It was incomprehensible. "You said she was
dead." And then Kellin understood.

"My wife," the tutor whispered, hands slack
upon his knees. "You are too young to understand
... but I loved her so much I thought I would die
of it, and then she died—she died - .. because of
the child I gave her—" He broke off. His gaze was
fixed on Kellin. He gathered himself visibly, at-
tempting to master his, anguish. "I refused,"
Rogan said quietly. "Of course I refused. Nothing
could make me betray you. I would have accepted
death before that."

"Why didn't you?" Kellin shouted.

"But then this man, this Ihlini, promised me my
wife."

Kellin shivered. He looked at Corwyth. "You can
raise the dead?"

The Ihlini smiled- "I am capable of many things."
He extended his right hand, palm up, as if to mock
the Cheysuli gesture of tahlmorra; then a flaring
column of white light filled his hand.

"Magic," Urchin murmured,

"Tricks," Kellin declared; he could not admit
the Ihlini might offer a true threat, or fear would
overwhelm him-

96 Jennifer Robersoa

"Is it?" The light in Corwyth's hand coalesced,
then began to move, to dance, and the column
resolved itself into a human shape-

A tiny, naked woman.

"Gods," Rogan blurted. Then, brokenly, "Tassia."

Kellin stared at the burning woman. She was a
perfect embodiment of the Ihlini's power.

Corwyth smiled. The woman danced within his
palm, twisting and writhing. She burned bright
white and searing, spinning and spinning, so that
flaming hair spun out from her body and shed
brilliant sparks. Tiny breasts and slim hips were
exposed, and the promise of her body.

Kellin, whose body was as yet too young to re-
spond, looked at Rogan. The Homanan still knelt
on the ground, eyes fixed in avid hunger on the
tiny dancing woman.

"Do you want her?" Corwyth asked. "I did
promise her to you. And I keep my promises."

"She isn't real!" Kellin cried.

"Not precisely," Corwyth agreed, "She is a sum-
moning from my power; a conjured promise, noth-
ing more. But I can make her real—real enough
for Rogan." He smiled. "Look upon her, Kellin.
Look at her perfection! It is such a simple thing
to make Tassia from this."

The tiny, burning features were eloquent in
their pleading. She was fully aware, Kellin saw;

Tassia knew.

Rogan cried out. "I bargained my soul for this.
Give me my payment for it!"

The light from the burning woman blanched
Corwyth's face. "Your soul was mine the moment
I asked for it. The promise of this woman was
merely a kindness." He looked at Kellin though
his words were meant for Rogan. "Speak it,
prince's man. Aloud, where Kellin can hear- Re-
nounce your service to the House of Homana.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

97

Deny your prince as he stands here before you.
Do only these two things, and you will have your
payment."

Rogan shuddered-

"Speak it," Corwyth said.

"Leave him alone!" Kellin cried.

"Kellin—" Rogan's expression was wracked.
"Forgive—"

"Don't say it!" Kellin shouted. "Do not give in
to him!"

"Speak," Corwyth said.

Tears ran down Rogan's face. "I renounce the
House of Homana."

"Rogan!"

"I renounce my prince."

"No!"

"1 submit to you, Ihlini . .. and now ask pay-
ment for my service!"

Corwyth smiled gently. He lifted his other hand
as if in benevolent blessing. Rogan's head bowed
as the hand came down, and then he was bathed
in the same lurid light that shaped the tiny
woman.

"Wait!" Kellin cried. "Rogan—no—"

Rogan's eyes stretched wide. "This is not what
you promised—" But his body was engulfed.

Kellin fell back, coughing, even as Urchin did.
The clearing was tilled with smoke. Corwyth pursed
his lips and blew a gentle exhalation, and the smoke
dispersed completely.

"What did you do?" Kellin asked. "What did
you do to Rogan?"

"I gave him what he desired, though of a decid-
edly different nature. He believed I intended to
remake his dead wife. But even / cannot do that,
so this will have to suffice." Corwyth's right hand
supported the dancing woman, now rigidly still.

98 Jennifer Roberson

In his other hand, outstretched, burned a second
tiny figure.

Urchin cried out. Kellin stared, transfixed, as he
saw the formless features resolve themselves into
those he knew so well. "Rogan."

Corwyth brought his hands together. The man
and woman met, embraced, then merged into a
single livid flame. "I do assure you, this was what
he wanted."

Kellin was horrified. "Not like that\"

"Perhaps not." Corwyth grinned. "A conceit, I
confess; he did not have the wit to specify how he
wanted payment made."

Kellin shuddered. And then the stone in chest
and throat broke free at last. He vomited violently.

"No!" Urchin cried, then screamed Rogan's
name.

Corwyth knelt down beside the creek.

"Wait!" Kellin shouted.

Corwyth dipped his hands into the water. "But
let it never be said I am a man who knows no
mercy. Death, you might argue, is better than
this."

"Rogan!"

But the names were extinguished as water
snuffed them out.

Seven

Kellin found himself on hands and knees in clammy
vegetation, hunched before the creek in bizarre
obeisance to the sorcerer who knelt on the bank.
His belly cramped painfully. His mouth formed a
single word, though the lips were warped out of
shape. Rogan.

And then the horrible thought: Not Rogan any
more.

A hand was on his arm, fingers digging into
flesh. "Kellin—Kellin—" Urchin, of course; Kellin
twisted his head upward and saw the pale glint of
Urchin's eyes, the sweaty sheen of shock-blanched
face. Ashamed of his weakness, Kellin swabbed a
trembling hand across his dry mouth and climbed
to his feet. Show the Ihlini no fear.

But he thought it was too late; surely Corwyth
had seen. Surely Corwyth knew.

The russet-haired Ihlini rose, shaking droplets
from elegant hands with negligent flicks of his
fingers. "Shall you come without protest, my
lord?"

Kellin whirled and stiff-armed Urchin, shoving
him back a full step before the Homanan boy
could speak. "Run!"

He darted to the left even as Urchin spun, run-
ning away from Corwyth, away from the creek.
away from the horror of what he had witnessed,
the terrible quenching of a man—

99

100 Jennifer Robersoa

He tore headlong through limbs and leaves,
shredding underbrush and vines. In huge leaps
Kellin spent himself, panting through a dry throat
as he ran. He fastened on one thought—Urchin—
but the Homanan boy was making his own way,
making his own future, crashing through brush
only paces away. Kellin longed to call out but
dared not risk it. Besides, Urchin was better suited
to flight than he, growing up a boy of the streets;

best Kellin tend himself.

Corwyth's voice cut through the trees like a clar-
ion. "I require only you, Kellin. Not him. Come
back, and I will spare him."

"Don't listen!" Urchin hissed as he broke through
tangled foliage near Kellin. "What can he—"

The Homanan boy stopped short, fully visible in
a patch of moonlight. His chest rose and fell un-
evenly as his breath rattled in his throat.

Kellin staggered to a stiff-limbed halt, arms out-
flung. His breathing was as loud. "Urchin?"

The boy's blue eyes were fixed and dilated.

"Urchin—run—"

Urchin's eyes bulged in their sockets.

Even as Kellin reached for him, the boy's limbs
jerked. Urchin's mouth dropped open, blurting in-
articulate protest. Then something pushed out
against the fabric of his tunic, as if it quested for
exit from the confines of his chest.

"Ur—" Kellin saw the blood break from Ur-
chin's breastbone. "No!" But Urchin was down, all
asprawl, face buried in leaf mold and turf. Kellin
grabbed handfuls of tunic and dragged him over
onto his back. "Urchin—"

Kellin recoiled. A bloodied silver wafer extruded
from Urchin's breastbone, shining wetly in the
moonlight.

He mouthed it: Sorcerer's Tooth. Kellin had
heard of them. The Ihlini weapons were often poi-

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

101

soned, though this one had done its work simply
by slicing cleanly through the boy's chest from
spine to breastbone.

Corwyth's voice sounded very close, too close,
though Kellin could not see him. "A waste of life,"
the Ihlini said. "You threw it away, Kellin."

"No!"

"You had only to come to me."

"No!"

"And so now you are alone in the dark with an
Ihlini." Corwyth's laughter was quiet. "Surely a
nightmare all Cheysuli dread."

Urchin was dead. Muttering a prayer to the
gods—and an apology to Urchin for the pain he
could not feel—Kellin stripped hastily out of his
jerkin, tucked it over the exposed spikes, then
yanked the wafer from Urchin's chest.

He twisted his head. Where is—?

Just behind. "Kellin. Surrender. I promise you
no harm."

Kellin lurched upward and spun. "I promise you
harm!"

He heard Corwyth cry out as the glinting weapon,
loosed, spun toward the Ihlini. Kellin did not tarry
to see if the Tooth had bitten deeply enough to
kill. He fled into darkness again.

Kellin ran until he could run no more, then
dropped into a steady jogging trot. Though his
breath fogged the air, the first terror had faded,
replaced by a simple conviction that if he did not
halt, not even to catch that breath, he could re-
main ahead of Corwyth -

He assumed the Ihlini lived. To believe other-
wise was to court the kind of carelessness that
might prove fatal. If he had learned one thing
from his beloved lan, it was never to assume one
was safe when one could not know.

102 Jennifer Robersoa

Deadfall snapped beneath booted feet, then died
out gradually as Kellin learned to seek out the
thicker shadows of softer, muffled ground. In six
strides he learned stealth, reverting to simple in-
stincts and the training of his race,

If I had a hr— But he did not, and wishing for
one would gain him nothing save a tense uncer-
tainty of his ability to survive.

At last even his trot collapsed into disarray. Kel-
lin staggered, favoring his right side. Exhaustion
robbed him of strength, of endurance; apprehen-
sion robbed him of grace. He stumbled once,
twice, again. The final tumble sent him headfirst
into a tangle of tall bracken, which spilled him
into shadow. Kellin lay there, winded, sucking
cold air scented heavily with mud, and resin, and
fear.

Go on, his conscience told him. But the body did
not respond. Remember what happened to Rogan.
Remember what happened to Urchin.

Kellin squeezed shut his eyes. He had, until the
moment of Urchin's death, believed himself invio-
lable. lan had died, aye, because the Lion had bit-
ten him, and the fortune-teller had died by the
same violent means, but never had Kellin believed
death could happen to him.

Rogan and Urchin, dead.

/ could die, too.

Could the Ihlini's sorcery lead Corwyth directly
to Kellin?

Run—

He stumbled to his feet yet again, hunching for-
ward as a cramp bit into his side. He banished the
pain, banished the memories of the deaths he had
witnessed, and went on again.

—am a Cheysuli warrior ... the forest is my
home—and every creature in it—

He meant to go home, of course. All the way to

A TAPESTSV OF LIONS

103

Mujhara herself, and into Homana-Mujhar. There
he would tell them all. There he would explain.
There he would describe in bloody detail what
Corwyth had accomplished.

The sound was a heavy cough. Not human.
Clearly animal. A heavy, deep-throated cough.

Kellin froze. He sucked in a breath and held it,
listening for the sound.

A cough. And then a growl.

—am Cheysuli—

So he was. But he was also a boy.

The growl rose in pitch, then altered into a roar.

He knew the sounds of the forest. This was not
one of them. This was a sound Kellin recognized
because it filled his dreams-
He did not cry out, but only because he could
not. Lion?

"No," Kellin blurted. He denied it vigorously,
as he had denied nothing before in his life. Urchin
had come, and the Lion had been driven away.
The daytime was safe. And only rarely did the
Lion trouble his dreams now, since Urchin had
come.

But Urchin was dead. And night replaced the
day.

"No!" Kellin cried- There can be no Lion. Every-
one says.

But it was dark, so dark. It was too easy to be-
lieve in such things as Lions when there was no
light.

He fastened himself onto a single thought. "I am
not a child anymore. I defeated the Steppesman
and knocked down his knife. Lions do not exist."

But the Lion roared again. Kellin's defiance was
swamped.

He ran without thought for silence or subter-
fuge. Outflung hands crushed aside foliage, but
some of it sprang back and cut into the flesh of his

194 Jessdfer Robwaoa

naked torso, jerkinless in flight. It snagged hair, at
eyes, at mouth; it dug deeply into his neck even
as he ducked.

Lion!

He saw nothing but shadow and moonlight. If I
stop—

From behind came the roar of a hungry, hunting
lion, crashing through broken brush on the trail
of Cheysuli prey.

Huge and tawny and golden, like the throne in
Homana-Mujhar.

How can they say there isn't a Lion?

Blood ran into Kellin's mouth, then spilled over
open lips; he had somehow bitten his tongue. He
spat, swiped aside a snagging limb, then caught
his breath painfully on a choked blurt of shock as
the footing beneath crumbled.

Wait— He teetered. Then fell. The ground gave
way and tumbled him into a narrow ravine.

Down and down and down, crashing through
bracken and creepers, banging arms and legs into
saplings, smacking skull against rocks and roots.
And then at last the bottom, all of a sudden, too
sudden, and he sprawled awkwardly onto his
back, fetching up against a stump. Kellin heard
whooping and gulping, and realized the noise was
his own.

Lion?

He lurched upward, then scrambled to his feet.
He ached from head to foot, as if all his bones
were bruised.

Lion?

And the lion, abruptly, was there.

Kellin ran. He heard the panting grunts, smelled
the meat-laden breath. And then the jaws snapped
closed around his left ankle.

'Wo/"

The pain shot from ankle to skull. Jaws dug

A TAFESTKY OF Ltws           109

through leather boot into flesh, threatening the
bone.

Kellin clawed at the iron teeth of the iron, bodi-
less beast that had caught boy instead of bear.
Fingers scrabbled at the trap, trying to locate and
trigger the mechanism that would spring the jaws
open.

No lion— It was relief, but also terror; the beast
could not be far behind.

Keltin had heard of bear traps. The Cheysuli dis-
dained such tools, preferring to fight a beast on
its own level rather than resorting to mechanical
means. But some of the Homanans used the heavy
iron traps to catch bear and other prey.

Now it's caught ME— Pain radiated from the
ankle until it encompassed Kellin's entire body.
He twitched and writhed against it, biting into
his bloodied lip, then scrabbled for the chain that
bound trap to tree. It was securely locked. De-
signed to withstand the running charge of a full-
grown bear, it would surely defeat a boy.

Frenziedly, Kellin yanked until his palms shred-
ded and bled. "Let go—let go—LET GO—"

The deep-chested cough sounded again. Through
deadfall the lion came, slinking out of shadow,
tearing its way through vines and bracken.

Kellin leapt to his feet and ran, and was jerked
down almost at once. Iron teeth bit through boot
and compressed fragile flesh, scraping now on
bone.

—no—no—

—no—no—NO— "

The lion, still coughing, broke out of shadow
into moonlight. Kellin jerked at the chain again,
but palms slipped in sticky blood. The weight of
the trap was nothing as he tried to stand again,
to meet his death like a man.

But then the lion roared. The boy who meant to

106

die a man was reduced, by sheer terror, into noth-
ing but a child screaming frenziedly for his father.
But his father would not come, because he never
had.

Eight

Horseback. And yet he did not ride as a man but
as a child, a small child, rump settled across the
withers, legs dangling slackly upon one shoulder
while the rest of him was cradled securely against
a man's chest.

Kellin roused into terror. "Lion—" He was per-
fectly stiff, trying to flail his way to escape. Terror
overwhelmed him. "Lion— UON—"

Arms tightened, stilling him. "There is no lion
here."

"But—" He shut his mouth on the protest, the
adamant denial of what the voice told him. Then
another panic engulfed. "Ihlini—"

The man laughed softly, as if meaning no insult.
"Not I, my lad. I've not the breeding for it."

Kellin subsided, though his strained breathing
was audible. His eyes stretched painfully wide,
but saw nothing in the darkness save the under-
side of a man's jaw and the oblique silhouette of
a head. "Who—?" It faded at once. Pain reasserted
itself. "My leg."

"I'm sorry for it, lad .. . but you'll have to wait
for the healing."

It took effort to speak, to forced a single word
through the rictus of his mouth. "—whole—?"

"Broken, I fear. But we'll be mending it for
you."

Kellin ground his teeth. "—hurts—" And then
107

108 Jennifer Robersoa

wished he had said nothing, nothing at all; a Chey-
suli did not speak of pain.

"Aye, one would think so." The grip shifted a
little, sliding down Kellin's spine to accommodate
the weight that was no longer quite so slack.
" 'Twas a trap for a bear, not a boy. You're fortu-
nate it left the foot attached."

Kellin stiffened again, craning, as he tried to see
for himself.

The other laughed softly. "Aye, lad, 'tis there. I
promise you that. Now, settle yourself; you've a
fever coming on. You'll do better to rest."

"Who—?" he began again.

The rider chuckled as Kellin tried to sit up. He
turned his face downward. "There, now—better?
I'm one of you after all."

"One of—me?" And then Kellin understood. Re-
lief washed through him, then ebbed as quickly as
it stole his strength away.

Indeed, one of him. The stranger was his grand-
sire, if stripped of forty years. His accent was Ai"
leen's own. There was only one Cheysuli warrior
in all the world who sounded like the Mujhar's
Erinnish queen.

"Blais," Kellin murmured. Weakness and fever
crept closer to awareness, nibbling at its edges.

The warrior grinned, displaying fine white teeth
in a dark Cheysuli face. "Be still, little cousin.
We've yet a ways to ride. You'll do better to pass
it in sleep."

In sleep, or something like. Kellin slumped
against his kinsman as consciousness departed.

He roused as Blais handed him down from the
horse into someone else's care. Pain renewed itself,
so strongly that Kellin whimpered before he could
suppress it. And then he was more ashamed than

109

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

ever because Blais himself was Cheysuli and knew
a warrior did not voice his discomfort.

Sweating, Kellin bit again into a split lip and
tasted fresh blood. It was all he could do not to
moan aloud.

"My pavilion," Blais said briefly. "Send some-
one to Homana-Mujhar with word, and call others
here for the healing."

The other warrior carried Kellin inside as Blais
dismounted and carefully settled him onto a pallet
of thick furs. Kellin opened his eyes and saw the
shadowed interior of a CheysuH pavilion. Then the
stranger was gone, and Blais knelt down on one
knee beside him. A callused palm touched Kellin's
forehead.

"Shansu," Blais murmured. "I know it hurts, lit-
tle cousin, no need to fight it so, I'll think none
the less of you."

But Kellin would not give in, though he sweated
and squirmed with pain. "Can't you heal me?"

Blais smiled. His face was kind in a stem sort
of way- He was very like fhem all, though Erinn
and Homana ran in his veins as well as Cheysuli
blood. Physically the dilution did not show; Blais'
features and coloring were purely Cheysuli, even
if the accent was not. "Not without help, my lad.
I was ill myself last year with the summer fever—
well enough now, you'll see, but weak in the earth
magic yet. I'd rather not risk the future of Homana
to a halfling's meager gifts."

Halfling. Kellin shifted. What am I, then? "You
have a lir. Tanni. I remember from when you vis-
ited Homana-Mujhar two years ago."

"Aye, but she came to me late. Don't be forget-
ting, lad—I was Erinn-raised. The magic there is
different. I'm different because of it."

Fever-clad weakness proved pervasive. Kellin
squinted at his cousin through a wave of fading

ISO Jennifer Roberson

vision. "I'm different, too, like you . .. will I get
my lir late?"

" Tis between you and the gods." Blais' callused
palm was gentle as he smoothed back dampened
hair. "Hush. now, lad. Don't waste yourself on
talking."

Kellin squirmed. "The Lion—"

" 'Twas a bear-trap, lad."

Kellin shut his eyes because it made him dizzy
to keep them open. "An Ihlini Lion . .." he as-
serted weakly, "and it was after me."

"Lad."

"—was—" Kellin insisted. "The Ihlini killed Ur-
chin. And Rogan."

"Kellin."

"They were my friends, and he killed them."

"Kellin!" Blais caught Kellin's head between
two strong hands, cupping the dome of skull eas-
ily- "No more of this. The healing comes first, then
we'll be talking of deaths. D'ye hear?"

"But—"

"Be still, my little prince. Homana has need of
you whole."

"But—"

And then the others were there, crowding into
the pavilion, and the wave of exhaustion that en-
gulfed Kellin was as much induced by the earth
magic as by his fever.

Voices intruded. The murmurs were quiet, but
they nonetheless broke apart Kellin's tattered
dreams and roused him to wakefulness.

"—harsh for any man to lose his closest com-
panions," Blais was saying from outside as he
pulled aside the door-flap. "For a lad, that much
the harder."

Light penetrated the interior, turning the inside
of Kellin's eyelids red. The answering voice was

A TAPESTRY OF LtOfVS

III

well-known and beloved. "Kellin has always seemed
older than his years," Brennan said as he entered
the pavilion. "Sometimes I forget he is naught but
a boy, and I try to make him into a man."

" 'Tis the risk any man takes with an heir, espe-
cially a prince." Blais let the door-flap drop, dim-
ming daylight again into a wan, saffron tint.

Brennan's voice was hollow. "He is more than
that to me. I lost Aidan—" He checked- "So, now
there is Kellin. In Aidan's place. In all things, in
Aidan's place. He was made to be Prince of Ho-
mana before he was even a boy, still but an infant
wetting his napkins."

Kellin cracked his lids slightly, only enough so
he could see the two men through a fuzzy fringe
of lashes. He did not want them to know he was
awake. He had learned very young that adults
overheard divulged more information than when
asked straight out.

Blais' laugh was soft as he settled himself near
the pallet. "You had no choice but to invest him
when you did. Aidan had renounced the title al-
ready, and / had come from Erinn. D'ye think I
am deaP I heard all the whispers, sufali ... had
you delayed Kellin's investiture, my presence here
in Homana might have given new heart to the
a'saii. Your claim on the Lion would have been
threatened again."

"I might have packed you off to Erinn," Bren-
nan suggested mildly.

"Might have tried, my lord Mujhar." Blais' tone
was amused as he gestured for his guest to seat
himself. "When has a warrior been made to do
anything he preferred not to do?"

Brennan sighed as he knelt down beside his
grandson. "Even Kellin. Even a ten-year-old boy."

The humor was banished. "He spoke of a lion,
and an Ihlini."

112 Jennifer Robersoa

The line ofBrennan's mouth tautened. "The lion
is something Kellin made up years ago. It is an
excuse for things he cannot explain. He is fanciful;

he conjures a beast from the lions in banners and
signets, and the throne itself. And because he has
been unfortunate to witness Ihini handiwork, he
interprets all the violence as the doings of this
lion."

"What handiwork?"

"The death of a fortune-teller. He was a for-
eigner and unknown to us, but his death stank of
sorcery."

"Lochiel," Blais said grimly.

"He knows very well Kellin offers the greatest
threat to the Ihlini."

"Like his father before him."

"But Aidan no longer matters. He sired the next
link, and that link now is the one Lochiel must
shatter." Brennan's fingertips gently touched Kel-
lin's brow. "It all comes to Kellin- Centuries of
planning all comes down to him."

Blais' tone was dry, for all it was serious. "Then
we had best see he survives."

"I have done everything I could. The boy has
been kept so closely it is no wonder he makes up
stories about lions. Had my jehan kept me so tied
to Homana-Mujhar, I would have gone mad. As it
is, I am not in the least surprised he found a way
to escape his imprisonment. But Urchin and Rogan
are also missing; I can only surmise they, too,
were lured away. No Ihlini could get in, and Kel-
lin is too well-guarded within the palace itself. He
would go nowhere without the Homanan boy, and
Rogan would never permit Kellin to leave if he
heard any whisper of it. So I believe we must look
at a clever trap set with the kind of bait that
would lure all of them out."

Blais' tone was grim. "An imaginary lion?"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

113

Kellin could no longer hold himself back; his
eyes popped open. "There was a LionI"

"Cheysuli ears," Brennan said, brows arching,
"hear more than they should."

"There was," Kellin insisted. "It chased me into
the bear-trap . .. after Urchin and Rogan died."

Brennan shut his eyes. "More deaths."

Blais shifted. He sat cross-legged, one thigh
weighted down by the head of a ruddy wolf. His
expression was oddly blank as he stroked the wide
skull and scratched the base of the ears.

Brennan's momentary lapse was banished. He
was calm, unperturbed. "Tell us what happened,
Kellin. We must know everything."

Kellin delayed, testing his ankle. "It doesn't
hurt any more."

"Earth magic," Blais said. "You've a scar, but
the bones are whole."

"A scar?" Kellin peeled back the deerskin cover-
let and saw the bared ankle. Indeed, there was a
jagged ring of purplish "tooth" marks ringing his
ankle. He wiggled his foot again. There was no
pain.

" 'Twill fade," Blais told him. "I've more scars
than I can count, but hardly any of them show."

Kellin did not care about the scar; if anything,
it proved there was a Lion. He looked now at his
grandsire, putting aside the Lion to speak of an-
other grief. "It was Rogan," he said unsteadily.
"Rogan betrayed me to the Ihlini."

The Mujhar did not so much as twitch an eyelid.
The mildness of his tone was deceptive, but Kellin
knew it well: Brennan wanted very badly to know
the precise truth, without embellishments or sup-
positions. "You are certain it was he?"

"Aye." Kellin suppressed with effort the emo-
tions to which he longed to surrender. He would
be all Cheysuli in this. "He said he would take me

114 Jennifer Hoberson

to my jehan. That you knew we were to go, just
the three of us, but that we meant to go to Clan-
keep. He said he would send true word to you
where we were, but only after we were on our way
to Hondarth."

Brennan's face grayed. "Such a simple plan, and
certain to work. I was a fool. Lochiel has ways of
suborning even those I most value."

"Not money," Kellin said. "So he could have his
wife back. Only—" He checked himself, recalling
all too clearly the tiny dancing woman and Ro-
gan's horrible ending. "Corwyth killed him first.
With sorcery. And then Urchin." Pain formed a
knot in chest and throat. "Urchin's dead, too."

After a moment the Mujhar touched Kellin's
head briefly. Gently, he said, "You must tell me
everything you remember about how this was
done, and the Ihlini himself. Everything, Kellin, so
we may prepare for another attack."

"Another—?" Kellin stared hard at the Mujhar,
turning over the words. Realization made him
breathless. "They want to catch me. Corwyth said
so. He said he was taking me to Lochiel, in
Valgaard."

Brennan's expression was grim, but he did not
avoid candor. "You are important to the Ihlini,
Kellin, because of who you are, and the blood in
your veins. You know about that."

He did. Very well. Too well; it was all anyone
spoke of. "They won't stop, then." It seemed
obvious.

"No."

Kellin nodded, understanding more with each
moment. "That's why you set the dogs to guarding
me."

"Dogs? Ah." Brennan smiled faintly. "We dared
not allow you to go anywhere alone. Not in Muj-
hara, not even to Clankeep." His jaw tightened.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

ItS

,
i

!

"Do you recall how you sickened after your Nam-
ing Day feast?"

Kellin nodded, recalling with vivid clarity how
ill he had been after eating his meal. He had not
wanted fish for a sixth-month, after.

"Lochiel had no recourse to sorcery in order to
harm you, not so long as you remained in
Homana-Mujhar, or at Clankeep, but coin buys
people. He bribed a cook to poison the meal. We
were forced to take serious steps to safeguard Ho-
mana's prince, and his freedom suffered for it."
Brennan's words were stated with careful preci-
sion. "Rogan understood- Rogan knew why. He
comprehended fully how you were to be
protected."

That is why they were all so upset when 1 ran
away from the fortune-teller. Guilt flickered. "It was
after I heard you speaking with granddame. About
how my jehan would not have me see him." Kellin
swallowed heavily. "Rogan came and said he
would take me to my jehan."

Brennan's expression was bleak as he exchanged
a glance with Blais. "I have learned from this, too,
though I believed myself wise in such matters."
He sighed heavily. "Nearly every man has his
price. Most will deny it, claiming themselves in-
corruptible, but there is always something that
will lure them into betrayal- If they disbelieve it,
it is because they have not been offered that which
they most desire."

Rogan was offered his wife. Kellin wanted to pro-
test it. It hurt him deeply that Rogan had betrayed
him, but he understood his grandfather's words.
Hadn't he been bought by the promise of his
father?

"I would never submit to an Ihlini," he mut-
tered. "Never."

"And that is why you are here." Brennan smiled

116 Jennifer Roberaoa

faintly, tension easing from his features. "Tell us
everything."

Kellin did. By the time he was done he felt tears
in his eyes, and hated himself for them.

Blais shook his head. "There is no shame in hon-
est grief."

Brennan's tone was gentle. "Rogan was every-
thing to you for two years, and Urchin was your
best friend. We think no less of you because you
loved them."

Kellin let that go, thinking now of something
else. "You said something about me. To Blais, ear-
lier. That I offer the greatest threat to the Ihlini."
He looked first at Blais, then at the Mujhar. "What
harm can / do them?"

"You can bring down their House," Brennan
said quietly, "merely by siring a son."

It was incomprehensible. "Me?"

The Mujhar laughed. "You are young yet to
think of such things as sons, Kellin, but the day
will come when you are a man. Lochiel knows
this. With each passing year you become more
dangerous."

"Because of my blood." Kellin looked at the scar
ringing his ankle, recalling the warm wetness run-
ning down between his toes. "That blood."

Brennan took Kellin's wrist into his hand and
raised it, spreading the fingers with the pressure
of his thumb. "All the blood in here," he said. "In
this hand, in this arm, in this body. And the seed
in your loins, provided it quickens within the body
of a particular woman. Lochiel cannot risk allowing
you to sire that son."

"The prophecy," Kellin murmured, staring at
his hand. He tried to look beneath the flesh to
bone and muscle, and the blood that was so
special.

A TAPESTRY OF LWHS           117

"The Firstborn reborn," Blais said- "The bane
of the Ihlini. The end of Asar-Suti."

Kellin looked at his grandfather. "They died be-
cause of me. Rogan. Urchin. The fortune-teller.
Didn't they?"

Brennan closed the small hand inside his own
adult one. "It is the heaviest burden a man can
know. Men who are kings—and boys who are
princes—carry more of them than most."

His chest was full of pain. "Will more die,
grandsire? Just because of me?"

Brennan did not lie. He did not look away. "Al-
most certainly."

Nine

Kellin felt important and adult: Brennan had said
he might have a small cup of honey brew, the
powerful Cheysuli liquor. He knew it was his
grandfather's way of making him feel safe and
loved after his encounter with tragedy, so he
sipped slowly, savoring the liquor and the intent,
not wanting the moment to end because he felt for
the first time as if they believed him grown, or
nearly so. Nearly was better than not; he grinned
into the clay cup.

The Mujhar was not present. When Brennan re-
turned to the pavilion, he, Kellin, and Blais would
depart for Homana-Mujhar, but for the moment
Kellin was required to stay with his cousin. Bren-
nan met with the clan-leader to discuss the kinds
of things kings and clan-leaders discuss; Kellin
had heard some of it before and found it tedious-
He was much more interested in his kinsman, who
was fascinating as a complex mixture of familiar
and exotic.

An Erinnish Cheysuli with Homanan in his
blood, Blais did not took anything but Cheysuli,
yet his accent and attitude were different. The lat-
ter was most striking to Kellin. Blais seemed less
concerned with excessive personal dignity than
with being content within his spirit; if that spirit
were more buoyant than most, he gave it free rein
regardless.

118

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS              119

At this moment Blais was working on a bow,
replacing the worn leather handgrip with new. His
head was bent over his work and a lock of thick
black hair obscured part of his face. Lt'r-gold
gleamed. Next to him sprawled sleeping Tanni,
toes twitching in wolf dreams.

"It could be you," Kellin blurted. "Couldn't it?"

Blais did not look up from his handiwork.
"What could, lad?"

"You," Kellin repeated. "The man in the proph-
ecy. The man whose blood can do the things every-
one wants it to do."

Now Blais raised his head. "My blood?"

"Aye. You are Cheysuli, Erinnish, and Homa-
nan. You are halfway there."

"Ah, but you are all the way there, my lad. I've
no Solindish or Atvian blood bubbling in my
veins." Blais' face creased in a smile. "You've no
fear of me usurping your place."

"But you're older. You are a warrior." Kellin
looked at Tanni. "You have a Ur."

"And so will you, in but a handful of years."
Strong fingers moved skillfully as Blais rewrapped
the leather.

"But I heard you," Kellin said quietly, grappling
with new ideas. "You talked to grandsire about
the a'saii."

The hands stilled abruptly. This time Blais' gaze
was sharp. "I said something of it, aye. You see,
lad—I have i.iore cause to concern myself with
a'saii than any warrior alive."

"They were traitors," Kellin declared. "Rogan
told me—" He cut it off abruptly. "Grandsire said
they wanted to overthrow the proper succession
and replace it with another."

"So they did." Blais' tone was noncommittal.
"They were Cheysuli who feared the completion
of the prophecy would end their way of life."

120

"Will it?"

Blais shrugged. "Things will change, aye .. . but
perhaps not so much as the a'saii fear."

"Do you?" Kellin needed to know. "Do you fear
it, Blais?"

An odd expression crossed Blais' smooth, dark
face. For only a moment, black brows pulled to-
gether. Then he smiled crookedly. "I fear losing
what I have only just found," he admitted evenly.
"I was born here, Kellin. Keep-bom, but reared in
Erinn a very long way away. Customs are different
in Erinn. I was a part of them, but also longed for
others. My jehana taught me what she could of the
language and customs of Cheysuli, but she was
half Erinnish herself, and now wed to an Erinnish-
man. It was Keely who taught me more, who
showed me what earth magic was, and what it
could bring me." His smile was warmly reminis-
cent. "She suggested I come here, to find out who
I was."

Kellin was fascinated. "Did you?"

"Oh, aye. Enough to know I belong here." Blais
grinned, caressing Tanni's head. "I may not sound
all Cheysuli, but in spirit I am."

"Why," Kellin began, "do you have more cause
to concern yourself with a'saii than any warrior
alive?"

Blais' brows arched. "You've a good ear to recall
that so perfectly."

Kellin shrugged, dismissing it. "The a'saii are
disbanded. Grandsire said so."

"Formally, aye. But convictions are hard to kill.
There are those who still keep themselves apart
from other clans."

"But you stay here."

"Clankeep is my home. I serve the prophecy as
much as any warrior. As much as you will, once
you are grown."

A TAPESTRY or LIONS           121

Kellin nodded absently. "But why do you have
cause?"

Blais sighed, hands tightening on the bow. "Be-
cause it was my grandsire who began the a'saii,
Kellin. Ceinn wanted to replace Niall's son—your
grandsire, Brennan—with his own son, Teiman.
There was justification, Ceinn claimed, because
Teiman was the son of the Mujhar's sister."

"Isolde," Kellin put in; he recalled the names
from lessons.

"Aye. Isolde. Niall's rujhoUa."

"And lan's."

Blais grinned. "And lan's."

"But why you'?"

Blais' grin faded. "Teiman was my father. When
I came here from Erinn, those who were a'saii
thought I should be named Prince of Homana
when your father renounced his title."

Kellin was astonished. "In my place?"

Blais nodded.

"In my place." It was incomprehensible to Kel-
lin, who could not imagine anyone else in his own
place. He had been Prince of Homana all his life.
"But—I was named."

"Aye. As the Mujhar desired."

Something occurred. "What about you?" Kellin
asked. "Did you want the title?"

Blais laughed aloud. "I was reared by a man
who is the Lord of Erinn's bastard brother. I spent
many years at Kilore—I know enough of royalty
and the responsibilities of rank to want no part of
it." He leaned forward slightly, placing the tip of
his forefinger on Kellin's t.'-ow. "You, my young
lad, will be the one to hold the Lion."

"Oh, no," Kellin blurted. "I have to kill it, first."

Blais stilled. "Kill it?"

Kellin was matter-of-fact. "Before it kills all of
MS."

122 Jennifer Robersoa

When Kellin—with grandfather, cousin, and nu-
merous liveried and armored guardsmen—entered
the inner bailey of Homana-Mujhar, he discovered
it clogged to bursting with strange horses and ser-
vants. Horse-boys ran this way and that, grasping
at baggage-train horses even as they gathered in
the mounts of dismounting riders; servants shouted
at one another regarding the unloading; while the
bailey garrison, clad in Mujharan scarlet, did its
best to sort things out.

The Mujhar himself, trapped in the center of the
bailey as his horse restively rang shod hoofs off
cobbles, finally ran out of patience. "By the blood
of the Lion—" Brennan began, and then broke off
abruptly as a tall man came out of the palace
doorway to stand at the top of the steps.

"Have I made a mess of all your Mujharish maj-
esty?" the man called over the din. "Well, doubt-
less you are in dire need of humbling anyway."

"Hart!" Brennan cried. "By the gods—Hart\"

Kellin watched in surprise as his grandsire hast-
ily threw himself down from his mount and joined
the throng, pushing through toward the steps.
Brennan mounted them three at a time, then en-
folded the other man in a huge, hard hug.

"Su'fali," Kellin murmured, then grinned at
Blais. "Su'fali to both of us. Hart, come from
Solinde!"

"So I see," Blais squinted over the crowd. "They
are two blooms from the same bush."

"But Hart has blue eyes. And only one hand; an
enemy had the other one cut off." Kellin followed
Brennan's lead, climbing down with less skill than
his longer-legged grandfather, and then he, too,
was swallowed up by the crowd. Kellin could see
nothing, neither grandfather, great-uncle, nor steps.

He considered ducking under the bellies of all

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           123

the horses, but reconsidered when he thought
about the kicks he risked. Like Brennan before
him, if with less success, Kellin shoved his way
through the milling throng of baggage train and
household attendants. Solindish, all of them; he
recognized the accent.

His path was more difficult, but at last Kellin
reached the steps and climbed to the top- His
grandsire and great-uncle had left off hugging, but
the warm glints in their eyes—one pair blue, the
other yellow—were identical.

So is everything else, except for Hart's missing
hand. Kellin looked at the leather-cuffed stump,
wondering what it was like to be restricted to a
single hand. And Hart had lost more than a hand;

the old Cheysuli custom of kin-wrecking still held.
He was, because of his maiming, no longer consid-
ered in the clans to be a warrior despite his blood
and his Ur, the great hawk known as Rael.

Kellin glanced up. Spiraling in a lazy circle over
the palace rooftops was the massive raptor, black
edging on each feather delineating wings against
the blue of the sky. / may have a hawk when I am
a warrior—

"Kellin!" Brennan's hand closed over a shoul-
der. "Kellin, here is your kinsman. You have never
seen him, I know, but to know who Hart is a man
need only look at me."

"But you are different," Kellin said after a brief
inspection. "You seem older, grandsire."

It brought a shout of delighted laughter from
Hart, who struck his twin-born rujholli a sharp
blow with his only hand. "There. You see? I have
said it myself—"

"Nonsense." Brennan arched a single brow.
"You surely count more gray in your hair than I."

"No," Kellin said doubtfully, which moved Hart
to laughter again.

124 Jennifer Roberson

"Well, we are very like," the Mujhar's twin said.
"If there are differences, it is because the Lion is
a far more difficult taskmaster than my own
Solinde."

"Has Solinde thrown you out?" Kellin asked. "Is
that why you have come?"

Hart grinned. "And lose the best lord she ever
had? No, I am not banished, nor am I toppled as
Bellam was toppled by Carillon. The Solindish
love me, now—or, if not love, they tolerate me
well enough." He tapped the cuffed stump on top
of Kellin's head. "Erinnish eyes, Kellin. Where is
the Cheysuli in you?"

"You have Homanan eyes," Kellin retorted,
"And now your hair is gray; mine is all over
black."

"Sharp eyes, and a sharper wit," Brennan said
dryly. "The Erinnish side, I think."

Hart nodded, smiling, as he assessed his young
kinsman, "You are small for twelve, but your
growth may come late. Corin's did."

"I am ten," Kellin corrected. "Tall enough for
ten; grandsire says so."

"Ten." Hart shot a glance at Brennan. "I mis-
counted, then."

"Aging, are you?" Brennan's eyes were alight.
"Forgetting things already?"

Hart demurred at once. "I merely lost track, no
more. But I did think him older."

"Does it matter?" Brennan asked, laughing- "I
am hardly infirm, rujho, The Lion will yet be mine
a while. Kellin should be well-grown before he
inherits."

"I was not thinking of thrones, rujho, but of
weddings."

"Weddings! Kellin's? By the gods, Hart—"

"Wait you." Hart put up his hand to silence
his brother. "Before you begin shouting at me,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

125

as you have always done—" he grinned, eyes
alight, "—it is for you to say, of course. And now
that I see he is so young, perhaps it is too soon."

"Too soon for what?" Kellin asked. "A wedding?
Whose? Mine?"

Hart laughed- "So full of questions, harani."

"Mine?" Kellin repeated.

Hart sighed, scratching idly at his beardless
chin. "I have a daughter—"

Brennan interrupted in mock asperity. "You
have four of them. Which one do you mean?"

Hart's shrug was lopsided. "Dulcie is thirteen,
which is closer to Kellin than the twins. And—"
He shrugged again, letting go what he had begun.
"There is reason for this, rujho ... we will speak
of it later."

"Too young," Brennan said.

Hart's eyes were speculative. "Too young to
marry, perhaps, but not for a betrothal."

"This can wait," Brennan said- "Let us be ruj-
holli again before we must be rulers."

Hart sighed heavily. "That may be difficult. I
have all of them with me."

"Who?"

"They wanted to come," Hart continued. "All
but Biythe. She carries her first child after all this
time, so we thought it best she remain behind. It
will be my first grandchild, after all."

Diverted, Brennan stared at him. "Is she wed?
When? I thought Biythe intended never to marry."

"She did not, after Tevis—" Hart paused to cor-
rect himself, gritting the name through his teeth.
"—after Lochiel." He forced himself to relax, blue
eyes bright in remembered anger. "But she met a
Solindishman of respectable family with whom
she fell in love after much too long alone; she is
past thirty." Hart grinned. "And she would be
quite put out if she heard me say that. But she

126 Jennifer Roberson

and her lordling married eight months ago, and
now there will be a child."

"But the rest .. ." Brennan glanced around.
"They are here?"

"All of them."

"lisa?"

"All of them. They insisted. My girls are—" he
paused delicately, "—somewhat firm in their con-
victions."

Brennan eyed him. "You never were one for self-
discipline, Hart. Why should I expect you to be
capable of ruling your daughters when you never
could rule yourself?"

"I understand discipline quite well, leijhana.
tu'sai," Hart retorted. "But there are times when
my girls make such things difficult."

Brennan studied Hart a moment. "You have not
changed at all, have you?"

Hart grinned unrepentantly. "No,"

"Good." Brennan clapped him on the back.
"Now, come inside."

It was abrupt, if unintended, but dismissal
nonetheless; they turned as one and strode into
the palace without a word or a glance to the boy
they knew as the Prince of Homana.

"Wait!" But they were gone, and a hand was on
K-ellin's shoulder, pulling him back.

"Begrudge them nothing, lad." It was Blais,
smiling faintly as he moved to stand beside Kellin.

"But what about me?" Kellin was aggrieved.
"Grandsire dismissed the Lion, and now they dis-
miss me"

"They were twin-born, my lad, linked by far
more than a simple brother-bond. And they've not
seen one another, I am told, for nearly twenty
years."

"Twenty years!" Kellin gaped. "I could have
been bom twice over!"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            127

Blais nodded. "When you are a king, 'tis not so
easy to find the time—or the freedom—to go
where you will. Hart and Brennan are halves of a
whole, parted by title and realm for much too long
a time." He briefly touched Kellin's shoulder. "Let
them be whole again, lad. They'll be having time
for you later."

Kellin scowled. "And weddings, too?"

"Weddings! What has this to do with wed-
dings?" But as Blais stared after his vanished un-
cles, his expression changed. "Aye, it could be
that. 'Tis a topic of much import in royal Houses."
He grinned. "Thank the gods / am not in line for
a throne, or surely they'd be disposing of me, too!"

"And me?" Kellin demanded. "Am I to be mar-
ried off with no say in the matter?"

Blais did not appear unduly concerned. " 'Tis
likely," he confirmed. "You're to be Mujhar of Ho-
mana. one day. I'll not doubt there've been letters
about your future bride since you were formally
invested."

"Ckeysula," Kellin said darkly, proving to his
cousin he knew the Old Tongue, too, "and I'll
choose my own."

"Will you. now?" Blais ran a hand through thick
black hair, mouth quirking in wry amusement.
" 'Tis what Keely claimed of herself, when she
chafed at her betrothal—but in the end she wed
the man they promised her to."

"Scan." Kellin nodded. "I know all about that."
He was not interested in his great-aunt, whom he
had never met. He cast a speculative glance up at
his kinsman. "Then you are not promised?"

Blais laughed. "Nor likely to be. I'm content to
share my time with this woman, or that one, with-
out benefit of betrothals."

Keilin understood. "Meijhas," he said. "How
many, Blais?"

128 Jennifer Robersoa

"Many." Blais grinned. "Would I be admitting
how many? A warrior does not dishonor his meij-
has by discussing them casually."

"Many," Kellin murmured. He grinned back at
his cousin. "Then I'll have many, too."

Blais sighed and clapped his hand upon a slen-
der shoulder. "No doubt you will. No prince I ever
knew lacked for company. Now—shall we go in?
I'm for meeting these Solindish kin of ours."

Ten

In short order Blais and Kellin met all of the
Solindish kin en masse in Aileen's sunny solar.
The chamber seemed small of a sudden. Kellin
duly took note of all his assorted kinfolk: lisa, the
Lady of Solinde, with her profusion of white-
blonde hair and gloriously expressive gray eyes;

the middle daughters Cluna and Jennet, twins like
Hart and Brennan, who reflected their mother's
coloring and the beginnings of her beauty aug-
mented by Cheysuli heritage; and Dulcie, the
youngest—the girl whom Hart had said might be-
come Kellin's cheysula.

To the latter daughter Kellin paid the most at-
tention. His knowledge of weddings and marriages
was slight, but he took it more personally now
that his name had been linked with hers.

He was, however, briefly distracted. Blais, whom
he had decided was everything a warrior should
be—and his rescuer, to boot—was all of a sudden
different. It was a subtle difference Kellin could
not name; he knew only that Blais' attention to
his young cousin was oddly diverted, as if some-
thing else far more fascinating had caught his at-
tention- Kellin understood none of it—Cluna and
Jennet seemed silly girls to him, and not worth
more time than was necessary to be polite—but
Blais seemed most disposed to speak with both of
them for a very long time.

129

130 Jennifer Robersoa

Soon enough Blais offered to escort both Cluna
and Jennet on a tour of Homana-Mujhar; and the
adults suggested that what they had to say to one
another was better said without Dulcie's and Kel-
lin's presence. Kellin was instructed to do as Blais
did: show his cousin every corner of the palace.

Outside in the corridor, Kellin glared muti-
nously at the closed door. No one has time for me.
The Lion nearly ate me, but no one thinks about
THAT—

Beside him, Dulcie laughed. "They set their
traps for him."

Kellin scowled. "What do you mean?" He thought
uncomfortably of the bear-trap, conjured by her
words.

"Traps," she said succinctly- "They are frivolous
women, both of them, only concerned with what
is required to catch a handsome man." She gri-
maced wryly. "I saw it; didn't you?"

Kellin had not. "Of course I did," he said forth-
rightly, denying his ignorance.

Dulcie eyed him. "He is a handsome man, as
Cheysuli go; I see now we are all alike, save for
some differences in color." She grinned. "Your
eyes are green; mine at least are yellow, like a
proper Cheysuli's should be."

And proper she was, black-haired and yellow-
eyed with skin the same coppery hue as Blais' and
every other Cheysuli Kellin had seen. Dulcie was
young—twelve?—but clearly was Cheysuli in all
respects.

Kellin felt a twinge of self-consciousness; just
now, faced with Dulcie—and having met Blais—he
wanted very much to be as Cheysuli as possible. "I
will be Mujhar." He thought it a good offense.

Dulcie nodded. "One of the reasons they want
us to marry." She twined a strand of black hair

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

131

into fingers and began twisting it. "Do vou want
to?"

Kellin stared at her. How could she be so
matter-of-fact about it? Importantly, he said,
"That is something I will have to consider."

Dulcie burst out laughing. "You consider? They
will no more abide by what you wish—or me—
than a stud horse minds his rider when a mare in
season is near."

Kellin had not thought of it that way. "But if I
am to be Mujhar, they must listen to me."

Dulcie shook her head. Her brows were straight,
serious bars across a sculpted brow. She wore
black hair in dozens of braids tied into a single
plait and beaded at the bottom. "They will listen
to no one, only to the prophecy." Dulcie grimaced.
"I have had it stuffed into my ears often enough.
It is all about blood, Kellin, and the need to mix
it correctly. Don't you see?"

Kellin did not, though once again he claimed he
did. "I am the one who is to sire the Firstborn,"
he declared. "Everyone says so."

Dulcie grinned. "Not without a woman!"

Color stained Kellin's face. "Is that supposed to
be you?"

She shrugged, twisting hair again. "What else
do you suppose they talk about behind that door
but inches in front of your face? They will have us
betrothed by supper."

Kellin glared at her- "Why to you? Why not to
Cluna, or Jennet?"

"They are too old for you," Dulcie said matter -
of-factly, "and likely by now they have both set
their caps for Blais. I think neither of them wants
a boy for a husband."

It stung. "I am nearly eleven."

"And I nearly thirteen." Clearly, Dulcie was un-
dismayed by his youth. "It has to do with the

132 Jennifer Roberson

blood, as I said. There is only one bloodline left to
get, Kellin—the one bloodline no Cheysuli desires
to acknowledge. But how else do they expect to
get the Firstborn? It wants Ihlini blood."

He was startled, recalling Corwyth, and Lo-
chiel's designs. "Ihlini!"

"Think about it," Dulcie said impatiently. "They
need it from somewhere, from someone who fa-
vors the prophecy."

"But not an Ihlini—"

"Kellin." Her tone was exasperated. "That is
why my father is proposing you and I wed. To get
the Ihlini blood."

"But—" It was preposterous. "You do not have—"

"Aye," Dulcie answered, "I do. We all of us do:

Biythe, Cluna, Jennet, and me. Because of our
mother."

"But she is Solindish."

Dulcie's tone was freighted with condescension.
"Solinde was the birthplace of Ihlini, Kellin. Re-
member the stories of how they broke away from
the Firstborn and left Homana?"

He did. He had not thought of those stories in
years. "Then—" Kellin frowned. He did not like
the implication. "Then the Ihlini are not so differ-
ent from the a'saii."

Dulcie smiled. "Now you begin to understand."

He eyed her assessively. "Can you conjure
godfire?"

"Of course not. The Ihlini blood in us goes back
more than two hundred years. No arts remain in
our House." Dulcie shrugged. "Electra learned a
few tricks, but nothing more. Tynstar did not
share the Seker's blood with her."

He frowned. "Then why should it matter now?"

"Because no Cheysuli warrior would ever lie
down with an Ihlini woman," Dulcie replied. "At
least—not a willing one. So they will marry us off

A TAPESTRY OF LsoffS            133

and hope for the best ... if for no other reason
than to keep the Ihlini from making their own
through you."

"Through me?"

Dulcie sighed. "Are you stupid? If the Ihlini
caught you and made you lie with an Ihlini
woman, there could be a child. It would be the
child." She laughed at his expression. "The Ihlini
would use you, Kellin, like a prize Cheysuli stud."

Within hours he was full to bursting on kin-
folk—and most of them female, at that, full of gos-
sip and laughter—and so to escape, Kellin went to
his own chamber and climbed up into his huge
bed. He made mountains and hillocks of his cover-
let, then planned his own campaigns as Carillon
and Donal must have planned them years before,
when Homana was at war,

"With Solinde," he muttered. He was not at the
moment disposed to like Solinde, since she had
managed to produce a twelve-year-old girl who
believed he was stupid.

The knock at the door was soft, but persistent.
Kellin, startled from his game, called out crossly
for the person to enter.

Aileen came in, not a servant at all. Her hair,
rust threaded with silver, was bound in braids
around her head with pins that glittered in sun-
light. Her green gown was simple but elegant. She
wore around her throat a fortune in gold: the
mountain cat torque that marked her Brennan's
cheysula.

Is that what Dulcie expects from me? Kellin
jerked flat his coverlet and slid out of the bed to
stand politely. "Aye, granddame?"

"Sit." Aileen waved him back onto the bed, then
sat down on the edge herself. "Kellin—"

Whenever he spoke with Aileen he unconsciously

134 Jeaaffer Rohersoa

echoed the lilt of her accent. He blurted it out all
at once before she could finish. " "Tis done, isn't
it? You've betrothed us."

Aileen arched reddish brows. "The idea doesn't
please you, then?"

"No." He fidgeted, self-conscious; he liked his
granddame very much and did not want to upset
her, but he felt he had to tell the truth. "I want
to choose for myself."

The faintest of creases deepened at the corner of
Aileen's eyes. "Aye, of course you do. So did I. So
did Brennan. But—"

"But I can't, can I?" he challenged forthrightly.
" Tis like Dulcie said: you'll do whatever you
want."

The Queen of Homana sighed. " 'Tis true those of
royalty have little freedom in matters of marriage."

" 'Tisn't fair," Kellin asserted. "You tell me I
will have power when I am grown, but then I am
told whom I must marry. That is no power."

"No," she agreed quietly. "I had none, nor
Conn, whom I wanted to marry in place of
Brennan."

"In place of—grandsire?" It was a completely
new thought. "You wanted to marry my su'fali?"

"Aye."

He blinked. "But you were already betrothed to
grandsire."

"Aye, so I was. It did not lessen the wanting,
Kellin; it was Corin I loved." Her green eyes were
kind. "I know this may shock you, but I thought
it fair to tell you. You are young, but not so young
the truth should be kept from you, even those
truths of men and woman."

"But you married grandsire."

"Aye. It was agreed upon before I was born: Ni-
all's oldest son would marry Liam's daughter."
She shrugged, mouth twisted awry. "And so I was

A TAPESTHV W SJOIW

139

born betrothed; it was only later, when Corin
came to Erinn, that I realized how binding—and
how wrong—the agreement was. I fell in love with
Corin and he with me, but he was the stronger
person. He said the betrothal must stand, and
sailed away to Atvia."

"He married Glyn." He had never seen her—he
had seen only Hart of his scattered kin—but he
knew of the mute woman Corin had wed.

"Years later, aye. But then / was wed, and a
mother, and my future was utterly settled."

Kellin digested all of it. "You are telling me that
I should marry Dulcie."

Aileen smiled. "No."

It stilled him a moment. "No?"

"I told them to give you time, both of you time;

to let you grow to adulthood. You've been kept
close most of your life, Kellin, and 'we owe you
some measure of freedom." An odd expression
crossed her face. "The kind of freedom I had once.
before coming to Homana."

Relief overflowed. "Leijhana tu'sai, granddame!"

Aileen laughed. "One day marriage will not be
such a chore, my lad. That I promise."

"Was it a chore for you?"

The question stopped her. Aileen's eyes filled
with memories he could not know, and were not
shared with him. "For a very long time, it was,"
she answered finally. "But not any longer."

"Why?"

"Because when I allowed myself to stop re-
senting my marriage; when I stopped resenting
the Cheysuli tahlmorra that dictated I sleep with
Brennan instead of with Corin, I fell in love with
your grandsire." Her smile was poignant. "And so
now I have a new regret: that I wasted so much
time in not loving him."

Kellin could only stare at his grandmother.

136 Jmoffer JtoAe—on

There were no words for what he felt; he knew
only that he was young, too young after all, to
begin to understand the complexities of adulthood.

Something new came into his head. "Did my
jehana love my fehan?"

Aileen's mouth softened. "Very much, Kellin.
'Twas a match few people experience."

He nodded dutifully, uncomprehending. "But
she died when I was born." He looked searchingly
at Aileen. "Is that why he hates me? Is that why
he gave me up and went away—because I killed
his cheystda?"

Aileen's face drained. "Oh, Kellin, no! Oh, gods,
is that what you've been thinking all these years?"
She murmured something more in Erinnish, then
caught him into her arms and pulled him close.
"I'll swear on anything you like that your birth
did not kill her, nor did it drive your father away.
He gave you up because it was his tahlmorra to do
so."

"But you believe he was wrong."

She withdrew a little to look into his face.
"Have you a touch of the kivama, lad? Have you
been hiding the truth from us?"

"No," he blurted, intrigued. "What is it?"

"D'ye know what people feel?" She touched her
breast. "D'ye know what is in their hearts?"

Perplexed, he frowned. "No. I just saw it in your
face."

Aileen relaxed, laughing a little. "Aye, well—'tis
a gift and a curse, my lad. Aidan had it in full
measure, and Shona—'twould come as no surprise
if it manifested in you."

Kellin was bewildered. " 'Twas in your face,
granddame—and your voice." And what I heard
you say to grandsire once before. But that he would
not admit.

Aileen hugged him again briefly, then surrend-

A TWESTHY W LIONS            137

ered him to the bed as she rose and shook out her
skirts. "I think he was wrong," she said firmly. "I
always have. But I'm a woman, Kellin—and though
I'll not swear a man loves his child less, he's not
borne that babe in his body. Aidan did as he be-
lieved he had to, to please the gods and his tahl-
morra. And one day, / promise, you will ask him
to his face how he could do such a thing."

He heard the underlying hostility in her tone.
"But not yet."

Aileen's lips compressed. "Not yet."

After a moment Kellin nodded. It was a familiar
refrain. "Well," he said easily, "once I have killed
the Lion, he will have to let me see him."

"Oh, Kellin—"

"I will," he declared. "I will kill it. And then I
shall go to the Crystal Isle and show jehan the
head."

Aileen's mouth, he saw, was filled with all man-
ner of protest. But she made none of them. With
tears in her eyes, the Erinnish Queen of Homana
left her grandson quite alone.

Eleven

Blais' door was ajar. Candlelight crept from the
room into the corridor, slotted between door and
jamb; Kellin peeked in carefully, not wanting to
discover that Blais was not alone at all, but ac-
companied by Cluna, or Jennet, or Cluna and Jen-
net. They had taken up entirely too much of Blais'
time, Kellin felt. It was his turn for his cousin's
attention.

He paused there in the slot. He saw no female
cousins. Only Blais himself, sprawled across the
great tester bed with his lir, lovely Tanni, who lay
upon her back with legs spread and underparts
exposed in elaborate pleasure as Blais stroked
belly fur. In that moment she was dog, not wolf;

Kellin felt a pang of hope that perhaps he, too,
would gain a wolf.

Then again, there was lovely black Sleeta, his
grandsire's mountain cat, and Hart's magnificent
Rael. There were so many wonderful fir in the
world; surely the gods would see to it he gained
the perfect one-

Blais" arm moved in slow repetition as he
stroked Tanni. He lay on his belly, torso propped
up on one elbow. Thick black hair fell forward
over his shoulders. He wore no jerkin, only leg-
gings; gold shone dully in candlelight against the
bronzing of his flesh.

138

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

139

Someday I will have such gold. Kellin wet his
lips. "Blais?"

Blais glanced up. Tanni flopped over on her side
and bent her head around to inspect Kellin.
"Aye?" Blais beckoned, smiling. "Come in, come
in—we have no secrets, Tanni and I—and if I
wanted privacy I would have shut the door."

Kellin slipped through the slot between door
and jamb. Linked behind his back, both hands
clutched an object. "I have a question."

His cousin's black brows arched. "Aye?"

He sucked in a deep breath. "Are you going back
to Solinde with them?"

"Solinde!" Blais sat upright, shaking hair away
from his face. "Why would I go to Solinde?"

"Because of—them." Abashed, Kellin stared at
the floor.

"Who?" Blais began, and then he cut off the
question. "Why do you ask, Kellin?"

Miserably, Kellin looked up to meet Blais' steady
gaze. "I saw you," he whispered. "Earlier today,
on the sentry-walk."

"Ah." Blais nodded.

"You were kissing Jennet."

"Cluna."

It stopped Kellin's attempt at explanation.
"Cluna? But. I thought—"

Blais laughed. "You were thinking 'twas Jennet
I wanted? Well, aye, and so it was—yesterday.
Today 'twas Cluna." He shifted into a cross-legged
position, one hand tugging gently at Tanni's ear.
"You see, Cluna wanted to sample what her ruj-
holla had tasted the day before. They compete in
everything." He shrugged, grinning. "I accommo-
dated them both."

Kellin was bewildered. "Then which one will
you marry?"

"Marry!" Then Blais laughed. "Gods, Kellin—

140 Jennifer Roberson

neither. Were you thinking I would? No. I'll not go
to Solinde, and I'm doubting either of them could
bear to live at Clankeep. There is too much of So-
linde in them." He smiled more warmly at his
cousin. "Were you thinking I meant to desert
you?"

Without warning tears welled up. Kellin was as-
tonished and ashamed, but there was a thing he
had to say. "I have no one left," he explained un-
steadily. "Only you. Urchin and Rogan—" He bit
into his lip. "There is grandsire and granddame,
but it isn't the same. 'Tisn't like true friends; they
have to like me. But you , . . well—" he swallowed
heavily, spilling it all at once. "I will be Mujhar
one day, I would have need of a liege man."

Blais' face was still- Only his eyes were alive in
the dark mask: fierce and bright and yellow.

Kellin felt all of his muscles knot up. He'll refuse
me—he will say no. He wanted it so badly, and yet
he knew it was unlikely. They were years and
worlds apart, and very different in nature.

Blais' tone was muted. "I had not expected
this."

Panic nearly overwhelmed. "Have I offended
you?"

"Offended! That the Prince of Homana desires
me to be his liege man?" Blais shook his head.
"No, there is no offense in this—only honor. And
I never believed myself worthy of such honor."

"But you are!" Kellin cried. "You saved me
from the bear-trap, and the Lion. Your worth is
proved. And—and there is no one else I would
have."

Blais stared hard at Tanni, as if he feared to
give away too much if he looked at Kellin. "There
has been no liege man in Homana-Mujhar since
lan died."

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141

"He would approve," Kellin said. "He would say
you are worthy."

Blais smiled faintly. "Then how could I refuse?"
Levity faded again. He was suddenly very solemn.
"I will serve you gladly, my lord."

Kellin sighed. From behind his back he took the
knife and showed it to Blais. It was gold and steel,
with a rampant lion twisted about the hilt. Its
eye was a single ruby. Softly, he said, "There is a
ceremony."

Blais rose from the bed, knelt upon the floor,
and drew his own Cheysuli long-knife. Without
hesitation he placed the blade against the inside
of his left wrist and cut into the flesh. "I swear,"
he said quietly, "by this blood; by my name and
honor and lir, that I will serve as liege man to
Kellin of Homana as long as he will have me."
Blood ran from the knife cut and dripped crimson
on the stone floor. "Will you have me, my lord?"

Wonder welled in Kellin's breast. "I will." And
then, quoting the words he had learned long ago:

"Y'ja'hai. Tu'jhalla dei. Tahlmorra lujhala mei wic-
can, cheysu."

"Ja'hai-na," Blais responded. Then he offered
his bloodied knife to his lord and took the other
in return.

Kellin looked down upon the Cheysuli weapon
with its wolf-head hilt. He felt the tears well up,
but he did not care. / am not alone any more.

He awoke sweating near dawn, disoriented and
fearful. He felt oppressed, squashed flat by dread. —
Lion—

Kellin wanted to whimper. How could it come
to pass? Blais was in the palace. Blais was his
liege man. The Lion could not withstand a sworn
Cheysuli liege man.

The flesh rose on his bones. "Lion," he mur-

142 Jennifer Roberson

mured. And then, searching for strength, "Tahl-
morra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu."

But the sense of dread increased.

Kellin wanted Blais. Together they might van-
quish the beast forever. But to summon Blais
meant he had to get out of bed.

Kellin shuddered, biting into his bottom lip. He
smelled the tang of fear on his flesh and hated
himself for it. His scarred ankle ached, though he
knew it completely healed.

"Cheysuli," he choked, squeezing his eyes tightly
shut. "A warrior, someday." Warriors were brave.
Warriors did what required doing.

From beneath his pillow he took the Cheysuli
long-knife bestowed by his liege man. Stiffly,
slowly, Kellin slid down from his bed. He wore
only a sleeping tunic that reached to mid-thigh;

bare toes dug into the stone floor as if he might
take root. You have a liege man. He will fend off
the. Lion. He clutched the knife in both hands, then
crept out of his room into the corridor beyond-
False dawn, he thought; even the servants still
slept. An ideal time for a lion to stalk the halls.

Kellin chewed his lips painfully, then unclenched
his teeth. With the knife as his ward, he moved
slowly and deliberately toward the door that was
Blais', so far down the corridor as to be a league
away.

Kellin pushed open the door. Candlelight from
the corridor cressets spilled inside, illuminating
the chamber. Kellin saw tousled black hair, the
gleam of a Kr-band, and the glint of Tanni's eyes
from the foot of the bed where she lay.

"Blais," he said. "Blais—the Lion is come."

Blais sat up at once, one hand reaching for the
royal knife at his bedside. His eyes, pupils ex-
panded in darkness, showed a ring of purest yel-
low around the edges. "Kellin?"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

143

"The Lion." Kellin repeated. "Will you come?
We have to kill it."

Blais ran a hand through his hair. He yawned.
"The lion?" And then he came fully awake. "Kel-
lin—" But he cut it off. His expression was
masked. "Where is it?"

Kellin gestured with his knife. "Out there. Walk-
ing the corridors."

Blais grunted and slid out of bed. He was nude
save for /t'r-gold, but paused long enough to slip
on leggings. Barefoot, he patted Tanni and mur-
mured a word in the Old Tongue, Then he smiled
at Kellin. "A wolf is no match for a lion."

Kellin felt markedly better as Blais followed
him out into the corridor. "A sword might be bet-
ter," he said, "but I am not old enough yet. Grand-
sire said."

"Have you not begun swordplay?"

"Aye, a little—but the arms-master says it will
be a long time before I have any skill. I am too
small."

Blais nodded. "A Homanan skill. I am no good
at it, myself, though the gods know Sean tried to
teach me often enough." He shrugged. "I have no
aptitude."

They went on. Torchlight glinted off the earring
in Blais' hair. He looked fully awake and alert,
Kellin thought in satisfaction. This time the Lion
will lose.

When they neared the Great Hall, Kellin pressed
himself against the wall. A shudder claimed his
body from head to toe, stilling only as Blais closed
a hand over one shoulder.

"I am your liege man," Blais told him. "I am
with you, my lord."

Kellin grinned his relief. " 'Tis inside," he said.
"I can feel it." To Blais, it was not difficult to

144 Jennifer Roberson

explain; a liege man would know, would under-
stand. "He has come to swallow Homana."

The tone was excessively neutral. "How do you
know this?"

"The fortune-teller said so."

Blais seemed briefly dubious, but let it go. He
smiled. "Then we shall have to see to it the lion
swallows nothing but my knife blade."

Joy and wonder bubbled up in Kellin. This is
what it is to have a liege man!

Blais pushed open one of the heavy silver doors,
sliding effortlessly inside. Kellin slipped through
behind him. "Here?" Blais whispered.

"Somewhere .. ." Kellin moved forward slowly,
wishing he might have the courage to use the knife
he clutched.

Blais stepped out into the center of the long hall
and strode the length of the firepit. Coals glowed
from its depths beneath an ashen cloak.

The alcove curtain near the massive throne bil-
lowed in the darkness. A single coal fell out of the
pit and crumbled into ash. "There!" Kellin gasped.

Blais reacted instantly, running silently toward
the alcove. He caught the curtain and tore it aside,
knife glinting.

"Is it there?" Kellin cried. "Blais?"

Blais went rigid, then reeled back from the al-
cove. Kellin heard the slap of bare torso against
the wall. The knife fell from a slack hand- "Tanni!"
Blais cried. "Tanni—"

Kellin ran. By the time he reached Blais, his
kinsman was slumped against wall and floor, body
trembling convulsively. Yellow eyes were wide
and crazed, turned inside out. Sweat filmed his
face.

"Blais!"

Blais shuddered. Then he reached out and caught

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

145

Kellin's thin arms, closing his taloned fingers into
flesh. "Tanni—Tanni—Hr—"

"Blais!"

"—gods—oh, gods .. . no—" Blais' face was the
color of the ash in the firepit. "Tanni—" He let go
of Kellin all at once and lurched to his feet.

"Blais—"

But Blais did not respond. He stumbled toward
the end of the hall, seeking doors; his grace was
utterly banished, leaving him reeling like a drunken
man, or a sick one. He smashed into one of the
doors and shoved it open.

Kellin gathered up the fallen knife and ran after
his liege man. Fear of the Lion was quite van-
quished; what he feared now was that something
terrible had befallen Blais. Don't let him go, too!

Blais ran even as Kellin caught up, but his body
betrayed him. Only his outstretched hands, re-
bounding off walls, kept him upright. Ropes of
muscles stood up in relief against naked flesh.

"Blais!"

And then they were in BJais' chamber, and there
was blood everywhere, on the floor and across the
bed; a lurid arc against the curtains. Blais tore
them aside, then fell down onto the bed. "Tanni—"

People crowded in the door. Kellin heard the
questions, the startled exclamations, but he an-
swered none of them- He could only stare at the
warrior who had been his cousin, his liege man,
his friend; who now was a lirless Cheysuli.

"Blais—" This time it was a wail because he
knew.

Brennan was behind him. "Kellin . ., Kellin,
come away."

"No."

Hart was with him, face shiny it was stretched
so tautly across the bones of his cheeks. "Come
away, Kellin. There is nothing you can do."

146 Jennifer Robersoa

"No!" Kellin threw down the knives, then ripped
himself out of Brennan's reaching hands. "Blais—
Blais—you cannot. No! I need you. I need you! You
are my liege man!" He fastened both hands
around one of Blais' rigid arms and tugged, trying
to pull his kinsman away from the gutted wolf.
"BlaisI"

Blais turned a ravaged face on them all, "Take
him away .. . take him from here."

"No!" Kellin gulped back the fear. "Tu'Jalla
dei—"

Brennan caught Kellin's arms. "Come away."

"He can't go!" Kellin screamed. "I refuse him
leave. I am the Prince of Homana and I refuse him
leave to go!"

They were all of them in the chamber: Aileen,
lisa, his Solindish cousins. Dulcie's yellow eyes
were wide.

"Tu'Jalla dei!" Kellin shrieked. "He has to stay
if I say so. He swore. Tell him, grandsire! Tu'Jalla
dei."

Brennan's face was stark. "Such things are for
gods to do, not men, not even princes and kings.
This is the price, Kellin. Blais accepted it when he
accepted his lir. So did I. So did we all. And so
will you."

"I will not! I will not!"

Aileen's voice shook, "Kellin—"

"No! No! No!" He writhed in Brennan's grip.
"He swore by blood and honor and his lir—~" Kel-
lin broke it off on a strangled gasp. Indeed, by
his lir. and now that lir was dead. "Blais," Kellin
choked. "Don't leave me."

Blais stared blindly. Blood smeared his chest. "I
never knew," he said dazedly. "I never knew what
pain there was in it."

Brennan looked old beyond his years. "No war-
rior can. Not before it happens."

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

147

Blais held up his bloodied hands. "I am—
empty—" He shoved a forearm across his brow and
left a bloodslick behind, shining in his hair.

"Tu'Jalla dei," Kellin said brokenly.

But Blais seemed not to hear. He stripped off
his ^'r-bands and the earring and put them on the
blood-soaked bed. Then he gathered up Tanni's
body into the cradle of naked arms and turned
toward the door.

As one, they all moved aside. Blais went out of
the chamber as wolf blood splashed on stone.

"Blais!" Kellin screamed.

Brennan lifted him from the ground, containing
him easily. "Let him go. He is a walking dead
man; let him go with dignity."

"But I need him."

"He needs his ending more." Brennan held him
close. "I wish I could spare you this. But you, too,
are Cheysuli, and the price shall be yours as well."

Kellin stopped struggling. He hung slackly in
his grandfather's arms until Brennan set him
down. "No," he said then, looking up into the face
that looked so old in its grief. "No, there will be
no price. I will have no lir."

Hart's voice was kind. "You cannot gainsay
what the gods bestow."

"/ will." Kellin's voice took on a hard bitterness.
"I refuse to have one,"

"Kellin." Now Aileen, moving forward.

He cut her off at once with an outflung hand, "I
refuse it. Do you hear?" He looked at his kinfolk
one by one. "They all leave. All of them. First my
jehan. Then Rogan. Then Urchin . .. and now
Blais." His voice sounded alien even to Kellin.
"They all go from me."

Brennan touched his shoulder. "This grief will
pass, one day."

Kellin knocked the hand away. "No! From now

Jennifer Roberson

148

on I walk alone. With no friends, no liege man, no
Hr." He looked at Brennan fiercely. "And I will not
care."

Aileen was horrified. "KeHin!"

He felt a roaring in his head; felt it rush up
from his belly and engulf his chest, threatening his
throat. If he opened his mouth, he would vomit.

He knew its name: rage. And a hatred so viru-
lent he thought he might choke on it.

"No more," he said quietly, making it an oath.
"The gods cannot take from me what I do not
have."

Interval

Naked, the woman lay next to him in the dark-
ness. She had not slept when he was done, for he
had, as always, disturbed her with his intensity,
and she could not tumble out of passion into sleep
the way he could -

She lay very quiet next to him, not allowing her
flesh to touch his. If she disturbed him, he would
waken in ill humor, and she had learned to avoid
his black moods by submitting everything to him:

will, body, spirit. She had learned the trick long
ago, when she had first become a whore.

She let his warmth warm her, driving away the
chill of the winter night.-Her dwelling was tiny,
not so much more than a hovel, and she could not
afford the endless supply of peat and wood that
others bought or bargained for to get them through
the Homanan winter. She hoarded what she had,
although when he came she piled it all on the
hearth. Even if it meant going without for days
after.

He shifted, and she held her breath. One broad
hand moved across her belly, then cradled her left
breast- The fingers were slack and passionless. He
had spent that passion earlier; though he was eas-
ily roused, she did not do it now.

She sighed shallowly, not daring to move his
hand. He had bought her body, let him fondle it

149

ISO Jennifer Robersoa

as he chose. It made no difference to her. At least
he was a prince.

She had other lovers, of course, but none so fine
as he- They were hard men, tough men, with little
refinement and less imagination. He, at least, was
clean, with a good man smell, lacking the stench
of others who had no time for baths, nor the
money to buy wood to heat water- It was no trou-
ble to him to bathe whenever he wished; she was
grateful for it. She was grateful for him.

That he had chosen her was a miracle in itself.
She was young still, only seventeen, and her body
had not yet coarsened with use, so she presented
a better appearance than some of the other women.
And she had high, firm breasts above a slim waist,
with good hips below. She would lose it all, of
course, with the first full-term pregnancy, but so
far she had been able to rid herself of the seeds
before any took root.

But what of h is seed?

She laughed noiselessly, startled by the thought.
Would she bear a prince's bastard? And if she did,
would he provide for her? Perhaps she could leave
this life behind and find a good, solid man who
would forget about her past. Or would he take the
child, claiming it his?

It was possible- It had happened in the past, she
had heard; the bastards had been sent to Clan-
keep, to the shapechangers, to grow up with bar-
ren women. He would not risk leaving a halfling
with a Homanan woman, lest someone attempt to
use it for personal gain.

He called her meijha and meijhana, words she
did not know. She had asked him if he had a wife,
and he had laughed, correcting her: "Cheysula,"
he had said, and then 'Wo, / have no cheysula.
They expect me to wed my SoUndish cousin, but f
will not do it."

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           151

She turned her head slightly to look at his face.
In sleep he was so different, so young, so free of
the tight-wound tension. It was a good face in
sleep, more handsome than any she had welcomed
in her bed, and she longed to touch it. But to do
so would waken him, and he would change, and
she would see the customary hardness of his
mouth and eyes, and the anger in his soul.

She sighed. She did not love him. She was not
permitted to love him; he had told her that plainly
their first bedding three months before. But she
did care. For all his black moods he was kind
enough to her, even if it was an unschooled, rough
kindness, as if he had forgotten how.

He had spoken harshly to her more often than
she would choose, but he had only struck her once;

and then he had turned away abruptly with a
strange, sickened look in his eyes, and he had
given her gold in place of silver. It had been worth
the bruise, for she bought herself a new gown she
wore the next time he came, and he had smiled at
her for it.

Her smile came unbidden; a woman's, slow and
smug. In my bed lies the Prince of Homana.

He moved. He stretched, flexing effortlessly, and
then he sat up. She saw the play of muscles be-
neath the flesh of his smooth back, the hint of sup-
ple spine, the tangle of black hair across the nape
of his neck. She lay very still, wondering if she
had spoken her thoughts aloud.

For a moment his profile was very clear in the
dim light, outlined by the coals in the tiny hearth
across the room. She saw the elegant brow and
straight nose. He was yet groggy with sleep and
soft from it; when the sleep fled, his bones would
look older and harder, with black brows that drew
down all too often and spoiled the youth of his
face.

1S2

He slanted her a glance. "Did you dream of

i"
me?

She smiled. "How could I not?"

It was his customary question and her custom-
ary answer, but this time neither appeared to
please him. He scowled and got out of the narrow
bed, then reached to pull on black breeches and
boots. She admired as always the suppleness of
his muscles, the lithe movements of his body. It
was the Cheysuli in him, she knew, though he did
not seem other than Homanan. She had seen a
warrior up close once and still shivered when she
recalled the strangeness of his eyes. Beast-eyes,
some folk called them, and she agreed with them.

His were not bestial. They could be discon-
certingly direct and nearly always challenging,
but they were green, and a man's eyes. For that
she was grateful.

He lifted the jug from the crooked table and
poured wine, not bothering to don the shirt and
fair-lined doublet on the floor beside the bed. She
hunched herself up on one elbow. "Are you going?"

"I have had from you what I came for." He did
not turn to look at her. "Unless you have discov-
ered yet another position."

She, who believed she could no longer blush,
burned with embarrassment. "No, my lord." She
had displeased him; he would go, and this time
he might not come back.

He swallowed down the wine and set the mug
down with a thump. "This vintage is foul. Have
you no better?"

"No, my lord."

Her flat tone roused something in him. He
turned, and the thin gold torque around his throat
glinted. "You reprove me?"

"No!" She sat up hastily, jerking the bedclothes

A TAfCSTSY OF LHMS

SS3

over her breasts in an instinctive bid for a mod-
esty she had surrendered years before. "Never!"

He scowled at her blackly. His mouth had taken
on its familiar hard line. And then he smiled all
unexpectedly, and she marveled again at the
beauty of a man who could be cruel and kind at
once. "I have frightened you again." He poured
more wine and drank it, seemingly unaffected by
its foul taste. "Do you fear I will turn into beast-
shape here before you?" He laughed as she caught
her breath, showing white teeth in a mocking grin.
"Have no fear, meijhana ... there is no /ir-shape
for this Cheysuli. I have renounced it. What you
see before you is what I am." He still smiled, but
she saw the anger in his eyes. "My arms are bare,
and my ear. There is no shapechanger in this
room."

She held her silence. He had shown her such
moods before.

He swore beneath his breath in a language she
did not know. He would not come to her bed again
this night, to set her flesh afire with a longing she
had believed well passed for her until he had come
with no word of explanation for a prince's pres-
ence in a Midden whore's hovel.

A sudden thought intruded. He might not come
back ever.

The fear made her voice a question she had
sworn never to ask. "Will you leave me?"

His eyes narrowed. "Do you care?"

"Oh aye, my lord—very much!" She believed it
would please him; it was nonetheless the truth.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Do I please you?
Do you care for me?"

She breathed it softly. "More than any, my
lord."

"Because I am a prince?"

She smiled, believing she had found the proper

IS4             Jennifer Roberson

answer. "Oh no, my lord. Because you are you. I
care for you."

He turned from her. Stunned, she watched as he
put on his shirt and doublet, then swept up and
pinned on the heavy green cloak. It was lined with
rich dark fur, and worth more than the house she
lived in. She saw the gold cloak-brooch glitter in
firelight, ruby gemstone burning. The brooch was
worth more than the entire block.

And then he strode across the room to her and
caught her throat in his hands, bending over her.
"No," he said. "You do not care for me. Say you
do not."

She grasped at his hands. She wanted very
badly to say the proper words. "But I do! Your
coin is welcome—I am a whore, for all that, and
claim myself no better—but it is you I care for!"

He swore raggedly and released her so abruptly
she fell back against the wall. He unpinned the
brooch and dropped it into her lap. "You will not
see me again."

"My lord!" A hand beseeched. "Why? What have
I done?"

"You said you cared." His eyes were black in
poor light. "And that I will not have."

"Kellin!" She dared to use his name, but he
turned away in a swirl of green wool and was
gone. The door swung shut behind him-

The brooch that would buy her freedom was
cold comfort in the night as she cried herself to
sleep.

One

Kellin stepped out of the slope-roofed hovel into
the slushy alley and stopped. He stared blankly
at the darkened dwelling opposite and expelled a
smoking breath. He inhaled deeply, almost con-
vulsively, and the cold air filled his lungs with the
anticipated burning. The alley stank of peat, filth,
ordure. Even winter could not overcome the stench
of depression and poverty.

He heard movement inside the hovel, through
the cracks of ill-made walls: a woman crying.

Too harsh with her. Kellin gritted his teeth. Self-
contempt boiled up to replace the thought. What
does she expect? I •warned her. I told her not to care.
There is nothing in me for anyone to care about,
least of all a father ... f will not risk losing another
who claims to care for me.

The sobs were soft but audible because he made
himself hear them. He used them to flagellate; he
deserved the punishment.

She was well-paid. That is what she cries for.

But he wondered if there were more, if the
woman did care—

Kellin gritted his teeth, fighting off the part of
his nature that argued for fairness, for a renuncia-
tion of the oath he had sworn ten years before.
She is a whore, nothing more. They all of them are
whores. Where better to spill the seed for which I am
so valued?

157

Jennifer Roberson

158

Kellin swore, hissing invective between set teeth.
His mood was foul. He detested the duality that
ravaged his spirit. He had no use for softness, for
compassion; he wanted nothing at all to do with
the kind of relationship he saw binding his grand-
sire and his granddame. That kind of honor and
respect simply begged for an ending, and therefore
begged for pain.

And what was there for him in a relationship
such as that shared by the Mujhar and his queen?
Had they not made it clear, all of them, that it
was not Kellin whom they cared about, but the
seed he would provide?

Bitterness engulfed. Let the whores have it. It will
serve them better; expelling it serves ME.

But the conscience he had believed eradicated
was not entirely vanquished. Despite his wishes,
he did regret his harshness with the woman; did
regret he could not see her again, for she had been
good to him. There had been a quiet dignity about
her despite her life, and a simple acceptance that
the gods had seen fit to give her this fate.

Self-contempt made it easy to transfer resent-
ment to the woman. She would make a good Chey-
suli. Better than I do; I, after all, am at war with
the gods.

It was time to leave, lest he give in to the temp-
tation to go back inside the hovel and offer com-
fort. He could not afford that. It was too easy to
succumb, too easy to give in to the weakness that
would lead in time to pain. Far better to keep pain
at bay by permitting it no toehold in the ordering
of his spirit.

Kellin glanced over and saw the familiar
guardsmen waiting in the shadows between two
ramshackle dwellings. Four shapes. Four watch-
dogs, set upon his scent by the Mujhar. Even now,
even in adulthood, no matter where Kellin went

A TAPESTRY w LIONS

IS9

or what he chose to do, they accompanied him.
Discreetly, usually, for he was after all the Prince
of Homana, but their loyalty was the Mujhar's.

As a boy, he had accepted it as perfectly natural
and never thought to question the policy and pro-
tection. As a man, however, it chafed his spirit
because such supervision, in his eyes, relegated his
own abilities, his own opinions, to insignificance.
Initially his protests were polite, but the Mujhar's
intransigence soon triggered an angrier opposi-
tion. Yet the Mujhar remained obdurate. His heir
could not—would not, by his order—be permitted
to walk unaccompanied in Mujhara. Ever.

Kellin had tried losing his dogs, but they tracked
him down. He tried tricking them, but they had
proved too smart. He tried ordering them, but
they were the Mujhar's men. And at last, terribly
angry, he tried to fight them. To a man, despite
his insults, they refused to honor him so.

He was accustomed to them now. He had trained
them to stay out of his tavern brawls. It had taken
time; they did not care to see their prince risk
himself, but they had learned it was his only es-
cape, and so they left him to it.

Kellin shivered, wrapping the heavy cloak more
tightly around his shoulders. It was cold and very
clear. The cloud cover had blown away, which
meant the nights would be bitter cold until the
next snowstorm came. Already he felt the chill in
his bones; mouthing a curse, he moved on.

He did not know his destination. He had thought
to spend the night with the woman, but that was
over now. She had committed the unpardonable;

the only punishment he knew was to deny her the
comfort of his body, so that he, too, was denied
the contentment he so desperately desired despite
his vow.

He splashed through crusted puddles. It did not

160 Jennifer Roberson

matter to him how it damaged his boots. He had
many more at home. This sort of revenge offered
little comfort, but it was something. Let the ser-
vants gossip as they would. It gave him some
small pleasure to know he was entirely unpredict-
able in mood as well as actions.

Better to keep them off guard. Better to make them
wonder.

As he wondered himself; it was a twisted form
of punishment Kellin meted out to bind himself
to his vow. If he relaxed his vigilance, he might
be tempted to renounce his oath. He would not
permit himself that, lest the gods win at last and
turn him into a Cheysuli who thought only of his
tahlmorra, instead of such things as a son badly in
need of a father.

Behind him, the watchdogs also splashed. Kellin
wondered what they thought of their honorable
duty: to spend the night out of doors while their
prince poured his royal seed into a whore's body-
They will get no Firstborn of her, or of any other
whore.

Ahead in wan moonlight, a placard dangled be-
fore a door. A tavern. Good. I am of a mind to start
a game not entirely like any other.

Kellin shouldered open the cracked door and
went in, knowing the dogs would follow along in
a moment. He paused just inside, accustoming his
eyes to greasy candlelight, and found himself in a
dingy common room. The tables were empty save
one, where five men gathered to toss dice and
rune-sticks.

For a moment only. Kellin considered joining
them. But instead he went to another table and
hooked over a stool, motioning with a jerk of his
head to the man in the stained cloth apron.

The watchdogs came in, marked where he was,
and went to another table. He saw the tavern-

A TAPESTRY OF LSO\S

161

keeper waver, for they wore tunics of the Muj-
haran Guard and doubtless meant more coin than
a lone stranger.

Smiling faintly, Kellin drew his knife and stuck
the point into wood, so that the heavy hilt stood
upright. The rampant lion curled around the hilt,
single ruby eye glinting in greasy light.

As expected, the tavern-keeper arrived almost at
once. "My lord?"

"Usca," Kellin ordered. "A jug of it."

The man nodded, but his gaze flicked to the
guardsmen. "And for them?"

Kellin favored him with a humorless smile.
"They drink what they like. Ask them."

The man was clearly puzzled. "My lord, they
wear the Mujhar's crest. And you have it here, on
your knife. Doesn't that mean—"

Kellin overrode him curtly. "It means we have
something in common, but it does not mean we
sleep together." He yanked the broochless cloak
from his shoulders and slapped it across the table.
He waited. The man bowed and hastened away.

When the usca was brought, Kellin poured the
crude cup full. He downed it all rapidly, waiting
for the fire. It came, burning his belly and clear
down into his toes. All at once there was life in
his body, filling up flesh and blood, and the pain
that accompanied it.

He had fought it so very long. Because of his
oath, because of his need, he had shut himself off
to emotions, severing his spirit from the Kellin he
had been, because he could not bear the pain- He
had seen the bewildered hurt in his grandmother's
eyes and learned to ignore it, as he learned to
withstand even the scorn in his grandfather's
voice; eventually, in fact, he learned to cultivate
that scorn, because it was a goad that drove him

Jennifer JRobermn

162

to maintain his vow even when, in moments of
despair and self-hatred, he desired to unswear it.

One day intent became habit, despite the occa-
sional defiance of a conscience battered for ten
years into compliance. He was what he was; what
he had made himself to be. No one could hurt him
now.

Kellin drank usca. He wanted to fight very
badly. When the fire filled head and belly, he rose
and prepared to make his way to the table full of
Homanans who laughed and wagered and joked.

A man stepped into his path, blocking his way.
"Well met, my lord. Shall we share a cup of
wine?"

Kellin's tongue was thick, but the words suc-
cinct enough. "I am drinking usca."

"Ah, of course; forgive me." The stranger smiled        \.
faintly. A lifted hand and a slight gesture beck-        {
oned usca from the tavern-keeper,                      j-

Kellin stared hard at the stranger, struggling to       ^
make out the face. The room shifted and ran to-
gether so that the colors all seemed one. Too much
usca for conversation,                                   i

When the new jug came, the stranger poured       |
two cups full and offered one to Kellin. "Shall we       f
sit, my lord?"                                       ^

Kellin did not sit. He set his hand around the        ,f
hilt of his knife, still standing upright in the table,
and snapped it from the wood.

The stranger inclined his head. "I am unarmed,
my lord, and offer no threat to you."

Kellin stared into the face. It was bland, beguil-
ing; all mask and no substance. Perhaps he will
give me my fight. He wanted the fight badly;

needed it desperately, to assuage the guilt he felt
despite his desire not to. Physical pain is easier to
bear than emotional pain.

For years he had sought it, finding it in taverns

A TAPESTRr OF LIONS           163

among men who held back nothing. It was a re-
lease from self-captivity more wholly satisfying
than any other he knew.

This man, perhaps? Or another. Kellin gestured
and sat down, laying the knife atop the table as
he took the brimming cup.

"A fortune-game?" the other man suggested.

It suited. Kellin nodded and the man took from
beneath his cloak a wooden casket, all carved
about its satiny sides with strange runic devices.

Kellin frowned. Wait—

But the man turned the casket over and spilled
out sticks and cubes. The sticks were blank and
black. The cubes turned lurid purple and began a
dervish-dance.

"Aye," the man said softly, "you do remember
me."

Kellin was abruptly sober. He marked the famil-
iar blue eyes, the russet hair, the maddeningly se-
rene expression. How could I have forgotten?

"Aye," Convyth said. "Would you care to play
out the game?"

Kellin looked for his watchdogs and saw them
spilled slackly across their table. Their attitudes
bespoke drunkenness to a man who knew no bet-
ter; Kellin knew better.

He looked then at the other men who wagered
near his own table, and saw they seemed not to
know anyone else was in the room.

Breath ran shallowly. Kellin tensed on his stool
and quietly took up the knife. "You have come for
me."

Convyth watched the bright cubes spin, seem-
ingly undismayed by the presence of a weapon.
"Oh," he said lightly, "presently. I am in no
hurry." He gestured briefly, and the knife fell out
of Kellin's hand. "There is no need for that here."

Kellin swore and grabbed at it, only to find the

164 Jennifer Roberson

metal searingly hot. "Kureshtin—" He dropped
the knife at once, desiring to blow on burned fin-
gers but holding himself in check. He would not
give the Ihlini any measure of satisfaction.

Corwyth's eyes narrowed assessively- "No more
the boy," he observed, "but a man well-grown,
and dangerous. Someone who must be dealt with."

Kellin did not much care for the implication.
"You tried before to 'deal' with me and failed."

"Aye. I misjudged you. A failing I shall not be
moved to repeat."

The rune-sticks joined the cubes in an obscene
coupling upon the table. Neither man watched.
They looked at each other instead.

A vicious joy welled up in Kellin's soul. Here
was the fight he had wanted. "I will not accom-
pany you."

"One day," Corwyth said. "Be certain of it, Kel-
lin." He gestured, and the cubes and rune-sticks
fell into a pattern: one arrow pointed at Kellin,
the other directly north. "You see? Even the game
agrees."

As he had done so many years before, Kellin
made a fist and banged it down upon the table.
The arrows broke up and fell in disarray to the
floor. Sticks and cubes scattered.

Corwyth showed good teeth. "This is a game,"
he said, "mere prelude to what will follow. If you
think you have the power to prevent it, you are
indeed a fool." Slender fingers were unmoving on
scarred wood. "I do not threaten, Kellin; I come
to warn instead. Lochiel is too powerful. You can-
not hope to refuse him."

"I can. I do." Kellin displayed equally good
teeth, but his grin was more feral. "He has tried
before and failed, just as you did. I begin to think
Lochiel is not so powerful as he would have us
believe,"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            165

Corwyth's tone was mild- "He need only put out
his hand, and you will be in it. He need only close
that hand and crush the life from you."

Kellin laughed. "Then tell him to do it."

Corwyth's gaze was steady. "Before, you were a
boy. They kept you close, and safe. But you are no
longer a boy, and such chains as you have known
will bind more than body, but the spirit as well.
Do you not fight those chains? Do you not come
often into the Midden, fighting a battle within
your soul as well as the war with the constraints
of your station?"

Kellin's laughter died. Corwyth knew too much.
He was overly conversant with what was in Kel-
lin's mind. "I do what I desire to do. That has
nothing to do with Lochiel."

"Ah, but it has everything to do with Lochiel.
You have a choice, my lord: keep yourself to
Homana-Mujhar and away from sorcery, yet know
there will always be the threat of a traitorous Ho-
manan." His smile was slight as he purposely
evoked the memory of-Rogan. "Or come out as
you will, as you desire to, and know that each step
you take is watched by Lochiel."

Kellin controlled the anger. Such a display was
what Corwyth wanted to provoke; he would not
satisfy him. "Then I challenge Lochiel to try me
here and now."

Corwyth shook his head. "A game requires time,
my lord, or the satisfaction is tainted . . - much
like a man who spends himself too quickly be-
tween a woman's thighs. There are the rules to be
learned first, before the game commences," The
smile was banished. Corwyth leaned forward.
"This night, you shall go free. This night you may
go home to Homana-Mujhar—or to whatever whore
you are keeping—and may sleep without fear for
your soul. But you are to know this: you are not

166 Jennifer Robersw

free. Your soul is not unclaimed. Lochiel waits in
Valgaard. When he touches you, when he deigns
to gather you up, be certain you shall know it."

The Ihlini sat back, but his gaze did not waver
from Kellin's. He smiled again, if faintly, and took
something else from beneath his cloak. He set it
flat on the table between them.

Sorcerer's Tooth.

The years fell away. Kellin was a frightened boy
again lost in Homanan forests, with a tutor slain
and a best friend dying, and the Lion on his trail.

"Keep it," Corwyth said, "as a token of my
promise."

Kellin leapt to his feet, groping for the knife, but
a sheet of purple flame drove him away from the
table. When the smoke of it shredded away, the
Ihlini was gone.

Two

Coughing, Kellin went at once to his watchdogs
and found them dead. There were no wounds, no
marks, no blood to prove what had befallen them,
the four men were simply dead. They slumped
across the table with blank eyes bulging and their
flesh a pallid white.

He looked then for the Homanans, expecting
some manner of comment, and discovered they no
longer existed. The tavemkeeper had vanished as
well. Kellin was quite alone in the common room
save for the bodies Corwyth had left behind.

Kellin stood perfectly still- Silence was loud, so
loud it filled his head and slid down to stuff his
belly, until he wanted to choke on it, to spew it
forth and deny everything; to somehow put back
to rights the horror that had occurred.

The way I wanted Rogan to be alive again— Kel-
lin shut his teeth. Rogan was a traitor.

His grip tightened on the knife. Its heat had dis-
sipated. No longer tainted by Corwyth's wishes, it
was merely a knife again, if a royal one. The lion
hilt mocked him.

He looked around again. All was as before: four
dead watchdogs sprawled across the table in a
stinking common room of a Midden tavern Kellin
was no longer certain truly existed.

Did Corwyth conjure the Homanans? Is this tav-

167

168 Jeaaffer Robwaos

em no more than illusion? If so, he was trapped in
it.

Kellin shivered, then swore at the response he
interpreted as weakness. He went hastily back to
his table, caught up his cloak and threw it around
his shoulders. With the knife still clutched in one
hand, hilt slick with sweat, he went out into the
darkness where the air smelled like air, redolent of
winter, but without the stink ofCorwyth's sorcery.

The walk to Homana-Mujhar was the longest of
Kellin's life. His back was spectacularly naked of
watchdogs; he had hated them before but had
never wished them dead.

He avoided puddles now. His mouth was filled
with the sour aftertaste of usca. Drunkenness had
passed, as had hostility and the desire to fight.
What he wanted most now was to reach Homana-
Mujhar and deliver unpleasant news to Brennan,
so the burden of the knowledge was no longer his
alone.

There were few cobblestones in the Midden.
Boots sank into muck, denying easy egress from
winding, narrow alleys shut in by top-heavy dwell-
ings. Between his shoulder blades Kellin felt a tin-
gling; the hairs on the nape of his neck rose. He
was lirless by choice, which left him vulnerable. A
bonded warrior would know if an Ihlini was near.
He had only his instincts to trust, and they told
him it would be a simple thing for Corwyth to
take him now, with a Tooth flung into his back.

But the Tooth was back in the tavern. Nothing
could have induced him to touch it, let alone to
keep it.

Kellin shivered despite the fur-lined cloak. His
lips were excessively dry no matter how often he
licked them. Corwyth had promised him his free-
dom tonight; that he might spend the time as he
wished. Lochiel was patient.

A TAPESTRY OF LlWS           J69

Muck oozed up, capturing a boot. Kellin paused
to free himself, then froze into stillness. A new
noise had begun in place of his audible breathing
and heartbeat.

The sound was one he knew: a raspy, throaty
grunting; the chesty cough of a huge lion.

Gods— He turned convulsively, shoulders slam-
ming against the wall. He heard the scrape of his
cloak against brick. Moonlight sparked on the
ruby as he lifted the knife.

For one insane moment Kellin saw his shadow
on the wall across the narrow alley: the image of
a small boy desperate to flee. And then the illusion
was banished, replaced with the truth, and he saw
himself clearly. No longer the boy. Nightmares
were long behind him.

This is how Lochiel intends to take me. This is
some trick—

Or perhaps not. After what had happened in the
tavern, Kellin was not so certain.

Still, he would not prove such easy prey, to be
terrorized by childhood nightmares.

He raised the knife higher. He saw the length of
supple fingers, the sinewy back of his hand, the
muscle sheathing wrist. He was a man now, and
a very different kind of prey.

"Come, then," he said. "If that is you, Corwyth,
be certain I am ready. Lochiel will find me no
easier to defeat despite opportunity. I am, after
all, Cheysuli."

The Lion paused. Noise ceased.

"Come," Kellin goaded. "Did you think to find
me so frightened I soiled my leggings? Did you
believe it would be easy?" He forced a laugh, rely-
ing on bravado that was genuine only in part.
"Why not banish the Lion's aspect and face me as
a man? Or do you fear me after all?"

170 feoatfer Robersoa

Grunting and panting faded. The night was si-
lent again.

Kellin laughed as tension fled, leaving him
atremble despite his bravado. "So, you prefer to
test a boy instead of a man. Well, now you know
the truth of it. To take me now, you will have to
try harder."

He waited. He thought perhaps Corwyth would
resort to ordinary means to attack. But the night
was silent, and empty; threat was dispersed.

Kellin drew in a deep breath. Surely they told
stories of my fears when f was a child. It would be
a. simple matter to shape a lion out of magic now
merely to remind me of childhood fears.

It was a simple explanation, and perhaps a valid
one. But a nagging thought remained.

What of Tanni? She was truly gutted.

But men had been bought before: a cook, and
Rogan. What if the beast who had slain Blais' lir
was nothing but a man meant to make it look like
a beast?

Kellin gripped the knife more tightly. Corwyth
is right. I am no safer now than I was as a child.
But I will not order my life around fear; it would be
a victory for Lochiel. f will be what I am. If the
Ihlini is to take me, he will find it difficult.

When Kellin reached Homana-MuJhar, he went
at once to the watch commander and gave him
the news. "Have them brought home," he said.
"But also tell those sent to fetch them to touch
nothing else. There was an Ihlini abroad tonight."

The captain, a hardened veteran, did not scoff.
But Kellin saw the lowered lids, the shuttered
thoughts, and knew very well his words were not
wholly accepted. Men might be dead, but no Ihlini
had come into Mujhara for years. More likely it
was his fault, from trouble he had started.

A TAPESTRY OF LtOMS            171

It infuriated him. Kellin grabbed a handful of
crimson tunic. "Do you doubt me?"

The captain did not hesitate. "Who speaks of
doubt, my lord? I will of course do your bidding
when the Mujhar confirms it,"

"The Mujhar—" Kellin cut it off, gritting teeth
against the anger he wanted to spew into the
man's face. "Aye, tell the Mujhar; it will save me
the trouble." He let go of the crumpled tunic and
turned on his heel, striding across to a side en-
trance so as not to disturb the palace with his late
return- Let the captain tell his beloved Mujhar. I will
spend my time on other things.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, shedding
cloak with a shrug of shoulders. He hooked it over
an arm, heedless of the dragging hem. When he
entered his chamber, he flung the cloak across a
stool and hastily stripped out of soiled clothing.
Naked, he paced to one of the unshuttered case-
ments and scowled blackly into darkness.

He felt stifled. He felt young and old, exquisitely
indifferent to life, and yet so filled with it he could
not ignore its clamor. Something surged through
his veins, charging his body with a vigor so in-
tense he thought he was on fire. His hands trem-
bled as if palsied; Kellin suppressed it with a
curse.

A surfeit of energy. It set his bones ablaze. He
was burning, burning.

"Too bright—" Kellin dug fingers into the sill
until at last the burning faded. Emptiness re-
placed it; he was desolate now, with a spirit
wholly diminished. Weakness replaced the hid-
eous strength that had knotted all his muscles.

It is only reaction to what occurred earlier. No
more than that.

But Kellin was not certain. Panting, he pressed
his head into the wall, letting the stone pit flesh.

172 Jennifer Robersoa

Fingertips were sore, scraped raw by his grip upon
the sill. Everything in him shook.

"Tired." It was much more than that. Kellin
staggered to his bed and climbed between the cur-
tains, blessing the servant who had left the wann-
ing pan.

But he could not stay there. A restlessness con-
sumed his body and mind and made him accede
to its wishes: that he forsake his bed for a physical
release that had nothing to do with sex and every-
thing to do with his spirit.

Breeches, no boots. Bare-chested, gripping the
knife, Kellin left his chambers and went into the
shadowed corridors. He felt as if he were a knife,
honed sharp and clean and true, balanced in the
hand as his own knife was balanced, but the hand
which held him was none that he knew.

The gods? Kellin wanted to laugh. The old Chey-
suli saying about a man's fate resting in the hands
of the gods was imagery, no more, and yet he felt
as if he fit. As if the hand merely waited.

This is madness. He went to the Great Hall. It
had been a long time since he had entered it; it
was his grandsire's place. Until Kellin could make
it his, he was content to wait: a lean and hungry
wolf intently watching its promised meal.

Guilt nickered; was suppressed. / was bred for
it. All the blood that flows in me cries out to rule
Homana ... 7 was not made of patient clay, and the
firing is done.

He halted before the dais, before the throne, and
looked upon the Lion. An old beast, he thought,
guarding its pride with aging eyes and older heart,
its body tough and stringy, its mouth nearly
empty of teeth.

Time runs out for the Lion. Time ran out for
them all.

Kellin laughed softly. Slowly he mounted the

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            173

steps to the throne and sat himself upon it, mov-
ing back into the shadows until his spine touched
wood. He placed his arms on the armrests, curled
his fingers over the paws and felt the extended
claws.

"This is Homana," he said. "This is Homana—
and one day it will be mine."

His fear of the throne was gone. As a child it
had frightened him, but he was no longer a child.

Kellin stared out into the hall- "The lion must
swallow the lands. The lion must swallow us all."

He roused at the scrape of a boot upon stone floor.
"Not a comfortable bed," the Mujhar remarked.

Kellin jerked upright, blinking blearily, stiff" and
sore and intensely uncomfortable. He had spent
what little remained of the night in the bosom of
the Lion. The knife was still in his fist. He was
warrior enough for that.

Brennan's expression was masked. "Was there
any point to it?"

Kellin challenged him immediately. "I do noth-
ing without a point."

His grandfather's mouth twisted scornfully.
"What you do is your concern, as you have made
it. I gave up years ago asking myself what could
be in your mind, to explain your behavior." He
gestured sharply. "Get up from there, Kellin. You
do not suit it yet."

The insult was deliberate, and he felt it strike
true. He wanted to shout back, but knew it would
gain him nothing but additional scorn. Of late he
and his grandfather had played a game with the
stakes residing in dominance. Brennan was the old
wolf, Ketlin the new; one day the old would die.

Kellin tapped the blade against wooden claws.
"Perhaps better suited than you believe."

174 Jennifer Kohersoa

"Get up from there," Brennan repeated, "or I
shall pull you up myself."

Kellin considered it. At a few years beyond sixty
the Mujhar was an aging man, but he was not
infirm. His hair was completely silver with white
frost around his face, but the fierce eyes were
steady, the limbs did not tremble, and the arms
with their weight of ftr-gold did not shrivel and
sag- He is taller and heavier than I, and he might
be able to do it.

Kellin rose with practiced elegance. He made an
elaborate bow to his grandfather and turned to
walk away. but Brennan reached out and caught
one arm.

"How much longer?" he rasped. "This comedy
we play? Or is it a tragedy?"

Kellin knew the answer. "Tragedy, my lord.
What else could these walls house?"

Brennan's mouth flattened into a thin, com-
pressed line of displeasure. "What these walls will
house, I cannot say. But what they have housed in
the past I can and do say: greater men than you,
though they were merely servants."

Kellin wrenched his arm away. "You offer in-
sult, my lord."

"I offer whatever I choose. By the gods, Kellin—
will you never grow up?"

Kellin spread his hands in mock display. "Am I
not a man?"

"No." Brennan's tone was cold. "You are but a
boy grown larger in size than in sense."

"Insult yet again." Kellin was unoffended; it
was all part of the game though the Mujhar did
not view it as such.

"What is your excuse?" Brennan demanded.
"That you lost people close to you? Well, do you
think I have not? Do you think none of us has
suffered as you do?"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            175

Stung, Kellin glared. "What I suffer is my own
concern!"

"And mine." Brennan faced him down squarely,
"You lack a fehan. You know why. You lost a tutor
to sorcery, a friend to treachery, and a liege man
to Cheysuli custom. You know how. And yet you
choose to wallow in grief and make all of Mujhara
suffer."

"Mujhara has nothing to do with this!"

"It does." Brennan's tone did not waver. "How
many fights have you sought out—or caused, or
joined—because of childish vindictiveness? How
many men have you fought—and injured—be-
cause they were easy prey for your anger? How
many bastards have you sired, duly packed off to
Clankeep where you need not concern yourself
with them?" More quietly, he said, "And how
many guardsmen have died because of you?"

"None because of me!"

"Oh? Then what of the four men who died last
night?"

"But that was not my fault."

"Whose was it, then? I thought you led them
there on one of your Midden tours."

Anger boiled up. "Only because you put them
on my trail like hounds upon a fox!" Kellin glared.
"Call them off, grandsire. Then no more will die."

Brennan's expression was implacable. "Did you
do it?"

"Did /—?" Kellin was aghast. "You believe I
would kill them?"

"Aye," Brennan answered evenly. "I believe you
might."

"How?" Kellin swallowed the painful lump in
his throat. "I am your own grandson. And you ac-
cuse me of murder?"

"You have labored assiduously to make me be-
lieve you are capable of anything."

176 Jennifer Robersoa

"But . .." Kellin laughed once, expelling air
rather than amusement. "I never thought you
would hate me so."

"Do you think a man must hate another to be-
lieve him capable of things another would not
do?" Brennan shook his head. "I do not hate you.
I know you better than you think, and why you
have twisted yourself into this travesty of the Kel-
lin you once were. I cannot understand it, but I
am cognizant of why."

"Are you?" The anger was banished now, re-
placed with bitter helplessness. "You are not me."

"Thank the gods, no." Brennan lifted his shoul-
ders briefly, as if shedding unwanted weight- "You
are not as hard as you believe. I see it in you,
Kellin. You still care what people think. It all mat-
ters to you, but you will not permit yourself to
admit it. You fight with yourself; do you think I
am blind? I need no kivama to see that two men
live in your soul."

"You cannot begin to know—"

"I can. I see what drives you, I see what shapes
you. I only wish you would not give into it. It does
you more harm than anyone else."

Kellin lashed out. "I do not care what anyone
else thinks, only you—" He checked abruptly; he
had divulged too much.

Brennan closed his eyes a moment. "Then why
this charade? If you truly do care what I think—"

"I do. I know what I have done; it was done
intentionally. I do not intend to alter it." Kellin's
smile was humorless. "This way, I cannot be
hurt."

Lines were graven deeply into Brennan's dark
face. "You hurt yourself, this way."

"I can live with myself."

"Can you? Can you cohabit with both men? Or

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

177

must you destroy one to allow the other more
freedom?"

Kellin spat his answer between his teeth. "This
is what I wanted. This is what / decided. This is
what I am."

Brennan made a dismissive gesture. "Another
time, then, for this; there is something more
important. Tell me what occurred last night."

Kellin sighed and stared down at the knife still
clenched in his hand. "It was Corwyth, the Ihlini
who killed Rogan and Urchin. He came to the tav-
ern and told me Lochiel still wants me, and will
take me whenever he likes. Whenever he wishes, I
was told, the Ihlini will put out his hand and I
will fall into it."

Brennan nodded. "An old Ihlini trick. He terror-
izes victims long before he confronts them."

"I have vanquished the lion," Kellin said, "but
he will look for something else. Corwyth has con-
vinced me Lochiel will be as patient as necessary."

"Kellin—"

"They were dead when I reached them." Kellin
looked at the knife, recalling the bulging eyes and
pallid faces. "There was nothing I could do."

"Then you must stay here," Brennan said. "Ho-
mana-Mujhar will shield you."

Kellin barked a laugh. "I would go mad inside
a ten-day!"

"There may be no choice."

"Mad, grandsire! I am halfway there already."
He flipped the knife in his hand, then again, until
it spun so the hilt and blade became alternating
blurs. In mid-flip he caught it- "I will not stay
here."

Brennan's anger showed for the first time since
his arrival. "Is this some manner of expiation for
your guilt? A twisted version of i'toshaa-ni?"

"1 feel no guilt," Kellin told him. "That is for

Jennifer Robersoa

178

my jehan to do ... but I think it quite beyond
him."

Brennan groaned in sheer frustration. "How
many times have I told you? I have said again and

again—"

Kellin cut him off. "You have said, and I have
heard. But it means nothing. Not until he says it
directly to me."

Brennan shook his head. "I will not send word
to him again. That is finished."

Kellin nodded. "Because the last time he refused
to extend hospitality to your messenger and packed
him off home again. So, slighted, you surrender. I
think my jehan must be mad as well, to speak so
to the Mujhar of Homana."

"Aidan does not speak for himself, Kellin. He
speaks for the gods."

"Facile words, grandsire. But listen first to your-
self—and then recall that he is your SOM. I know
very well who should have the ordering of the
other."

Brennan lost his temper. Kellin listened in star-
tled surprise; he had never thought to hear such
language from his grandfather.

"Go, then." At last the royal fury was spent. "Go
into the taverns and drink yourself into a stupor.
Go to your light women and sire all the bastards
you wish so you may leave them as your jehan left
you, wondering what manner of man you are to
desert a child." A pale indented ring circled Bren-
nan's mouth. "Risk your life and the lives of hon-
orable men so you may enter the game with
Lochiel. I no longer care. You are Homana's heir
for now, but if I must I can find another."

Kellin laughed at him. "Who can you find?
From where? There are no more sons, grandsire;

your cheysula gave you but one. And no more

A TAPESTRY OF LJOIVS

grandsons, either; Aidan's loins are empty. He is
in all ways but half a man."

"Kellin—"

He raised his head. "There is no heir to be found
other than the one you invested twenty years ago."

Brennan reached out and caught the flipping
knife easily. "You are a fool," he said clearly. "Per-
haps Homana would be better off without you."

Kellin looked at the hand that held his knife. He
had not expected the weapon to be caught. Bren-
nan was at least as quick as he; a forcible re-
minder that the Mujhar of Homana was more than
merely a man, but a Cheysuli as well.

He met his grandfather's eyes. "May I have it
back?"

"No."

He did not avoid the packleader's eyes. To do so
was to submit. "I have need of a knife."

"You have another. Use it."

Kellin clenched his teeth. "That one belonged to
BIais. I have sworn never to touch it."

"Then unswear it," the Mujhar said. "Tu'halla
dei, Kellin. Such things "as that come easily to a
man who cares for nothing."

It was more than he had anticipated. It twisted
within his belly. "It shall be as this, then?"

Brennan did not move. "As you have made it."

After a long moment, Kellin averted his stare.
The young wolf, he acknowledged ruefully, could
not yet pull down the old.

Three

In his chambers, Kellin sat on the edge of his bed
and stared at the small darkwood chest for a very
long time. It rested inoffensively on a bench
against the wall, where he had placed it many
years before. He had looked at it often, stared at
it, hated it, knowing what it contained, but once
locked it had never been opened again.

He drew in a deep breath, wishing he need not
consider doing what was so difficult, because he
had made it so. He realized that in truth he need
not consider it; it was more than possible for him
to get another knife despite his grandfather's sug-
gestion. He could buy one in Mujhara, or find one
in the palace, or even go to Clankeep and have
one of the warriors make him one; everyone knew
Cheysuli long-knives were superior to all others,
and only one Cheysuli-made was worth the coin.
But the challenge had been put forth. The old wolf
mocked the young. The young wolf found it
intolerable.

His palms were damp. In disgust Kellin wiped
them against his breeches-clad thighs. He tests you
with this. Prove to him you are stronger than he
thinks.

Muttering an oath, Keilin slid off his bed and
strode without hesitation directly across to the
chest. The lid and the key atop it was layered with
dust; he had ordered no one to touch the chest.

180

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            181

Dust fell away as he picked up the key, smearing
fingertips. He blew the iron clean, squinting against
motes, hesitated a moment longer, then swore and
unlocked the chest. Kellin flung back the lid so
sharply it thumped against the wall.

His lips were dry. He wet them. A flutter of an-
ticipation filled his belly. / would do better to leave
this here, as I vowed. I want no part of this. Blais
is dead ten years, but it feels like ten hours. Kellin's
jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Then he
thrust a hand inside and drew out the contents: a
single Cheysuli long-knife.

The grief had not lessened with the passage of
years, and the act of retrieving the knife intensi-
fied it tenfold. Kellin felt the tightening of his
belly, the constriction of his throat, the anguish of
his spirit. The wound, despite the decade, was still
too fresh.

Kellin held the knife lightly, so that it lay cross-
wise across his palm. Candlelight glinted off steel
because the hand beneath it trembled; he could
not help himself. He recalled in precise detail the
instant of realization, the comprehension that
Blais was doomed because his lir was dead. In that
moment he had come to understand the true cost
of the magic that lived in a Cheysuli's blood. And
knew how much he feared it.

The gods give warriors lir not to bless them, but
to curse them; to make them vulnerable, so they can
never be men but minions instead, set to serve spite-
ful gods. They give warriors lir simply to take them
away.

Kellin stared hard at the knife, daring himself
to break down. Beautifully balanced, the steel
blade was etched with Cheysuli runes denoting
Blais' name and Houses: Homana first, and Erinn.
The grip itself was unadorned so as not to inter-
fere with the hand, but the pommel made up for

182 Jennifer Roberaoa

the plainness. An elaborate snarling wolf's head
was set with emeralds for eyes.

Kellin's throat closed. To swallow was painful.
"A waste," he said tightly. "The gods would have
done better to take me in his place."

But they had not, despite his pleas, and he had
cursed them for it often. Now he simply ignored
them; there was no place in Kellin's life for gods
so vindictive and capricious as to first steal his
father, then permit his liege man to die.

Anger goaded his bruised spirit. Kellin slammed
shut the chest and turned to his belt with its now-
empty sheath. He slid the knife home with a deci-
sive motion so that only the wolf's head showed,
snarling a warning to the world. Apropos, Kellin
thought. Let them all be forewarned.

He dressed rapidly, replacing soiled breeches
with new; a plain wool shirt and velvet doublet,
both brown; and Homanan-style boots. Over it all
he fastened the belt, brushing the knife hilt with
the palm of his hand to make certain of its pres-
ence. Time I tested Corwyth's promise.

The Mujhar had assigned new watchdogs. Kellin
wondered briefly if they knew or were curious
about what had become of the last four, but he
did not trouble himself to ask. He merely told
them curtly to keep their distance, making no ef-
fort to befriend them or endear himself to them;

he did not want them as friends, and did not par-
ticularly care what they thought of him.

This time Kellin rode; so did they. They fol-
lowed closely, but not so closely as to tread upon
his mount's hooves. Testing them—and himself—
he led them deep into the Midden to its very heart,
where the weight of filth and poverty was palpable.

No one will know me here. And so they would
not; Kellin wore nothing to give away his identify

A TAPESTRY W LiONS            S83

save his ruby signet ring, but if the stone were
turned inward against his palm no one would see
it. He preferred anonymity- Let those of the Mid-
den believe he was a rich Mujharan lordling gone
slumming for a lark; he knew better. He wanted
a game, and a fight. As he had told the Mujhar,
he did nothing without a point.

The tavern he selected lay at the dead end of a
narrow, dark street little better than the manure
trench behind the hall garderobe in Homana-
Mujhar. It was a slump-shouldered hovel with
haphazard slantwise roof; the low door, badly
cracked, hung crooked in counterpoint to the roof.
The building resembled nothing so much as a
drunkard gone sloppy on too much liquor.

Kellin smiled tightly. This will do. He dropped
off his horse and waited impatiently for his watch-
dogs to join him on the ground. "Three of you
shall remain here," he said briefly. "One I will
take with me, because I must in compromise; it
seems I have no choice." He thrust the reins to
one of the guardsmen. "Wait here, in the shadows.
Do what you are honor-bound to do; I make no
claim on your loyalty. You answer the Mujhar's
bidding, but answer also a little of mine: leave me
to myself this night." He gestured toward one of
them. The man was young, tall, blocky-shouldered,
with pale blond hair and blue eyes. "You will
come in with me, but see you it is done without
excess attention. And strip off that tunic."

The young guardsman was startled- "My lord?"

"Strip it off. I want no royal dogs at my heels
tonight." Kellin appraised him closely. "What is
your name?"

"Teague, my lord."

Kellin gestured. "Now."

Slowly Teague stripped out of his crimson tunic
with its black rampant lion. He handed it reluc-

184

tantly to another guardsman, then looked back at
Kellin- "Anything else, my lord?"

"Rid yourself of your sword. Do not protest—
you have a knife still." He allowed derision to
shape the tone. "Surely more than enough weap-
onry for a member of the Mujharan Guard."

Cheeks burning, Teague slowly divested himself
of the swordbelt and handed it over to the man
who held his tunic.

Kellin assessed him again, chewing the inside of
his cheek. Finally he sighed. "Even a horse with
winter hair still shows its blood." He bent and
scooped up a handful of mud, then smeared it pur-
posefully across league's mail shirt to dull the
polished links and to foul the pristine breeches.
He ignored the young man's rigidity and pinched
mouth. When he was done, Kellin washed his
hands in slushy snow, then nodded at the discom-
fited guardsman. "They will not know you at
once."

Distaste was not entirely suppressed though
Teague made the effort. "They will not know me
at all, my lord."

Kellin grinned. "Better. Now, my orders." He
waited until his expectant silence gained Teague's
complete attention. "Once we are through that
door I am not to be called 'my lord,' nor do I
desire your interference in anything I undertake."

Teague's jaw was tight. "We are charged with
your life, my lord. Would you have me turn my
back on a knife meant for yours?"

Kellin laughed. "Any knife meant for my back
would have to be fast indeed. I doubt I will come
to harm—though the gods know I would welcome
the challenge." He gestured at the remaining three
guardsmen. "Take the horses and move into the
shadows."

A TAIVSTKY OF LKMS           185

•St

&

"My lord?" Teague clearly had not forsaken the
honorific. "It is not for me to reprove you—"

"No. It is not."

"—but I think you should know this is not the
best of all places to spend your time drinking or
dicing."

"Indeed," Kellin agreed gravely. "That is pre-
cisely the point. Now—you are to go in and find
your own table. I require two things of you only:

to sit apart from me, and to be silent."

Teague cast a scowl at his companions waiting
in the shadows, then grudgingly nodded. "Aye."

Kellin jerked a thumb at the door. and the
muck-smeared guardsman went in muttering under
his breath. Kellin waited until enough time had
passed to nullify the appearance of companion-
ship, then went in himself.

The stench of the hovel tavern struck him first.
Soiled rushes littered the packed earthen floor in
crumbled bits and pieces Kellin was certain har-
bored all manner of vermin. Only a handful of
greasy, sputtering tallow candles illuminated the
room, exuding an acrid, rancid aroma and wan,
ocherous light easily dominated by shadows. An
hour in such a place would render his clothing
irredeemable, but Kellin had every intention of
remaining longer than that. He anticipated a full
night.

Teague sat at a small flimsy table in the comer
nearest the door. A crude clay jug stood at his
elbow and an equally lumpy cup rested in his
hands, but he paid attention to neither.

Their eyes met, slid away. Kellin was faintly
surprised that Teague would enter so convincingly
into subterfuge. There was no hint of recognition
in the guardsman's face and nothing about his
posture that divulged his true purpose. Mud clung
to his mail shirt; a little had spattered across a

186 Jennifer Robersoa

cheekbone, altering the angle. His hair now also
was mussed, as if he had scrubbed a hand through
it hastily. Teague's expression was closed, almost
sullen, which suited Kellin's orders and the
surroundings.

Kellin was deliberate in his perusal of the room
and its occupants, knowing the men measured
him as carefully. He allowed them time to mark
his clothing, bearing, and size, as well as the
heavy knife at his belt. He wanted no one to un-
dervalue him, so that when the fight came it
would be on equal terms. He admired the elegant
simplicity of organized viciousness.

The tavern was crowded, but mostly because its
size was negligible. Most of the men spoke in quiet
tones lacking aggression or challenge, as if each
knew the other's worth and standing within the
context of the tavern, and did not overstep. There
would be rivals, Kellin knew, because it was the
nature of men, but with the arrival of a stranger
old rivalries would be replaced with unity. He and
Teague, apart or as one, would be suspect, and
therefore targets.

He grinned, and let them see it. He let them see
everything as he strode to the lone empty table
and sat down upon a stool, shouting to the wine-
girl to bring him a jug of usca.

She came almost at once to judge the cut of his
cloth and the color of his coin. Kellin dropped a
silver piece onto the table and let it ring, flicking
it in her direction with a single practiced finger.
Only the gold of his ring showed; the ruby with
its etched rampant lion rested against his palm.

"Usca," he repeated, "and beef."

She was a greasy, unkempt girl with soiled
clothing and filthy nails. She offered him a lone
grimy dimple and a smile with two teeth missing.
"Mutton and pork, my lord."

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           187

"Mutton," he said easily, "and do not stint it."

She wore a stained, threadbare apron over
soiled gray skirts, and the sagging bodice gaped
to display her breasts. She bent over to give him
fill! benefit of her bounty. He saw more than she
intended: flesh aplenty, aye, and wide, darkened
nipples pinching erect under his perusal, but also
a rash of insect bites. Dark brown hair swung
down in its single braid. A louse ran across her
scalp.

"My lord," the woman said, "we have more than
just mutton and pork."

She was certain of her charms. In this place, he
knew, no man would care about her filth, only the
fit of his manhood between her diseased thighs.
"Later," he said coolly. "Do not press me."

The brief flash of dismay was overtaken at once
by enmity. She opened her mouth as if to respond,
then shut it tight again. He saw her reassess his
clothing, the coin, then forcibly alter hostility into
a sullen acceptance- "Aye, my lord. Mutton and
usca."

Kellin watched her walk away. Her hips swung
invitation as if by habit; the rigidity of her shoul-
ders divulged her injured feelings. He laughed
softly to himself; he had frequent congress with
Midden whores, but not with one such as she. He
did not think much of acquiring lice as boon com-
panions in exchange for a dip in her well-plumbed
womanhood.

As he waited for usca and mutton, Kellin again
assessed the room. His entrance, as expected, had
caused comment, but that had died. Men gambled
again, paying him no mind except for the occa-
sional sidelong glance. Impatiently he pressed the
tip of a fingernail into the edge of the silver piece
and flipped the coin on the table. Again and again
he did it, so that the coin rang softly, and the wan

18S Jennifer JXoberson

light from greasy candles glinted dully on the
sheen of clean silver.

The woman returned with a boiled leather flask,
no cup; and a platter of mutton. She thumped
down the platter as he tested the smell of the flask.
"Well?"

Kellin caught the tang of harsh liquor through
the bitterness of boiled leather. He nodded, then
nipped the coin in her direction. She caught it
deftly, eyed his intent to discern if his mood
toward her had changed; plainly it had not, but
she bobbed a quick curtsy in deference to the sil-
ver. The overpayment was vast, but she accepted
it readily enough with no offer of coppers in
change. He had expected none.

"Do ye game?" she asked, jerking her head
toward a neighboring table.

And so the dance commenced; Kellin felt the
knot of anticipation tie itself into his belly. "I
game."

"Do ye wager well?"

Kellin drew the Cheysuli long-knife and sliced
into the meat. "As well as the next man."

Emerald wolf's-eyes glinted. She marked them,
and stared. "Would ye dice with a stranger?"

Kellin bit into the chunk of meat. It was tough,
stringy, foul; he ate it anyway, because it was part
of the test. "If his coin is good enough, no man is
a stranger."

Indecisive, she chewed crookedly at her lip.
Then blurted her warning out. "You lords don't
come here. The game is sometimes rough."

"Tame ones bore me." He cut more mutton. Em-
eralds winked.

Her own eyes shone with avarice. "Luce will
throw with you. Will ye have him?"

Kellin downed a hearty swallow of usca, then
tipped the flask again. Deliberately, he said, "I

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS

189

came here for neither the drink nor the meat. Do
not waste my time on idle chatter."

She inhaled a hissing breath. Her spine was stiff
as she swung away, but he noted it did not prevent
her from walking to the closest table. She bent
and murmured to one of the table's occupants,
then went immediately into the kitchen behind a
tattered curtain.

Kellin waited. He ate his way through most of
the mutton, then shoved aside the platter with a
grimace of distaste. The rest of the usca eventually
burned away the mutton's aftertaste.

A second flask was slapped down upon the table
even as Kellin set aside the first. The hand that
held it was not the woman's. It was wide-palmed
and seamed with scars. Thick dark hair sprouted
from the back. "Purse," the man said. "I dice
against rich men, not poor."

Kellin glanced up eventually. "Then we are well
suited."

The man did not smile or otherwise indicate
emotion. He merely untied a pouch from his belt,
loosened the puckered mouth, and poured a stream
of gemstones into his hand. With a disdainful ges-
ture he scattered the treasure across scarred wood.
His authority was palpable as he stood beside the
table, making no motion to guard his wealth. No
one in the tavern would dare test him by at-
tempting to steal a gemstone.

Real, every one. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds,
and a diamond or two for good measure. All were
at least the size of a man's thumbnail; some were
larger yet.

Kellin looked at Luce again. The man was huge.
The imagery flashed into Kellin's mind: A bull.
And so Luce seemed, with his thick neck, and a
wide-planed, saturnine face hidden in bushy brown
beard. His eyes were dark, nearly black. His

190 Jennifer Robes-son

crooked teeth were yellow, and he lacked his left
thumb.

A thief. But caught only once, or the Mujhar's
justice would have required more than a thumb.

On thick wrists Luce wore heavy leather bracers
studded with grime-rimmed metal. His belt was
identical, fastened with a massive buckle of heavy
greenish bronze. His clothing was plain homespun
wool, dark and unexceptional, but in a concession
to personal vanity—and as a mark of his status—
he wore a chunky bluish pearl in his right earlobe.
In the Midden the adornment marked him a
wealthy man.

A good thief, then. And undoubtedly dangerous.

Kellin smiled. He understood why the girl had
gone to Luce rather than to another. She intended
to teach the arrogant lordling a very painful lesson
in payment for his rudeness.

He untied his belt-purse, loosened the mouth,
then dumped the contents out onto the table. Gold
spilled across stained wood, mingling with the
glitter of Luce's stones. With it spilled also silver,
a handful of coppers, and a single bloody ruby
Kellin carried for good luck.

The pile of coins and lone ruby marked Kellin
a rich man also, but it did not begin to match the
worth of Luce's treasure. He knew that at once
and thought rapidly ahead to alternatives. Only
one suggested itself. Only one was worth the risk.

The bearded Homanan grunted and began to
scoop the gemstones back into his pouch. "A poor
man, then."

"No." Kellin's tone was deliberate, cutting
through the faint clatter of stone against stone.
"Look again." With an elegant gesture he pushed
the long-knife into the pile.

He heard the sibilance of indrawn breaths.
Luce's presence at Kellin's table had attracted an

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            191

audience. The huge man was among friends in the
Midden; Kellin had none. Even Teague, ostensibly
there to guard him, slouched at the back of the
crowd and appeared only marginally interested in
Luce and the lordling who was not, after all, so
rich a man as that—except he had now raised the
stakes higher than anyone might expect.

The fingers on Luce's right hand twitched once.
His eyes, dark and opaque, showed no expression.
"I'll touch it."

"You know what it is," Kellin said. "But aye,
you may touch it—for a moment."

The insult was deliberate. As expected, it caused
a subtle shifting among the audience. Luce's mouth
tightened fractionally in the hedgerow of his
beard, then loosened. He picked up the knife and
smoothed fingers over the massive pommel, closed
on the grip itself, then eventually tested the clean
steel as an expert does: he plucked a hair from his
beard and pulled it gently across the edge. Satis-
fied, he twisted his mouth. Then it loosened, slack-
ened, and the tip of his tongue showed as he
turned the knife in poor light. Emerald eyes
glinted.

Luce wet thick lips. "Real."

Kellin's hands were slack on the table top. Com-
pared to Luce's bulky palms and spatulate fingers.
Kellin's were almost girlish in their slender ele-
gance. "I carry no false weapons."

Near-black eyes flicked an assessive glance at
Kellin. "Cheysuli long-knife."

"Aye."

Flesh folded upon itself at the comers of Luce's
eyes. "You'd risk this."

Kellin shrugged in elaborate negligence. "When
I dice, there is no risk."

Thus the challenge was made. Luce's brows met,
then parted. "This is worth more than I have."

192 Jennifer Roberson

"Of course it is." Kellin smiled faintly. "A Chey-
suli knife cannot be bought, stolen, or copied .. .
only earned." Idly he rolled his ruby back and
forth on the splintered wood. "Be certain, Homa-
nan—if you win that knife from me, you will have
earned it. But if it concerns you now that you can-
not match my wager, there is something else you
may add."

Luce's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"If you lose," Kellin said, "your other thumb."

The tavern thrummed with low-toned growls of
outrage and murmurs of surprise. In its tone Kel-
lin heard the implicit threat, the promise of vio-
lence; he had challenged one of their own. But the
audacity, once absorbed, was worth a grudging
admiration. It was a wager to measure the cour-
age of any man, and Luce had more pride than
most to risk. They believed in him, Kellin knew,
and that alone would move a reluctant man to
accept a wager he would not otherwise consider.

Luce set the knife down very deliberately next
to Kellin's hand. It was a subtle display of fairness
that was, Kellin believed, uncommon to the Mid-
den, and therefore all the more suspect, but was
also a salute to Kellin's ploy. The handsome young
lordling was no friend to them, but no longer pre-
cisely an enemy. He understood the tenor of their
world.

Luce smiled. "A wager worth the making, but
over too quickly. Let's save us the knife—and the
thumb—for last."

Kellin suppressed a smile, "Agreed."

"One more," Luce cautioned, as Kellin moved
to sweep the coins into his pouch, "if you lose the
knife, an answer to a question."

Easy enough. "If I can give it."

Luce's gaze did not waver. "You'll tell me how
you came by such a knife."

A TAPESTRY OF Lsoivs            193

That was unexpected. Kellin was accustomed to
those in better taverns recognizing him and there-
fore knowing he was Cheysuli. But Luce clearly
knew nothing at all about him, least of all his race,
which suited him perfectly. "It is important to
you?"

Luce bent and spat. "I have no love of the shape-
changers," he said flatly. "If you got a knife from
one of them, it can be done again. I want to find
the way. Then I would be on equal ground."

It was puzzling. "Equal ground? With the
Cheysuli?"

Luce hitched massive shoulders. "They're sor-
cerers. Their weapons are bound with spells. If I
had a knife, I'd share in the power. If I had two,
I could rule it."

Kellin smiled. "Ambitious, for a thief."

Luce's eyes narrowed. "A thief, aye—for now.
But these men'11 tell you what my ambition earns
them." One meaty hand swung out to encompass
the room. "Without me they earn scraps- With me,
they earn feasts." His stare was malignant. "The
Midden is mine, lordling, and I'll be keeping it so.
It'd be easier done with Cheysuli sorcery."

Kellin displayed his teeth in an undiluted grin,
then gestured with a sweep of one eloquent hand.
"Sit you down, my lord of the Midden, and we
shall see precisely what power there is to be won."

Four

By the time Kellin had won some of Luce's jewels
and Luce a portion of Kelhn's gold, even Teague
had joined the crowd surrounding the table. No
one paid him the slightest attention, including the
prince he was commanded to protect.

Sweat stippled Kelhn's upper lip. Except for the
cracked door and holes broken in daub-and-wattle
walls, the small room was mostly airless. Now
that so many had moved in close to watch, ringing
the table, he could not draw a single breath with-
out inhaling also the stench of the tavern and the
overriding stink of wool- and grime-swathed men
who had not bathed since summer.

Kellin impatiently wiped the dampness from his
face with the edge of his hand, knowing his ner-
vousness came as much from belated acknowledg-
ment of Luce's dicing skills as the closeness of the
room. He had always been good himself, but Luce
was better.

The luck has turned. Kellin tossed back a swal-
low of usca from his third flask, trying to diffuse
the nagging sense of trepidation. /; favors Luce,
not me—and we are nearly through my coin.

Left were two silver pieces and a handful of cop-
pers, pitiful remainders of Kelhn's once-plump
purse. Though he had briefly owned a few of
Luce's jewels, the giant had easily won them back
and more, including the lone ruby.

194

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS

195

the

That is where my luck went. Kellin eyed
bloody glint in Luce's pile. He has it now.

Luce slapped one meaty hand down across the
table, scattering the dice and the last few coins of
the current wager. Dark eyes glittered. "Enough,"
he said. "Put up the rest of it, all of it—it's time
for the final wager."

To buy time, Kellin assessed him. The big man
had consumed cup after cup of usca, but nothing
of it showed in eyes or manner. There was no indi-
cation Luce was any less sober than when the
wine-girl first approached him, only a fixed desire
to begin the final pattern of the dance.

Kellin inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to clear
his head. An unexpected desperation made him
nervous and irritable, doubling the effects of his
over-indulgence in usca. His belly was unsettled as
well as his spirit. He could not bear the knowledge
he might well lose Blais' knife- He had only risked
the weapon because he had been certain of keep-
ing it.

Luce smiled for the first time. Behind him, Kel-
lin heard the murmuring of the Homanans. Their
anticipation was clearer, as was their absolute
faith in Luce's ability. Kellin found it particularly
annoying.

He shoved all that remained of his wealth into
the center of the table, mingling it with jewels,
coins, and dice, then challenged Luce in silence.

The big man laughed. "All, is it?" He flicked
onto the pile a glittering diamond. "Worth more
than yours." he said off-handedly, "but I'll have
it back anyway." Then, with abject contempt, he
jabbed a hand toward Kellin. "Your throw. Boy."

The insult stung, as it was intended, but not so
much after all. To Luce, he was a boy, for the man
was much older—but something else was far more

196 Jennifer Roberson

imperative than answering a gibe at his youth and
inexperience.

If I could win this throw. I could yet string out
the game a while and avoid offering the knife. Teeth
set tightly, Kellin scooped up the six ivory dice.
Carved markings denoted their value. He threw,
and counted the values before the dice stopped
rolling-

Leijhana tu'sai— Relief crowded out the desper-
ation in Kellin's belly. Sweat dried on his face. He
maintained a neutral expression only with great
effort, and only because he knew it would annoy
Luce. "Your throw," he said negligently, relaxing
on his stool. Inwardly jubilant, he waited. The
crowd around the table stirred; only one value
could beat the total on Kellin's dice, and it was
not easily accomplished.

Luce grunted and grabbed the dice. His mouth
moved silently as he whispered something and
shook the cubes in his hand.

A body shifted behind Kellin, breaking his con-
centration. A voice said irritably: "Don't push!"

Kellin ignored it, watching Luce entreat the dice
to fall his way, but within a moment the body
pressed close again, brushing his shoulder. Kellin
leaned forward in an attempt to escape the crowd-
ing. If they take no care, they will upset the table—

And they did so just as Luce threw. A body fell
into Kellin, who was in turn shoved against the
table. Coins, jewels, and dice spilled, showering
the rush-littered Hoor.

Even as Kellin, swearing, rose to avoid over-
turned usca, he recognized the miscreant- The ex-
pression in Teague's eyes was one of calculation
and satisfaction, not regret or anger, though he
voiced a sharp protest against the man who had
caused him to fall.

For only a moment Kellin's curiosity roused.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

197

Then he turned back to Luce, who cursed savagely
and dropped to his knees, scrabbling for dice. Oth-
ers were on the floor also, gathering coin and
gemstones.

How many will make their way into purses and
pockets? And then Kellin reflected that probably
none would; Luce's hold over the men was too
strong- A copper here and there might disappear,
but nothing of significance.

Luce came up from the floor, broad face dark in
anger. A malignancy glittered in near-black eyes.
"The dice," he grated. "I have them all, but one."

Teague held it aloft. "I have it." His smile was
odd as he tossed the cube in his left hand; the
right lingered very near his knife.

Luce thrust out a hand. "Give it here."

"I think not." Teague had discarded his trucu-
lence and sloppy posture. He looked directly at
Kellin. "The die is weighted improperly. You have
been cheated."

"A lie\" Luce thundered.

Teague tossed the cube to Kellin. "What say
you?"

Frowning, Kellin rolled the smooth ivory in his
fingers. It felt normal enough. The ploy could well
be Teague's way of rescuing him from a difficult
situation.

He flashed a glance at the guardsman and saw
nothing but a cool, poised patience. Nothing at all
indicated Teague might be lying.

Kellin considered. A second test of the cube di-
vulged a faint roughness at one rounded comer,
but that could come from years of tavern use
rather than purposeful weighting.

"A lie," Luce declared. "Give it here."

Kellin stared back. "You deny the charge."

"I do!"

"Then you will have no objection if we test it." Kel-

198 Jennifer Robersoa

lin kicked aside bits and pieces of soiled rushes.
He grimaced in distaste as he knelt down on the
packed earthen floor. It was a vulnerable position,
with Luce towering over him, but he assumed it
with as much nonchalance as he could muster. He
dared not hesitate now, not before the ring of hos-
tile faces -

"A lie," Luce repeated.

Kellin draped one forearm across a doubled
knee. He gripped the die loosely in his right hand.
"If it is a fair roll, you shall have the knife." He
saw it in Teague's hand, emerald eyes glittering.
"Otherwise, your remaining thumb is forfeit."

Luce breathed audibly. "Throw it, then."

Kellin opened his fingers and dropped the cube.
It bounced, rattled, then stilled.

"You see?" Luce declared.

Kellin smiled. "Patience is not your virtue." He
retrieved the die. "If the identical value shows
four more times, I think there will be no ques-
tion—"

Luce bellowed an order.

Kellin uncoiled from the floor and caught the
knife easily as Teague slapped it into his hand.
The blade rested against Luce's massive belly,
forestalling any attack by others. "I offer you two
things," Kellin said clearly. "First, your life; I
have no desire to gut you here. It would only add
to the stench." He showed the big man his teeth.
"The other is the answer to your question. You
see, I got this knife—" he pressed the tip more
firmly against Luce's belly above the bronze buckle,
"—in a sacred ritual. Few Homanans know about
it; only one has witnessed it. His name was Caril-
lon." Jubilation welled up in Kellin's spirit. He
had risked himself, and won. "It is the custom to
exchange knives when a Cheysuli liege man
swears blood-oath to serve the Prince of Homana."

A TAFESTKY w LKWS          199

Luce's disbelief and fury began as a belly-deep
growl and rose to a full-throated roar. "Prince—"

Kellin cut it off with a firmer pressure against
the heavy belly. "Cheysuli as well, Homanan. Tahl-
morra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu." He laughed, de-
lighted to see the comprehension in Luce's face.
"Now, perhaps we should discuss your thumb."

"Gut me, then!" Luce roared, and brought his
knee up sharply.

The knife did not by much beat the knee to its
target, but Kellin's thrust was almost immediately
rendered ineffective. He intended to sheath the
steel in Luce's belly, but the man's upthrust knee,
driving home with speed and accuracy, deprived
Kellin of everything except a burst of incredible
pain, and the knowledge—even as he collapsed—
that he had made a deadly mistake.

—never hesitate— But he had. Now he lay writh-
ing on the filthy floor of a dirtier tavern, wonder-
ing if he would survive long enough to find out if
he could bed a woman again.

He had cut Luce, perhaps deeply, but not deeply
enough to kill; he heard the man shouting orders
to his confederates. Hands closed on Kellin even
as he groaned and tried to swallow the usca that
threatened to exit his body. Bile burned in the
back of his throat.

Teague. Somewhere. But they were two against
too many.

For a fleeting moment Kellin wished he had not
been so adamant about posting the remaining
watchdogs outside, but there was no time for re-
criminations. He had lost his knife on the floor
and had only his wits and skills with which to
save his life.

Hands dragged him upright. Kellin wanted very
badly to lie down again, but he dared not if he
were to preserve his life. So he tapped the pain,

299

used the pain as a goad. and channeled it into a

weapon.

He tore loose of the hands holding him, jabbing
with elbows and stomping with booted feet. One
man he butted so firmly beneath the chin that
teeth crunched. Something sharp sliced across his
outflung hands, grated across knuckles; a second
knife jabbed him in the back. But its tip fouled on
the heavy winter doublet as he spun away.

Kellin lashed out with a boot and smashed a
knee, then jammed an elbow into the man's face
as he doubled over. Blood spurted as the nose
broke, spraying Kellin as well as the Homanan.

Teague. Near, he knew; he could hear the guards-
man swearing by the name of the Mujhar. Kellin
hoped Teague was armed with more than oaths.
If I could find the door—

A table was shoved into his path. Kellin braced,
then swung up onto it, kicked out again, caught
one man's jaw flush. The head snapped back on
its neck. The man tell limply even as another re-
placed him.

Someone slashed at his leg. Kellin leapt high
into the air and avoided the knife, but as he came
down again the flimsy table collapsed. In a spray
of shattered wood and curses, Kellin went down
with it-

Something blunt dug into his spine as he rolled.
Wood, not blade—

"Mine!" Luce roared. "He's mine to kill!"

"Teague!" Kellin shouted.

"My lord—" But the answering shout was cut
off.

Kellin thrust himself upward. Arms closed around
his chest, trapping his own arms in a deadly hug.
His spine was pressed against the massive belt
buckle; his head beneath Luce's chin. The Homa-
nan's strength was immense.

A TWESTRY OF LHWS           201

A sharp, firm squeeze instantly expelled what
little breath was left in Kellin's lungs. The human
vice around his chest denied him another. Speck-
les crept into the comers of his eyes, then spread
to threaten his vision.

Kellin writhed in Luce's grasp. He kicked but
struck air, and the big man laughed. "Boy," Luce
said, "your gods can't hear you now."

He had not petitioned the gods. Now he did, just
in case, even as he snapped his head backward in
a futile attempt to smash Luce's face. He struck
nothing but muscled neck. Luce's grip tightened.

Frenziedly, Kellin fought. His breath was gone,
and his strength, but desperation drove him. He
would not give up. A Cheysuli warrior never gave
up.

Luce, laughing, shook him. A rib protested- "Lit-
tle prince," he baited, "where is your liege man
now?"

Blais would not permit this— Kellin arched his
body in a final attempt at escape, then went limp.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He
hung slackly in thick arms.

Luce squeezed him a final time, threw him
down. "I'll have that knife now."

Kellin's breath came back in a rush. He heard
himself gasping and whooping as his lungs filled
slowly, then understood what Luce intended to do-
"No knife—mine-—" And it was there, kicked be-
neath shattered wood; Kellin clawed for it, touched
it» closed trembling fingers upon it even as Luce
saw his intent. But before the big man could react,
Kellin's hand closed over the hilt.

He came up from the floor in one awkward
lunge, still gasping for breath, still doubled up
from the pain of his bruised ribs. But to hesitate
or protect himself guaranteed death; Kellin slashed
out repeatedly, carving himself a clearing. He saw

202 Jennifer Roberson

s,

the glint of a swordblade—no, two—and realized     ^
the watchdogs were present at last. Teague had
reached the door, or else they had heard the
commotion.

Luce?

The man was there, armed as well. The knife he
held was not so elaborate as Kellin's but its blade
was equally deadly. Near-black eyes were fastened     ^
on Kellin's face. "I'll have that long-knife yet."        ^

Blood trickled into Kellin's right eye as he     ^
sucked at air. He scrubbed a forearm across his      ?
brow, shook back damp hair, then grinned at the     s
big man- Without the breath to answer, Kellin     f
beckoned Luce on with the waggle of one hand.       ^

By now most of the fighting had been stopped,
or stopped of its own accord. It had come down
to Kellin and Luce. The silence in the tavern was
heavy with expectation.

Luce still watched him, judging his condition.
Kellin knew it well enough: he was half-sick on
usca and the blow from Luce's knee, as well as
bruised about the ribs. He was stippled by half a
dozen nicks and slices, and a cut across his brow
bled sluggishly, threatening his vision.

Kellin forced a ragged laugh. "Are you truly the
king of the Midden? Do you think yourself fit to
rule? Then show me, little man. Prove to a Chey-
suli you are fit to hold his knife."

Luce came on, as expected. Kellin stood his
ground, watching the man's posture and the sub-
tle movements of his body; when Luce's momen-
tum was fully engaged, his intent divulged, Kellin
slipped aside and thrust out a boot. Luce stum-
bled, cursed, then fell against a table. His hands
thrust out to brace himself.

With a single definitive blow of Blais' knife, Kel-
lin chopped down and severed the thief's re-


A TAPESTSY OF LlOPHS            203

maining thumb. "There," he said, "the debt now
is paid."

Luce screamed. He clutched his bleeding hand
against his chest. "Shapechanger sorcery!"

Kellin shook his head. still trying to regain his
breath. "Just a knife in the hand of a man. But
enough for you, it seems."

The conquest of Luce ended the fight entirely.
Kellin saw bloodied faces and gaping mouths, torn
clothing and gore-splattered hair. The crimson tu-
nics of the watchdogs glowed like pristine beacons
in the smoky shadows of the tavern.

He ached. His profaned manhood throbbed. He
wanted no more than to lie down in the slushy
snow and cool the heat of pain, to drive away the
sickness, to regain in the bite of winter the self-
control he had forfeited to a despised desperation.

Kellin wanted no one, thief or guardsman, to
see how much he hurt. Without a word, without
an order, he turned and walked through the crowd
and pushed open the cracked door, taking himself
from the tavern into the cold clarity of the alley.
The stench was no better there, but the familiar
glitter of stars was an infinite improvement over
the opaque malignancy of Luce's enraged stare.

Kellin looked at the horses and very nearly
flinched. He could not bear the idea of riding.

"My lord?" It was Teague, exiting the tavern.
He was bloodied and bruised and very taut around
the mouth. "We should get you to Homana-
Mujhar,"

The response was automatic. "If I choose to go."

Teague neither flinched nor colored. His tone
was pitched to neutrality. "Are you done for the
evening, my lord?"

Kellin gifted him with a scowl as the other
guardsmen filed out of the tavern. "Is there some-
thing else you wished to do?"

204 Jennifer Roberson

Teague shrugged. "I thought perhaps you might
desire to find another game." He paused. "My
lord."

As he collected breath and wits, Kellin consid-
ered any number of retorts. Most of them were
couched in anger or derision. But after what
Teague had done, he thought the guardsman de-
served better.

He blew out a frosted breath, then drew another
into a sore chest. He wanted to lie down, or bend
over, or lean against the wall, but he would do
none of those things or risk divulging discomfort.      A/
Instead, he asked a question. "Was the die improp-      4-
eriy weighted?"                                      ;

Teague grinned. "As to that, I could not swear.      ,;

But when Luce spread his hand down across the
pile and challenged you to the final throw, I saw
one die replaced with another. It seemed logical
to assume it was weighted to favor Luce."

Kellin grunted agreement. "But it was not re-
placed before."

"No, my lord."

"You are certain?"

"My lord—" With effort, Teague suppressed a
smile and did not look at his companions. "I am
moved to say your luck was bad tonight."

"And, no doubt, my tavern selection." Kellin
sighed and pressed a hand against sore ribs. "I am
going home. You may come, or go, as you wish. It
is nothing to me."

Teague considered it. "I think I will come, my
lord." The faintest glint brightened his eyes. "I
would like to hear what the Mujhar has to say
when you arrive on his front step."

It was momentarily diverting. "To me, or to
you?"

"To you, my lord. I have done my duty."

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS            205

Kellin scowled. "It is not the Mujhar who con-
cerns me."

"Who, then?"

It was an impertinence, but Kellin was too tired
and sore to remind Teague of that. "The queen,"
he muttered. "She is Erinnish, remember? And
possessed of a facile tongue." He sighed. "My ears
will be burning tonight, as she can no longer red-
den my rump."

Teague surrendered his dignity to a shout of
laughter. Then he recalled whom it was he served—
the royal temper, Kellin knew, was notorious—
and quietly gathered up the reins of his own
mount and Kellin's. "I will walk with you, my
lord."

The assumption stung. "And if I mean to ride?"

"Then I will ride also." Teague lowered his eyes
and stared inoffensively at the ground. "But I
daresay my journey will be more comfortable than
yours."

Kelin's face burned. "I daresay."

The Prince of Homana walked all the way home
as his faithful watchdogs followed.

Five

The Queen of Homana pressed a wine-soaked cloth
against the wound in her grandson's scalp. "Sit
still, Kellin! Tis a deep cut."

He could not help himself; he lapsed into an
Erinnish lilt in echo of her own. "You'll be making
it deeper, with this! D'ye mean to go into my
brain?"

" 'Twould keep you from further idiocy, now,
wouldn't it?" The pressure was firm as she worked
to stanch the dribbling blood.

"That I doubt," Brennan said. "Kellin courts
idiocy."

" 'Twould seem so," Aileen agreed equably. Then,
when Kellin meant to protest, "Sit still."

Between them, they will slice me into little pieces.
Kellin sat bolt upright in a stool in his chambers,
bare to the waist. He was not in the slightest dis-
posed to remain still as she pressed liquor into his
scalp, because he could not. It stung fiercely. The
right side of his chest was beginning to purple
from Luce's affectionate hug, but Kellin was not
certain Aileen's ministrations—or her words—would
be gentler.

"You could bind his ribs," she suggested crisply
to Brennan, "instead of standing there glowering
like an old wolf."

"No," Kellin answered, knowing the Mujhar's

206

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS           207

hands would be far less gentle than hers. "You do
it, granddame."

"Then stop twitching."

"It hurts."

Aileen sighed as she peeled back the cloth and
inspected the oozing cut beneath. "For a Cheysuli
warrior, my braw boyo, you're not so very good
at hiding your pain."

"The Erinnish in me," he muttered pointedly.
"Besides, how many Cheysuli warriors must suffer
a woman to pour liquid fire into their skulls?"

Aileen pressed closed the cut. "How many re-
quire it?"

Kellin hissed. He slanted a sidelong glance at
his grandfather. "I am not the first to rebel against
the constraints of his rank."

The gibe did not disturb the Mujhar in the least.
He stood quietly before his battered grandson
with gold-weighted arms folded, observing his
queen's ministrations. "Nor will you be the last,"
Brennan remarked. "But as that comment was
aimed specifically at me, let me answer you in
like fashion: dying before you inherit somewhat
diminishes the opportunity to break free of my
authority." He arched a brow. "Does it not?"

Kellin gritted his teeth. "I'm not looking to die,
grandsire—"

"You give every indication of it."

"—merely looking for entertainment, something
to fill my days, something to quench my taste—"

"—for rebellion." Brennan smiled a little. "Noth-
ing you tell me now cannot be countered, Kellin.
For that matter, you may as well save your breath,
which is likely at this moment difficult to draw
through bruised ribs—" the Mujhar cast him an
ironic glance, "—because I know very well what
you will say. I even know what / will say; it was
said to me and to my rujholli several decades ago."

208 Jennifer Robersoa

Kellin scowled. "I am not you, or Hart, or
Corin—"

"—or even Keely," Aiieen finished, "and I've
heard this before, myself." Her green eyes were
bright. "Now both of you be silent while I wrap
up your ribs."

Kellin subsided into glum silence, punctuated
only by an occasional hissed inhalation. He did
not look again at his grandsire, but stared fixedly
beyond him so he would not provoke a comment
in the midst of intense discomfort.

He had told them little of the altercation in the
tavern, saying merely that a game had gone bad
and the fight was the result. No deaths, he pointed
out; the Mujhar, oddly, asked about fire, to which
Kellin answered in puzzlement that there was no
fire, only a little blood. It had satisfied Brennan in
some indefinable way; he had said little after that
save for a few caustic comments.

Kellin sat very still as Aiieen worked, shutting
his teeth against the pain—he would not permit
her to believe he was less able than anyone else
to hold his tongue—and said nothing. But he was
aware of an odd sensation that had little to do
with pain.

"—still," she murmured, as a brief tremor claimed
his body.

Kellin frowned as she snugged the linen around
his ribs. What is—? And then again the tremor,
and Aileen's muttered comment, and his own un-
intended reaction; every inch of flesh burned so
intensely he sweated with it.

Brennan frowned. "Perhaps I should call a
surgeon."

"No!" Kellin blurted.

"If there is that much pain—"

"—isn't pain," Kellin gritted. "Except—for that—"
He sucked in a hissing breath as Aiieen pulled

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

209

linen taut against sore flesh. "Call no one.
Grandsire."

He held himself still with effort. It wasn't pain,
but something else entirely, something he could
not ignore, that burned through flesh into bone
with a will of its own, teasing at self-control. Fin-
gers and toes tingled. It spread to groin and belly,
then crept upward to his heart.

"Kellin?" Aileen's hands stilled. "Kel[in—"

He heard her only dimly, as if water filled his
ears. His entire being was focused on a single sen-
sation. It was very like the slow build toward the
physical release of man into woman, he thought,
but with a distinct difference he could not voice.
He could not find the words. He knew only there
was a vast and abiding thing demanding his atten-
tion, demanding his body and soul.

"Ihlini?" he murmured. "Lochiel?"

He need only put out his hand, Corwyth had
said, and Kellin would be in it.

His ribs were strapped and tied. He could not
breathe.

—could not breathe—

"Kellin!" Aileen's hands closed on his naked
shoulders. "Can you hear me?"

He could. Clearly. The stuffy distance was gone.
The burning subsided, as did the tremors. He felt
it all go, leaching him of strength. He sat weak
and trembling upon the stool, sweat running down
his face. Damp hair stuck to his brow.

Gods— But he cut it off. He would not beg aid
or explanation from those he could not honor.

Kellin clenched his teeth within an aching jaw.
For a moment the room wavered around him,
running together until all the colors were gone.
Everything was a fleshy gray, lacking depth or
substance.

"Kellin?" The Mujhar.

219 Jennifer Roberson

He could make no answer. He blinked, tried to
focus, and vision eventually steadied. His hearing
now was acute, so incredibly acute he heard the
soughing of the folds of Aileen's skirts as she
turned to Brennan. He could smell her, smell him-
self: the bitter tang of his own fear, the acrid bite
of rebelling flesh.

"Brighter—" he blurted, and then the desolation
swept in, and emptiness, and a despair so power-
ful he wanted to cry out. He was a shell, not a
man; a hollow, empty shell. Shadow, not warrior,
a man lacking in heart or substance, and therefore
worthless among his clan.

In defiance of pain, Kellin lurched up from the
stool. He shuddered. Tremors began again. He felt
the protest of his ribs, but they did not matter. He
took a step forward, then caught himself. For a
moment he lingered, trapped upon the cusp, then
somehow found the chamberpot so he could spew
his excesses into pottery instead of onto the floor.

Even as Aileen murmured sympathy, Brennan
cut her off. "He deserves it. The gods know Hart
and Corin did, and Keely, when they followed such
foolish whims."

"And what of your whims?" she retorted. "You
did not drink overmuch, but you found Rhiannon
instead."

Kellin stood over over the chamberpot, one arm
cradling his chest. It hurt to bend over, hurt to
expell all the usca, hurt worse to draw a breath.

He straightened slowly, irritated by his grand-
parents' inconsequential conversation, but mostly
humilated by the dictates of his body. He felt no
better for purging his belly. Sickness yet lurked
within, waiting for the moment he least expected
its return.

Brennan's tone was uncharacteristically curt,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

211

but also defensive as he answered his cheysula.
"Rhiannon has nothing to do with this."

"She was your downfall as much as gambling
was Hart's and / was Corin's!" Aileen snapped.
"Don't be forgetting it, Brennan. We all of us do
things better left undone. Why should Kellin be
different?"

He shivered once more, and then his body
stilled. In quiescence was relief, carefully Keltin
sought and found a cloth to wipe his mouth. It
hurt too much to move; he leaned against the
wall. Brickwork was cool against overheated flesh.

Distracted by his movement, Aileen turned from
her husband. "Are you well?"

"How can he be well?" Brennan asked. "He has
drunk himself insensible and now suffers for it, as
well as for a fight that nearly stove in his chest."
His mouth hooked down in derision. "But he is
young, for all of that; he will begin again tomorrow."

"No," Kellin managed. "Not tomorrow." The
room wavered again. He caught at brickwork to
keep from falling.

"Kellin-" The derision was banished from Bren-
nan "s tone. "Sit down."

The floor moved beneath Kellin's feet. Or was
he moving?"

"He's ill!" Aileen cried. "Brennan—catch—"

But the command came too late. Kellin was
aware of a brief detached moment of disorienta-
tion, then found himself sprawled across the floor
with his head in the Mujhar's arms.

He was cold, so cold—and a wail of utter despair
rose from the depths of his spirit. "—empty—" he
mouthed. "—lost—"

Brennan sat him upright and held him steady,
examining his eyes. "Look at me."

Kellin looked. Then vision slid out of focus and

212 Jennifer Roberson

the wail came back again. A sob tore loose in his
chest. "Grandsire—"

"Be still. Look at me." Brennan cradled Kellin's
head in his hands, holding it very still.

"Are you wanting a surgeon?" Aileen asked
crisply.

"No."

"Earth magic, then."

"No."

"Then—"

"Shansu," Brennan told her. "This is something
else, meijhana. Something far beyond the discon-
tent caused by too much usca."

It was indeed. If not for the Mujhar *s hands
holding him in place, Kellin believed he might fall
through the floor and beyond. "—too hard—" he
whispered. "Too—"

"—empty," Brennan finished, "and cold, and
alone, torn apart from the world and everything
in it."

'—lost—"

"And angry and terribly frightened, and very
small and worthless."

Kellin managed to nod. The anguish and desola-
tion threatened to overwhelm him. "How can—
how can you know?"

Brennan's severity softened. "Because I have felt
it also- Every Cheysuli does when it is time to
bond with his Ur."

"Lir!"

"Did you really believe you would never have
one?" Brennan's smile was faint. "Did you believe
you would not need one?"

"I renounced it!" Kellin cried. "When Blais
left—I swore—"

"Some oaths are as nothing."

"I renounced a Ur, and the gods." It was incom-
prehensible that now, after so long without one,

A TAPESTRY OF LlOPiS            213

he might require a Ur; or that he should have to
battle the interference of gods he did not honor.

"Clearly the gods did not renounce you," Bren-
nan said dryly. "Now the time is come."

Kellin summoned all his strength; it was a pa-
thetic amount. "I refuse."

The Mujhar smiled. "You are welcome to try."

Aileen was shocked. "You are overharsh!"

"No. There is nothing he can do. It is his time,
Aileen. He will drive himself mad if he continues
this foolishness. He must go. He is Cheysuli."

"And—Ermnish ... and Homanan—and all the
other lines—" Kellin shivered. " 'Tis all I count
for, is it not? My seed. My blood. Not Kellin at
aU\" His spirit felt as cold and hard as the floor.
Desperately, he said, "I renounce my hr."

"Renounce as you will," Brennan said, "but for
now, get up on the stool."

Kellin gritted his teeth. "You are the Mujhar,
blessed by the gods. I charge you to take it away."

"What—the pain? You earned it. The empti-
ness? I cannot. It can only be filled with a Ur."

"Take it away!" Kellin shouted. "I cannot live
like this!"

Brennan rose. His eyes, so intensely yellow, did
not waver. "You have the right of that," he agreed.
"You cannot live like this."

"Grandsire—"

"Get up, Kellin. There is nothing to be done."

He got up. He ached. He swore, even before Ai-
leen. He was profoundly empty, bereft of all save
futility and a terrifying apartness. "I renounced
it," he said, "just as I renounced the gods. They
have no power over me."

Brennan turned to Aileen. "I will have usca sent
up. Best he dulls his pain with that which caused
it; in the morning he will be better—" he slanted
a glance at his grandson, "—or he will be worse."

214 Jennifer Roberwa

She was clearly displeased. "Brennan."

The Mujhar of Homana extended a hand to his
queen. "There is nothing to be done, Aileen. Whether
or not he likes it, Kellin is Cheysuh. The price is
always high, but no warrior refuses to pay it."

"I do," Kellin declared. "/ refuse. I will not ac-
cept a lir."

Brennan nodded sagely. "Then perhaps you
should spend the next few hours explaining that
to the gods."

Six

"Leijhana tu'sai," Kellin murmured as his grand-
parents shut the door behind them. He was sick
to death of Brennan's dire predictions and Aileen's
contentiousness; could they not simply let him
alone? They try to shape me to fit their own idea of
how a prince should be.

Or perhaps they attempted to shape him into
something other than his father who had re-
nounced his rank and title as Kellin renounced his
Hr.

He drew in a hissing breath and let it out again,
trying to banish pain as he banished the previous
thought. Kellin had no desire to consider how his
behavior might affect his grandparents, or that the
cause of his own rebellion was incentive for the
very expectations he detested. Such maunderings
profited no one, save perhaps the occasional flicker
of guilt searching for brighter light. He had no
time for such thoughts; his ribs ached, and his
manhood as yet reminded him of its abuse- Best
he simply took to his bed; perhaps he would fall
asleep, and by morning be much improved in
health and spirit.

But restlessness forbade it even as he approached
the bed. He was dispirited, disgruntled, highly un-
settled. Even his bones itched. His body would not
be still, but clamored at him for something—

"What?" Kellin gritted. "What is it I'm to do?"

215

216

Wa •• rtfrtM

JUIBuT

He could not be srifl. Frustrated, Kellin began to
pace, hoping to burn out the buzz in blood and bones.
But he managed to stop only when he reached the
polished plate hanging cockeyed on the wall.

He stared gloomily at his reflection: a tall man,
fair of skin—for a Cheysuli, he thought, though
dark enough for a Homanan\—with green eyes di-
lated dark and new bruises on his face.

Aileen's applications of wine had stiffened his
hair. Kellin impatiently scrubbed a hand through
it, taking care to avoid the crusting cut. The raven
curls of youth were gone, banished by adulthood,
but his hair still maintained a springy vigor. He
scratched idly at his chest, disliking the tautness
of the wrappings. The linen bandages stood out in
stark relief against the nakedness of his torso.

Kellin stared at his reflection, then grinned as
he recalled the cause of sore ribs. "And what of
the thumbless thief?"

But the brief jolt of pleasure and vindication
dissipated instantly. Luce was not important. Luce
did not matter. Nothing at all mattered except the
despair that welled up so keenly to squash his
spirit flat.

Kellin turned from the plate abruptly. Better he
not look; better he not see—

Emptiness overwhelmed, and the savage desire
to tear down all the walls, brick by brick, so he
could be free of them.

He burned with it. Cursing weakly, Kellin lurched
to the narrow casement. Beyond lay Homana of
the endless skies and meadows, the freedom of the
air. He was confined by walls, oppressed by brick-
work; every nerve in his body screamed its de-
mand for freedom.

"Get out—" he blurted.

He needed desperately to get out, get free, get
loose—

A TMSSHW W LiSHW            217

"Shadow," he murmured. "Half-man, hollow-
man—" And then he squeezed shut his eyes as he
dug fingers into stone. "I will not ... will not be
what they expect me to be—"

Cold stone bit into his brow, hurting his bruised
face; he had pressed himself against the wall be-
side the window. Flame washed his flesh and set
afire every nick, scratch, and cut. Rising bruises
ached as blood throbbed in them, threatening to
break through the fragile warding of his skin.

He paced because he could not help himself; he
could not be still. A singing was in his blood, echo-
ing clamorously. He paced and paced and paced,
trying to suppress the singing, the overriding urge
to squeeze himself through the narrow casement
and fling himself into the air.

"—fall—" he muttered. "Fall and break all my
bones—"

Hands fisted repeatedly: a cat flexing its claws,
testing the power in his body, the urge to slash
into flesh.

He sweated. Panted. Swore at capricious gods.
He wanted to open the door, to tear it from its
hinges, to shatter the wood completely and throw
aside iron studs.

Kellin sat down on the stool and hugged bare
arms against wrapped chest, ignoring the pain. He
rocked and rocked and rocked: a child in need of
succor; a spirit in need of release.

Tears ran down his face. "Too many—" he said.
"Too many ... I will not risk losing a lir—" Only
to lose himself to an arcane Cheysuli ritual that
robbed the world of another warrior despite his
perfect health.

Liriess warriors went mad, he had been taught,
as all Cheysuli were taught. Mad with the pain
and the grief, the desperate emptiness.

"—mad now—" he panted. "Is this different?"

218 Jennifer Roberwn

Perhaps not. Perhaps what he did now was in-
vite the very madness he did not desire to risk in
bonding with a lir.

Brickwork oppressed him. The walls and roof
crushed his spirit.

"Out—" he blurted. But to go out was to
surrender.

He rocked and rocked and rocked until he could
rock no more; until he could not countenance sit-
ting on the stool another moment and rose to pace
again, to move from wall to wall, to stand briefly
at the casement so as to test his will, to dare the
desperate need that drove him to pace again, until
he reached the door.

Unlocked. Merely latched. He need only lift the
latch—

"No." A tremor wracked Kellin's body. He sup-
pressed it. He turned away, jubilant in his victory,
in the belief he had overcome it—and then felt
his will crumble beneath the simplicity of sheer
physical need-
It took but a moment: boots, doublet, russet wool
cloak, long-knife. Emeralds winked in candlelight.

Kellin stared at the knife. Vision blurred: tears.
Tears for the warrior who had once sworn by the
blade, by his blood, by the lir whose death had
killed him.

He thought of the words Blair had offered him
a decade before.

It hurt. It squeezed, until no room was left for
his heart; no room remained for his spirit.

"Y'ja'hai," Kellin breathed, then unlatched and
jerked open the door.

He did not awaken the horse-boy sleeping in straw.
He simply took a bridle, a horse—without benefit
of blankets or saddle—and swung up bareback.

Pain thundered in Kellin's chest. He sat rigidly

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           219

straight, daring himself to give in as sweat trick-
led down his temples. Scrapes stung from the
taste of salt, but he ignored them. A smaller pain,
intrusive but less pronounced, reminded him of
his offended netherparts, but that pain, too, he rel-
egated to nothing in the face of his compulsion.

Winter hair afforded him a better purchase
bareback than the summer season, when mounts
were slick-haired and the subsequent ride occa-
sionally precarious. It was precarious now, but not
because of horsehair; a rider was required to
adapt to his mount's movements by adjustments
in body both large and small, maintaining flexi-
bility above all else, but the skill was stripped
from Kellin. With ribs bruised and tightly strapped,
he was forced to sit bolt upright without bending
his spine, or risk significant pain.

He knew the way so well: a side-gate in the
shadows, tucked away in the wall; he had used it
before. He used it now, leaving behind the outer
bailey, then Mujhara herself as he rode straight
through the city to the meadowlands beyond. The
narrow track was hard footing in the cold, glinting
with frost rime in the pallor of the moon.

No more walls— Kellin gritted his teeth. No more
stone and brick, no more streets and buildings—

Indeed, no more. He had traded city for country,
replacing cobbles with dirt and turf, and captivity
for freedom.

But the emptiness remained.

If I give myself over to the lir-bond, I will be no
different from any warrior whose promise to chey-
sula and children to care for them always is threat-
ened by that very bond.

It seemed an odd logic to Kellin. How could one
promise supersede the other, yet still maintain its
worth? How could any warrior swear himself so

220 Jennifer Roberson

profoundly to lir and family knowing very well one
of the oaths might be as nothing?

For that matter, how could cheysula or child be-
lieve anything the warrior promised when it was
made very clear in the sight of gods and clan that
a lir came first always?

Kellin shook his head. A selfish oath demanded
from selfish gods—

The horse stumbled. Jarred, sore ribs protested;

fresh sweat broke on Kellin's brow and ran down
his face. Cold air against dampness made him
shiver convulsively, which set up fresh complaint.

He cast a glance at the star-freighted sky. Re-
venge for my slight? That I dare to question such
overweening dedication to you?

The horse did not stumble again. If the gods
heard, they chose not to answer.

Kellin, for his part, laughed—until the despair
and emptiness shattered into pieces the dark humor
of his doubts, reminding him once again that he
was, if nothing else, subject to such whims as the
gods saw fit to send him.

Merely because I am Cheysuli— He gripped the
horse with both knees, clutching at reins. He re-
called all too well what his grandsire had said
regarding madness. He recalled even more clearly
the wild grief in Blais' eyes as the warrior ac-
knowledged a far greater thing than that he must
give up his life; Tanni's death and the severing of
the /fr-bond had been, in that moment, the only
thing upon which Blais could focus himself, though
it promised his death as well.

Irony blossomed- Certainly he focused nothing
upon me, who had from him a blood-oath of service.

One sworn to the gods, at that.

Kellin and his mount exchanged meadowlands
for the outermost fringes of the forest. His passage
stirred the woods into renewed life, startling

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           221

birds from branches and field warren from bur-
rows. Here the moon shone more fitfully, frag-
mented by branches. Kellin heard the sound of his
horse and his own breath expelled in pale smoke.
He pulled the russet cloak more closely around his
shoulders.

The horse stopped. It stood completely still, ears
erect. Its nostrils expanded hugely, fluttered, then
whuffed closed as he expelled a noisy snort of
alarm.

"Shansu—" Even as Kellin gathered rein to fore-
stall him, the horse quivered from head to toe.

From the shadows just ahead came the heavy,
throaty coughing of a lion.

"Wait—" But even as Kellin clamped his legs,
the horse lunged sideways and bolted.

Seven

In the first awkward lunge, Kellin felt the slide of
horsehair against breeches and the odd, unbal-
anced weightlessness of a runaway. With it came
a twofold panic: first, the chance of injury; the
second because of the lion.

He had ridden runaways before. He had fallen
off of or been thrown from runaways before. It
was a straightforward hazard of horsemanship re-
gardless how skilled the rider, regardless how
docile the horse. A horseman learned to halt a run-
away mount with various techniques when footing
afforded it; here, footing was treacherous, and vi-
sion nonexistent. This particular runaway—at
night, in the dark, with customary reflexes obliter-
ated by pain and disorientation—was far more
dangerous than most.

Kellin's balance was off. He could not sit prop-
erly. He was forced to ride mostly upright, perch-
ing precariously, breaking the fluid melding of
horse and rider. Vibrations of the flight, instead of
dissipating in his body, reverberated painfully as
the horse broke through tangled undergrowth and
leapt fallen logs.

Branches snagged hair, slapped face, cut into
Kellin's mouth. A clawing vine hooked the bridge
of his nose and tore flesh. He felt something dig
at one eye and jerked his head aside, cursing help-
lessly. One misstep-—

222

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

223

He tried to let reflexes assume control, rather
than trusting to himself. But reflexes were ban-
ished. His spine was jarred as the horse essayed a
depression in the ground, which in turn jarred his
ribs. Kellin sucked in a noisy breath and tried to
ease his seat, to let the response of muscles to his
mount's motion dictate the posture of his body,
but failed to do so.

The horse stumbled, then dodged and lurched
sideways as it shied from an unseen terror. Kellin
blurted discomfort, biting into his cheek; he thought
of snubbing the horse's nose back to his left knee
in the classic technique, but the trees were too
close, the foliage too dense. He had no leeway, no
leverage.

The horse hesitated, then leapt again, clearing
an unseen impediment. It seemed then to realize
it bore an unwanted rider. Kellin felt the body
shifting beneath his buttocks, away from clamping
legs; then it bunched and twisted, elevating but-
tocks, and flung its rider forward.

Awkwardly Kellin slid toward the horse's head,
dangling briefly athwart one big shoulder. Hands
caught frenziedly at mane as he tried to drag him-
self upright, clutching at reins, digging in with left
heel, but the horse ducked out from under him.

Kellin was very calm as he hung momentarily
in the air. He was aware of weighty darkness, en-
croaching vines and branches, the utter physical
incomprehensibility that he was unconnected to
his mount—and the unhappy acknowledgment
that when he landed momentarily it would hurt
very much.

He tucked up as best he could, cursing strapped
ribs. One shoulder struck the ground first- He
rolled through the motion, smashing hip against
broken branches shrouded in tangled fern, then
flopped down onto his back as the protest of his

224 Jennifer Robersoa

ribs robbed him of control. He landed flat and
very hard, human prey for the hidden treacheries
of unseen ground.

For a moment there was no pain. It terrified
him. He recalled all too clearly the old Homanan
soldier who had taken a tumble from his horse in
the bailey of the castle. The fall had not been bad;

but as fellow soldiers—and Kellin with them—
gathered to trade jests, it became clear that
though old Tammis lived, his neck was broken. He
would not walk again.

The panic engendered by that image served as
catalyst for the bruised strength in legs and
arms. Kellin managed one huge jerking contortion
against broken boughs and fern. It renewed all the
pain, but he welcomed it. Pain was proof he could
yet move.

/ will walk again. But just now, he was not cer-
tain he wanted to. Now that he could move he did
not, but lay slack and very still against a painful
cradle. He forced himself not to gasp but to draw
shallow breaths through the wreckage of his chest.

When he at last had wind again, Kellin gasped
out a lengthy string of the vilest oaths he knew in
Homanan, Old Tongue, and Erinnish. It used up
the breath he had labored so carefully to recover,
but he felt it worth it. Dead men did not swear.

The horse was gone. Kellin did not at that mo-
ment care; he could not bear the thought of trying
to mount. He wished the animal good riddance,
suppressing the flicker of dismayed apprehen-
sion—a long and painful walk all the way to Mujh-
ara—then set about making certain he was whole.
Everything seemed to be, but he supposed he could
not tell for certain until he got up from the
ground.

Sound startled him into stillness. But a stride

A TAPESTRY Of LIONS           225

or two away came the coughing grunt of beast,
and the stink of its breath.

It filled Kellin's nostrils and set him to flight. It
might be bear, mountain cat— He flailed, then
stilled himself.

Lion?

It bore Corwyth's hallmark.

With effort Kellin pulled his elbows in to his
sides and levered his torso upright, lifting a bat-
tered chest until he no longer lay squashed and
helpless. "Begone," he said aloud, using the scorn
of royalty. "You have no power over me."

The odor faded at once, replaced with the damp
cold smells of winter. A man laughed softly from
the shadows shielding the beast. "The lion may
not," he said, "but be certain that / do."

Kellin's breath hissed between set teeth as Cor-
wyth exited the shadows for the star-lighted hol-
low in which the prince lay. The Ihini wore dark
leathers and a gray wool cloak. Pinned by a heavy
knot of silver at one shoulder, the cloak glowed
purple in the livid shadows of its folds.

Knowledge diminished pain; made it no longer
important. "Corwyth the Lion. But the guise is
now ineffective; I have learned what you are."

Corwyth affected a negligent shrug. "I am what-
ever it serves me—and my master—to be. For you,
it was a lion." The Ihlini walked quietly toward
Kellin, crackling no branches, snagging no vegeta-
tion. His hands were gloved in black. "Indeed, we
heard of the small prince's fear of lions. It permit-
ted us certain liberties, even though we were pow-
erless within the palace itself. Fear alone can
prove effective, as it did in your case. You be-
lieved. That belief has shaped you, Kellin; it has
made you what you are in heart and spirit, and
placed you here within my grasp."

Kellin longed to repudiate it, but he could not

226

speak. What Corwyth said was true. His own
weakness had provided the Ihlini with a weapon.

The gloved hands spread, displaying tiny white
flames that transformed themselves to pillars. They
danced against Corwyth's palms. "lan's death in
particular was most advantageous. Your certainty
that the Lion had killed him was unfounded—it
was but a child's imagination gone awry, interpre-
ting a passing comment into something of sub-
stance—but that substance, given life, nearly
consumed you." The flames within his palms
bathed Corwyth's smiling face with lurid illumi-
nation. His eyes were black pockets in a white-
limned mask. "That, too, served, though it was
none of ours. A fortuitious death, was lan's. We
could not have hoped for better."

Kellin stirred in protest, then suppressed a
grunt of pain. He wanted very badly to rise and
face the Ihlini as he would face a man, but pain
ate at his bones. "Lochiel," he said.

Corwyth nodded. "The hand at last is outstretched.
It beckons, Kellin. You are cordially invited to join
your kinsman in the halls of Valgaard."

"Kinsman!"

Corwyth laughed. "You recoil as if wounded, my
lord* But what else are you? Shall I recount your
heritage?"

Kellin's silence was loud.

The Ihlini continued regardless. "Lochiel was
Strahan's son. Strahan was Tynstar's son, who got
him on Electra of Solinde. She was, at the time,
married to Carillon and was therefore Queen of
Homana; but her tastes lay with her true lord
rather than the Mujhar who professed to be."
White teeth shone briefly. "Strahan was her son.
He was brother—rujholli?—to Aislinn, who bore
Niall, who sired Brennan—and a multitude of oth-
ers—who in turn sired Aidan. Your very own

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS           227

jehan." Corwyth nodded. "The line is direct, Kel-
lin. You and Lochiel are indeed kinsmen, no mat-
ter what you might prefer."

Something slow and warm trickled into Kellin's
eyes. He was bleeding—the cut Aileen had stanched?
Or another, newer one?

Corwyth laughed. "Poor prince. So battered, so
bruised .. . and so entirely helpless."

Kellin pressed himself up from the ground in a
single painful lunge, jerking from its sheath the
lethal Cheysuli long-knife. It fit his grasp so well,
as if intended for him. Blais could not have known—
He flipped it instantly in his hand and threw, arc-
ing it cleanly across the darkness toward the Ihlini
sorcerer. My own brand of Tooth!

But Corwyth put up a gloved hand now free of
flames. The knife stopped in midair. Emerald eyes
turned black.

"No!" Kellin's blurted denial was less of fear
than of the knowledge of profanation. Not Blais'
long-knife!

Corwyth plucked the weapon from the air. He
studied it a moment, then tucked it away into his
belt. His eyes were bright. "I have coveted one of
these for a century. I thank you for your gift." The
young-looking Ihlini smiled. "Without you, I might
never have acquired one; Cheysuli warriors are,
after all, well-protected by their lir." Corwyth
paused to consider. "But you lack a lir and there-
fore lack the protection. Leijhana tu'sai, my lord."

Kellin wavered. His fragile strength, born of
panic and fury, was spent. Nothing was left to
him, not even anger, nor fear. An outthrust hand
earned him nothing but empty air, certainly little
balance. Fingers closed, then the hand fell limply
as Kellin bit into his lip to forestall collapse. He
would not, would not, show such weakness to the
Ihlini.

228 Jennifer Roberson

"Give in to it," Corwyth suggested gently. "I am
not here to be cruel, KeUin ... you paint us so, I
know, and it is a personal grief; but there is no
sense in maintaining such rigid and painful con-
trol merely out of pride."

The darkness thickened. Sorcery? Or exhaustion
compounded by pain? "I am Cheysuli. I do not in
any way, in words or deed or posture, even by
implication, suggest that I am inferior to an
mlini."

Corwyth laughed. "Inferior, no. Never. We are
equal, my lord, in every sense of the word. Sired
by the gods, we are now little more than petty
children quarreling over a toy." His hand closed
over the wolf-headed knife tucked into his belt.
"Once, we might have been brothers. Rujheldi, as
we say—is it not close to rujhoUl?" Corwyth did
not smile. "Uncomfortably close, I see, judging by
your expression. But it is too late now for anything
more than enmity. The Cheysuli are too near ful-
fillment. The time is now to stop the prophecy
before it can be completed. Before you, my Chey-
suli rujheldi, can be permitted to sire a child upon
an Ihlini woman."

KeUin wanted very much to spit. He did not
because he thought it was time he showed self-
restraint. He, who had so little. With careful dis-
dain, he asked, "Do you believe I would so soil my
manhood as to permit it entry into the womb of
the netherworld?"

Corwyth laughed. It was a genuine sound kiting
into darkness. It stirred birds from a nearby tree
and reawakened Kellin's apprehension. "A man is
a fool to trust to taste and preference in a matter
so important. I recite to you your own history,
KeUin: Rhiannon, Lillith's. daughter, sired by lan
himself—"

A TAPESTRY OF LlOW            229

"lan was tricked. He was bespelled. He was lir-
less, and therefore helpless."

"—and Brennan, your grandsire, who lay with
Rhiannon and sired the halfling Ihlini woman at
whose breast you suckled."

Kellin's belly clenched. "My grandsire was seduced."

"But you are above such things?" Corwyth
shook his head. "A single birth, Kellin ... a single
seed of yours sowed in fertile Ihlini soil, and the
thing is done." His eyes were black and pitiless in
the frosted darkness. "We are not all of us sworn
to Asar-Suti. There are those Ihlini who would, to
throw us down, try very hard to insure the child
was conceived. The prophecy is not dependent
upon whose blood mingles with yours, merely that
it be Ihlini."

Kellin summoned the last of waning strength.
In addition to battered chest, a hip and shoulder
ached. Welts and scratches stung- Bravado was
difficult. "So, will you kill me here?"

Corwyth smiled. "You are meant for Lochiel's
disposition."

Kellin dredged up scorn. "If you mean to take
me to Valgaard, you will do it against my will.
That much you cannot take from me, Hrless or no."

"That may be true," Corwyth conceded, "but
there are other methods. And all of them equally
efficient."

He gestured. From the shadows walked two
cloaked men and a saddled horse. Kellin looked at
them, looked at the mount, and knew what they
meant to do.

"A long ride," Corwyth said, "and as painful as
I can make it." He glanced to the horse, then
looked back at Kellin. "How long do you think
you can last?"

Eight

Kellin awoke with his mouth full of blood. He
gagged, spat it out, felt more flow in sluggishly
from the cut on the inside of his cheek. Pressure
pounded in his head. It roused him fully, so that
he could at last acknowledge the seriousness of his
situation.

Corwyth's companions had flung him belly-
down across the saddle, little more than a bat-
tered carcass shaped in the form of a man. Ankles
were tied to the right stirrup, wrists to the left.
The position was exceedingly uncomfortable; the
binding around his ribs had loosened with abuse
and provided no support.

He recalled his defiant challenge: Cheysuli to Ih-
lini. He recalled losing that challenge, though lit-
tle of anything afterward; the pain had robbed
him of consciousness. Now consciousness was
back. He wished it were otherwise.

Kellin gagged and coughed again, suppressing
the grunt of pain that exited his throat and was
trapped with deliberate effort behind locked teeth.
Regardless of the discomfort, despite the incipient
rebellion of his discontented belly, he would not
disgrace himself by losing that belly's contents in
front of an Ihlini.

A thought intruded: Had I listened to my grand-
sire— But Kellin cut it off. Self-recrimination
merely added to misery.

230

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           231

The horse moved on steadily with its Cheysuli
burden. Every stride of the animal renewed Kel-
lin's discomfort. He wanted very much to sit up-
right, to climb down from the horse, to lie down
quietly and let his headache subside. But he could
do none of those things.

A crackling of underbrush forwamed him of
company as a horse fell in beside him. Kellin's
limited head-down view provided nothing more of
the world than stirrup leather and horsehair.

Then Corwyth spoke, divulging identity. "Awake
at last, my lord? You have slept most of the
night."

Slept? I have been in more comfortable beds. Kel-
lin lifted his head. His skull felt heavy, too heavy;

it took effort to hold it up. The light now was
better; he could see the Ihlini plainly. Dawn
waited impatiently just outside the doorflap.

Corwyth smiled. There was no derision in his
tone, no contempt in his expression. "One would
hardly recognize you. A bath would undoubtedly
benefit. Would you care to visit a river?"

The thought of being dumped into an ice-cold
river bunched the flesh of Kellin's bones. He sup-
pressed a shiver with effort and made no answer.

The Ihlini's smile widened. "No, that would
hardly do. You might sicken from it, and die . . .
and then my lord would be very wroth with me."
Blue eyes glinted. "I pity you, Kellin. I have seen
Lochiel's anger before, and the consequences of
it."

Kellin's mouth hurt. "Lochiel has tried to throw
down my House before." It was mostly a croak;

he firmed his voice so as not to sound so dimin-
ished. "Why do you believe he will succeed this
time?"

"He has you," Corwyth said simply.

"You have me," Kellin corrected. "And I would

232 JeaaSfer Robersoa

not count a Cheysuli helpless while his heart still

beats."

Russet brows arched. "Shall I stop it, then? To
be certain of my safety? To convince you, perhaps,
that you are indeed helpless despite your Cheysuli
bravado?"

Kellin opened his mouth to retort but found no
words would come. Corwyth's gloved hand was
extended, fingers slack. They curled slowly inward.

There was no pain. Just a vague breathlessness
that increased as the fingers closed, and a constric-
tion in his chest that banished the ache of his ribs
because this was much worse. Bruised ribs, even
cracked ones, offered little danger when a man's
heart was threatened.

Kellin stirred in protest, but his bonds held
firm. The horse walked on, led by Corwyth's min-
ions. The Ihlini's fingers closed.

He felt each of them: four fingers and a thumb,
distinct and individual. Each was inside his chest.
They touched him intimately, caressing the very
muscle that kept him alive.

It was, he thought, rape, if of a very different
nature.

Kellin desired very much to protest, to cry out,
to shout, to swear, to scream imprecations. But
his mouth would not function. Hands and feet
were numb. He thought the pressure in his head
might cause his eyes and ears to burst.

He could not breathe.

Corwyth's hand squeezed.

Kellin thrashed once, expelling breath and blood
in a final futile effort to escape the hand in his
chest.

"Your lips are blue," Corwyth said. "It is not a
flattering color."

Nothing more was left. Piece of meat—

A TAPSSTKY w LIONS           233

It was, Kellin felt, a supremely inelegant way to
die.

Then the hand stilled his heart, and he was
dead.

Kellin roused as Corwyth grabbed a handful of
hair and jerked his head up. "Do you see?" the
Ihlini asked. "Do you understand now?"

He understood only that he had been dead, or
very close to it. He sucked in a choking breath,
trying to fill flaccid lungs. The effort was awk-
ward, spasmodic, so that he recognized only the
muted breathy roaring of a frightened man trying
desperately to breathe.

/ am frightened— And equally desperate; he felt
intensely helpless, and angry because of it. Lo-
chiel's ambassador had humiliated him in the
most elemental of ways: by stripping a Cheysuli
of freedom, strength, and. pride.

"Say it again," Corwyth suggested. "Say again
Lochiel cannot throw down your House."

Kellin said nothing. He could not manage it.

The hand was cruel in his hair. Neck tendons
protested. "You have seen nothing. Nothing, Kel-
lin. I am proud, but practical; I admit my lesser
place without hesitation or compunction. The
power I command is paltry compared to his."

Paltry enough to kill him with little more than
a gesture.

Corwyth released his hair. Kellin's neck was too
weak to support his skull. It flopped down again,
pressing face against winter horsehair. He breathed
in its scent, grateful that he could.

"Think on it," Corwyth said. "Consider your cir-
cumstances, and recall that your life depends en-
tirely upon the sufferance of Lochiel."

Kellin rather thought his life depended entirely
on his ability to breathe, regardless of Lochiel's

234

intentions. As he lay flopped across the saddle, he
concentrated merely on in- and exhalations. Lo-
chiel could wait.

When they cut him from the horse and dragged
him down, Kellin wondered seriously if death
might be less painful. He bit into his tongue to
keep from disgracing himself further by verbal
protestation, but the sudden sheen of perspiration
gave his weakness away. Corwyth saw it, weighed
it, then nodded to himself.

"Against the tree," the flilini ordered his
companions,

The two hauled Kellin bodily to the indicated
tree and left him at its foot to contemplate ex-
posed roots as he fought to maintain conscious-
ness. Sweat ran freely, dampening his hair. He lay
mostly on one side. His wrists, though now cut
free of the stirrup, were still tied together. He no
longer was packed by horseback like so much
fresh-killed meat, but the circumstances seemed
no better.

Kellin blew grit from his lips. The taste in his
mouth was foul, but he had been offered no water.

The sun was full up. They had been riding for
hours without a single stop. In addition to the re-
sidual aches of the Midden battle and the discom-
fort of the ride, Kellin's bladder protested. It was
a small but signal irritant that compounded his
misery.

Kellin eased himself into a sitting position
against the tree trunk. He sagged minutely, testing
the fit of his ribs inside their loosened wrappings
and bruised Hesh, then let wood provide false
strength; his own was negligible.

/ am young, strong, and fit ... this is a minor
inconvenience. Meanwhile, he hurt.

Corwyth strode from his own mount to Kellin,

A TAPESTRY OF Liws           23S

who could not suppress a recoil as the Ihlini
touched the binding around his wrists. "There, my
lord: freedom." The wrappings fell away. Corwyth
smiled. "Test us as you like."

Kellin wanted to spit into the arrogant face.
Corwyth knew he knew there was no reason to
test- No man, Cheysuli or not, would risk his heart
a second time to Ihlini magic.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?" Corwyth gestured,
and one of his companions answered with a
wrapped packet and leather flask delivered to Kel-
lin at once. "Bread, and wine. Eat. Drink." Cor-
wyth paused. "And if you refuse, be certain I shall
make you."

Immediately Kellin conjured a vision of his own
hands made by sorcery to stuff his mouth full of
bread until he choked on it. His heart had been
stopped once; better to eat and drink as bidden
than risk further atrocity.

With hands made stiff and clumsy by the
weight of too much blood, he unwrapped the par-
cel. It was a lumpy, tougfi-crusted loaf of Homa-
nan journey-bread. He set it aside carefully, ignoring
Corwyth's interest, and unstoppered the flask. With-
out hesitation—he would give nothing to the Ih-
lini, not even distrust—he put the flask to his cut
lips and poured wine down his throat.

It stung the inside of his mouth. Kellin drank
steadily, then restoppered the flask. "A poor vin-
tage," he commented. "Powerful you may be, but
you have no knowledge of wine."

Corwyth grinned. "Bait me, my lord. and you
do so at your peril."

Kellin stared steadily back. "Unless you heal
me, Lochiel may well wonder what you have done
to render his valuable kinsman so bruised."

Corwyth rose. "Lochiel knows you better than
that. Everyone in Homana—and Valgaard—has

236 Jennifer Roberson

heard of the Midden exploits undertaken by the
Prince of Homana."

Midden exploits. He detested the words. He de-
tested even more Lochiel's knowledge of them. To
forestall his own comment, he put bread into his
mouth.

"Eat quickly," Corwyth said. "We ride again al-
most immediately."

Kellin glared at him. "Then why stop at all?"

"Why, to keep you and anyone else from claim-
ing me inhumane!" With a glint in blue eyes, the
young-seeming Ihlini turned away to his mount,
then paused and turned back. "Would you like me
to help you rise so you may relieve yourself?"

Kellin's face caught fire. Every foul word he
knew crowded into his mouth, which prevented
him from managing to expell even one.

"Come now," Corwyth said, "it is an entirely
natural thing. And, as you are injured—"

"No," Kellin declared.

Blue eyes glinted again. "Hold onto the tree, my
lord. It might help you to stand up."

Kellin desired nothing more than to ignore the
suggestion entirely. But to do so was foolish in
the face of his need- Pride stung, but so did his
bladder.

"I will turn my back," Corwyth offered. "Your
condition presupposes an inability to escape,"

The comment naturally triggered an urge to
prove Corwyth wrong, but Kellin knew better
than to try. If the Ihlini could play with his
heart, Kellin had no desire to risk a threat to
anything else.

"Hurry," Corwth suggested. He turned away in
an elaborate swirl of heavy cloak.

"Ku'reshtin," Kellin muttered.

Silence answered him.

237

A TAPESTRY OF Ll(WS

'i
.1

Corwyth's companions escorted Kellin to his
horse when it was time to ride on. Corwyth met
him there. "You may ride upright, if you like.
Surely it will prove more comfortable than being
tied onto a saddle."

Kellin gritted teeth. "What will it cost me?"

"Nothing at all, I think—save perhaps respect
for my magic." Corwyth caught Kellin's wrists be-
fore he could protest. The Ihlini gripped tightly,
crossed one wrist over the other, and pressed until
the bones ached in protest. "Flesh into flesh, Kel-
lin, Nothing so common as rope, nor so heavy as
iron, but equally binding." He took his hands
away, and Kellin saw the flesh of his wrists had
been seamlessly fused together.

Gods— Immediately he tried to wrench his
wrists apart but could no more do that than rip
an arm from his body. His wrists had grown to-
gether at the bidding of the Ihlini.

He could not help himself: he gaped. Like a
child betrayed, he stared at his wrists in disbelief
so utterly overwhelming he could think of nothing
else.

My own flesh— It sent a shudder of repulsion
through his body. My heart, now this . .. what will
Lochiel do?

"A simple thing," Corwyth said easily. Then he
signaled to his companions. "Help him to mount
his horse. I doubt he will resist." Corwyth moved
away, then hesitated as if in sudden thought, and
swung back. "If he does, I shall seal his eyelids
together."

They rode north, toward the Bluetooth River,
where they would cross into the Northern Wastes
and then climb over the Molon Pass down into
Solinde, the birthplace of the Ihlini, and on to Val-
gaard itself. Kellin had heard tales of the Ihlini

238 Jennifer Roberson

fortress and knew it housed the Gate of Asar-Suti.
It was, Brennan had said, the Ihlini version of the
Womb of the Earth deep in the foundations of
Homana-Mujhar.

Kellin rode upright with precise, careful pos-
ture, trying to keep his torso very still. His legs
conformed to the shape of saddle and horse, but
his hands did not control the horse. The reins had
been split so that each of Corwyth's companions—
minions?—led the prisoner's mount. Corwyth rode
ahead.

They kept to the forest tracks, avoiding main
roads that would bring them into contact with
those who might know the Prince of Homana. Kel-
lin doubted anyone would recognize him. His face ,
was welted and bruised, his lower lip split and
swollen. He stank of dried sweat mixed with a film
of grit and soil, and leaves littered his hair. Little
about him now recommended his rank.

Snow crackled in deep shadows, breaking up be-
neath shod hooves. As afternoon altered to eve-
ning, the temperature dropped. Kellin shrugged
more deeply into his cloak as his breath fogged
the air.

When at last they halted, it was nearly full dark.
Kellin was so sore and weary he thought he might
topple off the horse if he so much as turned his
head. Let them see none of it. Slowly he kicked free
of stirrups, slung a leg across the saddle, and slid
from his mount before the Ihlini could signal him
down; a small rebellion, but successful.

He made no attempt to escape because to try
was sheerest folly. Better to bide his time until his
strength returned, then wait for the best moment.
Just now all he could do was stand.

Kellin leaned against the horse a moment to steady
himself, flesh cold beneath a film of newborn per-
spiration. He shivered. Disorientation broke up

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           239

the edge of consciousness. Weariness, perhaps—
Or—? He stilled. Sorcery? Corwyth's attempt to
tease me?

One of the minions put his hand on Kellin's
shoulder; he shrugged it off at once. The rebuke
came easily in view of who received it. "No one is
permitted to touch the Prince of Homana without
his leave."

Corwyth, dropping off his own mount, laughed
in high good humor. "Feeling better, are we?"

Kellin felt soiled by the minion's touch. An urge
to bare his teeth in a feral snarl was suppressed
with effort. He swung from the black-eyed man,
displaying a taut line of shoulder.

Corwyth pointed. "There."

Kellin lingered a moment beside his horse. His
head felt oddly packed and tight, so that the Ih-
lini's order seemed muted. A second shiver wracked
his body, jostling aching bones. Not just cold-
more—

"Sit him down," Corwyth said, but before the
minion could force the issue, Kellin sat down by
himself. "Better." Corwyth tended his own mount
as his companions tended Kellin's.

Kellin itched. It had nothing to do with bruises
and scrapes, because the itching wasn't in his skin
but in his blood. Flesh-bound hands flexed, curling
fingers into palms, then snapping out straight
again.

He could not eat, though they gave him bread,
nor could he drink, because his throat refused to
swallow. Once again he leaned against a tree, but
this time he needed its support even more than
before. He felt as if all his bones were soft,
stripped of rigidity. His spirit was as flaccid.

He shifted against wood, grimaced in discom-
fort, then shifted again. He could not be still.

Just like in Homana-Mujhar. He fixed his eyes on

'^ ,

240 Jennifer Roberson

Corwyth, who sat quietly by a small fire. "Was it
you who drove me from the palace?"

"Drove you?"

"With sorcery. Was it you?"

Corwyth shrugged- "That required neither magic
nor skill. I know your habits. You gamble, you
drink, you whore. All it required was the proper
time."

Kellin shifted again, hiding flesh-bound wrists
beneath a fold of his cloak because to look on them
was too unsettling. "You set the trap. I put myself
into it."

The Ihlini smiled. "A happy accident. It did save
time."

"Accident? Or my tahlmorra?"

That provoked a response. "You believe the gods
might have planned this? This?" Corwyth's sur-
prise was unfeigned. "Would the Cheysuh gods
risk the final link in the prophecy so willingly?"

Kellin scowled- "Who can say what the gods
would do? I despise them ., . they have done me
little good."

Corwyth laughed and fed a stick to the flames.
"Then perhaps this is their doing, if you and the
gods are on such bad terms."

Kellin shivered again. "If Lochiel knows so
much about me, surely he knows I have already
sired children. Why kill me now? Before, cer-
tainly—to prevent the precious seed from being
sown—but now it is too late. The seed is well
sowed."

"Three children," Corwyth agreed. "But all bas-
tards, and none with the proper blood. Halfling
brats gotten on Homanan whores." He shrugged
elegantly. "Lochiel only fears the Firstborn child."

Kellin stilled. Was it a weapon? "Lochiel is
afraid?"

Corwyth's expression was solemn. "Only a fool

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

241

would deny he fears this outcome. I fear it. Lochiel
fears it. Even the Seker fears fulfillment." Flames
illuminated his face. It was starkly white in harsh
light, black in hollowed contours. "Have you never
thought what fulfillment will bring?"

Kellin laughed. "A beginning for the Cheysuli.
An ending for the Ihlini."

Flames consumed wood. A pine knot cracked,
shedding sparks. Corwyth now was solemn. "In
your ignorance, you are certain."

"Of course I am certain. It has been promised
us for centuries."

"By the very gods you despise." Corwyth did not
smile, nor couch his words in contempt. "If that
is true, how then can you honor their prophecy?"

Kellin licked a numb lip. His body rang with
tension, as if he were a harp string wound much
too taut on its pegs- "I am Cheysuli."

"That is your answer?" Corwyth shook his head.
"Perhaps you are more Cheysuli than you believe,
even lirless as you are. Only fools such as your
people dedicate themselves to the fulfillment of a
mandate that will destroy everything they know."

Kellin's mouth twisted. "I have heard that old
tale before. When the Ihlini cannot win through
murder or sorcery, they turn to words. You mean
to undermine our customs."

"Of course I do!" Corwyth snapped. "And if you
had any wit to see it, you would understand why.
Indeed, the prophecy will destroy Ihlini such as
myself ... but it will also destroy the Cheysuli."
He extended an empty hand. "The prophecy of the
Firstborn will close its fist around the heart of the
Cheysuli, just as I did yours, and stop it." He shut
his hand. "Just like this."

It was immediate. "No." Kellin twitched, then
rolled his head against bark. "You play with
words, Ihlini."

242 Jennifer Roberson

"This is not play. This is truth. You see me as I
am: a man, not an Ihlini, but simply a man who
fears the ending of his race in the ascendancy of
another."

"Mine," Kellin agreed.

"No." Corwyth placed another stick on the fire.
His gloved hand shook. "The ascendancy is that
of the Firstborn." In firelight his eyes were hidden
by deep pockets of shadow. "Your child. Your son.
When he accepts the Lion, the new order replaces
the old."

"Your order."

Corwyth smiled faintly. "Tell me," he said, "is
your prophecy complete? No—I do not speak of
the words all of you mouth." His tone was ironic.
" 'One day a man of all blood shall unite, in peace,
four warring realms and two magical races.' What
I speak of is the prophecy itself in its entirety. It
was passed down century after century, was it
not?"

"The shar tahls make certain of that."

"But do they know the whole of it? Do they have
record of it?"

"Written down?" Kellin frowned. "Such things
can be lost if not entrusted to shar tahls in an oral
tradition."

Corwyth nodded. "Such things were lost, Kellin.
I know very well what the shar tahls teach are
mere fragments .. . pieces of yarn woven together
into a single skein. Because that is all they know.
In the schism that split the Firstborn into Cheysuli
and Ihlini, very little was left of the dogma on
which your future hangs." He shook his head.
"You know nothing of what may come, yet you
serve it blindly. We are not such fools."

Kellin said nothing.

The Ihlini pulled his dark cloak more closely
around his shoulders. "This profits nothing. I will

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           243

leave it to my lord to prove what I say is true."
Corwyth glanced at his companions. "I will leave
it to Lochiel, and to Asar-Suti."

Kellin shivered. Lochiel will kill me. Not for my-
self, For the child. For the seed in my loins.

In the scheme of the gods he detested, it seemed
he counted for very little.

Nine

Kellin watched the three Ihlini prepare to sleep.
Though his wrists remained sealed, he was certain
something more would be done to insure he could
not escape. Perhaps Corwyth would seal his eye-
lids, or stop his heart again.

But Corwyth did not even look at his captive.
The sorcerer quietly went about his business, pac-
ing out distances. Each time he halted, he sketched
something in the air. The rune glowed briefly pur-
ple, then died away.

Wards, Kellin knew- To keep him in, and others
out.

He watched them lie down in their cloaks. Three
dark-shrouded men, sorcerers all, who served a
powerful god no sane man could possibly honor.

Unless there is something to what Corwyth says.
But Kellin shut off the thought. Corwyth's declara-
tions of a separate Ihlini prophecy—or of the
Cheysuli one entire—was nothing but arrant non-
sense designed to shake Kellin's confidence.

But one telling question had been posed. How
do I Justify serving the prophecy for gods I cannot
honor?

Kellin shivered. He did not attempt to sleep. He
sat against the tree, wrists still bound by flesh,
and tried to think himself warm, tried to ease his
mind so it did not trouble itself with questionings
of Cheysuli customs.

244

A TAPESTHY OF Lioms           245

But why not? It was a Cheysuli custom that killed
Blais, not an Ihlini.

Heresy.

Is it?

Kellin inhaled carefully, held his breath a mo-
ment as he expanded cramped lungs, then blew
the air out again in a steady, hissing stream. He
stared across the dying fire to the three cloaked
shapes beyond. To Corwyth in particular. Kellin
knew very well the Ihlini worked merely to under-
mine his own convictions, which would" in turn
undermine a spirit that might yet protest its cap-
tivity; he was not stupid enough to believe there
was no motive in Corwyth "s contentions. But his
mind was overactive, his thoughts too restless;

even when he tried to think of nothing at all, an
overabundance of somethings filled his head.

It is a long Journey to Valgaard. The trick is to lure
them into a false sense that I will attempt nothing.

A mountain cat screamed. The nearness of the
sound was intensely unnerving. Kellin sat bolt up-
right and immediately regretted it. He reached for
his knife and realized belatedly he had none, nor
the freedom of hands to use it.

The scream came again from closer yet, shear-
ing through darkness and foliage. Corwyth and the
others, too, were up, shaking cloaks back from
shoulders and arms. Corwyth said something in a
low voice to the others—Kellin heard Lochiel's
name mentioned—then scribed a shape in the air.
Runes flared briefly, then went down. Corwyth's
men were free to hunt.

Kellin could not remain seated. He climbed
awkwardly to his feet and waited beside the tree.
The cat's voice lacked the deep-chested timbre of
the lion's, but its determination and alien sound
echoed the beast that had haunted so much of Kel-
lin's life.

246 Jennifer Roberson

Corwyth spared him a glance, as if to forestall
any attempt on Kellin's part to escape. But Kellin
was no more inclined to risk meeting the cat than
he was to prompt Corwyth to use more sorcery on
him.

The Ihlini bent and put new kindling on the fire,
then waved a negligent hand; flames came to life.
"The noise is somewhat discomfiting," he com-
mented, "but even a mountain cat is not immune
to sorcery. I will have a fine pelt to present my
master."

It seemed an odd goal to Kellin, in view of his
own value and Lochiel's desire for his immediate
company. "You would take the time to kill and
skin a cat?"

"Lochiel has an affinity for mountain cats. He
says they are the loveliest and most dangerous of
all the predators. Fleet where a bear is slow; more
devious than the wolf; more determined than a
boar. And armed far more effectively than any
man alive." Corywth smiled. "He keeps them in
Valgaard, in cages beneath the ground."

A fourth scream sounded closer yet. Even Cor-
wyth got to his feet.

A shudder wracked Kellin. "What is—" he grit-
tened his teeth against another assault. "—ku'resh-
tin—" he managed. "What threat do I offer?"

Corwyth cast him a glance. "What inanities do
you mouth?"

A third shudder shook him. Kellin gasped. His
bones were on fire. "What are you—"

Lir, said a voice, the wards are down. I have done
what I could to lead the others astray. Now it is up
to you.

He understood then. "No!" Kellin cried. "I want
none of you!"

/ am your only escape.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

247

Corwyth laughed. "You may want none of me,
but I have you nevertheless."

Kellin was not talking for the Ihlini's benefit.
What consumed him now was the knowledge his
Ur was near. If he gave in, it would win. And he
would be no freer than any other Cheysuli bound
by oaths and service.

He wavered on his feet. / renounced you. I want
no part of you.

Would you rather go to Valgaard and let Lochiel
destroy you? The tone was crisp. His methods are
not subtle.

His spirit screamed with need. The lir was close,
so close—he had only to give in, to permit the
channel to be opened that would form a perma-
nent link.

He repudiated it. / will not permit it.

Then die. Allow the Ihlini to win. Remove from
the line of succession the prince known as Kellin,
and destroy the prophecy.

He gritted his teeth. / will not pay your price.

There is no other escape.

It infuriated him. Kellin brought his flesh-
bound hands into the moonlight. A test, then, he
challenged.

The lir sighed. You believe too easily what the
Ihlini tells you to. His art is in illusion. Banish this
one as you banished the lion.

Kellin stared hard at his wrists. The skin al-
tered, flowing away, and his wrists were free of
themselves.

Corwyth marked the movement. He turned sharply,
saw the truth, and jerked the knife from his belt.

"The wards are down," Kellin said, "and your
minions bide elsewhere. Now it is you and I."

You will have to kill him, lir. He will never let you
go.

"Go away," Kellin said. "I want nothing to do
with you."

Corwyth laughed. "Is this your attempt at es-
cape? To bait me with babbled nonsense?"

You must kill him.

He wanted to shout at the Ur. He is armed, Kellin
said acidly. He is also Ihlini.

And has recourse to no arts now that I am here.

We have not bonded. I will not permit it.

The tone was implacable. Then die.

"Come out!" Kellin shouted. "By the gods, I will
fight you both!"

Corwyth's laughter grated. "Have you gone mad?
Or do you use this to bait me?"

Distracted by a battle fought on two fronts, Kel-
lin glared. "I need no lir for you. I will take you
as a man."

"Do try," Corwyth invited. "Or shall I stop your
heart again?"

He cannot, the lir declared. While I am here, such
power is blunted.

Then why do I hear you? Near an Ihlini, the link
is obscured.

You forget who you are. There is that within you
that breaks certain rules.

"My blood?" Kellin jeered. "Aye, always the
blood!"

Old Blood is powerful. You have it in abundance.
The voice paused. Have you not read the birthlines
latety?

"Do you want your blood spilled?" Corwyth
asked. "I can do that for you ... Lochiel will not
punish me for that."

Kill him, the lir said. You are weary and injured.
He will defeat you even without sorcery.

Kellin laughed. With what? My teeth?

Those are your weapons, among others. The tone

A TMSSTKY or Lwm

was dryly amused. But mostly there is your blood.

If a man's form does not serve, take on another.

Yours? But I do not even know what animal you
are!

You have heard me. Now hear me again. The
scream of a mountain cat filled the darkness but
a handful of paces away.

Corwyth's face blanched. "I am Ihlini!" he cried.
"You have no power here!"

Show him, it said. Let him see what you are.

Kellin was desperate. "How?"

Forget you are a man. Become a cat instead.

Kellin looked at Corwyth. The knife in the Ih-
lini's hand had belonged to Blais. Kellin wanted
it back.

Corwyth laughed. "You and I, then."

Kellin was angry, so angry he could hardly hold
himself still. His bones buzzed with newfound en-
ergy and flesh hardened itself over tensing muscle
and tendon. He shook with the urge to shred the
Ihlini into a pile of cracked bone and bloodied
flesh.

A beginning, the lir said.

And then he understood—to accomplish what
was required he must shed all knowledge of
human form, all human instincts. Anger could
help that. Anger could assist him.

/ want Corwyth dead. I want the knife back.

There is only one way to gain what you desire. I
have given you the key. Now you must open the door.

To what future?

To the one you make.

"Come, then," Corwyth said. "I will shatter all
your bones, then knit them together again. Lochiel
need never know."

Kellin smiled. He forgot about his ribs and all
the other nagging pains. He thought about lir-

250 Jennifer Robersoa

shape instead. He thought about mountain cats,
and the instincts that served them.

"You cannot," Corwyth declared. "This is a
trick."

Kellin laughed. "Do you forget who I am? You
know so much about me and the others of my
House—surely you recall that we claim the Old
Blood." He paused. "With all of its special gifts."

Corwyth lunged. He was quick, very quick, and
exceedingly supple. Kellin dodged the outthrust
knife with no little effort or pain, then ducked a
second thrust.

Concentrate, the lir commanded. Fingers and toes
are claws. Flesh is thickly furred. The body is lean
and fit. Jaws are heavy and powerful, filled with
tongue and teeth. All you desire is the taste of his
flesh in your mouth—his blood spilling from his
throat into yours—and the hot sweet scent of his
death.

The knife nearly caught his side. Kellin twisted,
grimacing as ribs protested.

Mountain cat, it said. Far superior to any beast
bred by god or demon.

Kellin rolled as Corwyth struck a third time. He
panted audibly, trying to divorce his mind from
his body, to let his instincts dictate motion-
Now.

Anger fed his strength. Kellin saw the glint of
the knife in Corwyth's hand—Blais' knife!—and
then, briefly, everything faded. The world was
turned inside out, and when it came right again
it was a very different place.

His mouth dropped open to curse the flilini, but
what issued forth was a rising, angry wail. He felt
the coiling of haunches to gather himself; the whip
of a sinuous tail; the tightness in his empty—too
empty!—belly. Kellin bunched, and sprang.           ^

The knife glinted again. Kellin reached out in

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

2S1

midair with a hind leg and slashed the weapon
from Corwyth's hand. He heard the Ihlini's cry,
and then Kellin was on him.

Corwyth went down easily. Lost in the killing
frenzy, Kellin did not think about what he did. He
simply closed powerful jaws on the fragile throat
of a man and tore it away.

There was no sense of jubilation, vindication, or
relief. Merely satiation as the cat fed on the prey's
body.

Ten

What am I—? Comprehension was immediate.
Kellin hurled himself away from the body on the
ground. No more the cat but a man, appalled by
what had occurred. Gods—I did THAT?

Corwyth was messily dead. He lay sprawled on
the ground with blood-soaked cloak bunched up
around him, gaping throat bared to the moon.

I did.

He was shaking- All over. He was bloodied to
the elbows. Blood soaked his doublet. Blood was
in his mouth. Everywhere, blood—and the taste of
Corwyth's flesh.

Kellin thrust himself from the ground to his
knees, then bent and hugged sore ribs as his belly
purged itself. He wanted very much to purge his
mind as well, to forget what he had seen, to forget
what he had done, but the memory was livid. It
excoriated him.

He scrubbed again and again at his face, trying
to rid it of blood, but his hands, too, were bloody.
Frantically Kellin scooped up double handfuls of
dirt and damp leaves and scoured hands, then
face, pausing twice to spit.

Lir.

Kellin jumped. He spun on his knees, panting,
bracing himself on one stiff arm, and searched av-
idly for the mountain cat who had driven him be-
yond self. There was no sound. No cat. He saw

252

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           2S3

nothing but star-weighted darkness and the scal-
loped outline of dense foliage.

Gone. Breathing steadied. He scraped the back
of a hand across his chin. Fingers shook.

Lir. The tone was gentle. The death was required.
Just as the deaths of the minions were required.

"You killed them?"

They are dead.

He barked a hoarse laugh. "Then you have bro-
ken one of the most binding rules of the Ur-bond.
You are not supposed to kill Ihlini."

The tone was peculiar. We are reflections of one
another.

"What does that mean?"

You do that which you are commanded not to do.
And now I as well.

It astounded him. "Because of me you broke the
rule?"

We are very alike.

He contemplated that. He knew himself to be a
rebel; could a lir be so also? If so, they were indeed
well matched-
He cut it off at once. "I want nothing to do with
you."

It is done. The men are dead.

Kellin stiffened. He refused to look at Corwyth's
body. "There was no warning—you said nothing
of what I would feel!"

You felt as a cat feels.

"But I am a man."

More, it said. Cheysuli.

Kellin spat again, wishing he had the strength
of will to scour his mouth as well as his flesh. A
quick glance across the tiny campsite offered re-
lief: Ihlini supplies laid out in a neat pile.

"Water." He pressed himself from the ground
and walked unsteadily to the supplies. He found a
leather flask and unstoppered it, then methodi-

254 Jennifer Roberson

cally rinsed his mouth and spat until the taste of
blood and flesh was gone. As carefully, he poured
the contents of a second flask into one hand and
then the other, scraping flesh free of sticky blood
with cold, damp leaves.

"I'toshaa-ni," he murmured, and then realized
that the ritual merely emphasized the heritage
that had led him to this.

Dripping, Kellin rose again. He made himself
look. The view was no better: a sprawled, stilled
body with only the pallor of vertebrae glistening
in the ruin of a throat.

He shuddered. "I renounced you," he declared.
"I made it very plain. Now more than ever it is
imperative that I do not bond with a lir. If that is
what it means—"

"That" was necessary. "That" was required.

"No." He would not now speak inside his head
but say it as a man, so there existed no doubt as
to who—and what—he was. "It was butchery, no
more."

It was to save your life. The tone was terse, as if
the lir suppressed a great emotion. What the Ihlini
do, they do to preserve their power. Lochiel would
have killed you. Or gelded you.

"Gelded—"

Do you think he would permit you to breed? You
are his ending. The moment your son is born, the
world begins anew.

Kellin wiped damp hands across his face, warp-
ing it out of shape as if self-inflicted violence
would banish acknowledgment. "I want nothing
to do with this."

It is too late.

"No. Not if I renounce you, as I have. Not if I
refuse to bond with you."

Too late, the lir repeated. The tone now was
muted.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           255

Suspicion flared. He had been taught to honor
all fir, but at this moment, conversing with this
lir, he was afraid to assume it beneficent. "Why?"
Alarm replaced suspicion. "What have you done?"

It was necessary.

It filled him with apprehension. "What have you
done?"

Lent you a piece of myself.

"You!"

Required, it insisted. Without that part of me. you
would never have accomplished the shapechange.

A shudder wracked Kellin from head to foot.
The flesh on his scalp itched as if all his hairs
stood up. "Tell me," he said intently. "Tell me
what I have become."

Silence answered him.

"Tell me!" Kellin shouted. "By the gods, you
beast, what have you done to me?"

The tone was odd. Why does a man swear by gods
he cannot honor?

The inanity amazed him. "If I could see you—"

Then see me. A shadow moved at the edge of the
trees. See me as I am. Know who Sima is.

A soft rustle, then nothing more. In the reflec-
tion of dying flames, gold eyes gleamed.

Kellin nearly gaped. "You are little more than
a cub\"

Young, Sima conceded. But old enough for a lir.

"But—" Kellin blurted a choked laugh, then cut
it off. "I want nothing to do with you. With you,
or with any of it. No lir, no bonding, no shape-
change. I want a full life ... not a travesty always
threatened by an arcane ritual that needlessly
wastes a warrior."

Sima blinked. / would die if you died. The cost
is equally shared.

"I do not want to share it! I want not to risk it
at all."

296 Jennifer Roberwa

A tail twitched. She was black, black as Sleeta,
the Mujhar's magnificent lir. But she was small,
as yet immature, gangly as a half-grown kitten.
Incongruity, Kellin thought, in view of her
intransigence.

/ am empty, Sima said. / am but a shadow. Do
you sentence me to that?

"Can I? I thought you said it was too late."

Gold eyes winked out, then opened again. If you
wish to renounce me, you may. But then the Ihlini
will be victorious, because both of us will die.

She did not sound young. She sounded ineffably
old. "Sima." Kellin wet his lips. "What have you
done to me?"

The sleek black head lowered. Tufted ears flat-
tened. The tail whipped a branch to shreds.

"Sima!"

Caused you to change before the balance was
learned.

Kellin's mouth felt dry. "And that is a bad
thing?"

If balance is lost and not regained, if it is not
maintained, a warrior in lir-shape risks his humanity.

His voice sounded rusty. "He would be locked
in beast-shape?"

If he lost his balance and spent too long in lir-
shape, he could lose knowledge of what he was. Self-
knowledge is essential. Forgotten, the man becomes
a monster caught between two selfs.

After a long moment, Kellin nodded. "Leijhana
tu'sai," he said grimly, "for giving me the chance
to become a child's nightmare."

I gave you the chance to survive. Corwyth would
not have killed you, but he would have brought you
pain. And Lochid would have done worse.

Kellin did not argue. He would not speak to her.
He would give her no opportunity to drag him
deeper into the mess she had made of his life.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             257

Because he could not stay in the clearing with
the mutilated body, Kellin took Corwyth's horse
for his own. He turned the other mounts loose; he
had no time for ponying.

Sima did not honor his moratorium on speech.
They would have killed me.

He knew immediately what she referred to. For
the first time, he contemplated what it was to a
lir to experience guilt. He understood there was
no choice in killing the minions; they would have
skinned her and taken the pelt to Valgaard for
presentation to Lochiel.

Even as they presented me. Grimly Kellin said. "I
would wish that on no one, beast or no."

Leijhana tu'sai. Sima twitched her tail.

Kellin slanted her a hard glance as he snugged
the girth tight. "You know the Old Tongue?"

Better than you do.

He grunted. "Privy to the gods, are you? More
favored than most?"

Of course. All lir are. The cat paused. You are an
angry man.

"After what you have made of me, do you expect
gratitude?"

No. You are angry all the time.

He slipped fingers between girth and belly to
check for a horse's favorite trick: intentional bloat-
ing to keep the girth loose. "How would you know
what I am?"

/ know.

"Obscurity does not commend you."

Sima thumped her tail. A difficult bonding, I see.

"No bonding at all." As the horse released its
breath in response to an elbow jab, Kellin snugged
the girth tighter. "Go back to wherever it is lir
come from."

/ cannot.

"I will not have you with me."

258 Semdfer Robersoa

You cannot NOT have me.

"Oh?" Kellin cast her an arch glance. "Will you
stop me with violence?"

Of course not. I am sworn to protect you, not in-
jure you.

"That is something." He looped reins over the
bay gelding's neck. "Go back to the gods, cat. I
will have none of you."

You have no choice.

"Have I not?" Kellin gritted his teeth and put a
boot toe into the left stirrup. Swearing inven-
tively, he swung up into the saddle and settled
himself slowly. "—I think I have every choice,
cat."

None. Not if you wish to survive.

"There have been Hrless Cheysuli before."

None who survived.

Kellin gathered in reins. "General Rowan," he
said briefly. "Rowan was meticulous in teaching
my history. Rowan was one of Carillon's most
trusted men. He was a lirless Cheysuli."

He did not lose a lir. He never had one. He was
kept from the bonding by the Ellasians who did not
know what he was.

"I know what I am. I know what you are." He
swung the horse southwesterly. "Go back to the
gods who sent you. I will have none of them, or

you."

Lir—

"No." Kellin spared a final glance at the body
beside the fire. In time the beasts would eat it. He
would not be one of them; he had done his part
already. "Tu'halla dei," he said. "Or whatever the
terminology from warrior to renounced lir."

The sleek back cat rose. / am Sima. I am for you.

Kellin kicked the horse into a walk. "Find an-
other lir."

There IS none! she cried.

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS            259

For the first time he heard the fear in her tone.
Kellin jerked the horse to a halt. He turned in the
saddle to stare angrily at the mountain cat. "I saw
what became of Tanni. I know what became of
Blais. I am meant to hold the Lion and sire a First-
born son—do you think I dare risk it all for you?
To know that if you die, the prophecy dies also?"

Without me, you die. Without you, I do. With both
of us dead, there is no need for the prophecy.

Kellin laughed. "Surely the gods must see the
folly in this! A lir is a warrior's weakness, not his
strength. I begin to think the /ir-bond is nothing
more than divine jest."

/ am for you, she said. Without you, I am empty.

It infuriated him- "Tell it to someone who
cares!"

But as he rode from the campsite, the mountain
cat followed.

Eleven

Kellin was exhausted by the time he reached Clan-
keep. He had briefly considered riding directly to
Homana-Mujhar—no doubt Brennan and Aileen
wondered what had become of him—but decided
against it. Clankeep was the answer. His problem
had nothing at all to do with the Homanan por-
tion of his blood, but was wholly a Cheysuli
concern.

/ will tell them what has happened. I will explain
what I was forced to become, and the result—surely
they cannot countenance a warrior who in lir-shape
compromises every bit of his humanity. He stead-
fastly ignored the shadow slinking behind him
with gold eyes fixed on his back. They will under-
stand that this kind of bonding -cannot be allowed
to stand.

Kellin sighed relief. He felt better already. Once
his plight was explained, all would be understood.
He had spent portions of his childhood in Clan-
keep and knew the pureblood Cheysuli could be a
stiff-necked, arrogant lot—he had been accused of
his share of arrogance by the castle boys in child-
hood—but they had to acknowledge the difficulty
of his position. Kellin knew very well his request
would be neither popular nor readily accepted,
but once they fully understood what had occurred
the Cheysuli would not refuse. He was one of their
own, after all.

260

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           261

I will speak to Gavan. Gavan was clan-leader, a
man Kellin respected. He will see this is serious,
not merely an inconvenience. He will know what
must be done.

Kellin felt gingerly at the bridge of his nose. It
was whole, but badly scratched. His left eyelid
was swollen so that a portion of his vision was
obstructed. His clothing was crusted with dried
blood. I can smell myself. It shamed him to show
himself to Gavan and the others this way, but how
better to explain his circumstances save with the
gory proof before them?

He was not hungry though his belly was empty.
The idea of food repulsed him. He had eaten the
throat of a man; though he was free now of the
taste, his memory recalled it. Kellin wanted noth-
ing at all to do with food.

He listened for and heard the faint rustling be-
hind. Sima did not hide her presence, nor make
attempt to quiet her movements. She padded on
softly, following her lir.

Kellin's jaws tautened. Gavan will see what has
happened. He will know what must be done.

Clankeep, to Kellin, was perfectly ordinary in
its appearance. He had been taught differently, of
course; the keep had been razed twenty years be-
fore on the night of his birth, when Lochiel himself
had ridden down from Valgaard with sorcerers at
his beck. The Ihlini had meant to destroy Clankeep
and kill every living Cheysuli; that they had failed
was in no way attributable to their inefficiency,
but to the forced premature birth of Aidan's son.
Cut from his mother's belly before the proper
time, Kellin was at risk. Lochiel had immediately
returned to Valgaard. In that retreat, a portion of
Clankeep and her Cheysuli were left alive.

Kellin, gazing with gritty, tired eyes on the

262 Jennifer Roberson

painted pavilions clustered throughout the forest
like chicks around a hen, saw nothing of the past,
only of the present. That the unmortared walls
surrounding the pavilions were, beneath cloaks of
lichen and ivy, still charred or split by heat did
not remind him of that night, because he recalled
nothing of it. He had no basis for comparison
when he looked on the present Clankeep. To Kellin
it was simply another aspect of his heritage, with-
out the depressing weight of personal recollection.

Despite the hour he was welcomed immediately
by the warriors manning the gate and was es-
corted directly to the clan-leader's pavilion. In the
dark it stood out because of its color: a pale saf-
fron bedecked with ruddy-hued foxes. Moonlight
set it softly aglow.

Kellin dismounted as his escort ducked into Ga-
van's pavilion; a second warrior took Corwyth's
horse and led it away. Kellin was alone save for
the cat-shaped shadow nearby. He ignored her
utterly.

In only a moment the first warrior returned and
beckoned him inside, pulling aside the doorHap.
Kellin drew in a deep breath and went in, acutely
aware of his deshabille. He paused inside as his
eyes adjusted to the muted glow of a firecaim,
then inclined his head to the older man who
waited. Gavan offered the ritual welcome in the
Old Tongue, then indicated a place to sit upon a
thick black bear pelt. Honey brew and dried fruit
also were offered. Kellin sat down with a mur-
mured word of thanks and accepted cup and plat-
ter- Irresolute, he stared at both, then set aside the
fruit and drank sparingly of the liquor. Like the
Ihlini wine, it burned his cut mouth.

Gavan wore traditional leathers, though tousled
graying hair indicated he had risen hastily from
bed. In coal-cast shadows his dark Cheysuli face

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           263

was hollowed and eerily feral, dominated by yel-
low eyes above oblique, prominent cheekbones.
Some of Gavan's face was reflected in Kellin's,
though his own was less angular and lacked the
sharpness of additional years.

The clan-leader sat quietly on a bear pelt before
Kellin, a ruddy dog-fox curled next to one knee.
His eyes narrowed minutely as he observed Kel-
lin's state. "Harsh usage."

Kellin nodded as he swallowed, then set aside
the cup. "Ihlini/' he said briefly. He was flattered
by the instant response in Gavan's eyes: sharp,
fixed attention, and a contained but palpable ten-
sion. Kellin wondered fleetingly if Gavan had been
present during the Ihlini attack. Then he dis-
missed it, thinking of the man instead. I will have
more care from him than from my own Jehan.

"Lochiel?" the clan-leader asked.

Kellin shook his head. "A minion. Corwyth.
Powerful in his own right . .. but not the master
himself."

Gavan's mouth compressed slightly. "So the
war begins anew."

Kellin swallowed heavily. "Lochiel wants me
captured and taken to Valgaard. No more does he
want me killed outright, but brought to him
alive." Though his mouth was clean, he tasted Cor-
wyth's blood again. It was difficult to speak. "In
my dying—or whatever he decrees is to be my
fate—I am to be Lochiel's entertainment."

Gavan set aside his cup. "You have not gone to
the Mujhar."

"Not yet- I came here first." Kellin suppressed
a shudder as the image of throatless Corwyth rose
in his mind; this man would not understand such
weakness. "There is a thing I must discuss. A
frightening thing—" he did not like admitting such
to Gavan, but it was the simple truth, "—and a

264 Jennifer Roberson

thing which must be attended." It was more diffi-
cult than expected. Kellin flicked a glance at the
mountain cat who lay so quietly beside him. He
longed to dismiss her, but until all was explained
he did not dare transgress custom. A lir was to
be honored; arrant dismissal would immediately
predispose Gavan to hostility. "I killed Corwyth,
as I said—but not through a man's means."

Gavan smiled faintly as he looked at Sima. "It
is my great personal joy that the bonding has at
last occurred. It is well past time. Now you may
be welcomed into the clan as a fully bonded war-
rior ... it was of some concern that the tardiness
of the /ir-bonding might cause difficulty."

Kellin's mouth dried. "Difficulty?"

Gavan gestured negligent dismissal. "But it is
of no moment, now. No one can deny your right
to the Lion."

This was a new topic. "Did someone deny it?"

A muscle jumped briefly in Gavan's cheek. "There
was some talk that perhaps the mixture of so many
Houses in your blood had caused improper dilution."

"But the mixture is needed." Kellin fought to
control his tone; he realized in a desperation fray-
ing into panic that things would not be sorted out
so easily after all. "The prophecy is very explicit
about a man of all blood—"

"Of course." Neatly, Gavan cut him off. "A man
of all blood, aye .. . but a man clearly Cheysuli."
He smiled at Sima. "With so lovely a lir, you need
fear no warrior's doubts."

Kellin found it difficult to breathe. To gain time
he looked around the interior of the pavilion: at
the dog-fox next to Gavan; at the glowing fire-
caim; at the bronze-bound trunk with a handful
of Cheysuli ornaments scattered across its closed
lid; at the compact warbow—once called a hunt-
ing bow—leaning against the trunk; at the shad-

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

265

ows of painted lir on the exterior of the pavilion
fabric.

Lastly, at Sima. Gold eyes were unblinking.

Kellin picked up the cup of liquor and drained
it. It burned briefly, then mellowed into a warmth
that, in an empty belly, set his vision to blurring.

His lips felt stiff. "Carillon had no lir."

Gavan's black brows, as yet untouched by the
silver threading his hair, moved more closely to-
gether. Clearly, he was baffled by the non sequitur-
"Carillon was Homanan."

"But the clans accepted him."

"He was the next link. After Shaine: Carillon.
After Carillon: Donal."

"Because Carillon sired only a daughter- A Solin-
dish halfling."

"Aislinn. Who wed Donal and bore Niall." Gavan
smiled then, his faint consternation clearing. "Is
this because Niall, too, was late receiving his Hr?
Did you fear, as they say he did, that you would
never receive one?" He smiled, nodding his head
in Sima's direction. "You need fear nothing. Your
future is secure."

Kellin drew in a deep breath, ignoring the twinge
in his chest. Ga van's words seemed to come from
a great distance. "What if—" He broke off, then
began again. "What if I had never received a lir?"

Gavan shrugged. "There is no profit in discussing
what did not occur."

Kellin forced a smiled. "Curiosity. What if I had
never received, nor bonded with a lir?" He was no
good at disingenuity; the smile broke up into
pieces and fell away, "I am well beyond the age a
warrior receives a lir. Surely before now there
must have been some discussion in case I never
did."

The clan-leader made a dismissive gesture. "Aye,
it was briefly discussed; there is no sense in hiding

266 Jennifer Robersoa

it from you. It is a serious matter. Because you are
the only direct descendant with all of the proper
bloodlines—"

"Save one."

Gavan inclined his head slightly. "—save one,
aye .. . still, it remains that you are the only one
with all of the necessary lineage required to pro-
duce the man we await."

"The Firstborn."

"Cynric." Gavan's eyes were bright. "So your
jehan has prophesied."

Kellin did not desire to discuss his jehan. "Had
I not received my lir, what would have happened?
Would you have questioned my right to inherit?"

"Certainly clan-council would have met to dis-
cuss it formally at some point."

"Would you have questioned it?" Suddenly, it
mattered. It mattered very much. "Would the
Cheysuli have rejected my claim to the Lion?"

"The Mujhar is in no danger of giving up his
claim any time soon." Gavan smiled. "He is a
strong man, and in sound health."

"Aye." Kellin's nerves frayed further. It seemed
no matter how careful he was, how meticulous his
phrasing, he could not get the answer he wanted;

yet at the same time he knew what the answer
was, and dreaded it. "Gavan—" He felt sweat
sting a scrape on one temple as the droplet ran
down beneath a lock of hair. "Would the Cheysuli
accept a lirless Mujhar?"

Gavan did not hesitate. "Now? No. There is no
question of it. We are too close to fulfillment .. .
a lirless Cheysuli would prove a true danger to the
prophecy. We cannot afford to support a Mujhar
who lacks the most fundamental of all Cheysuli
gifts. It would provide the Ihlini an opportunity
to destroy us forever."

"Of course." The words were ash. If he opened

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

267

his mouth too widely, he would spew it like a dis-
mantled firecairn.

Gavan laughed. Yellow eyes were bright and
amused, and wholly inoffensive. "If you are feeling
unworthy in the aftermath of bonding, it is a natu-
ral thing. The gift—and the power that comes with
it—is entirely humbling." He arched black brows.
"Even for Mujhars—and men who will be
Mujhar."

All of Kellin's anticipated arguments in favor of
severing the partial bond with Sima evaporated.
He would get no understanding from Gavan;

likely, he would get nothing even remotely ap-
proaching sympathy. He would simply be stricken
from the birthlines and summarily removed from
the succession.

Leaving no one. "Blais," he said abruptly.
"There was a time when some warriors wanted
Blais to be named prince in my place."

"That was many years ago."

Kellin felt the dampness of perspiration stipple
his upper lip. He wanted-to brush it dry, but to
do so would call attention to his desperation. "The
a'saii still exist, do they not? Somewhere in Ho-
mana, separate from here . . . they still desire to
make their own tahlmorras without benefit of the
prophecy."

Gavan lifted his cup of honey brew. "There are
always heretics."

Kellin watched him drink. If Blais had sur-
vived— He put it into words. "If Blais had sur-
vived, and I had gained no lir, would he have been
named to the Lion?"

Gavan's eyes were steady. "In lieu of a proper
heir, there would have been no other. But such a
thing would have delayed completion for another
generation, perhaps more. Blais lacked the Solin-
dish and Atvian bloodlines. It would have taken

Jennifer Robersoa

268

time—more time than we have. - . ." Gavan drank,
then set aside his cup. "But what profit in this,
Kellin? You are a warrior. You have a lir. It falls
to you, now, without question. It all falls to you."

Coals crumbled in the firecaim. Illumination
wavered, then stilled. It glowed in Gavan's eyes.

"Too heavy," Kellin murmured, swallowing

tightly.

Gavan laughed aloud. A hand indicated Sima.
"No burden is too heavy if there is a lir to help
you bear it."

Twelve

Though offered a place in Clankeep, Kellin did not
accept it. There was something else he wanted—
needed—to do; something he should have done
years before. He had avoided it with a steadfast
intransigence, taking a quiet, vicious pleasure in
the wrong done him because it fanned the flames
of rebellion. A part of him knew very well that
without what he perceived as true cause, his defi-
ance might yet be warped into something other
than a natural maturing of personality. He was
expected to be different from others because of his
heritage and rank; hot temper and hasty words
were often overlooked because of who he was.
That in itself sometimes forced him to more rebel-
lion because he needed to provoke a response that
would mitigate self-contempt.

He knew very well what the mountain cat said
was right. He was too angry, and had been for
years. But he knew its cause; it was hardly his
fault. A motherless infant prince willingly de-
serted by a father had little recourse to other
emotions-

Kellin stood outside the pavilion. Like Gavan's,
it also bore a fox painted on its sides, though the
base color was blue instead of saffron. The pavil-
ion was difficult to see in the darkness; moonlight
was obscured by clustered trees and overhanging
branches. The Cheysuli had moved Clankeep after

269

270 Jennifer Roberson

the Ihlini attack, for a part of the forest had
burned. Only rain a day or two later had pre-
vented more destruction.

Accost him now, just after awakening, so he has
no time to marshal defenses or rhetoric. Kellin drew
in a deep breath that expanded sore ribs, then
called through the closed doorflap that he desired
to see the shar tahi

A moment only, and then a hand drew aside the
flap so that the man stood unobstructed. He wore
leather in place of robes, and ^'r-gold weighted his
arms. He was alert; Kellin thought perhaps the
man had not been asleep after all.

"Aye?" And then the warrior's expression al-
tered. An ironic arch lifted black brows. "I should
have expected this. You would not come all the
times I invited you in the daylight . . . this suits
your character."

It sparked an instant retort. "You know nothing
about my character!"

The older man considered it. "That is true," he
said at last. "What I know of you—now—has to
do with the tales they tell." He widened the door-
flap. "By your expression, this is not intended to
be a sanguine visit. Well enough—I had gathered
by your continued silence you did not accept my
offers of aid as anything other than insult."

"Not insult," Kellin said. "Unnecessary."

"Ah." The man was in his late fifties, not so
much younger than the Mujhar. Thick hair grayed
heavily, but the flesh of his face was still taut, and
his eyes were intent. "But now there is necessity."

Kellin did not look at Sima. He simply pointed
to her. "I want to be rid of that."

"Rid?" The shar tahl's irony evaporated. "Come
in," he said curtly.

Kellin ducked in beside him. Hostility banished
the dullness engendered by Gavan's honey brew;

A TAPESTRY OF LJWS           27t

nerves made him twitchy. He stood aside in stiff
silence as the shar tahl permitted the mountain
cat to enter.

He waited edgily. There were many things he
wanted to say, and he anticipated multiple
pointed responses designed to dissuade him. The
shar tahl would no more understand his desire
than Gavan would have; the difference was, Kellin
was better prepared to withstand anything the
shar tahl might suggest by way of argument. He
disliked the man. Dislike lent him the strength of
will to defy a man whose service was to the gods,
and to the preservation of tradition within the
clans.

"Be seated," the shar tahl said briefly. Then, to
Sima, "You are well come to my pavilion."

The cat lay down. Her tail thumped once. Then
she stilled, huge eyes fixed on Kellin.

With a grimace of impatience, Kellin sat down.
Neither food nor drink was offered; tacit insult,
designed to tell him a thing or two. Then we are
well matched. I have things to say as well.

"So." The older man's expression was closed,
severe in its aloofness. "You want to be rid of your
lir. Since it is well known you had none, I can only
assume this is a very recent bonding."

"Aye, very recent; last night." Pointedly, Kellin
added, "When I was a captive of the Ihlini."

The shar tahl's expression did not alter; he
seemed fixed upon a single topic. "Yet now you
wish to sever that bond."

Kellin's hands closed into fists against crossed
legs. "Does it mean nothing to you that the Prince
of Homana was captured by the Ihlini, and less
that he escaped?"

The shar tahl's mouth tightened minutely. "We
will speak of that later. At this moment the Prince

272 Jennifer Robersw

of Homana's desire to sever what the gods have
made for him is of greater concern."

"Because it has to do with gods, and you are a
shar tahl." Kellin did not bother to hide the deri-
sion in his tone. "By all means let us discuss that
which you believe of more import; after all, what
is the welfare of Homana's future Mujhar com-
pared to his desire to renounce a gift of the gods?"

"Yet if you renounce this bond, there is no more
need to concern ourselves with the welfare of Ho-
mana's future Mujhar, as he would no longer be
heir." The shar tahl's eyes burned brightly. "But
you know that. I can see it in your face." He nod-
ded slightly. "So you have been to Gaven already
and what you have heard does not please you.
Therefore I must assume this meeting is meant
merely to air your grievance, though you know
very well nothing can come of it. You cannot re-
nounce the /M--bond, lest you be stripped of your
rank. And you would never permit that; it would
echo your jehan's actions."

Kellin's response was immediate. "I did not
come to speak of my jehan\"

"But we will." The older man's tone allowed no
room for protest. "We should have had this con-
versation years ago."

"We will not have it now. My Jehan has nothing
to do with this."

'"Your jehan has much to do with this. His deser-
tion of you has to do with everything in your life."

"Enough."

"I have hardly begun."

"Then I will end it!" Kellin glared at the man.
"I am still the Prince of Homana. My rank is
higher than yours."

"Is it?" Black brows arched. "I think not. Not
in the eyes of the gods .. . ah, of course—you do
not recognize their sovereignty." The shar tahl

A TAPESTRY OF LlWS            273

lifted a quelling hand. "In fact, you detest them
because you believe they stole your Jehan from
you."

Much as he longed to, Kellin knew better than
to shout. To give in to such a display was to
weaken his position. "He was meant to be the heir.
Not I. Not yet; my time was meant for later. They
did steal him."

"A warrior follows his tahlmorra."

"Or obstructs the prophecy?" Kellin shook his
head. "I think what they say of him is true: he is
mad. No madman bases his actions on what is real.
He does as he does because his mind is addled."

"Aidan's mind is no more addled than your
own," the shar tahl retorted. "In fact, some would
argue it is more sane than yours."

"Mine!"

The warrior smiled grimly. "Your reputation
precedes you."

For only an instant Kellin was silent. Then he
laughed aloud, letting the sound ml the pavilion.
"Because I drink? Because' I wager? Because I lie
with whores?" The laughter died, but the grin was
undiminished. "These actions appear to be a tradi-
tion within my family. Shall I name you the
names? Brennan, Hart, Corin—"

"Enough." The irony was banished. "You came
because you wish to renounce your lir. Allow me
to do my office. Bide a moment, my lord." The
shar tahl rose abruptly and moved to the doorflap.
He ducked out, leaving Kellin alone with a silent
black mountain cat. After a moment the priest re-
turned and resumed his seat. His smile was hu-
morless. "How may I serve my lord?"

Kellin's impatience faded. Hostility dissipated.
If the man could aid him, he had best mend his
manner. "The bonding was done hastily, to enable
me to escape the Ihlini. Even she admits it." He

274 Jennifer Roberaoa

did not glance at Sima. "She speaks of balance,
and the danger in lacking it. I have none."

The shar tahl now was serious. "You assumed
^r-shape in anger?"

"In anger, fear, panic -, ." Kellin sighed; the
vestiges of pride and hostility faded utterly. Qui-
etly, he explained what had happened—and how
he had killed a man by tearing out his throat.

The dark flesh by the older man's eyes folded
upon itself. His eyes seemed to age. "A harsh
bonding. But more than that, an improper one. It
is only half done."

"Half?" Kellin looked at the cat. "Do you mean
I could renounce her?"

"No. Not safely. Your lirlessness is ended; half-
bonded or no, you will never be what you were.
The question now is, what will you permit your-
self to be?"

Alarm bloomed. "What do you mean?"

"You are angry," the shar tahl said. "I perhaps
understand it better than most—your jehan and I
have shared many confidences." The severity of
the face now was replaced with a human warmth
that nearly unmanned Kellin. "Aidan and I have
spent much time together. It was why I desired to
speak with you before, to explain his reasoning."

"Let him explain it!"

The shar tahl sighed. "The proper time is not
yet come."

Bitterness engulfed. "There never will be a
'proper time'!" Kellin cried. "That is the point!"

"No." The shar tahl lifted a hand, then let it
drop. "That is not the point. There will come a
time, I promise - . - when the gods intend that you
should meet."

"When he intends, you mean .. . and he never
will." Kellin gathered himself to rise- "This is
bootless. It wastes my time."

A TAPESTRY OF Lfws           275

"Sit down." The tone was a whipcrack. "You
have come to me with a serious concern that needs
to be addressed. Set aside your hatred and hostil-
ity long enough, if you will, to permit me to ex-
plain that you are in grave danger."

"I have escaped the Ihlini."

"This has nothing to do with the Ihlini. This has
to do with yourself. It is of the balance I speak."
The shar tahl glanced at Sima. "Has she explained
what could happen?"

"That I might be locked in beast-form if I lose
my balance?" Kellin's mouth twisted. "Aye. After
she urged me to take ftr-shape."

"Then she must have believed it necessary." The
shar tahl studied Sima with something very akin
to sympathy, which seemed an odd thing to Kel-
lin; the lir were considered far wiser than their
warriors. "The lir are proscribed from attacking
Ihlini. If she urged you to assume /ir-shape before
the proper time, fully cognizant of the risk, it was
because she believed it necessary to preserve your
life." The yellow eyes were intent. "The life has
been preserved. Now we must insure that the
mind within the body is preserved as well."

"Burr—" Kellin cut it off- It was time for truth,
not protest. Defiance crumbled in the face of his
admission. "I have resented you for years."

"I know." The shar tahl reached for a jug and
cups, then poured two full. "Drink. What you must
know will dry your mouth; wet it first, and then
we shall begin."

"Can I learn it by dawn?"

"A thing so vital as this cannot be learned in a
night. It requires years." Burr sipped his honey
brew. "A young warrior is taught from the day of
his birth how to strike the balance in all things.
We are a proud race, we Cheysuli, and surpass-
ingly arrogant—" Burr smiled, "—because we are,

276 Jennifer Robersoa

after all, the children of the gods .. . but we are
not an angry race, nor one much given to war
except when it is required. The Homanans have
called us beasts and predators, but it is because
of what we can do with our bodies, not our desire
for blood. We are a peaceful race. That desire for
peace—in mind as well as lifestyle—is taught from
birth. By the time a young man reaches the age
to receive a lir, his knowledge of self-control is
well-rooted. His longing for a lir supercedes the
recklessness of youth—no young Cheysuli would
risk the wrath of the gods that might result in
lirlessness."

"is that true?" Kellin asked. "You are a shar
tahl—would the gods deny a boy a Ur because he
does not suit their idea of a well-behaved
Cheysuli?"

Burr laughed. "You are the most defiant and
reckless of Cheysuli I have ever known. Yet there
is the proof that the gods do as they will." A hand
indicated Sima. "You have your place, Kellin. You
have a tahlmorra. Now it is your task to acknowl-
edge the path before you."

"And take it?"

"If it is what the gods intend."

"Gods," Kellin muttered. "They clutter up a life.
They bind a man's spirit so he cannot do as he
will."

"You, I believe, are a perfect example of the fal-
lacy in that logic. You do—and have always
done—precisely as you desire." Burr sipped li-
quor, then set the cup aside. "You must fully ac-
cept your lir. To remain half-bonded sentences
both of you to a life to which no man—or lir—
should ever be subjected."

"Madness," Kellin said. He worked a trapped
twig from the weave of soiled breeches. "What if
I told you I believed it was arrant nonsense, this

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           277

belief that lirlessness results in madness? That I
believe it is no more than a means for a man's
misplaced faith in his gods to control him, or de-
stroy him?"

Burr smiled. "You would not be the first to sug-
gest that. In fact, if you were not the heir to the
Lion and therefore assured of your place, I would
say your defiance and determination resembles
the a'saii." He drank, watching Kellin over the
rim of his cup- "It is not easy for a man to accept
that one moment he is in the fullness of his prime,
healthy and strong, while the next he is sentenced
to the death-ritual despite his continued health
and strength. It is the true test of what we are,
Kellin; do you know of any other race which will-
ingly embraces death when there appears to be no
reason to die?"

"No. No other race is so ludicrously constrained
by the gods." Kellin shook his head, tapping the
twig against his knee. "It is a waste. Burr! Just as
kin-wrecking is!"

"That. I agree with," Burr said. "Once, the cus-
tom had its place .. . there was a need, Kellin."

"To cast out a man because he was maimed?"
Kellin shook his head. "The loss of a hand does
not render a man incapable of serving his clan or
his kin."

"Once, it might have. If a one-handed warrior
failed, because of his infirmity, to protect a single
life, he was a detriment. There was a time we
dared not permit such a risk, lest our people die
out entirely."

Kellin gestured. "Enough. I am speaking now of
the death-ritual-1 contend it is nothing more than
a means of control, a method by which the gods—
and shar tahls, perhaps?—" he grinned in arch
contempt, "—can force others to do their will."

Burr was silent. His eyes were partially hidden

278 Jennifer Roberson

behind lowered lashes. Kellin thought perhaps he
might at last have provoked the older man into
anger, but when Burr at last met his eyes there
was nothing of anger in his expression. "What the
gods have required of men is duty, honor, rever-
ence—"

"And self-sacrifice!"

"—and sacrifice." Burr finished. "Aye. I deny
none of it. But if we had not offered any of these
things, Kellin, you would not be seated here before
me contesting the need for such service."

"Words!" Kellin snapped. "You are as bad as
the Ihlini. You weave magic with words, to ensor-
cell me to your will."

"I do nothing but state the truth." Burr's tone
was very quiet, lacking all emotion. "If a single
man in your birthline had turned his back on his
tahlmorra, you would not be the warrior destined
to inherit the Lion."

"You mean if my Jehan had turned his back on
his tahlmorra." Kellin wanted to swear. "This is
merely another attempt to persuade me that what
my jehan did was necessary. You said yourself you
are friends ... I hear bias in his favor,"

"It was necessary," Burr said- "Who can say
what might have become of you if Aidan had not
renounced his title? Paths can be altered, Kellin—
and prophecies. If Aidan had remained here, he
would be Prince of Homana. You would merely be
third in line behind Brennan and Aidan. That
extra time could well have delayed completion of
the prophecy, and destroyed it utterly."

"You mean, it might have prevented me from
lying with whatever woman I am supposed to lie
with—according to the gods—in order to sire Cyn-
ric." Kellin tossed aside the twig. "A convenience,
nothing more. No one knows this. Just as no one
knows for certain a warrior goes mad if his lir is

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            279

killed." He smiled victory. "You see? We have
come full circle."

Burr's answering smile was grim. "But I can
name you the proofs; Duncan, Cheysuli clan-
leader, kept alive by Ihlini sorcery though his lir
was dead, and used as a weapon to strike at his
son, Donal, who was meant to be Mujhar."

Kellin felt cold; he knew this history.

"Teiman, Blais' jehan, who assumed the role of
clan-leader to the heretical a'saii. A warrior who
would have, given the chance, pulled Brennan
from the Lion and mounted it himself." Burr's
tone was steady. "Tieman renounced his lir. In the
end, completely mad, he threw himself into the
Womb of the Earth before the eyes of your Jehan
and jehana in an attempt to prove himself worthy
to hold the Lion. He did not come out."

Kellin knew that also.

Burr said softly, "First we will speak of your
jehan. Then of the balance."

Kellin wanted it badly. "No," he said roughly.
"What I leam of my jehan will be learned from
him."

Burr looked beyond him to the slack door-flap.
He said a single word—a name—and a warrior
came in. In his arms he held a small girl asleep
against his shoulder; by his side stood a tousle-
haired boy of perhaps three years.

"There is another," the shar tahl said. "Another
son; do you recall? Or have you forgotten entirely
that these are your children?"

"Mine—" Kellin blurted.

"Three royal bastards." Burr's tone was unre-
lenting. "Packed off to Clankeep like so much un-
wanted baggage, and never once visited by the
man who sired them."

Thirteen

Kellin refused to look at the children, or at the
warrior with them. Instead he stared at Burr.
"Bastards," he declared, biting off the word.

The shar tahl's voice was calm. "That they are
bastards does not preclude the need for parents."

Kellin's lips were stiff. "Homanan halflings."

"And what are you, my lord, but Homanan, Sol-
indish, Atvian, Ennnish. .. ?" Burr let it trail off.
"/ am pure Cheysuli."

"A'saU?" Kellin challenged. "You believe I
should be replaced?"

"If you refuse your lir, assuredly." Burr was re-
lentless. "Look at your children, Kellin."

He did not want to. He was desperate not to.
"Bastards have no place in the line of succession—"

"—and therefore do not matter?" Burr shook his
head. "That is the Homanan in you, I fear ... in
the clans bastardy bears no stigma." He paused.
"Did lan know you felt so? He, too, was a
bastard."

"Enough!" Kellin hissed. "You try to twist me
inside out no matter what I say."

"I shall twist you any way I deem necessary, if
the result achieved is as I believe it should be."
Burr looked at the boy. "Young, but he promises
well. Homanan eyes—they are hazel—but the hair
is yours. And the chin—"

"Stop it."

280

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           281

"The girl is too young yet to show much of what
she shall be—"

"Stop it!"

"—and of course the other boy is but a handful
of months." Burr looked at Kellin, all pretenses to
neutrality dropped. "Explain it away, if you
please. Justify your actions with regard to these
children, though you refuse to permit your jehan
the same favor."

"He traded me for the gods!" It was a cry from
the heart Kellin regretted at once. "Can you not
see—"

"What I see are two children without a jehan,"
Burr said. "Another yet sleeps at the breast of a
Cheysuli woman who lost her own baby. I submit
to you, my lord: for what did you trade them?"

Words boiled up in Kellin's mouth, so many at
first he could not find a single one that would,
conjoined with another, make any sense at all. Fu-
rious, he thrust himself to his feet. At last the
words broke free. "I get nothing from you. No
truths, no support, no honorable service! Nothing
more than drivel mouthed by a man who is truer
to the a'saii than to his own Mujhar!"

Burr did not rise. "Until you can look on those
children and acknowledge your place in their
lives, speak no word against Aidan."

Kellin extended a shaking hand. He pointed at
Sima. "I want no lir."

"You have one."

"I want to be rid of her."

"And open the door to madness."

"I do not believe it."

Burr's eyes glinted. "Then test it, my lord. Chal-
lenge the gods- Renounce your lir and withstand
the madness." He rose and took the small girl
from the silent warrior's arms, settling her against
his shoulder. Over her head, he said, "It will be a

282 Jennifer Robersoa

true test, I think. Certainly as true as the one Teir-
nan undertook at the Womb of the Earth."

Desperate, Kellin declared, "I have no room in
my life for the impediment of halfling bastards'"

"That," Burr said, "is between you and the
gods."

Kellin shut his teeth. "You are wrong. All of you.
I will prove you wrong."

"Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu," Burr
said- Then, as Kellin turned to flee, "Cheysuli
i'haUa shansu."

Kellin did not stay the rest of the night in Clan-
keep but took back his borrowed mount and rode
on toward Mujhara. He had moved beyond the
point of weariness into the realm of an exhaustion
so complex as to render him almost pretematu-
rally alert. Small sounds were magnified into a
clamor that filled his head, so that there was no
room for thought. It pleased him. Thought re-
newed anger, reestablished frustration, reminded
him yet again that no matter what he said—no
matter who he was—no Cheysuli warrior would
accept him as one of them so long as he lacked a
lir.

They would sooner have me go mad with a lir
than go mad because I renounce one.

It made no sense to Kellin. But neither did the
mountain cat who shadowed his horse, loping in
its wake.

He had tried to send her away. Sima refused to
go. Since he had made very clear his intentions to
forswear her, the cat had said nothing. The link
was suspiciously empty -

As if she no longer exists. And yet here she was;

he had only to glance over a shoulder to see her
behind him.

Would it not be simpler if he shut off that link

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           283

forever? Certainly less hazardous. If Sima died
while as yet unbonded, he could escape the death-
ritual.

Though Burr says I will not.

Kellin shifted in the saddle, attempting to lessen
the discomfort of his chest. The shar tahl had chal-
lenged him to test the conviction that a lirless war-
rior went mad. And he had accepted. Part of the
reason was pride, part a natural defiance; uneasily
Kellin wondered what might happen if he lost the
challenge. If, after all, the Cheysuli belief was
based on truth.

What does it feel like to go mad? He slowed his
mount as he approached the city; star- and moon-
light, now tainted by Mujhara's illumination,
made it difficult to see the road. What was Teiman
thinking, as he leapt into the Womb?

What had his father thought, and his mother, as
the warrior without a lir tested his right to the
Lion, and was repudiated?

/ would never throw myself into the Womb of the
Earth. It was— He brought himself up short.
Madness?

Kellin swore the vilest oaths he could think of.
An arm scrubbed roughly across his face did noth-
ing to rid his head of such thoughts. It smeared
grime and crusted blood—he had left Clankeep
without even so much as a damp cloth for clean-
ing his face—and tousled stiffened hair. His cloth-
ing was rigid with dried blood and scratched at
bruised flesh. Inside the flesh, bones ached.

He did not enter Mujhara by way of the Eastern
Gate because they knew him there. Instead he
angled the horse right and rode for the Northern
Gate. Of all the gates it was the least used; the
Eastern led toward Clankeep, the Southern to
Hondarth, the Western to Solinde. The Northern
opened onto the road that, followed to its end, led

284 Jennifer Kobersoa

to the Bluetooth River: beyond lay the Northern
Wastes, and Valgaard.

Kellin shivered. / would have gone there, had
Corwyth persevered.

Through the Northern Gate lay the poorer sec-
tions of Mujhara, including the Midden. Kellin in-
tended to ride directly through, bound for
Homana-Mujhar on its low rise in the center of
the city. He wanted a bath very badly, and a bed—

His horse—Corwyth's horse—shied suddenly,
even as Kellin heard the low-pitched growling. He
gathered rein, swearing, as the dog boiled out of
the darkness.

Kellin took a deeper seat, anticipating trouble,
but the dog streaked by him. Then he knew.

The link that had been so empty blazed sud-
denly to life, engulfing him utterly. He heard the
frantic barking, the growls; then Sima's wailing
cry. The link, half-made though it was, reverber-
ated  with   the   mountain  cat's  frenzied
counterattack.

"Wait!" It was a blurt of shock. Stunned by the
explosion within the link, Kellin sat immobile. His
body rang with pain and outrage; yet none of it
was his own. "Hers." She had said they were
linked, even if improperly. He felt whatever the
cat felt.

Freed of the paralysis, Kellin jerked the horse
around, feeling for the long-knife retrieved from
Corwyth. He saw a huddle of black in the shad-
ows, and the gleam of pale slick hide as the dog
darted in toward Sima. It was joined by another,
and then a third; in a moment the noise would
bring every dog at a run.

They will kill— The rest was lost. A man-shaped
shadow stepped out of a dark doorway and, with
a doubled fist, smashed the horse's muzzle.

Kellin lost control instantly, and very nearly his

A TAPESTRV OF LIONS           285

nose. The horse's head shot skyward, narrowly
missing Kellin's bowed head. The animal fell back
a step or two, scrabbling in mucky footing, fling-
ing his head in protest.

Before Kellin could attempt to regain control of
the reins, hands grabbed his left leg. It was sum-
marily jerked out of the stirrup and twisted vio-
lently, so that Kellin was forced to follow the
angle or risk having his ankle broken. The position
made him vulnerable; a second violent twist and
a heave tipped Kellin off backward even as he
grabbed for the saddle.

"Ku'reshtin—" He twisted in midair, broke free
of the hands, then landed awkwardly on his feet—
leifhana tu'sai!—and caught his balance haphaz-
ardly against the startled horse's quivering nimp.

Before he could draw a breath, the man was on
him.

Inconsequentially, even as he fought, Kellin be-
lieved it ironic. He had no coin. All anyone would
get from him was a Cheysuli long-knife; which, he
supposed, was reward enough.

His own breathing was loud, but over his noise
he heard the yowling of the mountain cat and the
clamor of dogs. His concentration was split—for
all he wanted no Hr, he did not desire her to be
killed or injured—which made it that much
harder to withstand his assault.

Booted feet slipped in muck. The alley was nar-
row, twisted upon itself, hidden in deep shadow
because dwellings blocked out much of the moon.
Kellin did not hesitate but grabbed at once for
Blais' knife; massive hands grasped his right arm
immediately and wrenched his hand away from
the hilt. The grip on his arm was odd, but firm
enough; then it shifted. Fingers closed tautly on
flesh, shutting off strength and blood. Kellin's

286 Jennifer Robes-son

hand was naught but a lifeless blob of bone, flesh,
and muscle on the end of a useless arm.

"Ku'resh—"

The grip shifted. A knee was brought up as Kel-
lin's captive forearm was slammed down. The
bones of his wrist snapped easily against the
man's thigh.

Pain was immediate, Kellin's outcry echoed the
frenzy of the mountain cat as she fought off the
dogs. But the attacker was undeterred. Even as
Kellin panted a shocked protest colored by angry
oaths, the stranger wound his fists into the blood-
stiffened doublet. He lifted Kellin from the
ground, then slammed him against the nearest
wall.

Skull smacked stone. Lungs collapsed, expelling
air. A purposeful elbow was dug deeply into Kel-
lin's laboring chest, rummaging imperiously
amidst the wreckage of fragile ribs. Bones gave
way.

He inhaled raggedly and managed a breathless
string of foul words in a mixture of Homanan, Old
Tongue, and Erinnish, depending on the words to
give him something on which he might focus. The
pain was all-consuming, but not nearly so
astounding as the violence of the attack itself.

Sima's screaming echoed in the canyon of
cheek-by-jowl dwellings- A dog yelped, then an-
other; others belled a call to join the attack.

Lir— It was instinctive. He meant nothing by
it. The appeal faded immediately, though not the
knowledge of it.

Kellin sagged against the wall, pinned there by
a massive body. A shoulder leaned into his chest.
His broken wrist remained trapped.

The odd grip tightened, shirting on his forearm.
"First the thumb," the attacker grunted.

There was no air, no air at all—but pain—

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           287

"First the thumb, then the fingers—"

Kellin sucked frantically at air.

"—and lastly, the hand—"

He knew the truth then- "Luce!" Kellin gasped.
"Gods—"

"None here, little princeling. Only me." A grin
split Luce's beard in the pallor of the night. "I'll
hold the hand just so—" He did it one-handed,
while the other snagged the long-knife from Kel-
lin's belt.

One word, no more, "Wait—"

"What? D'ye think to buy me, princeling? No,
not Luce—he's enough coin to last him, and ways
of getting more." Luce's breath stank. He hooked
an elbow up and slammed it into Kellin's jaw. The
back of Kellin's skull smashed against stone wall;

he felt a tooth break from the blow, and weakly
spat out the pieces. Luce laughed. "A love-tap,
nothing more . . . and speaking of that, perhaps I
should make you mine to use as I will—a royal
sheath for my sword—"

Kellin squirmed against the wall. His vision yet
swam from the blow, and he tasted blood in his
mouth. He did not know if it came from the empty
root socket, or was expelled from pierced lungs.

Luce still pinned the broken wrist against the
wall. In the other hand gleamed the knife. He set
the point between Kellin's spread tegs and tapped
cloth-warded genitals. "The Midden's a harsh
place full of desperate people—but Luce would
protect you. Luce would make you his—"

"Sima!" Kellin shouted, spraying blood and des-
peration. In the distance he heard growls and
yelps, and the wailing cry of an infuriated cat.
"Sim—"

But Luce shut it off with a dig of an elbow into
broken ribs. "First the thumb," he said.

288 Jennifer Robersoa

Kellin understood what a lir was for. He had
repudiated his own. What, then, was left?

He hurt very badly. The injuries were serious.
Even if Luce did nothing else, he would probably
die regardless.

Sima had said before she had given him the key.
Now it was his task to open the door again.

Kellin used the pain. He used the pain, the fury,
the frustration, the fear. He feasted on it, and al-
lowed it to fill his spirit until there was nothing
left of the man but the elemental drives to kill,
and to feed.

As the knife came down to sever the thumb from
his hand, the hand was no longer there. In its
place was the flexing paw of a mountain cat.

Fourteen

With a shocked cry. Luce let go. The knife glinted
briefly, then tumbled into muck. Kellin dropped
four-footed to splayed, leathery pads, then twisted
sinuously in the body made for fluid movement,
like water over stone; like runoff in the ancient
cut of a waterfall over sheer cliffs.

He will learn what it means to harm a Cheysuli—
But then the thought spilled away into a jumble
of crazed images tumbled one against another, all
stuck together like layers of leaves adhered one on
top of another, until vision fell out of focus and
no longer mattered at all. What mattered now was
scent and the stink of a frightened man; the sound
of the man's sobbing; the taste of promised
revenge.

The cat who was Kellin reached out. Easily—
so easily!—he slapped a negligent paw across the
giant's thigh. Claws dug in sharply; blood spurted
through rent cloth.

Luce screamed. Thumbless hands clutched at
his bleeding thigh, trying to stanch it. Lazily, exul-
tant in his strength, Kellin reached out again and
slapped at the other meaty thigh so that it, too,
bled. As Luce sobbed and whimpered, he curved
a playful paw around one ankle and dug claws
into bone. With a snarl that warped his mouth
slantways, he jerked the man to the ground. The

289

290 feanffer Roberson

sound of the skull splitting was swallowed by his
snarl.

The noise of the hounds was gone. Tail lashed
anticipation, beating against cold air. Kellin
moved to stand over his meal so no one else could
steal it.

Lir!

Kellin did not listen.

Lir! Do not!

It was easier to frame the feelings, the images,
not the words. His mouth was no longer human.
His response was built of instinct, not the logic of
a man. You want it.

No. No, lir. Leave it. A bleeding Sima was free
of dogs, though some lay dead, others dying, while
another ran off yelping. Leave it.

He challenged her. YOU want it.

No.

I hunger. Here is food. He paused. Are you my
mate?

Come away.

He panted. He drooled. Hunger was paramount,
but pain ate at his spirit. It was easiest to give in,
to let instinct rule a comprehension that was, even
more quickly now, flowing away from him. I hun-
ger. Here is food.

You are man, not cat.

Man? I wear a cat's shape.

You are man. Cheysuli. Shapechanger. You have
borrowed this shape. Give it back. Let the earth
magic have it back. When you have learned the
proper balance, you can borrow the shape again.

He let his tail lash. Who am I, then?"

Kellin. Not cat. Man.

He considered it. / do not feel like a man. THIS
is man, this food here beneath me. Saliva dripped
from his jowls. You want it for yourself.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           291

Come away, she said. You have wounds to be
healed. So have I.

The dogs hurt you?

I have hurts. So do you. Come away, lir. We will
have them healed.

Nearby a door was opened. Someone looked out
into the street. He heard a gabble of voices. He
understood none of the words- Noise, no more; the
noise of puny humans.

He lowered his jaws. Blood, sweat, urine, fear,
and death commingled in a powerful perfume. He
would taste it—

NO. The female was at his side. She leaned a
shoulder into his. Her chin rubbed at his head. If
you would feed here, there will be no choice but to
kill you.

Who would kill me? Who would dare?

Men.

Inner knowledge gloated. They could not accom-
plish it.

She leaned harder, rubbing against his neck.
They could. They would. Come away, lir. You are
badly hurt.

Another door opened. A slash of candlelight
slanted into the street. In its illumination he saw
the dead hounds, the slack hulk of a man. Voices
cried out, full of terror.

Away? he asked. But—the food—

Leave it, she said. There is better elsewhere.

The big cat hurt. His wounds were uncounted,
and untended; he required tending. He went with
her then because the urge to feed had left him. He
felt disoriented and distant, unsure of himself. She
led him away from the alley to another not far
away and found a hidden comer.

Here, she said, nudging at a shoulder.

She was wounded, he saw. Blood spiked the fur
on her spine. He turned to her. tending the bites,

292 Jennifer Robersm

licking to wash the blood away. She had been hurt
by the hounds, torn and tainted by the audacity
of mere beasts who did not know what it was to
be gods-blessed.

Leave it, she said. Remember what you are.

He paused. / am— He checked.

Gold eyes were intent. What are you?

I am—as you see me.

No.

I am—I am—

Remember! she snapped. Recall your knowledge
of self .

He could not. He was what he was.

She leaned against him. He smelled her fear, her
blood. She was alien to him, who did not know
what she was to him. Stay here. You are too badly
wounded to walk. Wait here for me.

It frightened him. Where are you going?

For help. Stay here.

She left him. He crouched against the wall, tail
whipping a counterpoint to the pain in his foreleg,
in his ribs, in his jaws. Licking intensified pain.
He flattened his ears against his head and pulled
back his lips from his teeth in a feral grimace of
pain and fear.

She had left him alone, and now he was
helpless.

Men came. And torches. The big cat shied back,
huddling into a comer as he snarled and growled
a warning. He slitted eyes against the flame and
saw silhouettes, man-shapes holding sticks with
fire blooming from them. He smelled them: they
stank of anticipation, apprehension; the giddy
tang of an excitement nearly sexual, as if they
hoped to mate once the task was done. The odor
was strong. It filled up his nostrils and entered
his head, causing the reflex response that dropped

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS            293

open his jaws. Raspy in- and exhalations as he
scented the men made him sound like a bellows.

Lir. It was the female. Sima. Lir, do not fear.
They have come to help, not harm.

Fire.

They will come no closer, save one. She slunk out
of the blinding light into his slime-coated corner.
Blood crusted across her shoulders; she had run,
and bled again. Let the man come.

He permitted it. He pressed himself against the
wall and waited, one swollen paw dangling.
Breathing hurt. He hissed and shook his head; a
tooth in his jaw was broken.

The man came away from the fire. Kellin could
not judge him by any but a cat's standards: his
hair was silver like frost in winter sunlight, and
his eyes glowed like coals. Metal glinted on naked
arms, bared by a shed cloak despite the winter's
bite.

"Kellin." The man knelt down on one knee, un-
mindful of the muck that would soil his leathers.
"Kellin."

The cat opened his mouth and panted. Pain
caused him to drool.

"Kellin, you must loose the cat-shape. There is
no more need."

The cat rumbled a growl; he could not
understand.

The man sighed and rose, turned back to the
men with flames. He spoke quietly, and they
melted away. Light followed them, so that though
empty of men the corner still shone with a sickly,
frenzied pallor.

The men were gone. In their places was a void,
a blurred nothingness that filled the alley. And
then a tawny mountain cat stalked out of the fad-
ing flame-dazzle with another at his side: a mag-
nificent black female well into her prime. Her

294 Jennifer Robersoa

grace denounced the gangliness of the young fe-
male with Kellin who was, after all, little more
than a cub.

Three mountain cats: two black, one tawny
gold. In his mind formed the images that in hu-
mans would have been speech; to him, now, the
images made promises that they would lend him
required strength, and the healing he needed so
badly.

In their eyes he saw a man. Human, like the
others. His hair was not winter-frost, but black as
a night sky. His eyes were green coals in place of
ruddy or yellow. He did not glint with gold; he
wore no gold at all. He was smooth and sleek and
strong, with the blood running hot in his veins.

Pain blossomed anew. Broken bones protested.

Three cats pressed close. The tawny male
mouthed his neck; Kellin flattened his ears and
lowered his head. He hurt too much to display
dominance postures to one who was clearly much
older and wiser than he.

Come home, the cat said. Come home with me
now.

Kellin panted heavily. In the muck, his pads
were damp with sweat. Weakness overrode cau-
tion. He let them guide his mind until he saw
what "home" meant: the true-body that was his.
Fingers and toes in place of claws. Hair in place
of fur, and smooth, taut flesh too easily bruised by
harsh treatment.

Come home, the tawny cat said, and in its place
was a man with eyes that understood his pain and
the turmoil in his soul. "I have been there," he
said. "My weakness is my fear of small dark places
... I will be with you in this. I understand what
it is to fear a part of yourself over which you have
no control." Then, very softly, "Come home, Kel-
lin- Let the anger go."

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           295

He let it go. Exhaustion engulfed, and a blurred
disorientation. Spent, he slumped against the half-
grown female. She licked at his face and scraped
a layer of skin; human skin, not feline.

Kellin recoiled. He pressed himself into the
stone wall.

"Kellin." Brennan still knelt. Behind him
torches flared. "Shansu, Kellin—it is over."

"I—I—" Kellin stopped. He swallowed hard
against the sour taste of bile. He could frame no
proper words, as if he had lost them in his trans-
formation. "I."

The Mujhar's expression was infinitely gentle. "I
know. Come with me." Brennan paused. "Kellin,
you are hurt. Come with me."

He panted shallowly. He cradled his wrist
against a chest that hurt as much. His legs were
coiled under him so he could rise instantly in a
single upward thrust.

Brennan's hand was on his shoulder.

Kellin tensed. And then it mattered no longer.
He closed his eyes and sagged against the stone.
Tears ran unchecked through grime, perspiration,
and blood old as well as new. He was not
ashamed.

Brennan's hand touched his blood-stiffened hair
softly, tenderly, as if to frame words he could not
say- And then the hand was gone from Kellin's
hair, closing instead on the arm that was whole.
"Come up from there, my lord."

His grandsire had offered him no honor in man-
ner or words for a very long time, nor the deep
and abiding affection that now lived in his tone.

Kellin looked at him. "I am not . . . not . .." He
was still too close to the cat. He wanted to wail
instead of speak. "Am. Not. Deserving .. ." He
tried again in desperation, needing to say it; to
recover the human words. "—not of such care—"

Jennifer Roberson

296

Tears shone in Brennan's eyes. "You are deserv-
ing of many things, not the least of which is care,
Shansu, my young one—we will find a balance for
you. Somehow, we will find a proper balance."

Torchlight streamed closer. Kellin looked be-
yond his grandfather and saw the royal guard.
One of the men was Teague.

Their faces had been schooled to show no emo-
tion. But he had seen it. He had seen them, and
the fear in their eyes as they had looked upon the
cat who had been to all of them before nothing
more than a man.

Kellin shuddered, "I was—I was ..." The wail
was very near. He shut his mouth upon it, so as
to give them no more reason to look upon him
with fear and apprehension.

They were the elite guard of a warrior who be-
came a mountain cat at will. It was not new to
them, who had seen it before. But Brennan was
nothing if not a dignified man of immense self-
control. Kellin was not and had never been a dig-
nified man; self-control was nonexistent. In him,
as a human, they saw an angry man desirous of
shedding blood.

In him now, as a cat, they saw the beast instead.

They know what I have become. What I will al-
ways be to them. It spilled from Kellin's mouth,
accompanied by blood. "Grandsire—help me—"

Brennan did not shirk it. "We will mend the
body first. Then we shall mend the mind."

Fifteen

He was but half conscious, drifting on fading
awareness that told him very little save his
wounds were healed at last, his broken bones
made whole—yet the spirit remained flaccid. He
wanted badly to sleep. Earth magic drained a
man, regardless of which side he walked.

His eyes were closed, sticky lashes resting
against drawn cheeks. Earth magic reknit bones,
but did not dissipate bruises or prevent scarring
from a wound that would otherwise require
stitching. It merely restored enough health and
strength to vanquish immediate danger; a warrior
remade by the earth magic was nonetheless well
cognizant of what had occurred to require it.

Kellin's face bore testimony to the violence done
him. The flesh across the bridge of his nose had
been torn by a thorn; welts distorted his cheeks;

his bottom lip was swollen. He had drunk and
rinsed out his mouth, but the tang of blood re-
mained from the cuts in his lip and the inside of
his cheek.

A hand remained on Kellin's naked shoulder.
Fingertips trembled against smooth, freshly
sponged flesh; Aileen had seen to the washing.
"Shansu," Brennan murmured hoarsely, lifting
the hand. He, too, was drained, for he had under-
taken the healing alone. It would have been better
had there been another Cheysuli to aid him, but

297

298 Jennifer Roberson

Brennan had not dared waste the time to send for
a warrior. He had done the healing himself, and
now suffered for it.

Kellin was dimly aware of Aileen's murmuring-
The Mujhar said something unintelligible, then
the door thumped closed. Kellin believed himself
alone until he heard the sibilance of skirt folds
against one another, the faint slide of thin slipper
sole on stone where the rug did not reach. He
smelled the scent she favored. Her presence was a
beacon as she sat down by his bed.

"She is lovely," Aileen said quietly. "This must
be very much what Sleeta looked like, before she
and Brennan bonded."

He lay slumped on one side with his back to
her- A shoulder jutted skyward. Along his spine
and the curve of his buttocks lay warmth, incredi-
ble warmth; the living bulk of a mountain cat.

Kellin sighed. He wanted to sleep, not speak,
but he owed Aileen something. Into the limp hand
curled against his chin, he murmured, "I would
sooner do without her, lovely or no."

"D'ye blame her, then? For being what you
are?"

It jerked him out of lassitude into startled wake-
fulness. He turned over hastily, thrusting elbows
beneath his spine to lever his sheet-draped torso
upright. "Do you think /—"

"You," Aileen said crisply; she was not and had
never been a woman who deferred, nor did she
now blunt her words because of his condition.
"Are you forgetting, my braw boyo, that I've lived
with a Cheysuli longer than you've been one?"

It took him aback. He had expected sympathy,
gentleness, her quiet, abiding support. What Ai-
leen offered now was something other than that.
"It is because of Sima that I—did that."

"Did what? Killed a man? Two?" Aileen did not

^

!»

299

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

smile. "I'm born of the House of Eagles; d'ye think
the knowledge of killing's new to me? My House
has been to war more times than I can count ...
my birthlines are as bloody as yours." She sat very
straight upon the stool, russet-hued skirts puddled
about slippered feet. "You've killed an Ihlini sor-
cerer, and a Homanan who meant to kill—or
maim—you; as good as dead to the Cheysuli; I
know about kin-wrecking.'' Aileen's tone was
steady, as were her eyes. "The first killing won't
be questioned; he was an Ihlini."

His mouth flattened into a grim, contemptuous
line. "But the other was Homanan."

"Thief or no," she said, "some will call you a
beast."

Memory was merciless. "I was."

"So now you're blaming your lovely lir."

"She is not my lir. Not yet. We are not fully
bonded."

"Ah." Aileen's green eyes narrowed. She looked
more catlike for it, with a fixed and unsettling
stare. "And you're for ending it, are you?"

She read him too easily. Kellin slumped back
onto bolsters and bedclothes. She was due honor
and courtesy, but he was very tired. Bones were
healed, but the body was yet unaware of its im-
proved condition, save the blazing pain was gone.
Stiffriess persisted; after all that had happened in
the space of two days, his resiliency was weak-
ened. Youth could not usurp reality though its
teeth be blunted. "I have no choice. She made me
become—"

"I'm doubting that." Aileen's tone was level, un-
forgiving; she offered no platitudes designed to
ease his soul, but harsher truths instead. "By the
gods, I'm doubting that\ You're the blood of my
blood, Kellin, and I'll not hear a word against you
from others—but / will say what I choose. In this

300 Jennifer Roberson

instance, I hide none of it behind kindness and
love, but tell it to you plainly: you've only yourself
to blame,"

His protest was immediate, if incomplete.
"Me?"

"No Cheysuli warrior alive is without anger,
Kellin. He merely controls it better. You control
nothing at all, nor make any attempt."

He had no time to think, merely the need to fill
the toothed silence yawning between them; to
fight back with words from a heart that was filled
to bursting with despair and desperation: could
she not understand? She was his own blood. "I
did not want to kill them, granddame—at least,
aye, perhaps the Ihlini—he threatened me, after
all!—but not the Homanan, not like that—he was
a thief, aye, and deserving of roughness, but to kill
him like that?" He gestured impatiently, disliking
his incoherency; it obscured the strength of intent.
"Kill him, aye, because he meant to kill me, or
maim me in such a way as to cut me off from my
clan, but I never wanted to kill him—at least, not
as a cat ... as a man, aye—"

"Kellin." She cut him off sharply with voice and
gesture; a quick motion of eloquent hand. It was
a Cheysuli gesture. "If you would listen to what
you just said—or tried to say!—you would under-
stand why it is imperative that you fully accept
your lir,"

All his muscles stood up inside flesh in mute
repudiation. "My lir—or the beast who would be
my lir—has nothing to do with this."

Aileen rose. She was in that moment less his
granddame than the Queen of Homana. "You are
a fool," she declared. "A spoiled, petulant boy
trapped in a man's body, and dangerous because
of it. A boy filled to bursting on anger and bitter-


A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           301

if

ness can do little harm; a man may do more. A
man who is half a beast may do more yet."

"I am not—"

"You are what you are," she said flatly. "What
are we to think? Aye, a man under attack will do
as he must to survive—d'ye think I will excuse a
man who means to kill my grandson?—but a man
such as you, gifted so terribly, can never be a
man."

Gifted so terribly. He had not looked on it as
such. "Grandsire also wears the shape of a cat."

Her mouth was compressed. She permitted her-
self no latitude in the weight of her displeasure.
"No man in all of Homana, not even a Midden
thief, need fear that the Mujhar of Homana would
ever lose himself to the point he sheds his human-
ity and feeds as a beast."

It shook him. Her face was taut and pale; his
own felt worse. He felt it would stretch until the
bones of his skull broke through, shredding thin-
ning flesh, thereby displaying the true architecture
lying too near the surface.'

Human? Or beast? Kellin swallowed heavily. "I
want nothing to do with it. You are not Cheysuli—
surely you can understand how I feel. Does it not
frighten you that the man whose bed you share
becomes a cat at will?"

"I know the man," she said evenly. "I'm not
knowing you at all."

"But—lam/!"

"No. You are a bared blade hungry for blood,
with no hand on its hilt to steady its course."

' * Granddame—"

"He is old," Aileen said, and the cracks of des-
peration in her self-control began abruptly to
show. "He is the Mujhar of Homana, in whose
veins the Old Blood flows, and he serves the
prophecy. There is no doubt in him; what he does,

302 Jennifer Robersoa

he does for the Lion, and for the gods who made
the Cheysuli. What I think does not matter, though
he honors me for it; he does what he must do."
Her hands trembled slightly until she hid them in
skin folds. "How do you think it felt to be given
a tiny infant and told the future of a realm de-
pended on that infant, because the infant's father
was meant for the gods, not men?"

Kellin did not answer. There were no words in
his mouth.

"How do you think it felt for him to realize the
entire fate of Homana and his own race depended
solely on that infant; that there would be no others
to shore up the claim. If that infant died, the
prophecy died with him. Aidan can sire no more."

Beside him, Sima stirred.

"How do you think it has been for him to watch
what you became? To see you waste yourself on
whores, when there is a cousin in Solinde ... to
see you risk yourself in the Midden, when there
are safer games nearby ... to hear you rant about
fatherlessness when he has been a father in every
way but seed, and even then he is your grandsire!
How do you think it feels?"

He wet dry lips. "Granddame—"

Aileen's face was white and terrible. "How do
you think it feels to know that your grandson—
the only heir to the Lion—lacks the balance that
will maintain his humanity; that if he does not
gain it, the beast in him will prevail?" Aileen
leaned close. "He is my husband," she declared.
"He is my man. If you threaten him with this, be
certain you shall suffer."

It shocked him. "Granddame!"

She was not finished. "I wasted too many years
not honoring him enough. That time is past. I will       .,
do what I must do to keep him from destroying       £

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

303

himself because a spoiled, defiant grandson re-
fuses to grow up."

"Granddame, you cannot know—"

"/ know," she said. "I saw his face when he
looked at you. I saw his fear."

The Erinnish possessed his tongue. "I'm not
knowing what to do\"

Aileen stepped close to the bed. Her hand
touched Sima's head. "Be what you are. Be a
Cheysuli warrior. You're in need of the gods' care
more than any man I know."

It filled his mouth before he could prevent it,
lashing out to punish. The question was utterly
unexpected, yet even as he asked it, Kellin knew
he had desired to frame the words for many, many
years. "Does it mean nothing to you at all that
your son repudiates you?"

Color spilled out of her face.

Kellin was appalled. But the words were said;

he could not unsay them. "I only mean—"

"You only mean that he deserted his mother as
well as his son. yet she does nothing?" Aileen's
eyes were a clear, unearthly green, and empty of
tears. "She has not done nothing, Kellin—she has
done everything within her power to convince him
to come home. But Aidan says—said—no, when he
answered my letters at first. He answers nothing
now; he said I need only ask the gods." Her chin
trembled minutely. "He has a powerful faith, my
son—so powerful it blinds him to the needs of
other people."

"If you went there—"

"He forbids it."

"You are his jehana\"

Her fingers folded themselves into her skirts. "I
will not go as a supplicant to my own son. I have
some measure of pride."

"But it must hurt you!"

304 Jennifer Rohersoa

Her eyes dimmed behind a glaze of tears. "As it
hurts you. As it hurts Brennan. We are all of us
scarred by the absence of Aidan."

Cold fury filled Kellin. "And you wonder why I
want nothing to do with a lir, or with the gods!
You have only to look at him, and what obsession
has made of him. I will not be so bound."

"You will be Mujhar one day. That will bind
you even as it does your grandsire."

Kellin shook his head. "That is different- What
kind of a Mujhar risks himself by bonding with an
animal who might be the death of him? Does he
not therefore risk his realm as well—and the
prophecy?"

Aileen's voice was steady. "What is worth hav-
ing if you are naught but a beast, and your people
desire to kill you?"

Sixteen

One hundred and two steps. Kellin counted them
as he climbed down from the Great Hall into the
undercroft of Homana-Mujhar, where the Womb
of the Earth lay within /t'r-warded walls. As a boy
he had gone once with lan, and once with the
Mujhar. He had never gone alone.

Not entirely alone. The cat is with me.

He did not want her there. But she was the rea-
son he went down to the Womb at all.

One hundred and two steps. He stood in a small
closet made of stone and depressed the keystone.
A wall turned on edge, and the Womb lay before
him.

Air was stale, but did not stink of an ending.
The passageway walls were damp-slicked and
shiny. He carried a torch; it smoked and streamed,
shedding fragile light as he put it forward to illu-
minate the Womb.

Kellin tensed, though he knew what to expect;

three visits were not enough to diminish the im-
pact. Lir leapt out of walls and ceiling, tearing
free of stone. They were incredibly lifelike, as if a
sculptor had captured living animals and encased
them in marble rather than carving them. They
stared back at him from hard, challenging eyes:

creamy ivory veined with gold.

The Womb gaped. Its rim was nonexistent in
distorting light, so that he could not see the rune-

305

306 Jennifer Robersoa

worked edge. Only the deeper blackness that
marked its mouth.

Kellin wet drying lips and moved past the Ur-
carved door slowly, holding the torch outthrust so
he did not mistake the footing and tumble to his
death.

But would I die? I am meant to be Mujhar ...
those to be Mujhar can survive the rebirth.

He did not have the courage to accept the
challenge.

Kellin stepped inside. The Womb's maw ex-
panded as the torch, held in an unsteady hand,
illuminated the truth: a perfectly rounded hole
that had accepted men before and refused to give
them a second birth.

"Carillon," he murmured. "The last Prince of
Homana to enter into the Womb and be born in
the shape of a king."

He had learned the histories. He knew his
birthline. Carillon of Homana, the last Homanan
Mujhar.

"After him, Donal. Then Niall. Then—Brennan."
Kellin's jaws tightened. The next should have been
my jehan, had he the courage to understand.

But Aidan had renounced it. Aidan had been a
coward.

Should I leap into the Womb to prove my worthi-
ness? Can I atone for my jehan's weakness with my
own strength? He stared hard at the marble lir. "Is
that what they want?"

No answer. The lir stared back in silence.

Kellin turned and set the torch into a bracket.
Carefully he took three steps to the edge of the
Womb, then squatted down beside it. Buttocks
brushed booted heels. Sore thighs protested, as
did newly knit ribs.

Silence.

Kellin's mouth went dry. In the presence of the

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

307

Lion, he had felt many things. But the Womb was
not the Lion. It spoke to him of a heritage far older
than the Lion's, who was, in the unbiased nature
of measurement, naught but a newmade thing. A
cub to the Womb's adulthood. The walls were
man-made, and the lir carved within stone, but
before men had meddled to glorify what they per-
ceived as the tangible proof of power, there had
been the Womb.

"A gate," Kellin murmured. "How many have
gone through it?"

Movement caught his attention. A black shadow
paced into the vault, then rounded the Womb. It
sat down across from him so that the Womb lay
between, black and impenetrable. Gold eyes threw
back smoky torchlight, opaque and eerily slanted.

Now, she said. Your choice.

He did not speak as a lir. "Is it?"

/; has always been your choice.

"According to the prophecy, there can be no
choice. If a warrior repudiates his tahlmorra, his
service to the prophecy, he is denied the afterlife."

Her tail twitched once, then folded over arched
toes. He had seen housecats sit so; incongruity.
She was not and could never be tame. A man may
turn his back on life after death. It is his right to do
so. It is the price of living.

"To choose how he will live after he is dead?"
Kellin grinned derisively. "I sense obscurity. I
smell the kind of argument that must content my
jehan, who trafficks with the gods. How else could
a man be made to repudiate his son?"

He did not. He answered his tahlmorra. Her tail
twitched again. He created your tahlmorra in the
following of his own.

Kellin frowned. "I mislike oblique speech. Say
what there is to say."

308 Jennifer Robersoa

That it is a warrior's choice to be other than the
gods might prefer him to be.

"And therefore alter the prophecy?"

Your jehan might say that altering of the prophecy
also follows its path.

Kellin swore and sat down upon his rump, let-
ting his heels slide forward. With blatant disre-
gard for proprieties, he dangled both legs into the
void. "You are saying that a man who turns his
back on the prophecy also follows it by that very
repudiation. But how? It makes no sense. If I made
myself celibate and sired no more children, there
would be no Firstborn. How would that serve a
prophecy that exists solely to make another
Firstborn?"

You have already sired children.

He thought about it. So he had. They, too, each
of them, claimed the proper blood. Save for the
final House, the final link in the chain. Kellin drew
in a deep breath. "If I went to Solinde and found
myself an Ihlini woman with whom I could bear
to lie and got a child upon her, the task is finished.
The prophecy complete."

Sima's tail twitched. She offered no answer.

"I could do it tomorrow, if I decided to. Leave.
Go to Solinde. Find myself a woman, and end this
travesty."

Sima displayed her teeth. No one ever said it
would be difficult.

Kellin exploded. "Then if it is so easy to do—"
But he let it trail off. "The blood. It comes to that.
lan lay with Lillith and sired Rhiannon. Rhiannon
lay with my grandsire and bore—who? A daugh-
ter? The one who in turn lay with Lochiel and
bore him the daughter with whom I shared a cra-
dle?" Kellin hitched his shoulders. "And who, no
doubt, would be the unlikehest woman with
whom I should be matched—and therefore is, in

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

309

the perversity of the gods, the very woman they
intend for me to lie with. To sire the proper son.
Cynric, the Firstborn.'"

Sima held her silence.

The image was vivid before him. "Lochiel will
geld me. He will show the woman to me—or,
rather, me to her—and then he will geld me! So
that I know, and she knows, how very close we
came—and how superior the Ihlini are despite our
Cheysuli gifts."

Sima bent her head and licked delicately at a
paw.

"No answer?" Kellin asked. "No commentary?
But I believed the lir were put here to aid their
warriors, not obfuscate the truth."

The cat lowered her paw. She stared directly at
him across the black expanse of the Womb. Feral
gold eyes dominated the darkness. / am not your
lir. Have you not declared it? Have you not re-
nounced me as your jehan renounced you?

Had he? Had he?

A lirless warrior was destined to go mad. A lirless
Cheysuli was not a warrior at all. A lirless Cheysuli
could never be Mujhar. Could never hold the Lion.
Could never sire the Firstborn because the Chey-
suli would look to another.

A solution presented itself. An answer to the
questions.

Kellin shuddered once- Sweat ran down his tem-
ples and stung the scratches on his face. Breathing
was shallow, though the ribs now were healed. A
flutter filled his belly, then spilled to genitals.

He swallowed painfully because his throat was
dry and tight. He pressed both hands against cold
stone on either side of his thighs. Fingertips left
damp marks. Within the link, he said, Let the gods
decide.

Jeaaifer Robersoa

310

Kellin, prince of Homana, thrust himself into
the Womb.

No top. No bottom. No sides.

No beginning, nor an ending.

Merely a being.

Kellin bit his lips bloody so he would not
scream. It would diminish him to scream. Such
noise would dishonor the gods.

Gods? What did he know of gods? They were,
he had said, little more than constructs invented
by men who desired to rule others, to keep lesser
men contained so that they maintained the power.

Gods. His father worshiped them. Jehan, father,
sire . .. there were so many words. None of them
made sense. Nothing at all made sense to a man
who leapt into the Womb.

The only sense in such folly was the search for
sense, so he might understand what manner of
man he was and what he was meant to be in the
context of the gods.

Gods. Yet again.

If he renounced them, if he repudiated them,
would they permit him to die?

If there were no gods, then surely he was dead.

Kellin fell. There was no bottom. He did not
scream at all.

What were the Cheysuli but children of the
gods? It was what the word meant.

Upon such unflagging faith was a race made
strong, so others could not destroy it.

Men who had nothing in which to believe soon
believed in Nothing. Nothing destroyed a man.
Nothing destroyed a race.

Was Nothing, then, a demon?

Belief replaced Nothing. Belief destroyed the
demon.

The Cheysuli were, if nothing else, a dedicated

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           311

race. Once a thing made sense within the context
of their culture, belief was overriding. Belief was
their champion; it overwhelmed Nothing so the
demon died of disuse, of DisBelief.

In the Womb, Kellin laughed. What had Sima
said as Kellin looked upon flesh-bound wrists?
"You believe too easily in what the Ihlini tells you
to. His art is illusion. Banish this one as you ban-
ished the Lion."

Illusion was another's successful attempt to
make a man believe in something that did not
truly exist. The key to banishing illusion was to
disbelieve.

Corwyth, and other Ihlini, had tried very hard
to make the Cheysuli disbelieve in the prophecy.

The Ihlini disbelieved. Teirnan and the a'saii
had—and did—disbelieve. And if disbelief could
defeat illusion, and yet the prophecy survived, was
it therefore a true thing, a thing with substance?

Or was it simply that the Cheysuli who believed
in it believed 50 strongly that the weight of their
faith, the contents of their spirits, destroyed the
disbelief?

The champion of the gods, called Belief, de-
stroyed the demon whose true-name was
DisBelief.

Kellin cried out in the confines of the Womb: "I
do not understand.'"

History rose up. So many lessons learned. The
hours and days and weeks and months Rogan had
spent with him, laboring to instruct so that Kellin
comprehended the heritage of the races he
represented-

He could name all his races, all the Houses in
his blood. They were each of them necessary.

So was it necessary for him to have a lir; to
renounce the bond was to renounce his very self
and the legacy of the blood.

312 Jennifer Robersw

A ^rfcs-s Cheysuli had hurled himself into the
Womb. He had placed his fate within the hands
of the gods.

Kellin's shout echoed: "Tahlmorra lujhalla mei
wiccan, cheysu!"

He had invited them to decide. If a man did not
believe, would he risk himself so? If DisBelief
ruled him, he would therefore commit suicide by
issuing such a challenge, for a challenge with no
recipient was no challenge at all but the sub-
stanceless defiance of an ignorant child.

Suicide was taboo.

Paradox, Kellin thought: Suicide was taboo, yet
a Hrless Cheysuli undertook the death-ritual. His
sojourn in the forest was meant to find his death
however it chose to take him; it was nothing else
but suicide, though a man did not stab himself, or
drink poison knowingly.

He died because of beasts. He died as prey to
predator, as meat for the gods' creatures.

From flesh-colored clay in the hands of the gods,
a man became meat.

The Wheel of Life turned so that the clay was
fired in the kiln of the gods and set upon the earth
to live as the clay willed. Believing or
DisBelieving.

Kellin understood.

"Y'ja'hai!" he shouted.

Clay without the blood of a lir was nothing but
colorless powder. Unmixed. Unmade. Never
thrown upon the Wheel.

Kellin understood.

Kellin Believed.

The image of Sima's face flashed before blind
eyes.

"I accept," he said. "Y'ja'hai." Then, desper-
ately, "Will you accept me?"

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS

313

The words rang in his head. Ja'hai-na, she said.
Y'ja'hai.

The /fr-link meshed, locked, sealed itself to-
gether. Nothing could break it now but the death
of warrior or lir.

That knowledge no longer mattered to Kellin.
He was whole. He was Cheysuli.

The Womb of the Earth was fertile. The Jehana
gave birth once again after nearly one hundred
years, to suckle the newbom man upon the bosom
of his tahlmorra.

The Prince of Homana would one day become
Mujhar.

He roused to torch-smudged darkness and the
gaze of marble lir. He lay sprawled on his back
with arms and legs splayed loosely, without pur-
pose or arrangement, as if a large negligent hand
had spilled him from its palm onto the vault floor.

He thought perhaps one had.

"Lir?" He gasped it aloud, because before he had
refused to honor her in -the link. "Sima?" And
then, scraping himself up from the floor, he
wrenched his body sideways, to grasp frenziedly
at the cat who sat quietly by the hole into which
he had pushed himself. Lir? This time in the link,
so there was no room for doubt. There would
never be doubt again. He would not permit it;

could not allow himself—

Sima blinked huge eyes.

He scrabbled to her on awkward knees, needing
to touch her fur; requiring to touch the body that
housed the blazing spirit. Lir? Lir?

Sima yawned widely to display fearsome fangs.
Then she shook her head, worked wiry whiskers,
and rose. She padded all of two steps, pressed her
head into his shoulder, then butted him down. She
was ungentle; she wanted him to acknowledge the

314 Jennifer Roberson

power in her body despite its immaturity. She was
lir, after all; far superior to cat.

He could say nothing but her name. He said it
many times despite the fur in his mouth as she
leaned down upon him; despite the weight on his
chest as she lay down across him; despite the
warping of his mouth as her tongue reshaped his
lips.

Lir—lir—lir. He could not say it enough.

Sima kneaded his shoulders. Smugly, she said,
Better now than never.

While the tears ran down his face.

Seventeen

Kellin clattered down the stairs to the first floor,
intent on his destination. Behind him came Sima,
glossy in mid-morning light; gold eyes gleamed.
Daily her gangliness faded and was replaced by a
burgeoning maturity, as if full bonding had at last
loosed the vestiges of cubhood. She would one
day, Kellin believed, rival Sleeta for size and
beauty.

A month ago you would not have considered it,
she told him.

A month ago I was lirless, and therefore lacked a
soul. What man without a soul can acknowledge his
lir's promise?

Within the link, she laughed. How we have
changed in four weeks!

He left behind the staircase and strode on
toward the entryway. Some would argue I have not
changed at all; that I still frequent taverns—

But not those in the Midden.

No, but taverns all the same—

And the women in them?

Kellin grinned; its suddenness startled a passing
serving-woman, who dropped into an awkward,
red-faced curtsy even as he went by- 7s there some-
thing you have neglected to tell me? Is there more to
a link between warrior and female lir than I have
been led to believe?

That is vulgarity, lir.

31S

Jennifer Roberson

316

Of course it is. You had best get used to it. No one
has ever argued for my kindness and decency—have
you not heard the stories?

Sima padded beside him, bumping a shoulder
into his knee. / need hear nothing, lir. What you are
is in your mind.

So I gave up privacy when I linked with you.

She yawned. When a warrior bonds with a lir, he
no longer desires privacy.

It was true. He shared everything with Sima,
save the intimacy his vulgarity implied. And while
she did not climb into the bed he shared with a
woman, she nonetheless was fully aware of what
passed within it; she merely curled herself on the
floor and slept—or pretended to. Kellin had gotten
used to it, though he supposed there was gossip
exchanged regarding a certain perverse affinity for
a mountain cat as onlooker; and he was not cer-
tain he disapproved. Let them wonder about him.
He would sooner be of interest than taken for
granted, as he believed the Mujhar was.

"Kellin! Kellin?" It was Aileen, silver threads
more evident in fading hair. "Have you a
moment?"

He paused as she came down the corridor.
"Now?" He displayed the warbow he carried, and
the suede quiver full of white-fletched arrows. "I
was bound for a hunt with my watchdogs." Kellin
grinned. "They require activity. Of late I bore
them, now I am reformed."

Aileen arched an ironic eyebrow. "You are not
'reformed,' my lad, merely diverted. And 'twill only
take a moment; a letter has come from Hart. Bren-
nan wants you in the solar."

"Bad news?"

Aileen touched a fingertip to her upper lip. "I'm
thinking not," she said neutrally, "depending on
point of view."

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS            317

"On point of—" His suspicions blossomed as he
saw the glint in green eyes. "Gods—'tis Dulcie,
isn't it? Grandsire's put off Hart long enough,
waiting for me to measure up ... and now that he
believes I've done it, he begins a discussion about
marriage!"

"There was discussion of it a decade ago," she
reminded him. " 'Tis nothing new, and should not
surprise you. You are both well-grown."

He put up a silencing hand. "Enough. I will go.
Will you send word to the watchdogs I will be
delayed?"

" 'Tis sent," Aileen said. "Now, go to Brennan.
Whatever complaint you have to make is better
made to him."

"Aye. You argued against the marriage that de-
cade ago." Kellin sighed. "But now you are for it,
undoubtedly; catch the feckless warrior before he
becomes less malleable."

"You are not now and never will be malleable,"
Aileen retorted, "merely occasionally less inclined
to defy." She pointed. "Go."

Kellin went.

The solar was less bright now that the sun had
moved westward, but displayed no shadows. The
Mujhar sat in his usual chair with his legs
propped on a stool and a wine cup in his hand.
Against his thigh rested a creased, wax-weighted
parchment held down by a slack hand-

The door stood ajar. Kellin shouldered it open
more fully and crossed the threshold, tapping rat-
tling arrows against one knee. "So, I am to be
wed. This year, or next? In Homana, or Solinde?"

Brennan smiled. He showed more age now; the
healing of his grandson had left its mark. "Have
you no objection?"

"A mouthful, but you will hear none of them."

318 Jennifer Robersoa

Kellin tapped arrows again as he halted before his
grandsire. "What does Hart say?"

"That there is no sense in putting off what must
be done."

"How cognizant of tenderness is my great-uncle
of Solinde." Kellin sighed. "I suppose it must,
then. To link Houses, and bloodlines .. . and no
doubt beget the child who will fulfill the proph-
ecy." Irony spilled away. "Neither of us has a
choice, grandsire. Neither Dulcie, nor me. Like
you and granddame; like Niall and Gisella; Uke
Donal and Aislinn."

"Nor did Carillon and Solindish Electra,
through whose blood comes the proper match."
Brennan's mouth twisted- "So many years, so
many marriages—all designed to bring us to this
point."

"Not to this point, surely; to the birth, grand-
sire. Wedding Dulcie means nothing at all to the
gods, only the son born of the union." Kellin ges-
tured with the warbow. "Have it carved in stone,
if you will, like the Hr within the Womb: Kellin of
Homana shall wed Dulcie of Solinde, and so beget
the Firstborn."

Brennan's fingers creased soiled parchment.
"Left to your own devices—"

Kellin took it up. "Left to my own devices, I
would doubtless waste my seed on a dozen differ-
ent whores for the rest of the month, then turn to
a dozen more." He shrugged. "Does it matter? I
have known since I was ten it would come to this
... Dulcie knew it, too. It may as well have been
settled as we soiled our royal wrappings; there
never was a chance we could look another way."

"No," Brennan conceded. "We are so very close,
Kellin—"

"Then be done with it. Have her come here, or
I will go there. I do not care." He waved bunched

A TAPcsmv w LHMS         319

arrows. "Write it now, if you will. Let me be about
my hunt. My watchdogs wait."

Brennan's mouth compressed though the faint
displeasure engendered by flippancy was less pro-
nounced than resignation. "Be about it, then. I
will have this sent tomorrow."

Glumly, Kellin nodded. "My last hunt in
freedom."

Brennan barked a laugh. "I doubt Dulcie will
curtail your hunting, Kellin! She is very much
Hart's daughter, in spirit as well as tastes."

"Why? Does she wager? Well, then, perhaps we
will make a match of it after all." But levity faded
in the face of his future now brought so near. Kel-
lin shrugged. "It will do well enough. At least she
is half Cheysuli; she will understand about Sima."

"Indeed," Brennan said gravely; a glint in his
eye bespoke the irony of the statement because
but four weeks before Sima was sheer impediment
rather than half of Kellin's soul.

Kellin, who knew it; who saw the look in his
grandsire's eye and colored under it. lifted his
arrows. "I will help replenish the larder." Erinn
slid into his words. " 'Twill take a day or two—
don't be expecting me back before then." He
grinned, "And aye, I'll be taking my watchdogs;

they'll be hunting as well!"

Spring had arrived fitfully, turning snow to
slush, slush to mud, then freezing it all together
in a brief defiant spasm before resolving itself to
its work. Kellin felt an affinity for the season as
he rode out with Teague and the others; now more
than ever he longed to remember winter, because
then there had been no cause to concern himself
with a wife.

"Cheysula," he muttered.

320 Jennifer Roberson

Teague, next to him on a red roan, lifted inquisi-
tive brows. "What?"

Kellin repeated the word. "Old Tongue," he
said, "for 'wife.' "

"Ah." Teague understood at once. "That time at
last, is it?"

Kellin knew the incident in the Midden tavern
had sealed their friendship, though Teague was
careful to keep a distance between them so famil-
iarity did not interfere with service. The others
also had relaxed now that their lord was easier in
himself; he knew very well the prevailing opinion
was that Sima had worked wonders with the
prince's temperament. For all he had initially dis-
turbed them the night he was trapped in cat-form,
they did not in any way indicate residual fear.

"That time," he agreed glumly. "I hoped it
might wait a year or two more—or three, or
four—"

"—or five?—"

"—but they'll not wait any longer. I'll be wed
before summer, I'll wager."

Teague laughed. "Then you know nothing of
women, my lord. She will be wanting an elaborate
wedding with all the Houses of the world invited
so they can bring her gifts."

KelUn considered it. "She did not appear to be
much concerned for such things when I saw her
last."

"How old was she?"

"Twelve?" He shrugged. "Or thirteen; I have
lost track."

The young watchdog grinned. "Then she'll be
Just the age to demand such elaboration! You will
not escape, my lord. But it offers you respite; it
will take at least until next winter to prepare for
such a feast!"

Kellin slanted a glance at Sima across one

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             321

shoulder. "I do not know which is worse: wedding
immediately with little ceremony—" he turned
back to guide his mount, "—or putting it off a year
so that so much can be made of it!"

One of the others joined in: a man named Ennis,
who was Teague's boon companion. "Better now
than tomorrow," he offered. "That way we can be
done with our duty that much the sooner."

Kellin looked at him blankly.

Ennis grinned. "Do you think the Princess of Ho-
mana will desire our company?"

He had not considered that. Perhaps his mar-
riage would offer him respite from the watchdogs,
but Kellin was not convinced trading one for the
other would prove so good a thing.

They left Mujhara and headed directly north,
toward the woods that fringed the road. Because
not so many people traveled the North Road,
hunting was better. It did not take long for Kellin
and his watchdogs to flush game. He hung back
slightly, letting the Homanans do much of the
work, and waited until they were so caught up in
chasing down a hart that they forgot about him
entirely.

Satisfied, he glanced down at Sima. Now we can
test it.

She fixed him with an unwavering stare. Best to
know now what the last four weeks have wrought.

Kellin dismounted and dropped reins over a
limb thrust slantwise from a tree. He left the
horse, quiver, and warbow and walked farther
into the woods, conscious of the anticipatory flut-
ter in his belly.

Be not so fearful, Sima suggested, following on
his heels. We have time.

How much? he asked uneasily. What should hap-
pen if, driven to anger in the midst of political tur-

322 JeoaiCer Kobersoa

moil, I forget my human trappings and become
nothing more than a beast?

Time, she repeated. What turmoil is there to be?
You are prince, not king. You matter little yet for the
turmoil to involve you.

A humbling reminder. Kellin sighed and beat
his way through brush to a small clearing, then
closed his hand on the wolf's-head pommel of
Blais' knife. "Strength," he murmured, invoking
his kinsman's memory. "You had your share of it,
and of courage; lend a measure to me."

Sima pressed against one knee, then flowed
away to take up position nearby. She sat with tail
tucked over toes, ear-tufts flicking minutely. You
have learned much in four weeks.

Kellin rubbed at too-taut shoulders, trying to
ease the tension. / have learned advice in four
weeks. The doing yet remains, and that is what I
fear.

Be what you are, Sima said. Kellin. That is all
you can be, regardless of your shape.

"More," he said. "I was more, twice."

Sima blinked. That was before.

"Before you?" He grinned. "Aye, and therefore
did not count; I was lirless, and unblessed."
Humor spilled away. "Well enough- Let us see
what I become when I trade my shape for
another."

He squeezed the hilt once more, then let his
hand fall away. With careful deliberation Kellin
detached himself from the moment and let his
awareness drift from the here and now to the there,
with no sense of time, where the magic resided
deep in the earth.

Power pulsed. At first it was coy, caressing his
awareness so he knew it was there for the taking,
then flowing away to tease him yet again with
insubstantiality.

A TAPESTRY OF Lio/vs            323

It was frustrating. Sima—

Yours to do, she told him.

He concentrated. Power flirted, seduced; he
wanted it very badly. His body rang with tension
that was almost sexual, an intense and abiding
need- He let himself go into it until awareness of
self became awareness of need, of what would sat-
isfy him, and then Power uncovered itself like a
woman shedding draperies and let him touch it.

—different—

It was. Before he had merely thought of the
beast, neglecting to recall that he was a man with
a man's distinct needs. The beast had overtaken
all that was man, until he was helpless and un-
aware, beaten down from his humanity into ani-
mal instinct. This time he knew. His name was
Kellin, not cat, and he was a man, A fully bonded
Cheysuli warrior who had recourse to the magic
that lived in the womb of the earth.

He touched it. It set his fingertips atingle.

Kellin, he whispered. Man, not cat—but lend me
the shape, and I will do it honor.

Senses flared- Images broke up his mind. No
longer human images of a human world, but the
patterns of a cat.

Am I—?

Not yet, Sima said. There is more yet to be done.

More- He did not know more.

He fell. He was in the Womb again, empty of
everything save a vague but burning awareness
that he was a man who desired, but briefly, to give
his human form to the earth so he might, for only
a while, walk the world as a cat.

Not so much to ask.

Vision exploded. His eyes were open, but he saw
nothing save a disorientation so great it threat-
ened equilibrium. Kellin thrust out a staying hand
intended to hold him upright, but it broke through

324 Jennifer Robersoa

the crust of the earth and sank deep into the river
of Homana's Power.

Earth magic. There for the taking.

Kellin took it.

There, Sima said. Not so difficult after all.

Smells engulfed, replacing reliance on sight. In
cat-form, Kellin exulted.

Let us run, Sima suggested- Let us run as cats,
so you know what it is to honor the gods.

He did not think much of gods. But in this form,
filled with the glory of /fr-shape, Kellin could not
protest.

If it was gods who were responsible, he would
honor them.

Eighteen

Kellin ran through the sun-dappled forest with
Sima at his shoulder, lovely, magnificent Sima—
no other warrior's lir was half so beautiful!—and
took joy in the pure, almost sensual freedom the
cat-shape gave him. He explored it as he ran,
marking the differences within his brain, yet the
samenesses as well- His awareness of self was un-
changed despite the body's alteration; he knew
perfectly well he was a man in a borrowed form
that would, when he chose, be exchanged once
again for the proper body. There was no division
in his soul other than that his awareness permit-
ted; he did not wish himself one or the other. He
simply was what he was: a Cheysuli warrior with
magic in his blood, who could, when he desired
to, become a mountain cat-

You see? Sima asked.

Kellin exulted. He believed he understood him-
self at last, and the needs that lived in his soul;

he could control himself in this shape as easily as
he could in human form. He need only remember,
to keep alive the spark of self-knowledge that re-
called he was Kellin, and human, so as not to tip
the balance from Ur-shape into beast form.

Not so difficult. His muscled body stretched,
fluid in graceful motion, stronger by far than the
human shape. She has taught me much in the past
weeks. I understand better. I understand what it is.

32S

326 Jennifer Robersoa

Sima interrupted. A stag. Just ahead. Fit for
Homana-Mujhar?

He saw it; it was. A fine, huge stag with a mag-
nificent rack of antlers.

Kellin slowed, then stilled even as Sima did.
The stag stood unmoving, poised in a patch of sun-
light. Flanks heaved from exertion; was he prey to
someone's hunt?

Kellin did not care. The stag was theirs, now,
and indeed fit for Homana-Mujhar. He was large
and would no doubt prove difficult to take down,
but there were two of them. Together they could
manage it.

First leap to you, Kellin said.

Sima was pleased. She crouched even as he did,
tail barely twitching at the tip. She tensed in a
perfect stillness, tufted ears motionless.

Now— She was instantly in motion: a black,
sleek blur that sprang effortlessly from the ground
and hurled herself through the air.

Sima screamed. For an instant Kellin pinned
tufted ears, wondering why she would startle the
stag into flight and risk losing the prey, then saw
the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from
her flank as she twisted in midair and fell.

She screamed again, and so did he. Her pain
was his own, and the shock that consumed her
body. She was down, twisting to bite frenziedly at
the shaft.

Kellin heard a human voice shouting in fear and
horror. A man burst through the bushes on foot.
His face was drained; when he saw both cats, his
horror was redoubled- "My lord! My lord, I did
not mean it! It was the stag—the arrow was loosed
before I saw her!"

The /ir-link was alive with Sima's pain. Kellin
shuddered with it, and the hair along his spine
stood up straight. The shout of rage that issued

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            327

from his throat was not that of a man, but of the
beast instead.

The arrow in Sima's flesh dug deeply into his
own. Pain, shock, and weakness merged into fury,
and the comprehension of hideous truth: his lir
was dying; so, then, was he.

Kellin screamed, and leapt.

The man thrust up a warding arm, but made no
effort to draw the knife that might have saved his
life. His mouth warped open in horror, but he did
not move. It was as if he did not believe that his
Cheysuli lord, though bound now by /ir-shape,
would ever truly harm him.

The man went down beneath the cat and gave
up his life in an instant. He did not even cry out
as the throat was torn from his body.

Other men burst from the trees on horseback
and drew up in a ragged, abrupt halt that set
horses' mouths to gaping and men to swearing.
Kellin dared them to attack. He stood over the
prey and dared them to take it.

The keening scream welted in his chest and
burst from his throat. Their faces twitched and
blanched. None of them moved.

"Teague," one said, though the word made little
sense. "Gods—he has killed TeagueV

Sima panted behind him. Kellin turned his drip-
ping head and saw her sprawled on her right side,
feathered shaft buried deep in her left flank. It
bore the Mujhar's colors, and the richer crimson
of her blood.

She panted. Her tongue lolled- The gold eyes
dimmed.

Lir! Kellin cried.

She was beyond speech. He felt only her fear
and pain and the bewildered questioning of what
had happened.

Anger burned fiercely. Kellin swung back to the

328 Jeaaifer Roberson

others and took a single step toward them. Horses
snorted uneasily; one jibbed at the bit.

"My lord," a man said; his hands shook on the
reins. A companion broke and ran, then a third,
then a fourth. The one who had named the prey
remained behind. "My lord," he said again, and
his young face twisted in a mingling of shock and
outrage, "Do you even know whom you have
killed?"

Kellin tried to say it: "The man who nearly killed
Sima!" But none of the words came out. Only a
keening growl.

"He was your friend!" the Homanan shouted,
tears filling his eyes. "Or now that you are a beast,
do you only count them as friends?" In his anger,
the young man drew his knife and threw it to the
ground. "There! You may have it. I want none of
it! I forswear my service; I renounce my rank. I
want nothing to do with a prince who kills his
friends, for assuredly he is not the man I want as
my king!" He scrubbed hastily at his face- "The
Mujhar is a man I honor, but I owe you nothing.
I give you nothing; I am quit of royal service as of
this moment!"

Kellin could not form the words. With effort he
beat back the pain within the link, the knowledge
of Sima's condition, and concentrated long enough
to banish the shape that prevented communica-
tion. Human-form came quickly, too quickly; he
stumbled to his knees, bracing himself upright
with one hand thrust into deadfall. "Wait—" he
blurted,

"Wait? Wait?" It was Ennis; Kellin's human
eyes recognized him now. "For what? So you may
change again, and tear out my throat?" Ennis's
grief was profound. "He was my friend, my lord.
We grew up together, and now you have killed

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            329

him. Do you expect me to wait while you fashion
an explanation?"

"Sima—" Kellin panted. He hung there on
hands and knees, then scrubbed haphazardly at
his bloodied face. "My lir—in her pain, I could not
stop." Sima's pain still ruled him, though now he
was a man. Breathlessly he insisted, "He attacked
her! What else was I to do? Permit him to kill her?
Then he kills me!"

"He wanted the stag, my lord! None of us saw
the cat." Ennis reined in his restive horse. His an-
guished face was twisted. "Will you permit me,
my lord, to recover the body? I would prefer to
give it a proper burial before you decide to eat it!"

Disorientation faded. The link remained strong,
as did the pain contained within it, but Kellin was
no longer a cat and he felt Sima's pain another
way. He understood the difference between her
senses and his own.

A man dead? By his doing? Still weak from the
abruptness of his shapechange, Kellin turned awk-
wardly and saw the body sprawled in deadfall; the
torn and bloodied throat. He recognized the man,
acknowledged the handiwork. In that moment he
fully comprehended what he had done. "NO!"

"Aye," Ennis retorted. "You have blood on your
mouth, my lord; royalty or not, you cannot hide
the truth from a man who has seen the Prince of
Homana murder an innocent man."

Nearby, Sima panted. Blood matted her flank.

Brief concentration broke up in response to re-
newed pain. The link was filled with it, stuffing
Kellin's head. He could think of nothing else but
his lir. "Sima—"

"May I take the body?" Ennis persisted. "You
may find another dinner,"

Teague. It was Teague. He had killed Teague.

330 Jennifer Robersoa

Lir? Sirna's tone was weak. Lir, you must heal
me. Waste no time.

"Will you permit me the leave to take my friend
back?" Ennis asked.

Now, Sima said. Her tongue lolled from her
mouth. Lir—

Teague was dead. Sima was dying. No doubt at
that moment Ennis would prefer his prince died
also, but Kellin could not give in merely to please
him. He would not permit the travesty to go forth.

"Take him," he rasped, moving toward the cat,
thinking only of the cat so he could avoid the
truth. "Take him to my grandsire."

Ennis blurted a laugh that was profound in its
anguish. "Be certain I shall! The Mujhar shall be
told of this. He needs to know what manner of
beast is his heir."

The tone flayed. "Go!" Kellin shouted. "It is a
matter of balance—I have no control! It you would
live, take Teague and go!" He knelt down at
Sima's side- What am 1 to do? How do I heal you?

You are Cheysuli, she said. Rely on that which
makes you a warrior, and use it to heal me.

The instructions he found obscure, but her con-
dition alarmed him. It was all he could do not to
fling back his head and howl his fear and pain.
"Magic," he panted. "Gods—give me the magic."

He was Cheysuli. The power came at his call.

When it was done, Kellin came awake with a
snap and realized in his trance he tread close to
sleep, or to collapse. His bloodied hands were yet
pressed against Sima's side, but the arrow was
gone. He saw a few bits of feathers lying on the
ground with the arrowhead itself, but the shaft
was gone, as if burned to ash.

The breath came back into his lungs all unex-
pectedly, expanding what had collapsed, refilling

A TAPESTRY OF Lf OPUS            331

what was empty. He coughed painfully. The world
slid sideways; braced arms failed and spilled him
to the ground, so that he landed flat upon his
spine. The back of his skull thumped dully against
leaf-strewn ground.

Sima stirred next to him. The healing is com-
plete. You have done well.

He could not so much as open his eyes. Had I
not, we would both be bound for the afterlife. I was
not in so much of a hurry.

Nor I. She shifted closer yet, pressing the
warmth of her body against his right side. The
magic drains a man. There is balance in that, also
... we have time, lir. No need to move at once.

He did not much feel like moving ever, let alone
at once. Kellin sighed, welcoming the coolness of
the deadfall beneath him. His itching face felt
crusted. He longed to scratch it, but to do that
required him to move a hand. It was too much to
attempt.

Lir. Sima again, resting her chin upon his shoul-
der. / am sorry for the man.

"What m—" He broke off. Kellin thrust himself
to hands and knees and hurled himself over, to
look, to seek, to reassure himself that none of it
was true.

Teague's body was gone, but bloodied leaves
and hoofprints confirmed the truth Kellin desired
to avoid. Teague indeed had died, and Ennis had
carried him home.

Kellin touched his crusted face with fingers that
shook. Teague's blood.

"Gods," he choked aloud, "why do you permit
this?"

Lir. Sima rose, butted at an arm. Lir, it is done.
It cannot be undone.

"I killed—" He could not voice it, could not
find the words. "I killed Teague—"

332 Jennifer Roberson

Reflex, she told him. A cat, to protect himself,
strikes first. You struck to protect me.

"Teague," Kellin mouthed.

Even the comfort of the ft'r-link was not enough.

He had killed a man who was not an Ihlini, not
a thief, not an enemy.

/ have killed a friend.

Kellin sank down- to the ground and pressed his
face against it, unmindful of bloodied leaves.

/ have killed a friend.

He recalled Teague's presence in the Midden
tavern where Luce held sovereignty, and how the
Homanan had aided him. How Teague had, of
them all, not looked upon him as a beast the night
he had nearly killed Luce because Teague had a
better understanding of what lived in his lord's
mind,

I swore to have no friends because I lost them
all—because they all died .. . and now when I let
one come close again after so much time, I kill him
MYSELF—

He wound rigid hands into his hair and knotted
them there, then permitted himself to shout as a
man might shout to declare his grief and torment.

But the sound, to Kellin, was naught but a
beast's wail.

Nineteen

It was demonstrably obvious, when Kellin reached
Homana-Mujhar, that Ennis and the others had
carried word before him. The horse-boy who took
his mount did so with eyes averted and led the
horse away quickly, not even waiting for his cus-
tomary coin- Off-duty men gathered before the
guardhouse in the bailey fell silent as Kellin
walked by them, breaking off conversation to stare
from the corners of their eyes- They measured
him, he knew; they looked for the proof in his face,
in his clothing, in the expression in his eyes-

What do they see?

He had washed the blood from face and hands,
and scrubbed at his jerkin? He believed no blood-
stains 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 sug-
gest 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

333

334 Jennifer Roberson

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 Chey-
suli warrior?

Sima bumped his leg. / am with you.

No. Kellin paused. This is for me to face alone.
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 grate-
ful 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 empti-
ness 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

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           33S

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 /ir-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 /ir-shape encounters all of the
pain his lir does. It—affects—him."

"I do know it," Brennan agreed. "But a warrior

336 Jennifer Roberson

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 in-
tend 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 mis-
take, an unfortunate circumstance you could not
avoid."

"It was!"

"Yet when Teague makes a mistake, you re-
spond by killing him." Brennan's face was taut.
"Tell me where the difference lies. Why is one mis-
take excused—because you are a prince?—while
one results in murder?"

"I—" Kellin swallowed heavily. "I could not
help myself."

A TAPESTRY OF LSONS            337

"In /ir-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 ritu-
als for Teague, and his family to tend, and i'toshoa-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."

338 JeaaSfer Robersoa

"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 flour-
ish; the two realms remained at war. But that
would not cause the birth of the qu'mahlin, which
was a strictly Homanan-Cheysuli conflict."

"Shaine's pride was such that he declared them
attainted, subject to punishment."

"That is pan 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 Ho-
mana against it."

Kellin waited for more. Nothing more was said.
"Aye," he agreed at last. "But Shaine was a mad-

man-

"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 Clan-

339

A TAPESTRY OF LSOIVS

keep as well. "He said we were demons and sor-
cerers 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 /ir-shape? He is, to them, night-
mare; 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

340 Jennifer Roberson

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 /ir-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 under-
stand 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. "Banish-
ment, then."

"The Council has approved."

Kellin winced.

"It is not a permanent thing. You will be per-
mitted 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 com-

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           341

passion. "It has happened before. My own jehan
grew weary of the excesses of his sons, and ban-
ished 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 Ai-
leen, "—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."

"l/narrange 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 noth-
ing else but the tahlmorra meant for him—but it

342 Jennifer Robersoa

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 it-
self, 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 some-
one 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,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           343

Brennan, I've said it before—I'll not have you
blaming yourself for this! What must I do to con-
vince 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 'aberra-
tion,' 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 Cheysuli—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 dan-
gerous. 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 think-
ing, 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 ac-
cepts his punishment. And the will of his lord."

Kellin stood there a long time. Then, sum-
moning 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 importu-
nate 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
/ir-gold on bare arms that did not surrender mus-
cle. 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.

Blobs swam before his eyes, robbed of dis-
tinctness by the brilliance of the sun. They coa-
lesced along the horizon, where the sea lapped in.
He saw the blobs take shape, forming legs, tails,
heads. He whistled. The blobs paused, then came

344

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            345

flying, transmuting sundazzled formlessness into
spray-dampened bodies recognizable as canine.

Tongues lolled. Tails whipped- They lashed their
own bodies in a frenzy to reach him, to display a
devotion so complete as to render words obsolete.

They were his now. The big male had died
nearly twenty years before—of grief, he believed—
but the others had survived despite the death of the
woman who had caused them to be born. Most of
those were dead, now, also—giant dogs died
sooner—but they had bred as well, so that the is-
land never lacked for companionship of a sort no
Cheysuli had known before; they did not keep pets.

Nor were these pets; they were, by their exis-
tence, in the beating of great hearts, living memo-
rials to Shona.

To him, they were sanity.

He paused as they joined him. The exuberance of
their greeting endangered those parts most revered
by a man; grinning, he turned a hip each time a
tail threatened, then grabbed two or three until the
dogs, all astonished, spun to whip tails free. Then it
began again, until he told them with false sternness
that the game was over; that they were to be still.

He sat down there in the sand, warding off in-
quisitive noses, until the dogs, too, settled with
grunts and great rumbling sighs. Wise eyes
watched him, waiting for the sign that he meant
to rise and find a stick to toss for their pleasure;

but he did not. and after a time they slept, or
lay quietly: an ocean of storm-hued wolfhounds
sprawled upon the beach of an island, in its beget-
ting, very alien to their souls. They were Erinnish,
though none of these had been there.

They were all he had of her. The son she had
borne in the midst of her dying, in the flames of
a burning keep, was not and never had been his
to tend. Another man might have grieved, then

346             Jennifer Roberson

done what he could to raise up the living soul
whose heart was partly hers, but he was denied
that comfort. All he had of her, in the days and
the darkness, were memories and dogs.

He honored the gods with his service. He did
not question its needs, or the path he had taken;

it was his tahlmorra. A great security resided in
the knowledge that what he did served a greater
purpose; that sacrifices made in the name of that
greater purpose, no matter how difficult, would in
the end bear out his seeming madness. Let them
attach scorn to his name now, but one day, long
after his bones had rotted, they would call him
something else.

"But my spark is nothing compared to the flame
of his." Aidan smiled. "My name is a spark, and
Kellin's a bonfire—but Cynric's will blaze with all
the terrible splendor of a wildfire as it devours the
land around it."

He knew they would curse him. Men were often
blind when it came to needed change. When they
acknowledged what had happened—and what still
would come—they would claim him an emmissary of
a demon not to their liking, when all he did was serve
the gods who had decided to mend what had broken.

"Revolution," he said; the dogs twitched ears.
"If they knew what was to come, they would none
of them agree; they would all become a'saii."

But he would not permit it. That was his pur-
pose, to guide his people closer to a true under-
standing that out of devouring names would rise
a new world.

It would be difficult. But the gods would see to
it he had a means to persevere. If it required a
weapon, a weapon would be given.

Aidan was content. He knew his path very well.
All he had to do was wait for the weapon, then set
it on its path.

One

The chapel was built of standing stones set into a
tight circle. Most of them still leaned a little, like
teeth settling badly in a diseased jaw, but some-
one had taken the time—probably years—to see
that many of the stones had been pushed back into
proper alignment. The circle was whole again,
with a carved lintel stone set over the darkened
entrance, and a heel stone put up in front. Kellin
went slowly to it, drawn by its singular splendor.

The side facing him was unnaturally flat,
chipped and rubbed smooth. Across the dark gray
face ran runic symbols he had seen but once be-
fore, in his Ceremony of Honors. He recognized
most of them, but he was not perhaps as conver-
sant in the Old Tongue as he should be. / have
lived too long among Homanans.

Kellin was transfixed by the shapes carved into
the stone. The runes were incised deeply; he
thought the carvings no more than fifteen or
twenty years old. The heel stone was older yet, but
not so ancient as the circle itself. An infant stand-
ing within the shade of his fathers.

Standing, the heel stone reached Kellin's chest-
As he loielt, the runes became clearer. He put a
finger upon their shapes to trace them out. "One
day - . . blood . . . magic."

"One day a man of all blood shall umte, in peace,

349

350 Jennifer Roberson

four warring realms and two magical races," said
the voice. "And if those few words you mouthed
are all you know of the Old Tongue, it is well you
come to me for instruction."

Kellin did not move. His fingers remained ex-
tended to touch the runes. Only the tips trembled.
Not what I expected a Jehan to say to his son as
he sees him for the first time. It served to fuel his
anger.

Aidan stood in the chapel doorway. The sunlight
was full on his face, glinting off the gold freighting
arms and ear. It struck Kellin as incongruity;

oddly, he had expected a simple man, not a war-
rior. But Aidan was that, and more; best Kellin
remember it.

He wanted very badly to say all manner of
things, but he desired more to find just the right
challenge. Let Aidan lead him, then; he would
await the proper moment.

"Get up from there," Aidan said. "I am not the
sort of man to require homage."

He does not know me. It shook him; he had ex-
pected Aidan to know. It altered his intent. "You
gave that up," Kellin said, forgoing patience.
"Homage."

Aidan smiled. "That, as well as other unneces-
sary things." He hesitated- "Well, will you rise?
Or have you come with broken legs to have them
made whole again?"

Kellin wanted to laugh but suppressed the
sound. He was not certain he could control it.
"No," he said only-

"Good. I am not a god; I do not perform
miracles."

Delicate contempt- "Surely you can heal. You
are Cheysuli."

"Oh, aye—I have recourse to the earth magic.

A TAPESTRY OF LSONS             351

But you are too healthy to require it." Aidan ges-
tured. "Rise."

Kellin rose. He found no words in his mouth,
only an awkward, wary patience inhabiting his
spirit.

Aidan's ruddy brows arched. "Taller than I be-
lieved . .. are you certain the clan desires to lose

you?"

It was perplexing. "Why should you believe the
clan might lose me?"

"Have you not come for the teaching?" It was
Aidan's turn to frown. "The clans send to me those
men—and women—who wish to leam what it is a
shar tahl must do. I serve the gods by interpreting
and teaching divine intentions . . ." He shrugged.
"/ make no differentiation between a man who is
physically more suited to war than to study, but
the clans often do. I am persuaded they would
labor most assiduously to talk you out of coming
here." The glint in his eyes was fleeting. "Surely
the women would."

It was disarming, but Kellin would not permit
it to vanquish his irritation^ He used the reminder
that his appearance was considered by most, espe-
cially women, as pleasing to look for himself in
Aidan. He saw little. Aidan's hair was a rich, deep
auburn, almost black in dim light, save for the
vivid white wing over his left ear. His eyes were
what a Cheysuli would describe as ordinary,
though their uncompromising yellowness Homa-
nans yet found unsettling. His flesh was not so
dark as a clan-bred warrior, but then neither was
Kellin's.

There we match; in the color of our flesh. But not,
I am moved to say, in the color of our hearts.

Aidan's tone was polite- "Have you come to
leam?"

It nearly moved him to a wild, keening laughter;

352 Jennifer Roberson

what he wanted to learn had nothing to do with
gods. In subtle derision, he said, "If you can teach
me."

Aidan smiled. "I will do what I can, certainly.
It is up to the gods to make you a shar tahl."

"Is that—?" Kellin blurted a sharp sound of dis-
belief. "Is that what you think I want?"

"What else? It is what I do here: prepare those
who desire to serve the gods more closely than
others do."

Kellin moved around the heel stone. He marked
that the sun had been in Aidan's eyes; that what
his father saw of him was little but silhouette, or
the pale shadow of three dimensions.

He sees a warrior, somewhat taller than expected,
but nonetheless kneeling in communion with the
gods. Well, I will have to see to it he knows me for
what I am, not what he presupposes. He moved to
the front of the stone, permitting Aidan to see him
clearly. Now what do you say?

Aidan's skin turned a peculiar grayish-white.
His flesh was a chalk cliff in the sun, showing the
damage done by rain and damp and age. Even the
lips, carved of granite, were pale as alabaster.

"Echoes—" Aidan blurted, "—but Shona. The
kivama—" He was trembling visibly.

Kellin had not believed he much resembled his
dead mother; they said she was fair, and her eyes
brown. But obviously there was something; Aidan
had seen it too quickly. Or perhaps only feels it
because of his kivama.

Contempt welled up. He wanted badly to hurt
the man. "She did bear me," he said. "There
should be something of her in me."

Aidan's face was peeled to the bone so the shape
of his skull was visible. The eyes. so calm before,
had acquired a brittle intensity that mocked his

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS           353

former self-possession. His mouth was unmoving,
as if something had sealed it closed.

Is this what I wanted, all those years? Or do I
want more yet?

Aidan drew in a breath, then released it slowly.
He smiled a sad, weary smile. The chalk cliff of
his face had lost another layer to the onslaught of
exposure; in this case, to knowledge. "I knew you
would hate me. But it was a risk I had to take."

Kellin wanted to shout. "Was it?" he managed
tightly. "And was it worth it?" He paused, then
framed the single word upon years of bitterness.
"Jehan."

In Aidan's eyes was reflected as many years of
conviction. "Come inside," he said. "What I have
to say is best said there."

He did not want to—he felt to do as asked would
weaken his position—but Kellin followed. The
chapel was not large inside, nor did it boast sub-
stantial illumination; a tight latticework roof
closed out the sun, Kellin allowed his eyes to ad-
just, then glanced briefly around the interior. A
rune-carved alter stood in the center. Set against
the tilted walls were stone benches. Torch brack-
ets pegged into seams in the stonework were
empty.

"Where is your lir7" Aidan asked.

"She led me here, then disappeared."

"Ah." Aidan nodded. "Tee! disappeared this
morning as well, so that all I had were the dogs;

it was a conspiracy, then, that we should meet
without benefit of lir."

Kellin did not care overmuch about what the
lir conspired to do. He was wholly fixed on the
acknowledgment that the man who stood before
him had planted the seed which had grown in
Shona's belly, only to be torn free on a night filled

394 JeoaSSer Roberson

with flames. He loved her, they say. Could he not
have loved her son as well?

Aidan sat down on one of the benches. Kellin,
pointedly, remained standing. Bitterly he said,
"Surely with your kivama—aye, I know about it—
you must have known I was coming."

Color had returned to Aidan's face. It was no
longer stretched so taut, no longer empty of a
tranquillity that annoyed one who lacked it. "I do
not question your right to bitterness and hatred,
but this is not the place for it."

Kellin barked a harsh laugh. "Is that why you
brought me in here? To tame my tongue and ren-
der me less than a man?" He wanted to jeer. "You
forget, jehan—I have none of your reverence, nor
your humility. If I choose to honor the gods, I do
it in my own fashion. And, I might add, with less
elaboration," He cast a scornful glance over the
chapel. "I did not know a man would exchange
the flesh of his own son for the confines of stone."

Aidan waited him out. "I would not expect you
to offer reverence or humility. You are not the
man for it."

It was veiled insult, if Kellin chose to take it so.
Another might acknowledge it as simple statement
of fact. "Do you believe me too weak to be as you
are? No, jehan: too strong. I am not a coward. I
do not turn my face from its proper place to hide
upon an island with a mouth full of prophecies."

"Indeed, you are not weak. Nor are you a cow-
ard." Aidan shrugged. "Nor am I, but I give you
the freedom to believe as you will—just now, there
is more. What you are is a confused, angry young
man who only now confronts his heritage—and
knows his ultimate fate lies in other hands." He
overrode the beginnings of Kellin's protest. "You
mentioned my kivama first—shall we let the gift
guide me in the examination of your soul?" He

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           355

smiled without intending offense, reminding qui-
etly that what he could do was what few others
could. "You will do as I did when the time has
come: acknowledge and fully accept what the gods
have designed for you in the ordering of your life."

"If you know it, then tell me!" Kellin cried-
"You claim communion with the gods. Tell me
now and save me time wasted in discovering it for
myself!"

"And deny you the chance to grow into the man
the gods intend you to be?" Aidan smiled. "A war-
rior cannot circumvent a tahlmorra so easily ...
he is charged to become what he is meant to be-
come in the husbandry of his soul. Were I to tell
you what becomes of you, I might well alter what
is meant to happen."

"Obscurity," Kellin charged. "That is what you
teach here: how to speak in riddles so no man can
understand."

"A man learns," Aidan countered, "and then he
understands."

Kellin laughed. "Tell me," he challenged. "If in-
deed you can. Prophesy for me. For your only
son."

Aidan did not move upon the bench. His hands
lay in his lap. "Do you forget who I am?"

"Who you are? How could I? You are the man
I have sought all my life—even when I denied it—
and now that I have found you I am at last able
to tell you precisely what I think of you and your
foolish claims!"

"I am the mouthpiece of the gods."

Kellin laughed at him.

And then his laughter died, for Aidan began to
speak. "The Lion shall lie with the witch. Out of
darkness shall come light; out of death: life; out
of the old: the new."

"Words," Kellin began, meaning to defame the

3S6 Jennifer Robersm

man who said them, to leech them of their power,
but his challenge died away.

"The Lion shall lie with the witch, and the wit-
ch-child born of it shall join with the Lion to swal-
low the House of Homana and all of her children."

"Jehan!"

Yellow eyes had turned black. Aidan stared
fixedly at Kellin, one hand raised to indicate his
son. "The Lion," he said, "shall devour the House
of Homana."

"Stop—"

His voice rose. "Do you think to escape the
Lion? Do you think to escape your fate?" Lips
peeled back. "Small, foolish boy—you are nothing
to the gods. It is the Lion's cub they desire, not
the Lion himself ... you are the means to an end.
The Lion shall lie down with the witch."

Kellin was instantly taken out of himself, swept
back ten years. To the time of Summerfair, when
he had put on his second-best tunic to go among
the crowds and see what he would see, to taste
suhoqla again and challenge a Steppes warior. To
enter the tent filled with a sickly, sweetish odor;

to see again the old man who sat upon his cushion
and told who he was, and what would be his fate.

"Lion—" Kellin whispered, staring at his father.
"There is a lion—after all—"

Aidan smiled an odd, inhumane smile. "Kellin,"
he said plainly, "you are the Lion."

Two

"I am sorry." Aidan's tone was quiet, lacking its
former power. "But I warned you. It is never a
simple thing—and rarely pleasant—to learn your
tahlmorra."

Kellin clung to the heel stone for support. He
did not precisely recall how he had reached it.
He remembered, if dimly, stumbling out of the
shadow-clad chapel into clean sunlight—and then
he had fallen to his knees, keeping himself upright
only by virtue of clinging to the heel stone as a
child to its mother's neck.

He continued to clutch it. He twisted his head
to ask over a shoulder. "Do you know what you
said?"

Aidan, squinting against sunlight, sighed and
nodded. "Most of it. I can never recall clearly what
I say when I prophesy, but the intent remains in
my mind," His eyes were steady, if darkened by
the acknowledgment of what had occurred. "De-
spite what you led me to believe with regard to
your ignorance of your tahlmorra, it is not the first
time you have heard such words."

"I was ten." Kellin stood up and relinquished
his grip on the stone, aware of a cold clamminess
in his palms. "But I did not know—"

"No," Aidan agreed, "a child could not. Nor
many men. You were not ready. Even now you are
not."

357

358 Jennifer Roherson

Resentment congealed. "So you did it to prove
something."

Mildly, Aidan said, "You did ask. In plain and
impolite words."

Another time he would have fought back. Just
now something else struck him as more impor-
tant. "You said—" He looked warily at the chapel,
as if it were responsible for putting the thoughts
inside his head. "You said / am the Lion."

"You are."

"But how? I am a man. Not even in lir-sbape
am I a lion!"

Aidan nodded. "Where words will not serve,
symbols often do." He traced the runes inscribed
in the heel stone. "These are symbols. And so is
the Lion."

"The Lion is a throne."

"That, too, is a symbol." Aidan smiled. "You are
a man in all the ways in which a man is measured;

fear nothing there. But you are also the next link
in the prophecy of the Firstborn. It may somewhat
devalue my dedication to say this so baldly, but
prophecies are sometimes little more than colorful
pictures, like the Ur we paint on pavilions."

It gave Kellin something, a tiny bit of strength
with which to reassert his challenge. "Then there
is no truth to it."

"Of course there is truth to it. Does the painted
animal shape mean there is no living Ur?" Aidan
shook his head. "A prophecy does not lie. At times
circumstances change, and the fate itself is
changed; they gave us free will, the gods. The ulti-
mate result may be altered, but what served as
catalyst was never a falsehood. It is not graven in
stone." He tapped fingertips against the heel
stone. "This will remain here forever—for as long
as the world has—to speak of the prophecy and
all it entails. Eighteen words." His smile was not

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            359

condescending, but unadorned serenity; he was
certain of his place within the prophecy. "Eigh-
teen simple words that have ruled our lives since
before we were even conceived."

Kellin looked at the runes. " 'One day—' " But
he broke off reflexive quoting. There was another
matter he considered more important. "How can
I be the Lion?"

"You are. No more than that. You are the Lion
.. . just as I was the broken link."

Kellin wanted to deny it all, to accuse the shar
tahl who was also his father that purposeful obscu-
rity offered no one an answer. But what came out
of his mouth was a simple truth: "I do not
understand."

"That is one of my purposes here: to explain
things more fully."

Bitterness reasserted itself. "To other men
whose lives have been twisted by their
tahlmorras?"

"Come with me."

It provoked. "Where? To that palace? I have
seen it. You do not live there."

"To my pavilion." The smile, now lacking the
unearthly quality of prophecy, was freely offered
again with nothing more in its shaping than hospi-
tality. "I am Cheysuli, Kellin. Never forget that."

Aidan's pavilion clustered with others in a
smaller version of Clankeep. It was pale green
with ravens adorning its sides; on the ridgepole
sat the model.

Sima, sprawled on a rug before the doorflap,
blinked sleepily in the sun. You found him.

Kellin scowled. As you meant me to. That is why
you left me.

She was unrepentent. Teel and I thought it best.

I do not appreciate such secrecy in my own lir.

360 Jennifer Roberson

Nor does your jehan. She twitched her tail. Even
now he chastises Ted.

He deserves it. So do you. He did not stoop to pat
the cat but went on by her and into the pavilion as
his father pulled back the flap.

Aidan seated himself on a brown bear pelt and
gestured for Kellin to make himself comfortable.
"We built the Keep here because I saw no sense
in inhabiting a palace. We are Cheysuli. We are
here to rebuild what we can of the old religion,
while imbuing it with new." He smiled. "I am
somewhat controversial with regard to my beliefs;

some elders name me a fool."

Kellin said nothing. He had come for none of
this.

"This is a place of history and magic," Aidan
continued, "and we treat it as such. Palaces have
no place here."

He disputed at once. "I thought the Cheysuli
built it. There are runes in the pillars. Old Tongue
runes, like those on the heel stone." It was proof;

it was enough; it trapped his traitorous father.

"Runes can be carved later, as those on the heel
stone were."

Kellin exhaled patience. He was wrung dry of
it. "So, it is a Homanan palace after all. Should
that matter? The Homanans are our people, too."

Aidan smiled. "If that was a test, then assuredly
you have passed it."

In succinct Homanan, Kellin swore. "I did not
come for this!"

"No." Aidan rested his hands on his knees. "Ask
what you will, Kellin."

Kellin did not hesitate. The question had been
formed nearly twenty years before. He had
mouthed it every night, practicing in his bed, se-
cure in his draperies as a child in its mother's
womb. Now he could ask it in the open, in the

A TAPESTRY OF LtWS           361

light, of the man who knew the answer- "Why did
you give me up?"

Aidan did not hesitate. "It was an infinitely
Cheysuli reason, and one you will undoubtedly
contest, though you should know better; you, too,
are Cheysuli."

Kellin inhaled angrily on a hissing breath.
"Tahlmorra. That is your answer."

"The gods required me to renounce my title,
rank, and inheritance. I was the broken link. The
chain could only be mended—and therefore made
much stronger—if I gave precedence to the next
link. Its name was Kellin." Aidan's eyes did not
waver. His tone did not break. His demeanor was
relaxed. All of his self-possession was very much
in opposition to the words he spoke. "It was the
hardest thing I have ever done."

Through his teeth, Kellin said, "Yet you did it
easily enough."

The first crack in Aidan's facade appeared. "Not
without regret. Not without pain. When I set you
into my jehana's arms—" Aidan broke it off, as if
afraid to give up too much of himself after all. His
tone was husky. "You were Shona's child. You
were all I had of her. But I was, in that moment,
a child of the gods—"

"It is a simple thing to blame gods."

Aidan's lips parted. "It was done for Homana."

"Homana! Homana, no doubt, would have been
better off with a contented prince instead of one
who lacked a Jehan. Do you know what my life has
been?"

"Now, aye—the kivama has told me."

"And what does it mean? Nothing? That I spent
my childhood believing myself unworthy, and my
adulthood cognizant that / mean nothing at all,
save I can sire a son?" Kellin's fists trembled
against his thighs. "Use your famous kivama and

362 Jennifer Robersw

see what you did by renouncing a son in favor of
the gods."

"Kellin." The chalk cliff sloughed another layer;

soon it would be bare, and the true man uncov-
ered. "I never intended for you to suffer so. I knew
it would be hard, but it had to be done . . - and
you are not, above all things, a malleable man.
You choose your own path—have always chosen
your path—no matter the odds."

"I was a child—"

"So was I!" Aidan cried. "I had dreams, Kellin—
nightmares. To me, the Lion was a vastly frighten-
ing thing." With effort, he let it go. He smiled
sadly, no longer hiding his truths. "Do you know
what it is like for a Jehan to at last acknowledge
that the thing which frightens him most is his own
son?"

Kellin was nearly incoherent with outrage. "Is
this your excuse for giving me up? That you are
afraid—"

"It was necessary. There was a purpose in it for
me—and one, I believe, for you."

Kellin jeered. "Facile words, jehan."

"True words, Kellin."

"Why would you be afraid of me? I am your
son."

"You are the Lion. You are meant to lie down
with the witch. You are meant to sire the First-
born." Aidan's eyes did not waver. "It is one thing
to serve the gods, Kellin, knowing what you work
toward—it is entirely another to realize that what
you do matters in the ordering of the world." His
smile was without humor. "Men who honor no
gods, who fail to serve the gods, cannot under-
stand the enormity of the truth: that the seed of a
single man's loins can alter forever the shape of a
world."

Kellin was furious. "You will not blame me for

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           363

this! You will not for one moment lay this at my
door-flap! Do you think I am a fool? Do you think
me so ignorant as to be led by facile words? By
the gods, jehan—by any fool's gods—I will not be
turned aside by your faith, by your admirable de-
votion, by the mouthings of a madman when I
want to know the answer to a single, simple
question!"

"And I have told you why!" Kellin had at last
shattered Aidan's composure. It loosed the final
layer of cliff and laid bare the underside of the
man, not the shar tahl; the once-born Prince of
Homana who had bequeathed it all to his infant
son. "My tahlmorra. You should understand a little
of that, now that you know what yours is."

"Jehan—"

"Would you have me hold you by the hand and
lead you through it? Are you so blind—or so
selfish—that you cannot permit yourself to see an-
other man's pain?"

Kellin expelled a curse framed upon the Old
Tongue. "What manner of pain could lead a man
to renounce his son?"

"The pain in knowing that if he did not, an en-
tire race might be destroyed."

"Jehan—"

"The throne was never meant for me. Here is
where I was bound. The link—my link—was shat-
tered in Valgaard; do you understand what I
mean? I was broken, Kellin ... / was .. . my link—
a symbol—was destroyed. Yours was left whole.
Whole, Kellin—to be joined with the rest of the
chain when Brennan is dead, and a new king as-
cends. Do you see? I was in the way. I was unnec-
essary, The gods required a prophet, not another
rump upon the throne ... someone to proclaim
the coming of the Firstborn. Someone to prepare
the way."

364 Jennifer Roberson

"Jehan—"

"You are the Lion. You are meant to devour the
House of Homana."

Kellin's face spasmed. "You say first I am the
Lion, and then I am a link in a chain . -." He
shook his head in emphatic denial. "I understand       t
none of it!"

Aidan's voice was hoarse. "We are all but links.
Mine was shattered. Its destruction sundered the
chain. Even now it lies in Valgaard, in Lochiel's       i
keeping."                                             1,

"A real chain?"

"A real chain."

"Broken."

"I broke it. I broke me to strengthen you."

Kellin bared his teeth. "What good does it do,        .'
then, if Lochiel holds it?"                              ij»

"Someone must get it back."                       H

"From Lochiel?"                                     H

"Someone must take the two halves and make       ^
them one again."                                   J

Kellin understood. He sprang to his feet. "By       ^

the eods—not /! I will not be used in a personal       f,
*              i      n                       SB
revenge that concerns only you.                        j|

Aidan's eyes were infinitely yellow. "Lochiel       ^
killed your jehana."                                   ^

Kellin recognized the battle and struck back at
once, using all his weapons, "I never knew her.
What does it matter?"

"He cut you from her body as he burned down all       <
ofClankeep."

It hurt desperately. He had blamed himself so
long for his mother's death. "No—"

"He wanted the seed," Aidan said. "He wanted
to raise you as his own, to turn you against your
House ... to defang the Lion utterly before it
reached maturity."

Kellin fastened on a thing, a small, cruel thing,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            365

because he needed to, to salvage his anger, to
shore up his bitterness. They were things he knew.
"Where were you," he asked viciously, "while Lo-
chiel the Ihlini cut open my mother's belly?"

Aidan's eyes mirrored Kellin's desperation.
"Where do you think I got this?" A trembling hand
touched the white wing in his hair. "A sword. It
broke open my skull and spilled out all the wits,
all the words, all the things that make a man ...
and turned me into someone no one, not even I,
can truly understand." His face was wasted. "Do
you think, in all your hatred, when you lie awake
at night cursing the man who left you, that any
man, any father, would ask the gods to give him
such a fate?"

Kellin was shaking. He could not stop himself.
"I want—I want ..." He wet dry lips. "I want to
be free of the beast."

"Then kill it," Aidan said,

"How?"

"Go to Valgaard. Rejoin two halves of a whole."

"And that will make me whole?" Kellin's wild
laugh tore his throat. "Expiation for your weak-
ness does nothing to destroy my own!"

"Go to Valgaard."

Kellin bared his teeth. "You have not seen what
I have become!"

"Nor has Lochiel." Aidan rose and opened the
doorflap. "Perhaps the beast in you is a weapon
for us all."

"/ killed a friend'" Kellin cried. "Do you say it
was necessary, that the gods required this to fash-
ion a weapon?"

The chalk cliff shapechanged itself to granite.
"The gods required me to give up my son- Now
that son provides a way for us to destroy an Ihlini
who would, given the chance, bring down all of
us. He would smash the Lion to bits, then feed it

3W Jennifer Roberson

chip by chip into the Gate of Asar-Suti." Aldan's
tone was unflinching. His eyes condemned the
weakness that would permit a man to refuse.
"Make the sacrifice worth it. Make the death of
your friend count for something—as Shona's death
did."

Kellin's throat hurt. "This is not what I came
for."

"It is," Aidan said. "Have I not said I am the
mouthpiece of the gods?"

Kellin gestured helplessness. "All I ever
wanted—all I ever wanted—was some word, some
indication you cared, that you knew I existed . ..
but you gave me nothing. Nothing at all."

Silence lay heavy between them. Then the faint-
est of sounds, so subtle that in another time, in
another moment, no one would have marked it. It
was the soft sibilance of a man's hand crumpling
fabric.

Tears stood in Aidan's eyes as he clung to the
doorflap. "What I gave you—what I gave you was
what I believed you had to have." His mouth
worked briefly, "Do you think I did not know what
it would cost you?"

"But you never came."

Aidan's laugh was a travesty. "Had I come, I
would have taken you back. Had I sent word, I
would have told you to come. For the sake of your
son, Kellin, I had to give up my own."

"For my son!"

"Cynric," Aidan whispered, and the blackness in
his eyes ate away the yellow. "The sword and the
bow and the knife—"

"No!" Kellin shouted. "What of me? What of
me? / am your son, not he! What about me?"

Aidan's eyes were empty of all save prophecy.
"You are the Lion, and you shall lie down with
the witch."

A TAPCSTSY w LKMS          367

"Jehan—" he said brokenly. "Is this what they
have done, your beloved gods? Made you over into
this?"

"The Lion shall devour the lands."

For the first time in his life, Kellin put his hands
on his father.

For the second time in Aidan's life, he put arms
around his son. "Do not be ashamed," he said.
"There is no shame in tears."

Muffled, Kellin said, "I am—a warrior."

"So am I," Aidan agreed."But the gods gave us
tears nonetheless."

Three

They stood upon the dock, facing toward the city
of Hondarth sprawled indistinct on the distant
shore: the former Prince of Homana, who might
have been Mujhar, and the present prince, his son,
who one day would be.

The sea-salt breeze blew into their faces, ruffling
hair, tickling eyelashes, softly caressing mouths.
Behind him, silent wolfhounds gathered at the
border between wooden dock and paler sand,
waiting for their master. Perched in a nearby tree
sat the raven called Teel, while the lovely moun-
tain cat, blue-black in the light of the sun, waited
mutely beside her warrior.

Kellin slanted a pensive, sidelong glance at his
father. They did not, he had decided, much resem-
ble one another. The son of Shona and Aidan ap-
peared to be a mixture of everyone in his ancestry—
which was, he felt, a stew of hybrid spices—save
that the cat at his side and the gold on his flesh
marked him as something more distinct than
merely human.

He does not look so old as I thought yesterday.
Kellin stripped a wayward lock of hair from an
eye, blinking away the sting. Yet if one looks at
the eyes, he seems older than anyone else. "So—you
expect me to go." He snapped his fingers. "Just
like that."

Aidan's smile was faint, with a hint of irony in it.

368

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

369

"It would be folly indeed to expect quite so much
acquiescence ... surely you still have questions."

"A multitude. This one, to begin: how can you
say I am the Lion who is meant to lie down with
the witch? What witch? Who is it? How can it be
done?" Kellin gestured incomprehension. "Even
now my grandsire discusses a marriage between
me and Dulcie—and I sincerely doubt Dulcie is
this witch."

Aidan's smile was unabated, as was the irony.
"Marriages, no matter how well planned, do not
always occur."

It provoked Kellin to retort sharply. "As one
nearly did not occur between Aileen of Erinn and
the Prince of Homana?"

Aidan laughed, unoffended. "Old history. They
are well content, now; and that marriage did
occur."

"What of mine?"

"Oh, I believe you will indeed be married."
Aidan nodded. "One day.",

It seemed important to know. "To this witch?"

Aidan's tone was deliberate, akin to Rogan's
when the tutor labored to instruct an easily dis-
tracted student. "What precisely have I said, when
I prophesy?"

"That the Lion will lie with the witch." Kellin
sighed. "I have heard it more than once."

"Lying down with a 'witch' does not necessarily
mean you will marry her."

"Ah." Black brows sprang upward. "Then you
advocate infidelity."

Aidan showed his teeth in a challenging grin
that Kellin saw, in surprise, was very like his own.
"I advocate merely that you do what must be
done. How it is done is up to you."

"To sleep with an Ihlini . . ." Kellin hitched his
shoulders because the flesh between them prick-

Jennifer Roberaon

370

led; the idea was unattractive. "That is what she
is, this witch, is she not? An Ihlini?"

"It has been done before."

"Oh, aye—grandsire did. lan did. I know the
stories."

"Do you?" Aidan's brows slanted upward in
subtle query. The wing of white hair, against deep
russet, was blinding in the sunlight. "Do you also
know that / slept with one?"

"You!" It was entirely unexpected from a man
who was shar tahl. "They say you bedded no one
after my jehana died."

"I did not. I cannot. Surely they told you the
cost of kivama, when the partner dies. It is much
like a lirless warrior, save the body does not die.
Only the portion of it that might, given opportu-
nity, given the wherewithal, sire another child."

"But—I am the only one."

"And will ever be." Aidan looked at him. "In
Atvia, before I married Shona, I bedded an Ihlini
woman. And the second time, I knew it."

"Willingly?"

"With Lillith?" Aidan sighed. "To excuse myself,
to justify my action, I might prefer to say that
even that first time she ensorcelled me ... but it
would be a lie. What I did. I did because I desired
it; because I could not, in my maleness, deny my-
self the gratification found in a woman's body, de-
spite whom she might be."

"Lillith . .." Kellin tasted the name and found
it oddly seductive. "It was she who lay with lan
and bore him a child."

"Rhiannon, who later lay with my fehan and
bore him a child. Melusine is her name."

"You know it?"

"She is the woman who sleeps with Lochiel. She
bore him a child ... while she herself, Melusine,

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            371

was born of Cheysuli blood as well as Ihlini—yet
chooses to serve Asar-Suti."

It seemed surpassing odd, "How do you know
all this?"

"Lochiel sees to it I know. Lochiel and I—" Ai-
dan's taut, angled smile was strangely shaped, "—
have long been adversaries on more battlefields
than the obvious ones- He sends me messages."

"Lochiel?" Kellin found it incomprehensible.
"Why?"

"To make certain I know." Wind ruffled the
white wing against Aidan's temple. "Her name is
Melusine, and she bore him a daughter. It was
that daughter with whom you shared a cradle."

Kellin grunted. "I know something of that."

"Do you?" Aidan's gaze was steady. "Shall I tell
you the whole of it, then, so you may have another
thing for which to hate me?"

"What? More?" It might have stung once; it
might have been a weapon Kellin took pride in
wielding, but no longer. Much remained between
them, but some of the pain "was assuaged. "Then
tell me, and I will decide if I should rekindle my
hatred."

Aidan looked directly at him- "I bargained for
you. It was little more, to him, than a simple
trade. I was to choose—" He rubbed briefly at his
forehead as if it ached, then glanced away toward
distant Hondarth. "There were two babies, as you
know: you, and Lochiel's daughter. I had no way
of telling which was which. You were both of you
swaddled, and asleep; it is somewhat difficult to tell
one infant from another, in such circumstances."

"Aye. How did you?"

"I did not."

"But—you chose me."

"I left Valgaard with a child in my arms. I did
not know which one it was." Aidan sighed. "Not

372 Jennifer Roberson

until I unwrapped you and saw you were male.
Then I knew, and only then, that my choice had
been correct."

"But—if you had chosen the girl ..." Kellin let
it go. The repercussions he saw were too complex
to consider.

"If I had, you would have been reared as Lo-
chiel's son."

And the girl as a princess within the bosom of
Homana'MuJhar, where she might have worked
against us. The flesh rose on Kellin's bones. He
rubbed at his arms viciously, disliking the weak-
ness that made his fear so plain. "So." It seemed
enough.

"So." Aidan nodded. "You know the whole of

it."

Kellin stared fixedly across the lapping water.
He could not look at his father. He had spent too
long hating from a distance to give way easily, to
admit to circumstances that might persuade a
man to act in such a way as to ignore his son.
"You risked a great deal."

"It was my only choice. It was Homana's only
chance."

Kellin frowned fiercely. "You said—the Lion
will devour the House. Is that not the same fate
Lochiel aspires to give us?"

"There is a difference between swallowing the
lands, and destroying them. Words, Kellin—sym-
bols. Intent is divulged with words. Think of the
prophecy."

"Eighteen words, again?"

" '—shall unite, in peace—' " Aidan said. "Well?"

Kellin sighed, nodding. "Then to unite the lands,
I must swallow them. Swallowing, one might
argue, is a form of uniting."

Aidan smiled, "Vivid imagery. It helps a man to

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

373

remember." He looked at the waiting boat. "We
all make choices. You shall make yours."

Kellin saw his father form the eloquent Cheysuli
gesture he had detested so long. He matched it
easily with his own hand. "Tahlmorra."

Aidan's answering smile was serene. "You have
run from it long enough,"

"So, now you send me to it. To Lochiel and Val-
gaard—and to the witch?"

"That," Aidan said, "is for the gods to know."

Kellin sighed disgust. "I have not had much
congress with gods. They are, I am convinced, ca-
pricious, petty beings."

"They may indeed be so, as well as other things
perhaps not so reprehensible." Aidan was unof-
fended. "The example for all manner of behavior
lies before you; we all of us are their children."

"Even the Ihlini?"

"Stubborn, resentful children, too spoiled in
their power. It is time they recalled who gave it
to them."

Kellin chewed his lip. "Why am I to bring you
this chain? What are you to do with it?"

"Tame the Lion."

"Tame me!" He paused- "Tame me?"

"Who shall, in his turn, swallow the Houses—
unite them, Kellin!—and bring peace to warring
realms."

He clamped his teeth together. "All because of
a chain. Which you broke. And left, like a fool, in
ValgaardV

"Aye," Aidan admitted. "But then I have never
suggested I am anything else."

" 'Mouthpiece of the gods,' " Kellin muttered.
"You claim yourself that."

"And so I am. But the gods made all men, and
there are foolish ones," He smiled. "Bring me back
the chain, and the beast shall be tamed."

374 Jennifer Roberson

"A quest," Kellin gritted.

"The gods do appear to enjoy them. It passes
the time."

Kellin shook his head. There was much he
wanted to say, but too little time in which to say
it. He had been given his release; time he took it,
and went.

"Shansu," Aidan said. "Ckeysuli i'halla shansu."

Kellin's tone was ironic. "If there is any such
thing in Valgaard." He paused. "You said you
would not go to Homana-Mujhar because you
feared you would bring me back."

"Aye."

"I am here now. That risk is gone." He hesi-
tated. "Will you go home now?"

The wind teased auburn hair. "This is my
home,"

"Then—to visit. To be hosted by the Mujhar and
his queen." It was hard to force the words past
the lump in his throat. "She wants nothing more,
jehan. Nor does he. Can you give them that now?"

Aidan's soft laugh was hoarse. "You believe me
so much a monster as that . . -" He sighed. "There
is still much to be done here."

"But—"

"But one day I will return to Homana-Mujhar."

Kellin smiled faintly. "Is that prophecy?"

"No. That is a jehan who is also a son, and who
would like to see his parents."

Kellin sighed. There yet remained one more
thing.

He looked away to the distant shore, then
turned back and stared hard at Aidan as Sima
leapt into the boat. "Fathers desert their chil-
dren." He used Homanan purposely; he did not in
this moment intend to discuss his own sire, but
those of other children.

The wind stripped auburn hair back from Ai-

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            375

dan's face. It bared, beneath the skin, the architec-
ture of bone that was ineffably Cheysuli, if housed
in paler flesh. "Aye."

"Other fathers . ., Homanan, Ellasian, Solin-
dish—they must do it all over the world—" / did
it myself. I banished three to Clankeep. "—Is there
ever a reason?"

"Many reasons."

It was not the proper answer. Kellin reshaped
the question. "Is there ever justification?"

"Only that which resides in a man's soul,"
Aidan answered. "To the child, bereft of a father,
bereft of the kivama that might explain the feel-
ings that caused the father to leave, there is noth-
ing save an emptiness and a longing that lasts
forever."

"Even if—" Kellin hesitated. "Even after the fa-
ther is dead?"

"Then it is worse. A deserted child dreams of
things being put to rights, of all the missing pieces
being found and rejoined. A deserted child whose
dreams die with the father's'death knows only a
quiet desperation, a permanent incompleteness;

that the dream, even born in hatred, pain, and
bitterness, can now never come true."

Kellin swallowed with difficulty. Unevenly he
said, "A hard truth, jehan."

"And the only one there is."

Four

Kellin bought a horse in Hondarth, rode it across
the city, then traded it for another at a second
livery. The second mount, a plain brown gelding
disinclined to shake his entire body with violent
dedication every four steps, proved considerably
more comfortable. The ride commenced likewise.

It crossed his mind once, as he and Sima neared
the turning to Mujhara, that he could go home.
What would the Mujhar do, send him away again?
But the order had been for him to remain with his
father until Aidan saw fit to send him home; Kel-
lin could, he thought, argue that it was done.

Except he knew better. It most decidedly was
not done, it being the ludicrous quest to fetch out
of Valgaard two halves of a chain his father had
broken, then foolishly left behind.

He might have kept it for himself and saved me
the trouble.

Sima flanked his horse. Aye. Then we would be
where we were three weeks ago: banished to the is-
land. She paused. Where there are dogs.

Kellin laughed aloud. "Fastidious, are we? Dis-
inclined to consort with dogs?" He grinned at his
horse's ears; he knew the cat sensed his amuse-      ^
ment within the link. "They are good dogs, Sima,
regardless of your tastes. They do not bark like
terriers, snatching at ankles if you move . .. nor

376

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           377

do they bell like hounds on the morning you most
desire to sleep."

No, she admitted. But I am quieter even than
those Erinnish beasts.

"Usually," he said. "Your purring, beside my
ear, is enough to shatter my skull."

You told me once it helps you to go to sleep.

"If I cannot sleep, aye; there is something sooth-
ing about it. But when you sprawl down next to
me and take up with rumbling when I am already
asleep ..." He let her fill in the rest. You are not
a housecat, lir. You are considerably larger in many
aspects, most markedly in your noise—and in the
kneading of your claws.

Sima forbore to answer.

It grew cold as they drew closer to the Bluetooth
River. Kellin was grateful he had thought to buy
a heavier cloak in Hondarth; he wished now it was
fur-lined. But it was nearly summer, and people
in the lowlands did not think of such things when
the sun shone so brightly.

He shivered. If I were home in Homana-Mujhar,
or within a woman's arms— Kellin sighed. That is
my favorite warmth.

I thought I was.

He grinned. There are certain kinds of warmth not
even a lir may provide.

Then I must assume you would prefer a roadhouse
woman and her bed to the cold ground tonight.

He straightened in the saddle. Is there one?

One? Or both?

Either. A woman without the roadhouse would
prove warm enough, as would a roadhouse without
a woman. But a woman in a roadhouse would be
the best of all.

Then you may rest well tonight. There is one
around the curve of the road.

Jennifer Roberson

378

So there was. Content, Kellin rode up to the sta-
ble and dropped off his horse with a sigh of relief.
There was no boy to do the work for him, so he
led the horse inside the daub-and-wattle building,
stripped his mount of tack, then rubbed him down
and put him into an empty stall with hay and a
measure of grain. He left saddle and bridle be-
neath drying blankets, then went out into the twi-
light to look for Sima.

She waited beneath a tree, melding into dusk.
Kellin dropped to one knee and butted his brow
against hers. Tomorrow we go on.

She butted back. Do we?

You saw the cairn at the. turning. It is but three
leagues to the ferry. We will cross first thing .. . by
sundown tomorrow, we will be in Solinde.

Sima twisted her head and slid it along his jaw,
so that a tooth scraped briefly. And by sundown
the day after that, Valgaard?

His belly tightened. / would sooner avoid it—but

aye, so we will.

Sima butted his cheek, tickling his left eye with
the tuft of an ear. He buried his face in the silk of
her fur, then climbed back to his feet. Keep yourself
to the trees.

Keep yourself to one wine.

Kellin grinned. But not to one woman? So much
faith in me, lir!

No, Sima answered. There is only one woman.

Kellin did not care. One would be sufficient.

The common room was small but well-lighted,
and the rushes were clean. Prosperous place ...
Kellin glanced around. As well it should be, so
close to the ferry crossing and the North Road
out of Ellas, frequently traveled by merchants. He
made arrangements for a room, moved to a table

A TAPESTRV OF LIONS

379

nearer the kegs than the front door, and looked for
the girl.

It did not take long to find her, nor for her to
find him. Even as he hooked out the stool from
beneath the small table, she was at his side. Deft
hands unpinned his cloak, then stripped it from
his shoulders.

The girl froze. Black eyes were avid as she saw
the gold on his arms; a glance quickly flicked at
his left ear assured her that her assessment was
correct.

She smiled, black eyes shining bronze in the
light as ft'r-gold glinted. She was young and pretty
in a wild, black-eyed way, bold in manners and
glances. Content with the weight of his wealth, she
eyed the fit of his leggings.

She was quite striking, though in time her looks
would coarsen. For now, she would do. Better than
most. Kellin smiled back. It was an agreement
they reached easily without speaking a word;

when he tossed the silver.coin down on the table
to pay for his food and drink, she caught it before
it bounced. Indeed, she will do—much better than
expected.

"Pleasure, my lord?"

He grinned briefly. It was a two-part question,
as she well knew when she asked it. "For now,
usca. If you have it."

"We hae it." White teeth flashed as the coin dis-
appeared into a pocket in her voluminous woolen
skirt. She wore a faded crimson blouse and a yel-
low tabard-smock over it, but both were slashed
low to show off small, high breasts. She had
pinned her thick black hair at the back of her neck
in a bundled mass, but locks had come loose and
straggled down her back. Finer strands curled
against the pallor of her slender neck.

380 Jennifer Robersoa

Kellin found the disarray, and the neck, infi-
nitely appealing. "And what else?" he asked.

She showed her teeth again. "Lamb."

"Lamb will do." He let her see his assessment
of her; she would mark it flattery, in the glint of
green eyes. "What do they call you?"

"They call me whate'er they like," she said
frankly. "So may you. But my name be Kirsty."

"Kirsty." He liked it. "Mine is Kellin."

She measured him avidly. "You're a shape-
changer, are ye no', wi' all that gold ... ?" She
nodded before he had a chance to answer. "I ne'er
seen a shapechanger w'out the yellow eyes."

He found her northern speech as appealing as
her slender neck with its weight of hair. He gave
her the benefit of a slow, inviting smile he had
found years before to be most effective. "Do I
frighten you?"

Arched black brows shot up. "You?" Kirsty
laughed. "I've been all my life a wine-girl . ..
'tisn't much a man hoe to frighten me!" She
paused consideringly. "Do ye mean to, then?"

Her hand rested against the table. He put out
his own and gently touched the flesh that lacked
the smooth silken feel of the court women he had
known before turning to the Midden; he found her
hand familiar in its toughened competence, and
therefore all the more attractive. "No," he said
softly. "I would never mean to hurt you."

Kirsty promised much with eyes that bespoke
experience without prevarication. "I'll bring your
lamb, then, and the usca ... but I'm working,
now. I canna gie ye my company till later."

He turned his hand against hers so she could
see the bloody glow of the ring on his forefinger.
It was unlikely a north country girl would recog-
nize the crest, but she would know its value well
enough.

A TAPESTRY OF LlO\S           381

Black brows rose again. "You'd nae gie me that
for a night, nor a week of nights!"

"Not this, perhaps—" he could not; it signified
his rank, "—but certainly this." He touched the
torque at his neck.

Her eyed widened. " Tis too much'. For a wine-
girl? Hae ye no more coin?"

"I 'hae' coin." He mimicked her accent. "But
you hae a pretty neck."

She assessed the torque again. "A man's, no' a
woman's ... t'would lie low—here—" She touched
her collar bone, then drew her fingers more slowly
to the cleft of her high breasts and smiled to see
his eyes.

He understood the game, "Do you not want it,
then?"

For her, the game was ended. Dreams filled her
eyes as the breath rushed out of her mouth. "Wi*
that I could go to Mujhara! Am I a fool? Nae, I'd
take it. But what d'ye want for it?"

"Your company. Now."

"Bu' . .." She glanced around. "Tam'd turn me
out, did I no' tend the others."

"I will pay Tarn, too."

A smooth brow knitted. "Hae it been so long,
then, that ye're that hungry?"

"Hungry," he answered, "for all the things that
satisfy a man." He clasped her fingers briefly, then
released her hand. "Food and drink first. Come
when you can."

Her eyes were on the torque. "Promises made
are no' kept, sometimes. D'ye think I'm a fool,
then?"

For answer Keilin rose and stripped the torque
from his neck. He hooked it around her own, then
settled its weight low, on delicate collar bones. Its
patina glowed richly against the pallor of her skin.

Her fingertips touched it. "Oh . .."

Jennifer Roberson

382

Kellin grinned. "But you will earn it, my lass,
with me."

Kirsty laughed aloud, then bent close to him.
"Nae, I think not—'tis a gift\ I'd hae done you for
naught at all."

"For naught!"

"Aye!" Her laugh was throaty. "I've no' seen a
man like you in all o' my days!"

Chagrined, he clapped a hand to her rump and
found it firm and round. "Lamb and usca, then,
before I die of hunger."

"Won't be hunger you die of!" She swung and
was gone before he could retort-

Kellin ate lamb, drank usca, and laid a few wa-
gers on the fall of the dice in a friendly game at
another table. He was marked as Cheysuli, but no
one appeared to resent it. Eyes followed the glint
of gold when he moved in the lamplight, but the
greed was friendly and lacking in covetous intent.

Kirsty appeared at last and ran deft fingers
down his arm. Then she touched the buckle of his
belt and tugged. "I'm done," she said. "Are you?"

"That depends," he gathered up his modest win-
nings, "on which game you refer to. With this one,
aye; most certainly I am done. The other is not
yet begun—" he grinned, "—and like to last all
night."

She laughed softly. "Then coom prove it to me."

He rose and hooked a finger through the torque.
He lifted it; then, using it, he pulled her closer.
very close, so his breath warmed her face. "What
more proof of my intent is necessary?"

Her hand was skilled as she slid it between his
legs. "There's proof—and there's proof."

Kellin laughed quietly. "Shansu, meijhana—or
would you prefer an audience?"

A TAPKSTHY OF LHMS           383

"Those words," she said, brows lifting. "What
are those words?"

He said it into her ear. "I will explain them
elsewhere."

Kirsty laughed and hooked an arm around his
waist as his settled across her shoulders. "This
way, my beastie—"

"No." He halted her instantly, humor dissipat-
ing. "Do not refer to me so."

" Twas just ..." Her defense died. She nodded.

Kellin pulled her close, sorry he had broken the
mood. "You know better where my room is."

Kirsty took him there.

He awakened hours later, aware of usca sour-
ness in his mouth and a certain stiffiness in his
shoulders. Kirsty had proven her mettle, and had
certainly drained him of his.

The room was dark. It took Kellin a moment to
adjust his eyes. The stub of a candle had long since
melted down, so that the only illumination was
from the seam of moonRght between ill-fitted
shutters. It lent just enough light to see the pallor
of Kirsty s shoulder, jutting roofward. Raven hair
and blankets obscured the rest of her.

/ like black hair—and such white, white skin. She
was curled against him like a cat, rump set
against his left hip. Would she purr, like Sima?

But his mind drifted in search of an answer to
an unknown question. He wondered what had
wakened him. Usually he slept the night through,
unless he dreamed of the Lion; but it had been
weeks since the last nightmare, and he believed Kir-
sty had effectively banished the beast for the night.
He lay in perfect silence, listening to her breathing.

Lir, Sima said, has the girl stolen your senses
along with other things? I have called for you three
times.

Jennifer Robersoa

Ah. Kellin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. What
is it?

If you wish to ride to Valgaard. you had better
leave your bed.

Why? Do you want to leave now? It was ludi-
crous. / said we would go in the morning.

Your horse is leaving. Sima sounded smug.

My horse— He understood at once.

Kellin sat up, swearing, and tossed the covers
aside. Kirsty mumbled a protest and dragged the
blankets back. His clothing lay in a tangled heap
on the floor, and no doubt the leather was cold.
Kellin swore again and reached for leggings.

Kirsty turned as he buckled his belt. "Where
d'ye go?"

"To rescue my horse." He meant to take his
cloak, but Kirsty had pulled it up around her
shoulders.

She stared at him. "How d'ye know it wants
rescuing?"

"My lir told me." He bent to pull on his boots.

"Yer beast?"

"Not a beast. She is a mountain cat." He
grinned briefly, tossing her the bone. "Her fur is
as black and lovely as your hair."

Kirsty hunched up beneath blankets and cloak,
unsure of the compliment. "Will ye coom back?"

Kellin pulled open the door. "Would a man be
so foolish as to desert you in the midst of a cold
night?"

Kirsty laughed- "Then I'll gie ye sommat to re-
member me by." She flung back cloak and cover-
let, displaying cold-tautened breasts, and it was
only with great effort that Kellin departed the
room.

Upon exiting the roadhouse, Kellin was sorry he
had left the cloak behind. The night was clear and

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

385

cold, belying the season. Bare arms protested with
pimpled flesh; he rubbed them vigorously, sliding
fingertips across cooling /ir-gold, and strode on
toward the stable intending to settle the business
at once, then hasten back to bed.

The building was a black, square-angled blob in
the moonlight, blocky and slump-roofed. He ap-
proached quietly, accustomed to making no sound
in the litheness of his movements, and touched the
knife hilt briefly.

Sima's tone was clear. They are taking the saddle,
too.

Kellin swore beneath his breath. Just as he
reached the stable two men appeared, and a horse.
His horse. The gelding was bridled and saddled,
as if they intended to ride immediately.

He recognized them from the common room.
Greedier than I thought— Kellin moved out of
shadow into moonlight. "I doubt you could pay
my price. You lost in the game tonight."

They froze- One man clung to the horse, while
his companion stiffened beside him. Then the first
put up his chin. "Go back to Kirsty," he said, "and
we'll let ye be. 'Twill be a gey cold night, the
other."

The dialect was thick. Kellin deciphered it, then
added his own comment. " 'Twill be a gey cold
night, withal—for one of us... ." He slipped into
the lilt he had learned from his grandmother-
Erinnish was similar- "But I'll be keeping yon
horse for myself as well as the bonny lass."

Both men showed their knives. Kellin showed
his- The display resulted in a muttered conversa-
tion between the two Homanans, as Kellin waited.

Eventually his patience waned. "We each of us
has a knife. In that, we are well-matched. But are
you forgetting I am Cheysuli? If a knife will not
do to persuade you who is better, Hr-shape will."

386 Jennifer Roberwa

It sufficed. The man holding the reins released
the gelding at once as the other stepped away. The
horse wandered back toward the warm stable.

Kellin sighed. "Go on your way. That way." He
gestured. "You'll be bedding down elsewhere, my
boyos."

The men goggled at him. "We have a room!"

"Not any more."

"Ye canna do this!"

" 'Tis done." He grinned at them. "You tried to
steal my horse, but that's done for the night. Now
I've stolen your bed." He gestured. "On your
way."

They muttered something to one another, then
turned toward the road.

Kellin raised his voice. "Ckeysuli i'haSa. shansu!"

They did not, either of them, offer an answer he
understood.

"No, I thought not." Kellin went after the horse,
caught and gathered dragging reins, then led the
gelding into the stable. "Disturbed your sleep, did
they?" He reached for the knotted girth. "Then we
are a proper pair—though I dare say I miss the
woman more than—" He turned. The noise was
slight, but his hearing better than most.

It was too late. Weight descended upon him.
Kellin went down with only a blurted protest.

Five

It was the cold that finally woke him. The earthen
floor was packed hard as stone, and was twice as
cold. The scattered straw offered no protection.
Kellin's flesh, as he roused, rose up on his bones
all at once and he shivered violently in a sus-
tained, convulsive shudder that jarred loose the
fog from his head.

"Gods—" His teeth clicked together and stayed
there, clamped against the chattering he would
not acknowledge.

Awake again?

He started to hitch himself up on one elbow,
thought better of it almost at once, and stayed
where he was. He rolled his head to one side and
felt at the back of his skull, marking the lump.
Something crusted in his fingers: dried blood, he
guessed; at least it wasn't still flowing.

"Lir? Where are—uh." He scowled as he found
her seated very close to his side. Aggrievedly, he
said, "You might have at least lay down next to
me! Some warmth is better than none!"

The last time we spoke of warmth, you claimed a
woman's better than mine.

"That was in bed. Am I in bed now? No! I am
lying sprawled on an icy stable floor with not even
a saddle blanket for my—" He broke it off in as-
tonishment. "—nor any clothing, either! My leath-
ers—"

387

388 Jennifer Roberson

Sima slitted gold eyes against a stream of invec-
tive. When he at last ran out of oaths he stopped>
caught his breath, and shut his eyes against the
pain in his battered head.

He felt empty, somehow—and then Kellin
clutched a naked earlobe. "My ;i'r-gold!" He sat
upright, unmindful of his headache. "Gods—they
took my gold\"

Sima twitched her tail. Gold is gold. Blessed or
no, its value to a man remains the same.

"But—it took me so long to get it—"

You were in no hurry, she reminded him primly.
You denied it—and me—for a very long time.

Kellin gingerly rubbed the back of his tender
skull, then felt the stiffness of abused neck tendons
and attempted to massage the pain away. "Gloat-
ing does not become you."

Everything becomes a lir.

"And Blais' knife, too." Acknowledgment of a
further atrocity sent a shudder through his body.
"Oh, gods—oh, gods ... my ring. My signet ring.
Gods, lir—that ring signifies my rank and title!"
He clutched the naked finger. "It has adorned the
hand of every Prince of Homana since, since—"
He gave it up. "Lir—" And then a burst of ironic
laughter crowded out his panic. "Fitting, is it not?
For ten years I rebel against the constraints of my
rank—and now thieves steal its symbol from me!
Surely the gods had a hand in this."

Or a foolish warrior.

Levity vanished. "You are not in the least
surprised."

/ warned you. She licked a paw.

"Does it mean nothing to you that what they
have done is heretical? To rob a Cheysuli warrior
of his /ir-gold, and the Prince of Homana of his
signet—"

—is brave, if nothing else; I admire them for their

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           389

gall. Sima blinked, then slitted eyes. You can fetch
it back.

"In a saddle blanket? They have taken every-
thing else!"

Surely the girl can bring you clothing.

"The girl likely was part of this." Realization
stabbed him. "What coin I have left is in my
room—" he reconsidered it, "—or was."

Then you will have to tend it yourself.

Kellin swore again. Then, with excessive care,
he got off the cold ground at last, found the near-
est saddle blanket, and wrapped it around his
loins. He was just tucking in the end when the
stable door creaked open.

Kirsty stood silhouetted in moonlight, swathed
in his cloak. He saw the tabard and woolen skirt,
and leather shoes. Unbound hair, tangled from the
evening's sport, hung below her hips.

Sima blinked again. A conclusion perhaps best
not jumped to.

"Thieves," Kellin declared-in answer to Kirsty's
expression. "Did you know nothing of it?"

She put up her chin. "If I knew aught, I'd be
other than here, ye muddle-headed whelp! D'ye
think me so foolish as to coom to ye if I knew?"

"A clever woman would, merely to mislead me."
He was curt in his headache and humiliation.
"Have you clothing I can put on?"

Kirsty tossed back her untamed mane. "Ye'd
look gey foolish in my clothing, ye ken."

Kellin sighed. "Aye, so I would. Have you men's
I might put on?"

"Tam'll hae some. T'will cost, and nae doot'll
be no' to your liking, but better than ye wear
now." Her grin was abruptly sly. "Not that I'm
minding, ye ken."

"I ken," he said dryly. "And I will pay Tarn.

390 Jennifer Roberson

Though the gods know that torque alone would
buy me a trunkful."

She clutched at it. " 'Tis mine! Ye said so!"

" 'Tis yours. I said so. Keep it, Kirsty—run and
fetch the clothing." Silently he said, If I can trust
you to come back.

Kirsty swung on her heels and hastened away
while Kellin sat down on a haphazard pile of grain
sacks and tried to ignore the cold and the thumping
in his head.

She was back after all in but a handful of mo-
ments, and had the right of it; the clothing was
not at all to his liking. But he put on the grimy
smock and woolen baggy trews without com-
plaint, then stuffed straw into the toes of Tarn's
oversized, decaying boots so they at least re-
mained on his feet. The soles were worn through,
the poor heels all run down, but even tattered
leather was better than bare feet.

His earlobe hurt. The thieves had paid scant at-
tention to the wire and how it hooked; they had
wrenched it out of the hole with little regard to
his flesh. But the lobe, if sore, was whole; he re-
called very clearly that his grandsire lacked all of
his.

Kirsty touched his arms. "No' the same wi' nae
gold."

Anger got the best of him. "Is that what you
wanted all along?"

She drew back, warding the torque against his
eyes. "Nae! And I only meant ye dinna look the
same wi'oot it, not that I wanted it! Now ye look
like a Homanan, and a poor one at that!"

He laughed with little amusement. "So I do; one
might mistake me altogether as a common low-
born roadhouse-keeper." He regretted the words
at once; what had she done to deserve them? "I

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            391

am sorry—I am poor company. My thanks for the
clothing. Now—which way did they go?"

"They?"

"The thieves. You know them, do you not?"

Kirsty said nothing.

"I saw them earlier, in the common room. They
knew you, Kirsty, and you knew them." He paused.
"I do not intend to kill them, merely fetch back
my things. What they took is—sacred." He left it
at that.

Kirsty chewed on a lock of hair. "North," she
said finally, "across the river."

It was very near dawn. Already the sky behind
her began to lighten. "Into Solinde."

She shrugged. "They're Solindish. They coom
onc't a four-week."

"To steal."

"To work."

"One and the same, perhaps?" Kellin sighed.
"Which way across the river?"

"Westward." She jerked her head- "They might
ha' hurt ye worse."

"I said I will not kill them." He glanced at the
stalls. "I have need of a horse."

Sima questioned that. What of lir-shape?

Within the link, he refused. Too dangerous. No
balance, yet—and now no time to team it. Kellin
shivered. For now, I will ride a horse.

Kirsty stared. "Now ye want a horse? Ye hae no
such coin in your purse, ye ken. I looked—here
'tis—I dinna want it!" She slapped it into his
hand. "I only meant, how will ye buy the horse?"

"On promises," he said.

"Promises o' what? You've naught left; you've
said so."

He turned from her and moved to the nearest
stall. "This one will do- Where is the bridle?—ah."

392 Jennifer Robersoa

He took it down from its peg, slipped the posts
that fenced in the horse, and slipped inside.

"You'll no' turn thief," she said. "That be Tarn's
horse."

"Not yours."

"Nae. I own nothing but what I wear—and
this." She clutched the torque. Her black eyes
were very bright, but it was not from good humor;

Kellin thought perhaps tears. "Unless you mean
to take it back."

"No, I will do no such thing. Here, have back
the coin—it will pay for the clothing. But I also
need a horse. If you would have Tarn repaid for
that, there is a thing you can do." He bridled the
piebald horse, then led it from the stall. He would
not take saddle also; he took too much already. "If
you would pay back Tarn—and put coin in your
pockets, as well—you need only go to Mujhara,
and then to Homana-Mujhar."

"Homana-Mujhar!" She gaped. "To the palace?"

"They'll give you coin for the torque." He swung
up bareback onto the piebald back and winced;

the spine was well delineated. "That way it will
stay with like pieces instead of winding up with
a money-lender ... tell them I used it to pay a
debt."

"Tell who?" She tossed back her head. "The
Mujhar himself?"

He grinned. "They do know me there."

She was instantly suspicious. "I'm to tell them
Kellin sent me to trade this for coin? Och, aye—
they'll toss me oot i' the street!"

"Not immediately. After a meal, perhaps." He
glanced at Sima. Coming?

She stood up from the shadows and shook her
coat free of straw, then slid out of darkness into
the dawn of a new day. Kirsty let out a startled
shriek and leapt back three paces.

A TAPESTRY OF LlOfVS            393

"My lir," he said briefly. "Do you see what I
mean about her fur and your hair? Both such a
lovely, glossy black."

The girl clutched at the shining torque. "In the
eyes," she mumbled, staring at him. "E'en wi'oor
the gold!"

"I thank you," Kellin said. "It is a compliment."

As he rode away from the stable, Kirsty called
a final farewell. "Homana-Mujhar, indeed! I'll be
keeping this for myself."

Kellin sighed as he settled himself carefully
athwart the treacherous spine. "Worth a trunkful
of clothing and an entire herd of horses."

But less than your missing fir-gold, your ring—
and your kinsman's knife.

Kellin offered no answer. Sima, as always, was
right.

By the time they reached the ferry, Kellin's dis-
comfort in his nether regions matched the thumping
in his head. He was altogether miserable, wishing
for his horse hack, and alt his gold back, and the
knife, and most particularly the saddle that would
have made things, even on this horse, much easier
to bear.

He thought his head might burst. A closer in-
spection with fingers had not divulged anything
he did not already know—the swelling was soft
and tender, the cut dried. He wondered what they
had struck him with—the roadhouse, perhaps?

He began a complaint to Sima. They might have
been— Halfway through the comment he cut off
the communication through the link. It made his
head hurt worse. He waved a gesture at the cat
that dismissed conversation; she flicked tufted
ears and held her silence accordingly, but he
thought she looked amused.

The ferry was docked this side of the river. Re-

394 Jennifer Robersoa

lieved, Kellin halted the piebald and slid off care-
fully, so as not to jar his head. A man was slumped
against a cluster of posts roped together, the stub
of a pipe clenched in his teeth. His eyes were
closed, but he was not asleep.

Kellin led the horse up. "Did you give passage to
two men early this morning? Just before dawn?"

One eye opened. Graying brown hair straggled
around his face beneath a threadbare cap. " 'Twould
be hard for a body to walk across, would ye no'
say?"

Kellin suppressed a retort. "Then you did."

"Dinna see bodies in the river, do ye?—though
they be carried awa' by now." The other eye
opened. "She's angry in the spring."

Kellin looked beyond the man he took to be the
ferry-master to the river beyond. It was spring,
and the river did seem angry; the thaw had thick-
ened the Bluetooth so that it ran nearly out of its
banks, with a high, fast current that would suck a
man down all too easily.

"They robbed me," Kellin said. "I am angry,
also."

The ferry-master squinted. "Doesna look like ye
had so much to steal."

"Now, no. Before, I did. This is the best I could
do," he paused. "Did you give two Solindishmen
passage across the river?"

"If I said aye, would ye be after passage, too?"

"The woman said it was where they were l?ound."

"Kirsty?" The man brightened. He was, Kellin
judged, nearly as old as the Mujhar- "Did she send
ye, then?"

"She sent me."

He raked Kellin with a glance from brown eyes
set deeply in shadowed sockets. "Then ye must ha'
pleased her. She's no needing to be sending a

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           395

robbed man after those who coom to see her onc't
a four-week."

Kellin hung onto his patience with effort. The
thudding in his head made it increasingly difficult.
"We pleased each other well enough. Did the men
cross here?"

"Dinna walk, did they?" He heaved himself
from the planking and jabbed the pipe in Sima's
direction. "She tame, yon cat?"

Kellin opened his mouth to vigorously deny that
a Ur could be tamed; he shut it once he recalled
what Kirsty had said: that he could, in Tarn's
clothing, pass as a Homanan. This close to So-
linde, this close to Valgaard, it might be better to
keep his moufh shut with regard to Ur. "Aye," he
said. "Tame enough."

"Then you'd best go no farther north," the ferry-
master warned. "There's a man o'er the Pass who
pays gold and jewels for cats like her."

He was indignant. "Who does?"

The ferry-master made a sign against evil. "A
man," he said only. "He'cfhae her faster than the
river would eat a man." His truculence now was
vanished. "Aye, they crossed. Will ye?"

"I will. At once."

The man unwound the coil of rope tying up the
ferry. "Hae ye coin for it?"

"I have—" No. He did not. "—this horse."

"That horse! That one? What would I be doing
wi' Tarn's old nag?"

"Mine was stolen," Kellin said tightly through
his teeth. "I bought this one to track the thieves,
so I might get back my own mount—which is, I
might add, considerably better than 'Tarn's old
nag.' "

"Aye, it would be, ye ken? Not many worse than
Tarn's old nag." He jerked his head toward the
ferry. "Coom aboard, then, you and yon cat ... if

396 Jennifer Robersoa

Kirsty sent ye after them, there's a reason for't.
I'll no' take the nag." He grinned briefly. "Kirsty'11
make it right."

Knowing how she spent her nights, Kellin judged
she would. Nonetheless, he was grateful.

Almost as soon as he was aboard, Kellin was
sorry. The Bluetooth fought the ferry every inch
of the way, spuming over the sides of the flat, thick
platform until the boards ran white with foam.
The old piebald spread his legs and dropped his
head even as Kellin grabbed hold of a rope; Sima
dug claws into aged wood and lashed her tail an-
grily in counterpoint to the heaves the ferry-
master put to the ropes.

By the time they reached the other side, Kellin's
tattered clothing was soaked. Sima bared her
teeth and shook droplets free of her coat. As soon
as the ferry thumped the bank she sprang for land;

Kellin led the piebald off and thanks the gods for
putting firm land beneath his feet.

"Aye," the ferry-master said, "she's a gey wicked
bitch in the spring. Summer's better," He jerked
his head westward. "That way, they went. They
won't be expecting ye, so they willna be in a
hurry. Ye'll hae them by sundoon."

Kellin nodded thanks. "Is this because of Kirsty?"

"Och, she's a right'un, that lass .. . but ye've a
pinched look in the eyes that says they hit ye a
mite too hard." He grinned around the pipe. "And
ye speak too well for a man born to wear Tarn's
clothes." He jerked his head again. "Gi* on wi' ye,
then. Ye'll be back by tomorrow, and ye can pay
for your ride."

Kellin smiled. "Cheysuli i'halla—" He broke it
off instantly, cursing the headache that mangled
his wits so.

The ferry-master's eyebrows shot up beneath the

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           397

lock of greasy hair. "Ah. Well, then. Not tame after
all, is she?" He coughed. "Yon cat."

"No." Kellin swung up onto the piebald and
wished immediately his pride had permitted him
to find a log and mount, like a woman. "There are
times I wish she were."

The brown eyes were sharp. "Then 'tisn't the
horse you're wanting, or the coin . . . more like
cat-shaped gold, is't?"

"More like," Kellin said. He kicked the horse
into motion.

"Aye, well . .. I've no' known them to be so fool-
ish before." He briefly showed a gap-toothed grin
that gave way to the pipestem. "Be wary of So-
linde. Up here so close to Valgaard—well . .." He
let it go. "They'd be wanting more than yon cat."

This time he did not hesitate. "Leijhana tu'sai.
Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

Six

The westward road was not so well-traveled as
the one cutting down from the Bluetooth into the
center of Homana. It was narrow and twisty,
winding its way through silted huddles of downed
trees and acres of water-smoothed boulders car-
ried this way and that by a temperamental river
gone over its banks to suck back again, leaving
detritus in its wake. Tarn's old nag was not a par-
ticularly coordinated horse, and Kellin spent much
of his time trying to keep his head very still upon
his neck as the horse stumbled its way along.

"By sundown," Kellin muttered in reference to
the ferry-master's prediction as the piebald tripped
again. "By then, I may well be lacking a head en-
tirety. It will have fallen off and rolled to a halt
amidst that pile of boulders, there, and when the
crows have picked it clean no one will know the
difference between it and that rock, there."

Sima chanced the lir-iink. I will go on ahead. Let
me find them—/ will come back and fetch you.

It pulsed within his skull. Kellin hissed in pain
and shut his eyes against it, then waved her on.
"Go, I am little threat to them if I find them in
this state. They will laugh, and be on about their
business with no fear of me."

The cat whipped her tail, then left at a springy
lope.

The horse stumbled on. After a while Kellin bal-

398

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           399

anced himself, shut his eyes, and gave himself over
to a state very akin to sleep, in hopes that when
he awoke the pain would be dispersed.

He roused to a quiet voice pitched over a rush
of water. "I had expected to eat alone, but your
horse has other ideas." A pause. "I am glad of the
company; will you share my meal?"

Kellin opened his eyes. He slumped atop the pie-
bald, which had in turn wandered off the road to
a cluster of tumbled boulders very near the river's
edge. He smelled smoke and fish. It made his belly
rumble.

The stranger laughed. "I will take that as
acceptance."

"Where am I?" Kellin glanced around. The road
was not so far; he could see it winding Westward.

"Here," the man said, amused. "At my camp-
site, such as it is; but I have had good fortune in
my fishing, and there is enough for us both." His
hazel eyes were friendly- The piebald snorted
against the hand that held his bridle; the stranger
grinned and pushed the muzzle away. "You have
been hard used; I have wine for the ache."

He was a young, fine-featured man, perhaps Kel-
lin's age or a year or two older. His hair was dark,
nearly black, and fell smoothly to his shoulders.
His clothing was spun of good wool of uniform
yam. Kellin marked him a well-to-do man: linen
tunic died blue, with black embroidery at the col-
lar; black-dyed breeches; good boots, and a brilliant
crimson cloak thrown on loosely over shoulders.

Kellin considered refusing. There were the thieves
to think about. But his head did ache, his belly
did rumble—and Sima was on their trail. He need
only wait for her, and by the time she returned,
his condition would be improved.

400 Jennifer Robecson

"My thanks," he said. Then recalled what he
looked like. "But I have nothing—"

The stranger waved a hand. "Your company is
enough. I am not so far from my destination; I
can be generous." He smiled again. "You might do
better to walk, then to go another step atop this
horse."

"Aye." Kellin smiled crookedly and slid off, grit-
ting his teeth against the pounding in his head. It
was worse, not better; but the road was hard and
the horse clumsy. He was lucky his head remained
on his neck.

"My name is Devin," the stranger said as Kellin
pulled the reins over the piebald's neck. "The wine
I have is Solindish white; will it do?"

Kellin followed. "Any wine will do. I am not fit
to judge its taste." A glance from Devin told Kellin
he had perhaps misphrased his answer; he had
meant because of his head, but Devin's quick as-
sessment indicated the stranger believed he meant
his station. He thinks me a poor man; well, for the
moment, I am. He led the piebald to the water-
wracked, uprooted tree at the riverbank and tied
him to a branch next to Devin's mount, a fine
glossy bay very like Kellin's stolen horse.

A fire was built between a tumble of clustered
boulders and the water's edge, hosting two speck-
led fish speared and hung belly-up along two
stripped branches resting in crotched braces. The
lap of the river was but paces away, so the sound
was loud. Devin squatted near the fire, digging
through packs. "Here." He tossed the wineskin. "I
have another; drink as you will. I will tend the
fish."

Kellin caught the skin as he turned from the
piebald and swallowed, glad of the liquor's bite.
If he drank enough, it would dull the pounding in
his head, but that would be poor manners. He

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

m

owed Devin sober companionship, not the rude-
ness of a man undone by misfortune.

Devin made conversation as he inspected the
sizzling fish. "I misjudged the distance," he said,
"or I would have stayed the night in the last road-
house I passed- The ground is a hard bed when
one is used to better." He lifted one of the speared
fish. "Here. Trout. I daresay it will complement
the wine."

Kellin accepted the proffered fish-laden stick
with thanks and sat down against the closest boul-
der. He thought Devin was indeed accustomed to
better; a sapphire gleamed on one hand, while a
band of twisted gold glinted on the other,

Devin took the other fish for himself and sat
back against his packs, blowing to cool the meat.
"Have you a wife?" he asked.

Kellin shook his head. His mouth was full of
fish.

"Ah. Well, neither do I—for but a four-week
more!" He grinned. "I am-bound for my wedding.
Wish me good fortune, my friend, and that the girl
is comely ... I have no wish to share my bed with
a plain woman!"

Kellin swallowed. "You have never seen her?"

"No. A dynastic thing, this marriage. To bind
the bloodlines closer." Devin chewed thoughtfully.
"A man like you weds for love, or lust—or because
the woman has conceived, and her father insists!—
but a man like me, well ..." He sighed. "No
choice for either of us. The match was suggested
by her father, and mine accepted eagerly; one can-
not help but to rise in service to a powerful lord."

Kellin's smile was crooked. "No."

"I envy you. You need not wed at all, if that is
your desire—well, I should not complain; my lot
is better than yours." Devin's attitude was friendly

402 Jennifer Xo6erMm

enough, but all too obviously he believed Kellin
lowborn. "What is your trade?"               i

Kellin wanted to laugh. If he told Devin the
truth— He grinned, thinking of the thieves. "What
other trade is there but to aspire to higher in life—
and the coin to make it possible?"

Devin's eyes narrowed consideringly as he washed
down trout with wine. "You are a passing fair
mimic."

"A mimic?"

"Aye. Put on finer clothing, wash the grime from
your face, you could pass for a highborn man."
He stoppered the wineskin. "You might make a
mummer."

Kellin laughed, thinking of his grandparents.
"There are those who have accused me of that
very thing. I did but playact the role, they said—
then admonished me to learn my part better." He
jerked his head westward- "When you came down
the road, did you pass two men with a bay very
like your own?"

Devin shrugged. "I passed many people. I do not
recall the horse." His eyes brightened over the
fish. "Why?"

"The horse they have is mine. It was stolen from
me ..." He ran a hand through tousled hair. "You
see, I am not precisely the man I appear to be."
Kellin plucked at Tarn's grimy tunic. "They took
more than my horse."

"And left you with that piebald horse and anoth-
er's clothing?" Devin shouted a laugh. "Aye, it
makes sense—you have not the manner of a low-
born man, either."

Kellin thought of the Midden and his visits.
"Some might argue with that."

"Well. at least they left you your life. Did they
knock you on the head?" He grinned as Kellin gri-
maced an answer. "I thought so. The dullness in

A rAPEsrHyoFZ.KWs          403

your eyes ... aye, well, drink more wine." He fin-
ished his fish. "If I were not expected, I would
help you catch the thieves. I have certain gifts that
would improve the sport."

"Gifts?"

Devin grinned. "Arts." He reached for the wine-
skin, then turned as movement on the road caught
his eyes. Almost at once he froze. "Be still!" He
put out a hand- "Do not move—gods, but what a
beauty . . . and a fitting gift for the girl's father.
He covets them. I shall have to see if I can take
her."

Kellin turned, asking, "Covets what—?" And
broke off immediately. Suspicion blossomed.

He dropped the fish, set down the wineskin qui-
etly, and wished he had his knife. He stared hard
at the friendly stranger.

"She is lovely'." Devin breathed.

Kellin did not answer. He reached out very care-
fully and closed his hand around the hilt of De-
vin's knife.

Devin twisted at once, slapping down at Kellin's
grasping hand. "What are you—wait—" He rolled
and scrambled up, poised for attack. The light in
his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, piercing
stillness. Quietly, he said "Only a fool steals from
an Ihlini."

The cold knot solidified in Kellin's belly. He
knelt on one knee with the other booted foot
planted, grasping a stolen knife. "And only a fool
thinks he can capture a lir."

Realization kindled in Devin's eyes, then damped
to coals. He shook his head- "You have no power
before me."

"Nor you before me."

Devin raised his hands. "I have these."

"And I have your knife."

Devin's eyes narrowed- His young face was

404 Jennifer Roberaoa

stretched taut across prominent cheekbones. His
lips were bloodless. He studied Kellin carefully,
then murmured something beneath his breath.
"They say—" He shut his mouth, then began
again. "They say we are very alike. Ihlini and
Cheysuli. That we are bloodkin." He remained half
crouched, prepared to receive an onrush. "Do you
believe it?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does. If there is truth to it. If we are to kill
one another."

"Are we?"

Devin shrugged. "To serve Asar-Suti, I will kill
whomever I must—" In one smooth motion he
ripped his cloak from his shoulders and swirled it
at Kellin, snapping weighted comers.

The blaze of crimson came at his face, aimed for
his eyes. Kellin ducked the cloak easily enough,
but it served merely as distraction; Devin scooped
up and hurled a river rock that nearly struck Kel-
lin's head.

Ku'resh— As Keliin dodged it, the Ihlini hurled
himself forward.

They went down together hard, smashing into
rocks spewed up by the Bluetooth River. Devin's
fingers dug into Kellin's throat. He squirmed be-
neath the Ihlini, thrashing legs to gain leverage,
and managed to thrust a knee upward that imper-
iled Devin's balance. The Ihlini tensed, shifted,
and Kellin bucked him off. The knife was lost
somehow, but he scrambled to his feet even as
Devin came up clawing.

It was an obscene dance, an intercourse of
grasping hands reaching to crush a throat. Kellin
was aware of Sima's nearness by the sound of her
growls and snarls, but the link was completely
empty. In its place was an odd disorientation, a
buzzing interference that told him all too clearly

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             405

what he should have known before; what he would
have known before had his wits not been so
muddled.

They were too near the river. Sand shifted.
Rocks rolled. Kellin's feet slid inside oversized,
straw-stuffed boots. No foothold— He slipped even
as Devin changed grasp, and Kellin stumbled. He
brought the heel of his right hand up against the
underside of Devin's jaw, meaning to snap the
neck, but the Ihlini twisted his head sharply aside.

This, then— Kelin hooked a foot and caught De-
vin's ankle. He dropped the Ihlini, then turned and
lunged for the knife but a pace away.

Devin's feet scissored out. Kellin, caught, fell
hard, trying to twist, but Devin's hands were on
him. —knife—

The Ihlini had it. Kellin saw the brief glint, saw
the tip meet Tarn's grimy fabric, then plunge
through.

Gods—Sima— He squirmed, sucking in his belly.

Devin gasped a triumphant laugh. Steel dug
through flesh and slid between ribs. The Ihlini's
mouth was a rictus of victory and exertion. "Who
wins this one?"

Kellin jerked himself off the blade, willing him-
self not to think of the pain, the damage, the risk.
He saw the blood smearing steel, saw the crimson
droplets staining damp sand, but refused to ac-
knowledge it.

He twisted his torso and brought up a booted
foot. One thrashing thrust jarred against Devin's
thigh, then glanced off. It was enough. Kellin lev-
ered himself up, grasping hair and tunic, and
threw Devin over. He let his weight fall and
pinned the Ihlini, then grabbed handfuls of dark
hair and began to smash the skull against the
sand.

The wound was bad. If he did not kill Devin

406 Jennifer Roberson

soon, he would soon bleed to death. What a sweet
irony if they killed one another.

Devin bucked. An upthrust knee missed Kellin's
groin but not his belly. Pain blossomed anew, and
bleeding. His tunic was sodden with it.

"—wait—" Devin gritted. "—only need to wait—"
But he did not. He bucked again, broke Kellin's
grasp, and scrambled away from him. "Now—"

Kellin staggered upright, sealing the wound
closed with his left arm pressed hard against his
ribs. He fell back two steps, stumbled over a rock,
tried to steady his footing. Strength was fading
fast.

Devin laughed. His face was scratched and red-
dened in patches; it would bruise badly if he lived
long enough. "Cheysuli blood—" he gasped, "—is
red as Ihlini—red as my own . .. are we kinsmen,
then?" He smeared an arm across his face. "I have
only to wait—you will do me the favor of dying
even if I never touch you again."

"My lir—will touch—you—" It was all Kellin
could manage as he labored to keep his breath.

"Your lir'? I think not. The lir are proscribed
against harming Ihlini, Have you ever wondered
why?" Devin's breath was returning.

Kellin backed up. He heard the rush of the river,
the promise of its song. What he needed was time
to recover himself, but time he did not have. Devin
had time.

He could not hold the blood in. It crept through
his fingers, then dripped to the sand. A rock was
red with it, turning slowly black. Behind Kellin
the river roared louder.

"Enough," Devin said, bending to grab the
knife. "I am expected in Valgaard. This foolish
dance delays me."

Kellin bent and scooped up a round stone. He
let fly, then scooped another and threw again.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           407

Devin ducked, but did not let go of the knife. He
knew better; why loose the only weapon and
chance the enemy's retrieval?"

The Ihlini advanced. "One more throw, and
your heart will burst. Do you think I cannot tell?"

Kellin retreated, clutching bloodied wool against
his chest. The world around him blurred. Not like
this—not what I could ask for in the manner of my
death—

Sima screamed. Devin lunged.

Kellin twisted from the knife as the blade was
thrust toward him. He caught the outstretched
arm in both hands and wrenched, snapping it
over, trying with grim determination to break the
limb entirely.

Devin shouted. The knife fell free, then the Ihlini
stumbled forward and threw his weight against
Kellin.

A curious warmth flowed throughout his chest.
Kellin saw the Ihlini's mouth moving, but heard
no words. He sagged, thrust out a braced foot to
hold himself up, and clung to Devin.

The bank behind them broke. Both flailing bod-
ies tumbled into the river.

Kellin loosed his grasp on Devin as the waters
closed over his head. He thrust himself upward,
thrashing; ill-fitting boots filled with water and
dragged him down again.

Sima—

He clawed, sealing his mouth shut, trying to
make his way upward where he could breathe
again. The boots were pulled off his feet.

Sima—

The river rolled. He broke the surface briefly
and sucked air. Then the beast caught him again,
threw him over, hurled him downward. He tum-
bled helplessly, clawing at current, holding his
breath in lungs that refused to serve him.

408 Jennifer Robersm

He was briefly embraced within the treacherous
arms of a buried tree, deep in the water- Then the
tunic tore loose and he was free of it, of snag and
tunic; he thrashed again but could no longer tell
which was surface and which was bottom.

He breathed water. He was hurled against a
rocky protuberance, then scraped off again and
tumbled, limbs flailing uselessly. His right leg
caught, wedged into a cleft between the rocks.
Kellin twisted in the current, was tumbled help-
lessly, and felt the dull snap.

No pain. His leg was numb. Both legs were
numb. His entire body was nothing but a blob of
useless flesh, too vulnerable, too fragile, to with-
stand the beast in full spate.

The river dragged him free, then threw him
heedlessly against another promontory. He sur-
faced briefly, coughed a garbled plea for air, for
aid, then the river reclaimed him.

This time she was cruel. She hurled him into
her depths and kept him there, like a cork caught
in a millrace, and when she threw him out again,
into the lesser current, she did not notice if the
broken body breathed or not.

Interval

The master of Valgaard was found deep in the un-
dercroft of the fortress, feeding his cats. They did
not cluster at his feet as housecats do, courting
morsels, demanding affection, because they were
not pets, but mountain cats. tawny, russet, and
black, who prowled the confines of their cages bar-
ing great teeth, snarling as he dangled promised
offal before them, and red, bloodied meat.

He was a handsome man, and knew it; it
pleased him to know it, though breeding almost
assured it. And young, less than thirty, clearly in
his prime—though that was won from the Seker
and was not a natural thing. He kept his dark,
springy hair closely cropped against a well-shaped
head balanced on an elegant neck, and adorned
supple fingers with a clutch of rings. They glinted
bloody and bronze in the torchlight.

A man arrived. He stood in the archway and did
not step into the chamber. His voice was pitched
very quietly, so as not to disturb the cats; more
importantly, so as not to disturb the master. "My
lord."

Lochiel did not look away from his cats; he en-
joyed their ferocity. "Have you news of Devin?"

The man folded his hands before him, eyes fixed
on the floor so as not to offer offense. "We are not
certain, my lord. We believe so."

Lochiel turned. His eyes were a clear ale-brown

409

410 Jennifer Roberson

set beneath winged brows that on another man
might suggest femininity; on him, they did not.
No one alive would suggest he was less than a
man. The structure of his face was of peculiar clar-
ity, as if the gods had labored long to make him
perfect. "Why are you uncertain?"

"We found a horse, and packs containing certain
articles belonging to Devin—included among them
was the ring your daughter sent him—but Devin
was not with the horse. There were signs of vio-
lence, my lord—bloodied sand, and a fallen knife
... but no body. At least, not there." The servant
did not look up from the floor. "We found a man
downriver not far from fhe horse, thrown up in
the bank like driftwood."

"Dead?"

"He was not when we found him. He might be
now. He is sore hurt."

Lochiel threw meat to the cats, one by one, and
smiled to see unsheathed claws trying to fish meat
bestowed from one cage into another. "Where is
my daughter?"

"With him, my lord. She was hawking out of
the defile, in the canyon—she saw us bring him
up."

Lochiel sighed. "Not the most impressive way
to meet your bridegroom." He glanced at bloodied
hands and wished them clean; they were. "It will
be an annoyance if Devin dies. I researched his
pedigree most carefully."

"Aye, my lord."

Lochiel observed the cats. His day was now dis-
turbed. "They will have to wait. I will have them
eat no meat save it comes from my hands."

"Aye, my lord. My lord?"

Lochiel arched an inquisitive brow.

"We saw a cat, my lord. As we came over the

A TAPESTRY OF LlO\S

411

Pass. A sleek, black female, young but promising
well. She hid herself almost at once."

"Had she a mate?"

"None we saw. We were thinking of the man,
and came straight on to the fortress."

"Very well. I will send you out tomorrow to
leam the truth of her." He glanced at the black
male who eyed him hungrily. "Perhaps if you are
good, I shall give you a mate." He frowned pen-
sively. "It would be a pity if my daughter lost
hers. I need children of them." He touched one of
his rings. If Cynric is born— His mouth com-
pressed, robbing the line of its purity.

If Cynric were born after all, there was only one
sure way, one certain course to defeat him; but
such insurance was costly and required a sacrifice.
Yet he he had failed in all his attempts. Asar-Suti
did not countenance failure.

The Ihlini studied his rings, considering, know-
ing the answer already. If Kellin lived to sire the
child, that sure way, that exacting, definitive
course would have to be taken.

Lochiel sighed- If we are to block the Firstborn, I
shall have to make a child for the Seker to inhabit.

PART IV

One

"You should not be here," my mother declared.

I heard the rustle of her skirts as they dragged
across the threshold. She wears them long and
mil, using up bolts of costly cloth that might bet-
ter be distributed among several women instead
of only one. But that was my mother; she lived
solely for her position as Lochiel's wife, as if it
might mislead a stranger into forgetting what she
herself detested: that the taint of Cheysuli blood
also ran in her veins.

"Undoubtedly," I agreed. "But I am here now;

proprieties no longer matter." I glanced at her
then, and saw the skirts were the deep, rich red
of the thickest Homanan wine. She glittered with
jet. All black and red, and white..,. Even to car-
mined lips against the pallor of her flesh. She
bleaches it deathly white, to hide the Cheysuli
taint.

"Who is he?" She moved closer.

"A man," I answered evenly, with off-handed
negligence. Then, to prick her: "He may well be
Devin."

She cast me a sharp, well-honed glance designed
to discover the truth; I hid it behind the mask. I
had learned it of my father, who said he had
learned it to turn the witch from the door.

It was his jest to say so. We are all of us witches.

4SS

416 Jennifer Robersoa

"Devin or no, you had best take yourself else-
where," she said. "There are servants who can
tend him, and I am better suited to intimacy than
you."

Aye, so she would be; she encouraged it con-
stantly.

I shrugged. "I have already seen him, I met
them in the canyon when they brought him up;

they wrapped him in a blanket, but that was taken
off when they put him in the bed." I paused. "I
know what a man looks like."

Carmined lips compressed into a thin, retentive
seam. She looked at the man lying so still in the
bed. He was well-covered now, but I had seen the
naked flesh. It was blue from the water, and slick
with bleeding scrapes reopened by the ride. They
had brought him to Valgaard trussed like a new-
killed stag. The marks still dented wrists and
ankles.

"Will he live?" she asked.

I shrugged. "If my father desires him to."

Her glance was sharp. "If he is Devin, be certain
your father will indeed desire it."

I shrugged again. Everyone in Valgaard knew I
was meant to wed Devin of High Crags no matter
what / wanted; men, particularly fathers, are not
often disposed to ask women what they prefer.

My father was less disposed to ask anything at
all of anyone; Lochiel need never do so. What was
not given, he took. Or made.

Well, so did I. Given the chance.

I looked at the man in the bed. Devin? Are you
Devin?

My mother made a noise. She bent, studied his
scraped and swollen face, then shook her head
slightly. "He is damaged."

"Somewhat," I agreed dryly. "Whoever he is, he
survived the Bluetooth. Worth respect, for that . ..

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           417

would you expect a man who goes in handsome
to come out better for it?"

He was, at present, decidedly unhandsome; the
river robs a body of the blood that lends flesh
color, the heart that maintains life, and the spirit
to drive the heart. He was a slab of flesh made
into the form of a man, with two arms, a head,
and two legs, though one of the legs was broken. I
had seen the end of the bone pressing hard against
bruised flesh below the knee, turning it white and
shiny, but it had not broken through.

"His ear is torn," she said, "and his lip badly
split."

"Aye," I agreed. There was much more than
that. The entire left side of his face was mottled
black with bruising, and bled colorless fluid from
abrasions. "Turn back the covers, lady mother.
There is worse yet to see."

She did; I expected it. But she looked first at
something that was not, so far as we knew, injured
by the river. He was a man, and whole.

I shut my teeth very tightly. There is in my
mother a quality of need, as if she requires a man
to note her beauty, to remark upon it, and to pro-
fess his ardent interest. She is indeed beautiful,
but no man in Valgaard is foolish enough to give
her more than covert glances. She is Lochiel's
wife.

It had never been so bad as the past two years.
I knew its cause now, though realization was slow,
and comprehension more sluggish yet. No daugh-
ter desires to see her mother made jealous by her
daughter's ascension to adulthood. But she was. It
had been a hard truth, but I understood it at last.

Lochiel's wife was jealous of Lochiel's daughter.

You bore me, I said inwardly. How can you envy
the child you yourself bore?

But her power was negligible. She was Lochiel's

418

wife, while I was his daughter. Her value therefore
was finished; she had borne him a single girl-child
and could bear him no more. Now the value
passed to the daughter who would, if married
wisely, insure the downfall of the Cheysuh.

It was what she lived for. Despite that she was
the bastard daughter of the Cheysuli warrior who
sat upon the Lion in the Great Hall of Homana-
Mujhar.

"What is this?" She touched his chest. "A knife
wound, and deep."

I could not see his body because of the way she
held the blankets, but I did not need to look. I
knew what was there. The Bluetooth is cruel. "He
should have bled to death, but the river sealed it.
When he warms, it will bleed anew. We shall have
to be ready."

She studied him avidly, marking the- shape of
his battered nose, the muddying of his jawline by
swollen bruises, the mutiliated left ear. Even his
mouth, as if she measured its shape against the
way she might desire it to fit her own.

I drew in a sharp breath. It sickened me to see
her behave so.

She looked on him, and smiled. Then she looked
at me. Something dark moved in her eyes. "You
may have him."

It stopped the breath in my chest. That she
could suggest such a thing was monstrous. She
would give me my bridegroom because he was so
badly hurt as to make him unattractive, and there-
fore unworthy of her interest.

Revulsion filled me. I looked at the man in the
bed, so battered, bruised, and broken. / hope you
are handsome. Ami I hope she chokes on it!

"Now," she said, "I will order the women in.
We will do what we can do ... I must make cer-
tain my daughter does not lose the man before the

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           419

bedding." She said a single word, very quietly—
she is, after all, Ihlini—and women came into the
chamber.

They stripped him of bedclothes and began to
clean his body, swabbing gouges and scrapes,
cleaning the knife wound. He made no sound or
movement until they touched his leg, and then he
roused.

The indrawn hiss was hardly audible in the fuss
around his bed, but I heard it. The tendons in his
neck stood up, hard and rigid, beneath pale flesh.

My mother put her hand on his brow, pushing
away stiffened hair. It was black as my own, and
thick, but lacking luster. Sand crusted the pillow.

"Fever," she said crisply. "Malenna root, then."

I looked at her sharply. "It will leave him too
weak!"

"You see how he fights the pain. I need him
weak, and compliant, so the root may do its
work."

So you can assert your control. But I did not say
it.

With no word spoken, the women melted against
the walls, faces downtumed. I knew, without look-
ing, my father had come. " 'Sore hurt,' I was told."
He walked through the door. "The leg must t»e
set."

"You could heal it," I blurted, then wished I had
said nothing; one does not suggest to my father
what he can or cannot do.

My father smiled. "We do not yet know who
he is. He could well be Homanan—why waste the
Seker's gift on a man who is unworthy?" He ges-
tured. "I will set it by conventional means."

That meant splints and linen. They were
brought, and my father motioned for the women
to hold him down. He clasped the bruised ankle,
then pulled the bone straight.

420 Jennifer Robersoo

I watched the man who might be Devin, and
therefore meant for me. Eyes rolled beneath pale,
vein-threaded lids. His head thrashed until one of
the woman caught it between her hands and
stopped its movement. The tendons stood up
again, warping his neck; the battered mouth
opened. It split the lip again so that it bled, run-
ning down his chin to drip against his neck. It'
spilled into the creases and stained the pillow.        ;-

Brilliant crimson against the pallor of fragile      4
flesh. Devin's flesh?

I felt a frisson of nervous anticipation. If he were
Devin, he was to be, with me, a means to destroy
the prophecy. I could not help but hope he was
indeed Devin so that our plans could continue; we
were close, too close, my father said, to losing the
battle. Kellin, Prince of Homana, need only sire a
son and the thing was done.                         <

But I smiled as I thought of it. Indeed, he need
only sire a son upon a particular woman—but Kel-
lin had proved all too selfish with respect to his
conduct. For years my father had laughed to hear
of the prince's exploits, saying that so long as Kel-
lin behaved in such a wayward manner he actu-
ally aided us, but I knew it could not last. He
would have to die, so that we could be certain.

It seemed a simple task. Kill Kellin of Ho-
mana—and produce an Ihlini child blessed by the
Seker so we need never concern ourselves with the
prophecy ever again.

The blood ran freely from the split lip. My
mother made a sound of disgust. I wanted very
badly to take up a clean cloth and blot away the
blood, to press it against his lip so he would not
lose more, but I dared not be so intimate before      ,,,
my father.

, "There." My father placed the splints on either
side of his leg, then bound it tightly with linen.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

421

The mouth went slack again. His struggle had
done more then reopen his lip; now blood flowed
sluggishly from his swollen nose.

My mother smiled to see it. "A most unfortunate
accident."

My father's gaze was on her, steady and un-
flinching. I could not discern his thoughts. "He
will recover," he said, "provided Asar-Suti desires
him to." He looked now at me. "I will certainly
request it. We need this man."

1 stiffened. "Is it Devin?"

"They have searched his baggage more closely.
A pouch contained the ring you sent last year, a
cache of ward-stones, and the eagle claw charm
against lir intrusion. And—this." He held it up in
the light. It was a gold ring set with a deep blood-
red stone, nearly black; in its heart light stirred
as if roused from sleep. My father smiled. "It
knows me."

"A lifestone!" my mother said, then looked more
closely at the man in the bed.

I shut my teeth together. ~It makes a difference,
does it? You look again to see if he might present a
different face.

"Devin would have one, of course; he is sworn
to the Seker." My father's pale brown eyes looked
at me over the glinting lifestone- "Unless this man
is a thief who stole from Devin, then fell into the
water, I think it unlikely he is anyone else."

My mother frowned. "It is set in a ring. Why
would he not wear it?"

His gaze dwelled on her face. "Solinde is not
entirely ours, anymore. Even in High Crags, men
honor the shapechanger who holds court in Lestra.
An Ihlini sworn to the god cannot move so freely
now without taking precautions. He was wise to
put it away."

My mother's carmined lips compressed. "That

422 Jennifer Roberson

will be changed. We shall rule again, as in the
days of Tynstar and Bellam."

Lochiel  laughed.  "Did you  know  them
personally?"

Color flared in her cheeks; she, as I, heard the
irony. "I know as much of our history as anyone,
Lochiel. Despite my Cheysuli blood!"

"Ah, but my blood is theirs." He smiled. "Tyn-
star was my grandsire."

It silenced her at once. Even among the Ihlini,
who understood his power, Lochiel was different.
It was easy to forget how old he was, and how
long-lived his ancestors.

I smiled to myself. Tynstar, Strahan, Lochiel—
and now Ginevra. I am their legacy. It was more
than she claimed, and Melusine knew it.

"Shall we see if he is Devin?" My father held
the ring in such a way that the light sparked from
it. "If he is an opportunist who decides, upon
awakening, he would benefit from our care, we
can take steps now to present him with the lie."

I looked at the ring. Light moved within it slug-
gishly. Indeed, it did know my father; the blood
of the god ran in his veins, as it did in the veins
of all those sworn to Asar-Suti. I as yet claimed
none of it outside of my natural inheritance; I was
to drink the cup at my wedding, to seal my service
forever to the Seker.

"Will it kill him?" my mother asked.

Lochiel smiled at her, "If he is not Devin, as-
suredly." He held the ring. "My gift to you, Melu-
sine—adjudicate this man."

"Wait!" I blurted, and regretted it at once as my
father turned to me.

Carmined lips stretched back to display my
mother's white teeth. "No," she said venomously.
"He gives you everything—this he gives to me!"
She snatched the ring, bent over the unconscious

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

423

man, grasped his left hand and pushed the ring
onto his forefinger. "Burn," Melusine said. "If you
are not Devin, let the godfire devour you!"

"You want it to!" I cried. "By the god himself,
I think—" But my accusation died as godfire flared
up from the ring, a clean and livid purple. I fell
back a step even as my mother did, who laughed.

"You see?" she said. "Not Devin at all!"

But the burst of flame died. The hand was un-
blemished. Light glowed brilliantly deep in the
lifestone's heart.

"Ah," Lochiel said. "A premature assumption."

"Then—it is he?" I looked at the ring upon the
hand. "This is Devin."

"It appears so- A lifestone is linked to an Ihlini
as a Hr is linked to a Cheysuli." For a brief mo-
ment he frowned, looking at Devin. "It is but an-
other parallel . .." But he let it go. "We will have
confirmation when he awakens."

I drew in a breath and asked it carefully. "Then
why not heal him instead of relying on normal
means?"

Lochiel smiled. "Because even Devin must learn
that he is solely dependent on me for such paltry
things as his life." He extended his hand. My
mother took it. "Nurse him well, Ginevra. There
is no better way to judge a man than from the
depths of pain. It is difficult to lie when your
world is afire."

He led my mother from the room. They would
go to bed, I knew. It made my face bum; I did not
understand what need it was they answered, save
there was one, only that they seemed to be, in all
ways such private things are measured, particu-
larly well suited.

One of the women blotted away the blood on
Devin's face. Another came forward with a cup.
Malenna root, I knew, mixed in with water. I

424 Jennifer Robersoa

wanted to protest it, but did not; it was true he
needed the fever purged. If it weakened him too
much, I would prevail upon my father to make
certain he survived,

My father wanted a child. An heir to Valgaard,
and the legacy of the Ihlini. If I did not marry
Devin, we would have to find someone else whose
blood was proper. Why waste the time? The man
was right here.

I sat down on a stool and stared at him. Live, I
told him. There is much for you to learn.

And as much for me.

I had seen my parents' marriage. I was not so
certain I desired the same for myself.

I sighed. The Seker grant me the knowledge I need
to make my way in this. I want to serve my father—
but I want to serve me also!

Two

The fever broke before dawn. The malenna root
did its work, purging his body of impurities so
that the sweat ran upon his flesh. The worst was
done, I thought; now could come the healing. It
would take much time because of the severity of
his injuries, but I believed he would survive.

The women my mother had left to tend him slid
sidelong glances at me as they cleaned him. They
dared say nothing to me, though I knew they felt
it improper for me to remain in attendance. But
he was my bridegroom; how could they believe I
would not be interested in whether he lived or
died?

I sat upon a stool close to his side. He fascinated
me. I wanted to study him covertly so he need
never know. A man awake is too aware of his pride
and the manner of his appearance; I wanted to
know him without such impediments.

His breathing sounded heavy in his chest. The
wad of bandage pressed over the knife wound
came away soiled with blood and fluid, but seemed
clean enough. It did not stink of infection. It was
a simple wound, if deep; with care he would
recover.

He stirred and moaned, twisting his head against
the pillow. The oozing of the scrapes on his face
had stopped and his skin had begun to dry, puck-
ering the flesh into a crusted film. The hollows

425

426 Jennifer Roberson

beneath his eyes were darkened by bruising. Eye-
lids flickered. His lashes were as long as mine, and
as thick.

Incongruous thought; I banished it. Then sum-
moned it back again as I studied the fit of his
swollen nose into the space between his eyes, be-
neath arched black eyebrows. He was badly bruised,
aye, but I thought my mother was blind. She
could not see beyond the wreckage wrought by the
river to the good bones beneath.

/ think when you are healed, you might surprise
us all. I drew in a breath. "Devin?"

Lids flickered again, then opened. His eyes were
a clear brilliant green, but glazed with weakness.
Malenna root, I knew; it would rob him of his wits
for longer than I preferred. I wanted them back.

I scraped my stool closer, so he could see me.
His lips were badly swollen and crusted with
dried blood. He moved them, winced, then took
more care as he shaped the words. They—it—was
malformed, but clear enough. "Who—?"

I smiled. "Ginevra."

I waited. I expected him to respond at once that
he was Devin, or to make some indication he knew
who I was. Instead, he touched his mangled bot-
tom lip with an exploratory tongue tip, felt its
state, and withdrew the tongue. Lids closed a mo-
ment, then lifted again.

"Your name?" I persisted, desiring verbal con-
firmation in addition to the lifestone.

A faint frown puckered his forehead. With the
hair swept back I could see it was unmarred; the
river had spared him her savagery there, at least.
"My leg ..." A hand moved atop the furred cover-
let, as if it would pull the blanket aside.

"No." I stopped the hand with my own- "Your
leg is broken, but it has been set." The hand

A TAPESTRY OF LlO!VS

427

stilled. I removed mine. "Do you recall what
happened?"

The forehead puckered again. "What place is
this?"

"Valgaard."

There was no change of expression in his eyes.
What I saw there was a puzzled blankness.

It had to be the malenna. "Valgaard," I repeated.

He moved his mouth carefully. His words were
imprecise. "What is—Valgaard?"

It astounded me. I turned sharply to one of the
women. "How much malenna was he given?"

She paled. "No more than usual, Lady."

"Too much," I declared. "No more—do you
hear?"

"Aye, Lady." She stared hard at the floor.

He moved slightly, and I looked back at once.
"Why am I here?" he asked.

"This is where you are supposed to be. But you
were hurt. There was a fight—you fell into the
river." Or was pushed; how-better to hide a body?

"The river?"

Indeed, too much root. "The Bluetooth." I stud-
ied him more closely, marking the dullness of his
eyes. More black than green in reflection of the
root. "Do you truly recall none of it? Not even the
man who stabbed you?"

"I remember—being cold—" He paused. "—
heavy." The eyes closed, then opened. Their clar-
ity was improved, but not their knowledge. "No
more .. ." He stirred. "—head hurts."

"The Bluetooth," I repeated, beginning to un-
derstand. If he had struck his head, which was
entirely likely in the river, he would likely be con-
fused for a day or two. Combined with the root, it
was fortunate he was conscious at all. "It will
come back on its own," I promised. "You will

428 Jennifer Robersoa

know where you are, and that you are safe ..." I
paused. "Devin."

"Is that—I am Devin?"

I grinned. "Tell me when you are certain."

He looked at me more closely, "Who are you?"

Your bride, I answered, but could not say it
aloud. "Ginevra."

He repeated it after me, rolling the soft, sibilant
first syllable between his teeth an extra moment.
His accent was odd, more Homanan than Solin-
dish, but Devin is a High Crags man, from high
up on the border between the two lands. I had
heard the speech before. "How long—?"

"You were brought yesterday. My father sent
out a search party since you were so late." I
smiled wryly. "You are valuable. It was of some
concern."

"Why?" The struggle was in his eyes. "I remem-
ber none of it—"

"Hush." I leaned forward. "Do not tax yourself
... it will come."

"I should remember." Dampness glistened on
his forehead. He made more sense as conscious-
ness solidified. "Who am I, that my tardiness is
worth a search party?"

"Devin of High Crags." I hope it might light the
snuffed candle of his mind.
He tried. "No . .."

No help for it. It was best simply to say it. "We
are meant to be wed."

The candle within lighted, blazing in his eyes, but
the knowledge was not increased. "WedE When?"
His mouth taxed him badly. "I remember noth-
ing—"

I sighed. "Know this, then, so you need not re-
main in ignorance. I am Ginevra of the Ihlini,
daughter of Lochiel—and we are meant to wed so
we can bring down the Cheysuli." I stopped short,

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           429

seeing the expression in his eyes. "The Cheysuli,"
I repeated. "Do you recall nothing of them?"

"—a word—"

"A bad word." I sighed. "Let it go, Devin. It will
come back, and all will be remembered."

"Who am I?"

"Devin of High Crags." I smiled. "Like me, you
are Ihlini." It was a bond stronger than any, and
he would know it once his mind was restored.

He sighed. "Ihlini, Cheysuli ... nothing but
words to me. I could be either and never know it."

I laughed. "You would know," I told him. "Be
certain you would know, when you went before
the god."

His eyes snapped open. "The god?"

"Asar-Suti." He knew all of it, but I would tell
him regardless. "My father will take you before
the Seker. The god requires your oath. You are to
wed Lochiel's daughter, and Lochiel is the Seker's
most beloved servant. It is necessary." I smiled.
"There is no need for you to worry. You are Ihlini.
The Seker will know it, just as your lifestone
does."

He followed the line of my gaze and saw the
ring upon his hand. He lifted the hand into the au-
to study the stone, saw how his fingers trembled
and lowered it again. "I—have no memory of this
ring."

That was of concern. He was indeed badly dam-
aged in his mind if he forgot what a lifestone was.
But I dared not tell him that. "It will come to

you."

His eyes were slitted. "You—will have to teach
me. I have forgotten it all."

"But surely not this." I drew a rune in the air.
It was only a small one; it lacked the intricacy of
my mother's handiwork, but was impressive
enough if you have never seen it—or if one has

430 Jennifer Roberson

forgotten what godfire looks like. It glowed livid
purple.

He stared at it, transfixed. His fingers trembled
upon the fur-"Can I—do that?"

"Once, you must have. It is the first one we ever
leam." I left the rune glowing so he would have a
model. "Try it."

He lifted his hand and I saw how badly it shook.
Awkwardly he attempted to sketch the rune, but
his fingers refused to follow the pattern. It was if
they had never learned it.

The hand dropped to the bed. He was exhausted.
"If I knew it once, I have forgotten."

I dismissed my own rune. It was somewhat dis-
comfiting to discover an Ihlini who could not even
form the simplest rune, but not surprising. He
would recall it. For the moment his mind was
empty of power, of the knowledge of his magic,
like a young child. "It will come again." I paused.
"If it does not, be certain I will teach you."

The lips moved faintly, as if to form a smile.
But his eyelids dropped closed. The root was reas-
serting its control.

I rose quietly. He looked very young and vulner-
able. Against his hand the lifestone was black.

Black, not red.

"It will come back," I said.

At the door, as I lifted the latch, I heard a sound.
I turned back and saw the faint glint of green eyes.
"Ginevra," he said, as if to try out the fit of my
name within his mouth.

I smiled. "Aye."

The lids closed again. "Beautiful," he whispered.

Nonplussed, I did not answer. I did not know if
he meant my name, or the woman who bore it.

Then I thought of my mother. I could not help
but smile. You gave him to me, I thought. Now let
you see what comes of it.

A TAPESTRY w Lions           431

I went at once to my father. With him was my
mother, who sat upon a window seat in my fa-
ther's tower chamber and gazed down upon the
smoky bestiary before the gates. I thought she was
very like the fortress, strong, proud, and fierce. I
wished I could like her, but that had died. I knew
her heart now, and the knowledge bruised my
own.

"He remembers nothing," I told them. "Not
even his name."

My father stood before a burning tripod brazier.
It turned his eyes bronze. He waited.

"I told him. I told him mine as well, and that
we are to wed. I told him where he is. But he
recalls none of it ... not even that he is Ihlini."

That brought my mother's head around. Bells
tinkled in her hair. "He forgets that?"

I refused to flinch beneath the contempt. "He
has been badly injured. It will come back."

"Did you test him?" my father asked.

I flattened my palms against my skirts and held
my hands very still. "What magic he knew is for-
gotten. Even bel'sha'a. He is a child, my lord fa-
ther—an infant empty of power." I took a careful
breath, knowing what I said was incredibly impor-
tant. "If you sought a tool, you could not find a
better one. He has nothing on which to rely save
what we give him. There are no preconceptions.
How better to teach the man how to serve the
master than by replacing the old memories with
the new?"

Only the faintest glint in his eyes betrayed his
interest. I knew I had caught him. Now there was
no need for subtlety.

My father smiled. I saw him glance at my
mother who watched him with narrowed eyes.
Hers, too, are pale brown, though not like his; hers

432

are almost golden except when the light hits them
fully, and then the Cheysuli shows.

"He shall be mine," Lochiel said.

I put up my chin. It was time I declared myself
lest she do it first. "But you will share him with
me."

My father laughed. "I shall do better than that.
He shall be your charge until I believe the time is
right . - - you may have the training of him. In all
things."

I could not help the burst of pride in my chest.
Never had he bestowed upon me such a gift. It
was a mark of his acknowledgment of my blood.
He was giving me the opportunity to serve my
heritage.

Still, I hesitated. "Are you sure I am worthy?"

He laughed. "You need not fear that you might
tarnish the vessel. I will be here for you ... I will
see what you do. He is meant for the god, Ginevra,
as you are. Do you think I would give him immor-
tality only to have you watch him sicken and die
the way others do?"

"Lochiel!" my mother cried. "You promise too
much."

"Do I?" His tone was cool. "Do you wish it for
you in place of your daughter?"

Color stained her face. "You have never sug-
gested it. Even when I asked—"

He made a subtle gesture with his hand. I had
seen it before; I had tried to mimic it desperately
because it always silenced my mother. "Melu-
sine," he said, "you live here on my sufferance."

Her red lips trembled, then firmed. "I am your
wife."

"That does not make you worthy of the Seker's
favor."

Her eyes blazed almost yellow. "You promise it
to her\"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            433

He stood next to me. His hand was on my shoul-
der. The fingers crept into my hair, which hung
loose to my hips, and I felt the warmth of his flesh
through the velvet of my gown. "Ginevra is the
flesh of my flesh, the blood of my blood, the bone
of my bone," he said quietly. "Her mind is mine
as well. You are none of these things ... I used
you to get the child, and now I have her."

"Lochiel!"

His other hand rose. I could see it from the cor-
ner of my eye. I looked at my mother because I
could look nowhere else. "Melusine," he said, "I
have cared for you. You bore me a child. You suck-
led Kellin of Homana when I bid you do it. You
have served me well. But you surely must see that
you and your daughter are destined for different
ends."

"I bore her!" It was her only chance now.

"In blood and pain; I know it. But so do the
mares, and the cows, and the ewes . .. and they
are not elevated by the honor of the Seker." He
paused. "Surely you must see."

Her face was very pale. "You mean me to die,
then."

"Not before due time."

"Before her time!"

Lochiel sighed. "You are a shrew."

It was incongruous. He was the most powerful
sorcerer in the entire world, yet all he did was call
my mother a name.

It infuriated her; I saw then what he did. "A
shrew! In the name of Asar-Suti, are you mad? A
shrew?"

My father laughed. There was something be-
tween them I could not understand. "Melusine, do
you believe you have displeased me? You are all
I could wish for. You suit me."

JeaaSfer Robenoa

434

Her eyes glinted yellow. "Then why do you
threaten me?"

"To relieve my boredom." He smoothed my
hair, then released it. "She is lovely, our Ginevra
. .. and this binding of the bloodlines will insure
our survival. But Devin must go before the god.
The blessing is required."

My mother was less angry now, but still unset-
tled. She hated to be used; before, I ^iad not seen
it. I was old enough now to begin to understand.
"And if the blessing is denied?" She cast me a
glance. "What happens to Devin then?"

"He dies/* Lochiel said.

My mother looked at me and laughed.

I could not echo her. I knew she hoped he would.

Three

"A fool," I told him.

He ignored me. He sat up anyway and swung
his legs over the edge of the bed. I watched not
the splinted leg itself, which was at issue, but the
face of the man who struggled to redeem himself
in the eyes of the woman he was meant to wed.

It meant something to him. It meant a great
deal to him. It pleased me to know why; that of
all things in the world to come unexpectedly, we
would make a match between a man and a woman
who loved one another.

His color was much improved. A lock of black
hair, now clean and glossy, fell forward over his
forehead. The swelling of his face was gone, so
that the clean lines of nose and brow formed a
perfect melding, complementing the oblique angles
of his cheekbones and the clarity of his eyes
framed in sooty lashes that rivaled my own.

"A fool," I murmured, applying it to myself
though he believed it meant for him. Never had I
thought I could love a man the way I loved Devin,
and we not even wed yet. We were, as yet, nothing
but intendeds; but they all knew, everyone, despite
our circumspection. It was easier for them to
know than for us to admit it. As yet, we said noth-
ing of it.

The ends of the splint tapped down; Devin
winced. It would not stop him, I knew; I had

435

436 Jennifer Roberson

learned that much of him in the past few weeks.
A stubborn, intransigent man.

And entirely beautiful, in the way a man can be
who is clearly a man. Male, I thought, Expressly,
completely male. like the cats in the undercroft.

I wanted to laugh. My mother had lost. It
pleased me intensely that he was as I expected,
as I had dreamed between sleep and wakefulness,
when my body would not be quiet. I understood,
now, what lay between my parents.

"Devin—" I shook my head. "It is not necessary.
I know you are not a weakling ... let it heal."

His mouth was compressed in a grim. Hat line.
He intended to try again. I sighed and set my
teeth; he would only damage himself.

I made a slight gesture from my chair, so that
the bindings undid themselves and the splints fell
away. Unbound, the leg was ill-suited to standing.

Devin looked at the fallen linen and the wooden
sticks. "You did that."

I arched my brows. "I did warn you."

"No—you called me a fool."

"That was my warning."

He scowled. Beneath black brows, his eyes glit-
tered like glass. "I cannot stand without aid."

"No."

He sighed. "The lesson is duly learned. Will you
bind it up again?"

He would not admit it, but the leg hurt. Forgo-
ing magic, because I longed so much to touch him,
I knelt on the ground and bound it up by hand
again. The flesh was flaccid and soft. The bones
inside knit, but the muscles were wasting,

He watched me as I tied the knots. His voice
was hoarse, as if he held back something he longed
to say. "If we Ihlini are truly as powerful as you
say, why leave healing to splints and linen bind-
ings? Why not ensorcell my leg?"

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS

437

I sat down in my chair again. We spent much
time together in the small chamber, as I taught
him what he knew already but did not recall. "My
father desired you to know limitations."

"Ah." His mouth hooked down.

"And there is another reason. Healing is a Chey-
suli gift."

"It would seem a benevolent gift. Perhaps if I
had a Cheysuli here . . ." He grinned. "I see a
storm in your eyes."

"You should. Besides, a Cheysuli here in Val-
gaard would have no power. It is because of the
Gate—the Seker is too strong. The only magic here
is that which he makes himself."

Devin's expression was serious. "And when will
I see him?"

"When my father wishes you to." I sketched on"-
neth. "Try it, Devin."

"I have tried."

"Again."

He put his hand into the air. His other was
naked of lifestone; he had taken it off because, in
losing weight, the ring would not seat itself prop-
erly. "Your father has not come to me again. How
is he to know when I am ready?"

"Make the rune. He will know."

"Because you will tell him?"

"No one tells Lochiel anything; no one has to.
My father knows things." I sighed. "Devin—"

He tried. Fingers warped, twisted, mimicking
the patterns. Only the barest outline appeared,
and then he let his hand drop. "There. You see?"

"You mastered bel'sha'a," I reminded him.
"Ori'neth comes next."

Devin was glum. "I have no aptitude."

I laughed at him outright. "Aptitude! You are
Ihlini." I smiled at his disgruntlement. "It was
better. This time I could see the air parting. When

438 Jennifer Robersoa

you can separate the air and put the godfire in the
seam between air and air, you will have learned
the trick." I paused. "You learned bel'sha'a."

"In six weeks," he said. "I will be an old man
before I learn the third level, and useless as a hus-
band." He scowled at me. "What use are such
tricks, Ginevra? They could not stop a man."

"These could not. it is true .. . but these are the
first runes, Devin. This is a baby's game, to keep
the child occupied." I laughed as the scowl deep-
ened. "But you are a baby! I could make bel'sha'a
when I was three years old. A six-month later I
mastered ori'neth. I have no doubt it was the same
for you—you have only forgotten. The river stole
your wits."

"I may never get them back."

He was depressed. I pulled my chair closer, hesi-
tated a moment, then leaned forward and caught
his hand. It was an intimacy I would not have
dared two weeks before, but something I needed
now. I wanted to lessen the pain of his weakness.

And increase your own?

I went on regardless, ignoring my conscience.
"An Ihlini does not gain his powers until he
reaches adolescence, and even then it takes years
to focus all the skills. I am not so well-versed my-
self." I was, but no need to tell him that; I was
Lochiel's daughter, and the blood showed itself. "I
am a child leading an infant, but who better to
recall the days when a simple trick proved diffi-
cult? See this?" I made a gesture and felt the tin-
gling coldness in my fingertips. The godfire came
as I bid it, luridly purple. It hung in a glowing
sheet between Devin and me, but our hands re-
mained linked. "This is—"

He jerked his hand from mine and lifted it as if
to shred the godfire. I tore it aside before he burned

A r/iffEsrar OF Liofvs

439

himself; he did not yet know how to ward himself.
A sheen of perspiration coated his face, "Ginevra—"

"What is it?" 1 left my chair and knelt by the
bedside. "Devin—what is it?"

"That—that—" His eyes were frightened. "I re-
member. Dimly. Fire—flame . . ." He closed his
eyes. His body went slack against the pillows.
"Why can I remember no more?"

"It will come," I told him, as I had so many
times.

He shifted against the bedclothes. "How can you
be certain? How can you know? And if I am not
able to master such things .. ." The chiseled lips
compressed themselves flat, robbing them of shape.
"An Ihlini with no arts is hardly fit to be wed to
Lochiel's daughter."

I took his hand into my own and pressed it
against my mouth. "He will be fit," I said. "I will
see to it."

Devin's eyes were black. His breathing was shal-
low and quick. "Can you do such a thing?"

Against his flesh, I said, '*! can do many things."

The hand turned in my own. He caught my fin-
gers, carried my hand to his mouth, and let me
feel the hardness of his teeth in the tenderness of
his lips, "Show me," he breathed,

I shuddered once. "Not—yet."

"When?"

It was a difficult truth, but he was due it rather
than lies. "When my father is convinced you are
fit to serve the god."

Devin's breath was warm against my hand as
he laughed softly. "Fathers need not always rule
their daughters in such matters as this."

"Mine does." I pulled free of his grasp. "If you
forget that, even once, it could be your death."

"Ginevra—"

"He is Lochiel," I said; I knew it was enough.

440 JeaalCer Roberwn

The tension in his body fled. His mouth moved
faintly into an ironic smile. And then it, too, died,
and I saw in its place a harrowing despair. "I have
nothing," he said. "I am nothing—save what you
make me."

It shook me. "You are Devin."

"I am no one," he said, "save what you tell me.
I am denned by you." His eyes burned livid as
god/ire, save they were green in place of purple.
"You are my sanity."

I petitioned the Seker to lend him the strength
to find his own sanity, lest mine prove too weak.
And then I left the room. I wanted too badly to
give him what he asked.

When the splint at last came off and Devin was
able to stand, I learned he was taller than I had
expected. He had lost flesh in his illness, but
movement and better meals would restore him.

Within the week the crutch was tossed away and
he walked freely on his own. With renewed mobil-
ity came vigor and curiosity to see where I lived.
He walked easily enough, but I saw the trace of
tension in his mouth and around his eyes. I
wanted him to see all of Valgaard so he would
know it as I did; it was to be his home. It was
important that he understand the kind of power
contained in the fortress, so he would not forget
himself—once he had relearned the arts—and
wield it improperly.

He progressed at last from ori'neth to H'ri'a. The
rune pattern was roughly worked, but achieved,
glowing fitfully in the air. He was most pleased
that it smoked and sputtered, shedding bits of
godfire; I reminded him that control was more
important than appearance.

"You require new clothing," I told him as we
walked the cobbled courtyard.

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS

441

"I have clothing. And you have already said ap-
pearance is unimportant."

"Not unimportant; less important—and that is
in wielding magic, not wearing clothing." I cast a
sidelong glance. "I want you to have better. These
do not fit well enough."

"And if I gain back the weight you say I have
lost, the new clothing will not." He touched my
cheek. "Let it be, Ginevra. I am content with what
I have."

"Then at least wear the ring." I took it from the
pouch hanging from my girdle. "Here. I sent it to
you last year. The least you can do is wear it in
my presence."

He took the emerald from me, studying it. I saw
the flattening of his mouth. "Even this I do not
recall. Any more than the other ring."

"No matter. Put it on."

He did so. The gold band turned on his finger.
I saw the look in his eye.

"Bind it with wool," I said. "When you are well,
it will fit."

He was frustrated and angry. "Will I ever be
well?"

"Dev—"

He stopped dead in his tracks, capturing my
shoulders in hands well recovered from his illness.
'"Will my memory return? Or am I sentenced to
spend the rest of my life but half a man, able only
to form the rune a child of two could make?"

It hurt me to see him so affected. If I could pro-
vide help—

I could. It was up to me to risk it.

I sighed. "I think it is time . , . come with me."

"Where?"

"To my father."

The black in his eyes expanded. "You would
shame me before Lochiel?"

Jennifer Roberson

442

"There is no shame in this. My father under-
stands."

He shut up the ring in his hand as it turned
on his finger. "Can Lochiel restore me? Or is that
healing also, and therefore anathema?"

"Come," I said firmly, putting my hand on his
arm. "Ask him instead of me."

The room was empty as we entered. It was a
small private chamber tucked up into one of the
towers, draped with rune-worked cloth to soften
the walls, filled with a jumble of chairs and tables,
and candleracks sculpted to new forms by hard-
ened streamers of creamy wax. My father pre-
ferred the chamber when he desired to have
private discussions; he saw no need for opulence
among his family.

Devin was nonetheless impressed. It takes peo-
ple that way, to witness power incarnate. It lived
in the room. It was woven into the very cloth that
warded the stone walls.

None of the candles was lighted in my father's
absence. I blew a gentle breath that set them all
ablaze, laughed at Devin's expression, then threw
myself down in a chair and hooked a leg over the
arm. An undecorous position, perhaps, but mod-
esty was protected by voluminous skirts; I had, of
late, put off hunting trews to wear silks and vel-
vets. Even my hair was tamed; I contained it with
a simple silver circlet, so that it did not spring
forth from my scalp quite so exuberantly. I knew
Devin liked it loose; he watched me most avidly
from his sickbed when I combed it out after a
washing- It took two days to dry; if I wanted it
uncrimped, I had to leave it loose.

Devin heaved a sign and examined the room.
His spine was very rigid. Nervous—and for what?
He will be Lochiel's son. "Be at ease," I suggested.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

443

•^i
'•"%

- T'




'"You be at ease." Then he grinned at me. "I
daresay you would feel as I do were you to face
the Cheysuli Mujhar."

"Never." I smiled serenely. "But that is not the
case—and you are Ihlini, not Cheysuli. What have
you to fear?" I slanted an arch glance at him. "Be-
sides, you say you have no memories. How are
you to be nervous when you know nothing of the
man?"

Devin jeered, though not unkindly. "You have a
ready tongue. You put it to his name often enough
.. . 'Lochiel' this—'Lochiel' that. What else am I
to feel but unworthy of him?"

"Oh, you are unworthy—" I grinned, "—but he
will lift that from you. When you face Asar-Suti,
Lochiel will no longer seem half so bad as now."

"Ah. I am comforted." He folded his arms. "Are
we to wait all day on the chance he might come?
Or will you send someone for him?" He paused.
"Is he even in the fortress?"

"He is here." I tilted my head. "Very much
here."

And he was, all of a sudden, arriving as he does
to impress whoever waits. I wanted to chide him
for excess display, but one does not chide Lochiel.

Violet smoke roiled in the center of the cham-
ber. Devin stepped back hastily, mouthing an oath
he had learned from me, and stared transfixed as
the smoke transformed itself into the shape of a
man.

"Close your mouth," I hissed.

Devin acquiesced. My father smiled. "That," he
said quietly, "is something you should be able to
do."

The sun had returned color to Devin's flesh.
Now he burned darker. "Perhaps I could, once."

Lochiel, in his youth, did not appear much older
than Devin. "Has nothing come back?"

Jennifer Roberson

444

"No memories." He glanced at me. "Ginevra has
told me what she could of myself, but the words
mean nothing. I must believe whatever she tells
me; it is the only truth I know."

My father's gaze was unrelenting, "What are
you able to do?"

Devin laughed, though it lacked humor. He put
out his hand. He drew li'ri'a. It was a child's trick,
but he could do no better. I did not wonder at
the bitterness of his laughter. "That," he said, and
banished it.

My father's voice was gentle. "Do you find it
amusing?"

"In no way- I find it pitiful, and myself,"
"Ah." Lochiel smiled. "But I know who you are.
I know what potential you hold. I would not have
chosen you otherwise to sire sons upon my daugh-
ter." Briefly he looked at me, and I saw a light in
his eyes. "That you have forgotten your power
means nothing to me. It will be restored. But first
you must acknowledge it, instead of relying on the
belief that you have forgotten all."
"But I have—"

My father reached out and caught Devin's right
wrist. By the look in Devin's eyes I knew the grasp
was firm. "Call for it now," Lochiel commanded.
"Summon it to you. Let the power fill you com-
pletely, and you will see what you must know."
Devin was tense. "I have tried—"
"Try again." Lochiel's tone was hard. "Do you
forget I am with you?"

I saw the alteration in Devin's eyes. He did in-
deed reach for it. but clumsily. I held my breath,
knowing what my father intended to do.

Devin cried out. Wonder filled his face so that
his eyes glowed with it, and then the light was
extinguished. He cried out again, this time as if in
pain, and fell to his knees even as my father re-

A TAPSSTKY OF Uoivs

44S

leased his wrist. His breathing was loud. "You
would have—have me be—that—?"

Lochiel looked down upon him. "That is what
you are. It is what I desire of you: power aug-
mented by service to the god, and a perfect obedi-
ence. Not powerlessness, Devin. Never that; more."
My father put a hand upon Devin's head. "To-
gether, with that power, we can tear down the
House of Homana and destroy the prophecy. Do
you think I want a fool? Do you think I desire a
child? I need a man, Devin, who can augment my
own strength. A man to lie with my daughter and
sire children for the Seker."

Devin still knelt. His face was drained by the
knowledge of what he had felt, of the power in
my father. "How can I serve with such blankness
within me?"

Lochiel smiled. "You are empty. It will pass. We
will see to it you are filled. The god himself will
do it." He looked at me and smiled, then stretched
out his hand. "Take my daughter. Get a son upon
her. The wedding shall follow when I am certain
she has conceived." He put our hands together,
flesh against flesh.

I could look at no one save Devin. My father's
voice became a part of the chamber, like a chair
or a hanging; one did not acknowledge such things
when Devin was in the room.

His eyes burned brilliant green. His spirit could
not contain the avidity of his desire.

No more than I could mine.

"There is no need to wait," Lochiel said. "Much
is lost, in waiting. The Wheel of Life is turning; if
we do not stop it soon, our own lives will end."

Four

We had blown out the candles and now lay abed,
delighting in discovery. Devin's breath warmed
my neck. "What did he mean?" His mouth shaped
the words against my flesh. "Why do our lives end
if the Wheel of Life keeps turning?"

"A Cheysuli thing ..." I turned my head to kiss
his chin; to savor the taste of his flesh. "Must we
speak of this now?"

His laughter was soft, as were his fingertips as
they cherished my flesh. "Aye. You said you would
teach me everything—well, perhaps not this."

Indeed not this. It made me blush, to know my-
self so wanton. "I am not the one to speak—" I
caught my breath short and bit into my lip as
his hand grew more insistent, "—but—it seems to
me—gods, Devin\—that with all the wits you have
lost, you did not forget this." I used his emphasis.

Devin laughed again: a rumble deep in his chest.
His hand moved to my breasts, tracing their con-
tours. His flesh was darker than mine—I am Ihlini
fair, and his eyes were green in place of my ice-
gray—but our bones were similar. We Ihlini breed
true.

His voice was vibrant. "A man forgets little in
the way a body works in congress with a woman."

"So it would seem." Our hips were sealed to-
gether. I turned toward him again, glorying in the
feel of his flesh against my own. "The Wheel of

446

A TWESTHY OF LlWS

447

Life is a Cheysuli thing. They speak in images.
often: the Wheel, the Loom, and so on. They are,
if nothing else, a colorful race." I traced the flesh
of his chest, glad I could no longer count his ribs.
The muscle was firm again. I avoided the scar left
over from the healed knife wound. "This prophecy
of theirs bids to end our people by making a new
race. The Firstborn. If we keep them from that,
if we destroy the prophecy, their Wheel will stop
turning, and the world as we know it will continue
as it is."

"As it is?"

"Well—as it should be. It will take time to turn
them away from their gods. They are ignorant
people, all of them."

"The Cheysuli?"

It was difficult to concentrate as I explored his
body. "And others- The Homanans. The Ellasians.
The island savages." I touched his lips with my
fingers. "Even the Solindish must suffer—it is a
Cheysuli warrior who holds the throne in Lestra."

"Heresy," he whispered; his tone was amused.

"So it is."

"And if we make a child, we can stop this
Wheel?"

"My father is convinced."

He turned then and put his hand on my belly,
spreading his fingers. The warmth of his palm was
welcome. "Have we made it, then?"

I laughed. "Would it please you so much to be
quit of your duty after a single night?"

"Duty? Duty is something you do with no real
desire for it." The hand tightened as he bent down
to taste my mouth, "This is no duty."

Breathlessly, I asked, "And if I have not con-
ceived?"

"Then we will continue with this 'duty.' " His

Jennifer Robervon

448

tongue traced my eyelids. "Do you think I wish to

stop?"
It was abrupt, the chill in my soul. I could not

answer.
He sensed my mood immediately and ceased the

slow seduction. "What is it?"

I was reluctant to say it but felt I owed him
truth. "There is a—strangeness—in you."

The words were too facile. "When a man knows
nothing of his past, strangeness is natural."

"Aye. But—" I broke it off, sighing; this was not
a topic I wished to pursue. Now.

He did. "But?"

"I wish—I wish you were whole. I wish you
knew yourself. I wish you were all of a piece, so I
need not wonder what bits and pieces may yet be
missing."

Devin laughed. "I am whole where it counts."

"I am serious."

In that moment, so was he. Seduction and irony
fled. He turned onto his back. Our hair mingled,
black on black against the pallor of pillows.
Strands of mine were wound around his forearm.
"Aye, I wish I recalled my past—every day, I wish
it, and in the darkness of the nights ... but it is
gone. There is nothing, save a yawning emptiness."

It hurt to hear him so vulnerable. "I want it to

be vanquished."

There was no light, save from the stars beyond
the casement. I could see little of his face and
nothing of his expression. "I cannot spend my life
wondering what I might be if it never is recalled
... the present is what matters. What I am is what
you are making me. Ginevra—" But then he
laughed softly, banishing solemnity, as if he could
not bear to think about his plight. He twisted his
head to look at me. "What woman would not de-

A TAPESTRY OF LtOMS

449

sire such a man? You can meld me this way and
that, until you have what you want."

My vehemence stunned us both. "/ have what I
want."

He caught his breath a moment; released it
slowly. He turned onto a hip, moving to face me,
to wind his fingers in my hair. He pulled my face
to his even as he leaned to me. "Then we shall
have to give your father the grandson he desires
for the Seker, and then we shall make our own."

He was right. What counted was the now, not
the yesterday. If the child were not conceived
soon, the Wheel might turn far enough so that we
were destroyed in place of the Cheysuli.

But I could not tell him what I most feared.
That the emptiness in him, the bleakness in his
eyes that he would not acknowledge, might rob us
of our future.

My father gave us five days and nights together,
and then he summoned Devin. It piqued me that
he would give us so little -time—did he think we
could conjure a child with a rune?—but I did not
complain. Devin was nervous enough without my
poor temper, and I dared make no response to my
father.

I told Devin to go, that it was necessary he
spend much time with my father, to better pre-
pare him for the role he would assume once he
had received the god's blessing. I saw the look in
his eye, the tension in his body, and wished I knew
a way to banish the concern.

But it, too, was necessary; a man facing Lochiel
must understand what he did, lest he forget his
proper place in the ordering of the world.

And so I sent him off with a kiss upon his fingers
and one upon his mouth, knowing very well my
father would test him in ways no one, not even

450 Jennifer Roberson

Lochiel's daughter, could predict. If he were to
assume an aspect of power within the hierarchy
of the Ihlini, he had to learn the way.

It was late afternoon when I sent Devin to my
father; only the Seker and Lochiel knew when I
might see him again. I set myself the task of em-
broidering a runic design into the tunic I made for
him—green on black—and tried not to think bleak,
empty thoughts about what might happen if my
father decided, all on his own, that Devin's miss-
ing memory might render him weak in the ways
of Ihlini power.

My mother came into our chambers. She wore
deep, rich red. Matching color painted her lips.

"So."

I gritted my teeth and did not look up, concen-
trating fiercely on the design beneath my hands.
She would say what she had come to say; I would
not permit provocation.

The sound of her skirts was loud as she came
closer. "So, in all ways my daughter is a woman."

Do not be provoked— I nodded absently, taking
immense care with a particularly elaborate rune.

She waited. She expected a response. When I
made none, the air between us crackled. So close
to the Gate, such anger is personified.

I completed one rune, then began another.

My mother's hand swooped down and snatched
the tunic from me. "And did the earth move for
you? Did the stars fall from the sky?"

Sparks snapped from my fingers. With effort, I
snuffed them out. A single drop of blood welled
on a fingertip, where the needle had wounded me
as she snatched the tunic away. I looked up and
saw her smile; it satisfied her to know she had
won the battle of wills.

Or had she?

I shook back my hair and rose from my stool,

A, TAPESTRY OF LlO!VS               451

folding hands primly in violet skirts. "Indeed," I
said, "it did move. And will again, I trust, when he
returns to me." I smiled inoffensively. "It should
please you to know your daughter is well serviced.
I have no complaints of his manhood, or the fre-
quency of our coupling."

Breath hissed as she inhaled. The color in her
cheeks vied for preeminence over the paint on her
mouth. "I will have no such language from you!"

I laughed at her. "You began it!"

"Ginevra—"

"By the Seker himself," I said, "can you not let
me have this? You would take everything else
from me, even my father's attention .. . what
wrong have I done you? I am neither enemy nor
rival—I am your daughter'."

Her face was white. "He gives you everything. /
have to beg his attention,"

"Surely not. I know otherwise. I see otherwise."
I kept my hands in skirt folds, so as not to divulge
the tension in them. "You are only angry that you
misjudged Devin. You looked upon his injuries
and dismissed him at once, pleased your daughter
would wed an unhandsome man. And now that he
is healed and you see he is beautiful, you are angry
with yourself. Now that we have bedded and you
see I am content, you desire very much to destroy
what we have." I lifted my head. "I will not per-
mit it."

Melusine laughed, "He will break," she said.
"When he meets the god, or before . . . perhaps
now, with Lochiel. His head is empty of knowl-
edge, his spirit empty of power. He is no better
than a Cheysuli hauled here before the Gate, lirless
and powerless. Pleasing in bed or no, he is wholly
expendable."

I gritted my teeth. "The lifestone knew him. If
he had no power, it would have consumed him."

452 Jennifer Roberson

Crimson lips mocked a true smile. "There is an-
other test."

"My father tends to such things."

"You should tend to this one; you share a bed
with a stranger. What if Lochiel were to discover
he is not Devin at all?"

It was a refrain. "The lifestone knew him."

"Test him," she said. "Break it."

"It would kill him!"

"A chip," she said scornfully, "The tiniest chip
would divulge the truth."

The air crackled between us. This time it was
my doing. "I pity you," I told her. "That you must
stoop to this merely because he is a man who pre-
fers the daughter to the mother."

"What?"

"I know your ways better than you think. I have
seen you at meals, and other times. Do you think
I am blind? You court his favor assiduously ...
but he gives it all to me."

Red lips writhed. "I challenge you," she said.
"Break a chip from the stone. Otherwise you will
always wonder if you sleep with Devin of High
Crags, or a man of another heritage."

Sparks flew as I pointed at the door. "Go!"

Melusine smiled. She built an elaborate rune in
the air between us; before I could build my own
to ward away the spell, she breathed upon the
rune. It was blown to the bed, where it sank into
the coverlet and disappeared- "There." she said.
"Let us see what pleasure it brings you when next
he services you."

"There are other beds," I told her. "And if you
ensorcell those, there is always the floor.

Melusine threw down the tunic. In her hands,
all the stitching had come undone. My labor was
for naught.

I waited until she was gone. Then I went to the

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           453

chest and drew out the pouch in which he had put
his lifestone. I loosened the thong-snugged mouth
and poured the ring into my hand.

In my palm the stone was black. No life moved
within it. But I had seen it bum twice; first, at my
father's touch; then on Devin's hand.

A lifestone crushed ended an Ihlini's life. To kill
a Cheysuli, you kill his lir; to kill us, you destroy
the lifestone.

If he were not what he seemed and I struck a
chip from the stone, nothing at all would happen
and we would know the truth. But if he were Devin
and I broke a piece of the stone, it would injure
him.

I shut up the ring in my hand. Gold bit into my
flesh. The stone was cool, lifeless. There must be
trust between us. If I doubt, I undermine the founda-
tions we have built.

At my mother's behest.

I bent and picked up the ruined tunic. With
great care I picked out the tattered embroidery,
gathered silk thread, then began with deliberation
to wind it around the ring. I would have him wear
the stone where my mother could see it.

When that was done, I would begin the pain-
staking spell to undo the binding she had put upon
the bed. Kept close in my arms, where the empti-
ness did not matter, it was his only haven.

Five days later, after a night-long meeting with
my father, Devin came to me high of heart just as
dawn broke. He woke me with a kiss. The bleak-
ness was replaced with good humor and an un-
bounded enthusiasm. He showed no effects from
staying up all night. "He says the power is build-
ing. He can feel it, he says."

I sat upright. "Are you sure?"

He laughed joyously. "/ cannot—I feel precisely

454 Jeaatfer Robersoa

the same today as I did when I awoke here—but
he assures me it is true. And so I begin to think I
may be of some use after all."

"Some use," I agreed. "But no one suggests how
much." I laughed at his feigned heart-blow. "And
what are you planning? I see the look in your eye."

His hand rose in the gesture I knew so well.
Two rings glinted upon it: my emerald, and the
lifestone. There was no hesitation in his manner.
His fingers were steady, assured, and the rune was
more elaborate than any I had seen from him
before.

"Kir'a'el!" I cried. "Devin—"

It shimmered in the air. Then it snuffed out the
candles and became the only illumination in the
room, dominating the dawn. It set his eyes aflame.

"Only a trick," he said negligently, but he could
not hide his satisfaction.

"Three months ago you could not bestir the air
to save your soul." I raised my own hand and built
a matching rune. It was the distaff side of kir'a'el.
Mine met his; they melted together like wax, then
twined themselves into one. The conjoined rune
glowed with the purest form of godfire. I stared
hard at Devin, filled with blazing pride. This was
what we were bom for. "Together we can make
anything!"

"A child?"

"Not yet." We touched our hands together, let
the new rune bathe our flesh, then bespoke the
word that banished it. "We shall have to try
again."

His eyes were still alight with the acknowledg-
ment of power. "Come out with me now. I have
horses waiting."

"You are sure of yourself."

"Then I will go by myself."

"Hah." I arched brows haughtily. "You could

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS            4S5

not even get beyond the Field of Beasts, let alone
find the defile."

"I found it before."

"Tied to the back of a horse like so much dead
meat? Aye, you found it." I caught his hand and
kissed it. "Let us go, then. I could not bear to have
you lost."

But even as I dressed, having banished him from
the chamber—otherwise I would never progress
beyond the disrobing stage—I was aware of a tiny
flicker of trepidation. For so long he had been
helpless, bereft of Ihlini power, yet now he prom-
ised power in full measure. I did not begrudge it—
we are what we are—but I was concerned.

Would he become so consumed by the power
and Lochiel's ambitions that he would neglect
me? Once the child was born, would there be a
need for me? Or would I become as my mother:

valueless in their eyes because my duty was done?

Naked, I shivered. Before me I conjured his eyes,
so avid in tenderness. I felt his arms, his mouth;

knew the answer in a body perfectly attuned to
his.

Lochiel had sired me. Melusine had borne me.
But it was Devin of High Crags who had brought
me to life. Without him, my flame dimmed.

/ will not be defined by the man with whom I
sleep.

Yet he was defined by me- I was his only water
in a wasteland of emptiness.

Devin took me out of Valgaard into the rocky
canyons. It was all new to him, who had seen none
of it, and I gloried in the telling of our history. He
was fascinated, asking many questions, until the
cat squalled. The noise of it echoed eerily.

, He reined his horse in at once. His face was

4S6 Jennifer Roberwa

stark white, bleached of color and substance. Even
his lips cried out for my mother's paint.

"Only a cat," I said. "Snow cat, I would wager.
They sometimes come into the canyons. Though
usually in winter." I frowned. "It is early for it,
but—"

The cat screamed again. Devin stared blindly.

I searched for any subject to break his mood. "My
father will call for a hunt. Perhaps you would care
to go. You could have the pelt for your own ... or
perhaps I could make a coverlet for the cradle—"

He turned to me then and fixed me with a gaze
of such brittle intensity I thought he might shat-
ter. His voice was a travesty. "The cat is calling
for something."

I shrugged. "Its mate, perhaps. Devin—"

A shudder took him. The tendons stood up in
his neck like rope knotted much too tightly. His
mouth moved rigidly as if to form words, but no
voice issued.

"Devin—"

"Do you hear it?" His eyes were wholly empty.
"A lonely, unhappy beast."

"Devin, wait—" But he rode on, ignoring me.
"Snow cats can be dangerous. If it is sick, or in-
jured ..." He heard none of it. I turned my own
mount and followed, irritated. "Wait for me."

He halted his horse roughly. As I saw the cause,
I reined mine in as well. "By the god," I whispered.

Not a snow cat after all, but a black mountain
cat. She crouched upon a ledge not far above our
heads, keening a wail that echoed throughout the
canyon. Great golden eyes glared.

I caught my breath. "Beware—"

But the cat did not spring. She merely held her
crouch, staring down at him. Then, as I rode for-
ward, she looked directly at me and screamed.

I reined in abruptly, apologizing inwardly to my

A TAPESTRY OF LifWS

457

mount. But the spell was broken. The cat turned
and ran, leaping up through a wide crack. She was
gone almost at once.

I released a breath. "Thanks to Asar-Suti ..." I
rode up to Devin. "I thought she would have you."

He stared after the cat.

"Devin."

His eyes were empty.

"Devin!"

At last, he looked at me. "Lonely," he said-
Then, "Let us go home."

I was glad to turn my horse and ride back
toward the defile, side by side with Devin. I did
not like the pallor of his face, or the bafflement in
his eyes.

As if he were incomplete, and now knew it more
than ever.

Five

He cried out in his sleep and woke me, so that I
sat upright with a hand clutched to my breast to
still the lurching of my heart. He was still asleep,
but he thrashed; I saw him grasp at his naked hip
as if he meant to draw a knife.

"Devin." I put a hand upon his shoulder and
felt the rigidity of muscle. "Devin—no." He came
awake at once and lunged upward, one hand grasp-
ing my throat as if he would kill me. "Devin!"

His eyes were wild in the shadows of the cham-
ber. Then sense came back to him, and horror. He
knew what he had done. "Gods—"

"I am well," I said at once, seeing the look in
his face. "Only somewhat surprised by your feroc-
ity." He seemed no better for all my irony, I dis-
missed it. "I promise. I am well."

One hand raked hair from his face. Moonlight
was gentle, but I could see the scars on his back
from where the river had embraced him. His eyes
were still full of realization: he had nearly stran-
gled me.

I touched his shoulder and feh it tense, "What
did you dream?"

"The cat."

At first I did not understand. Then the memory
came. "The mountain cat we saw two weeks ago?"

"No. Another." His eyes were black in the dark-
ness. "It was a lion."

458

A TAPESTRY W LIONS

459

"A lion!" Lions were mythical beasts. "Why
would you dream of a lion?"

"It stalks me . .." He let his breath out on a
long sigh, and the tension went with it. "Only a
dream."

"Then I will chase it away." I caught the fallen
forelock in my fingers and stripped it back (rom
his face. "I know what to do."

"No." His hand was on my wrist, pushing it
away. "Not—now." He turned back the covers and
slid out of the curtained bed. "I need to go out."

I was astonished. "In the middle of the night?"

"I need to walk. Just along the battlements. I
need to be alone." He slipped into a linen shirt
that glowed in the dimness. "I beg you, under-
stand—there is a demon in me. Let me exorcise it,
and I will come back to you."

I reached again for irony, so I would not sound
too petty, too clinging, too much in need of him.
"By morning? Or is this a difficult demon?"

"Difficult." His smile was strained. "But my
memory of you will vanquish it."

"Go, then." I yanked the covers back over my
breasts. "But do not be surprised if I am fast
asleep. It troubles me not at all to have an empty
bed."

He knew it for what it was, but the smile did
not reach his eyes. He finished dressing, pulled on
a fur-lined cloak, and went out of the chamber.

I stared into darkness. Resolution set me afire.
"I can banish a lion. I am Lochiel's daughter."

He came up hours later. I was not asleep. He
knew it instantly and apologized for keeping me
awake by his absence.

I held the blankets up so he could climb beneath
them. "Do you think I care?" His face was worn
and bleak as he stripped out of his clothing; we

Jennifer Roberson

460

had but an hour before dawn. "Have you de-
stroyed the demon?"

He climbed in beside me, shivering, and drew
me very close. At first he was gentle; then he held
me so tightly I thought I might shatter. He shud-
dered once, twice. "Ginevra—" It was muted
against my hair, but a cry nonetheless. "Gods—"

I had known it was coming. He had been wound
too tightly- Now the wire snapped.

I held him tightly, wrapping arms around his
shoulders and legs around his legs, until he was
cocooned in flesh and hair. "Be still," I whispered.
"I am here for you. I will always be here for you."

"I think—I think I am going mad."

"No. No, Devin. There is no madness in you."

"I wake in the night, in the darkness—"

"I know."

"—and there is nothing there, nothing at all,
save emptiness and anguish .. . and then I recall
there is you, always you—Ginevra, here, for me.
And I know that you are my salvation, my only
chance for survival—and I am afraid—"

"What do you fear?"

"That—you will go. That I will prove myself un-
worthy. That I will be turned out of Valgaard.
That you will repudiate me because I am not what
Lochiel needs me to be."

I stroked hair from his face. "You said he is
pleased by your progress. And I have seen it also.
There is nothing to fear, Devin. What can come
between us?" Then, when he did not answer,
"Where did you go?"

He said nothing at first. Then he shifted onto his
back, cradling me in one naked arm. My head
rested in the hollow of his shoulder. "I went
below," he said finally- "To the undercroft."

For the merest moment I believed he meant the
Gate. "The cats," I blurted.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           46S

"Aye." He was very still. The storm had passed,
but the aftermath was as painful to see. His ex-
pression was wasted. "They are wild things, Gine-
vra. They were not made to be caged." His breath
gusted softly. "Nor was I."

A hollow fear began to beat in my breast. "They
are cats."

"I looked in their eyes," he said. "I saw the truth
in them. They know what they have lost. They
long for it back,"

More desperately, I repeated, "They are cats."

"So am I, in my own way- I am very like them.
I am caged by ignorance."

I knew it suddenly, "You want to set them free."

His hand settled in my hair, winding it through
his fingers. "If we did, he would only replace them
with others. Perhaps even the black one we saw
in the canyon. I think—I think I could not bear to
see more imprisoned then he already has. No. Let
them alone. They have known their cages too
long."

I drew him closer yet,- warming his body as I
wished I could warm his spirit. How long? I won-
dered. How long will you know your cage?

How long would I know mine, in the prison of
his arms?

As long as I permitted it. As long as I desired it.

Forever is frightening.

The door opened very quietly as I sat before the
polished plate and combed my hair- In the reflec-
tion I saw Devin's face, peeking around the door,
and the expression he wore.

I stopped combing instantly and turned on the
stool. "What?"

The set of his brows was comical in dismay. "I
wanted to surprise you." But he did not seem so
disheartened that the smile left his face.

462 Jennifer Roberson

"What?" I repeated.

He gestured me down as I made to rise. "No.
Wait." His expression was serious now, and very
intent. His outstretched hand was held palm up.
He watched it closely; I watched him. I saw the
concentration, the effort he used, and then the star-
tled wonder he suppressed instantly so as to hide
his childlike pleasure in a task at last accomplished.

In his palm danced a tiny column of pure white
flame. Slowly it twisted, knotting itself, then re-
shaped itself into the aspect of a bird, brilliant as
a diamond.

I held my breath. The bird made of flame be-
came a bird in truth.

Devin extended the hand. "For you."

I put out my own hand, took the bird onto a
finger, and suppressed the urge to cry. It was a
tiny white nightingale, perfect in all respects, and
very, very real. It cocked its head, observed me
from glittering eyes, then began a jubilant song.

Devin's eyes shone. "Lochiel says it is because
of Valgaard. That though I have no recollections
of power, the power simply is. We are so close to
the Gate ... he says there is power for the taking;

that we breathe it every day, A man—or a woman—
need only know how to use it. Even a Cheysuli,
given enough time, if he claims the Old Blood."

The bird's tiny feet clung to my fingers. I could
not look at Devin for fear I would see the change
as I gave him the truth not all men would tolerate.
"You do know, do you not - . . that I am also
Cheysuli?"

He laughed. "Since your mother is a halfling,
one would assume so."

I set the nightingale on the edge of my mirror.
"The House of Homana and my own House are so
thickly intertwined, it is a wonder we keep our

A TAPESTHV OF LIONS           463

identities straight." I looked at him now. "You do
not mind?"

He came to me and threaded fingers into my
hair. "Cheysuli—Ihlini .. . what difference does it
make? What matters is that we have one another."

"It is tainted blood. The Cheysuli desire to de-
stroy us."

"So we will destroy them first." He laughed. "It
is a matter of upbringing, not blood. Prejudice and
hatred is created, not bom. You serve the Ihlini
because you know nothing else .. . but had you
been raised in Homana you would serve the Chey-
suli instead."

"I never could!"

"If you knew no better, of course you would."

"But I do—"

"So you do. And so you serve the Seker."

It could not go unasked. "What about you?"

Devin smiled. "I will do what must be done. If
the god grants us immortality, it would be a sorry
thing to repudiate his grace—and therefore watch
forever as our race dies out at the behest of the
Cheysuli."

I guided his hands and pressed them against my
belly. "We will not die out. Not while the child
within me lives."

Wonder engulfed his face. His fingers were gen-
tle as he pressed them against the folds of my
skirts. "Here?"

I laughed. "Thereabouts. It is too small for you
to feel. But in six months you shall have your
son."

He cradled my face in his hands. "Thank you,"
he said. "You have made it possible for me to be
a man."

I found it odd. "But you are a man!"

"An incomplete one. Do you understand? Now

464 Jennifer Roberaoa

we can be wed. Now, at last, I can go before the
god and let him weigh my value."

Against my ear I heard the beating of his heart.
Behind us, the bird stopped singing. When I
looked around, the nightingale was gone.

Illusions are transitory. At least Devin was not.

I had seen the Gate many times, and the cavern
that housed it, but never through Devin's eyes. It
made it new again.

I took his hand as we stepped out of the passage-
way into the cavern. He did first what everyone
does: tipped his head back to stare up at the
arches, the glasswork ceiling alive with reflected
flame. The symmetry was incomparable. So many
layers of ceilings, so many soaring arches, and
massive twisted columns spiraling from the floor.
We were required to pass through them; at the
end of the colonnade lay the Gate itself.

Devin was puzzled. "Where does the light come
from? I see no torches."

I smiled. "It comes from the Gate. See how it
is reflected time and time again, multiplied one
hundredfold in the columns and the arches?" I
watched his avid eyes. "The Gate itself is in the
ground, but it is open, and its light is uninhibited.
It is god^re, Devin—it is the light of truth, so that
the Seker can illuminate the dark comers of your
soul."

The light was in his eyes. I could see no pupil
in them, only a vast empty blackness filled now
with livid godfire. "He will see my weakness."

"All men are weak. He will draw it from you
and replace it with strength."

"Is that why you have no fear?"

"I have fear." I touched his hand. "His glory is
terrible. When one looks upon his aspect, one
knows he—or she—is insignificance incarnate." I

A TAPESTRY W LIONS           46S

closed my fingers on the still flesh of his hand.
"The Seker awaits."

"Ginevra!" He drew me back as I turned toward
the columns. "Ginevra—wait." His face was graven
with lines of tension. "I need you."

I carried his hand to my mouth I felt his minute
trembling; he feared as all men do, who must face
Asar-Suti. Against his palm, I said, "I am here for
you. Before the god, I swear it: I will always be
here for you. We are bound already by the child
in my body. Once we share the nuptial cup, we
will be bound forever."

His voice was raw. "I am—unworthy,"

"Of the god?" I smiled. "Or of me?"

Devin laughed; it was what I had hoped for. "Of
both," he said.

I arched haughty brows. "Then neither the god
nor I have grounds for discontentment. Things are
as they should be." I glanced toward the Gate,
then looked back into his face. "Come," I said
gently. "There is no sense in delaying the truth."

"Truth," he echoed, "is'what I fear."

I held his hand tightly in mine. "Why?"

"I am what you have made me. Ginevra's Devin,
whatever—w/ioever—that is. I know nothing at all
of my past . .. what if Devin of High Crags is a
man who aspires to waste his coin in tavern wa-
gers and his seed in roadhouse whores?"

My laughter echoed throughout the cavern. "Then
the greater truth will be that Devin of High Crags
is now a changed man." I shook back hair. "And
they may spin the tale that it was the god's
doing—or lay credit where it is due."

He was suspicious now. "Where?"

I set his hand against my heart. "Here," I said,
"deep in my soul. What other truth is there?"

Devin looked beyond me. "Then let us get it

466 Jeaatfer Roberaoa

done. Have them bring the nuptial cup. I am very
thirsty."

My father waited for us at the Gate of the neth-
erworld, clothed in black that the godfire dyed pur-
ple. In his hand was a rune-scribed silver goblet;

at his feet lay the god himself.

"Where is he?" Devin breathed.

"There." I dipped my head. "Beneath the
ground—that pool is the Gate."

I heard vague surprise in the timbre of his tone.
"That hole in the ground?"

"His greatness is such that he requires no sepul-
cher," I said it more tartly than I intended; I ex-
pected Devin to be more circumspect in his worship
of the Seker. Everyone else was.

Devin stared at the Gate. Light lapped at the
edges, and smoke rose up. It wound around my
father and clung to the folds of his robe. His gaze
was fixed solely on Devin.

"Come," Lochiel said.

Devin's grasp tightened. "What is that?" he
whispered.

He meant the pedestal just behind my father.
"A chain," I whispered back. "A keepsake from a
Cheysuli who thought he could defeat my father."

"It is in two pieces."

"The Cheysuli broke it. He surrendered to my
father and broke the chain in half." I squeezed his
hand. "Enough. There is a task we must do. Or do
you mean to put off the ceremony that will make
us one in the eyes of the god?" Devin's smile was
fleeting. He stared at the cup.

"Empty," Lochiel said from the other side of the
Gate. He held out the goblet. "Fill it, Devin, if you
would have my daughter."

The tension spilled out of Devin. He turned to
face me, brought my hand to his lips, and kissed

A TAPESTRY OF LtOIVS            467

my fingers. Then he released my hand and turned
to Lochiel. He extended his arm across the maw
of the Gate.

So vulnerable, I thought. The god has only to rise
and swallow him whole.

But the Seker did not do it. Devin accepted the
cup from my father's hand, then knelt at the edge
of the Gate. Without hesitation, with no sign of
fear, he dipped the silver goblet into the pulsing
godfire.

Illumination engulfed him. Devin laughed, then
dipped the cup lower. When it was filled, he rose
and inclined his head in tribute to Lochiel, then
turned to me. The cup's smoking contents flared,
burning more brightly, so that the light stripped
bare all shadows from Devin's face, washing the
darkness from him- His eyes burned brilliant
green.

I placed my hands over his and guided the cup
to my mouth. I drank liquid light and let it fill
me. Cold fire burned as my blood responded to it.

Gods, but it was sweet. Such a sweet, cold fire ...
I laughed and shook back my hair, then guided
the cup to Devin.

He drank. I saw the widening of his eyes in
shock; I feared, for a horrible moment, he might
sprew it from his mouth. But he swallowed. He
shivered once. When I saw the emerald of his eyes
replaced with livid black, I knew it was done.

My father's voice was an intrusion. It took effort
. to listen. "You have shared the blood of the god
at the god's own Gate. His blood is yours. There
; can be no parting you now."
', Devin turned. "Is there more?"
I, "There is always more." Lochiel extended his
|'<Jhands, and Devin placed the goblet in them. My
ither smiled, then dropped the goblet into the

468 Jennifer Roberaon

light and smoke. "But you have begun already.
Kneel down. Ginevra—here, beside the Gate."

I knew better than to question.

"Remain there. It must be you first, so the child,
too, is blessed."

I dared not look at Devin. I knelt there beside
the Gate, thinking of my child, and waited for the
god.

He came all at once, without warning. I knew
only that I was blinded as the light sprang forth,
and then it engulfed me. I felt hands touching me,
reaching through my clothing to pluck at my flesh,
until I feared it might be stripped from my bones.
I shuddered once, then stilled. The god's hand was
upon me.

I knew only what my father had told me: that
the hand of the god, the light of the Seker, would
reveal the inner soul. Hidden truths would be un-
covered. Small vanities displayed. The insignifi-
cant desires of a human would be mocked for
what they were, so they could be replaced with
perfect service to the god.

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, en-
shrouded 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

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

469

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 of-
fered 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-

1 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, Cheysuh—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 Chey-
suli, 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.

470 Jennifer Robersoo

It infuriated me.

"How?" 1 cried. And then, viciously, "Is this part
of your tahlmorra? To seduce an Ihlini so she con-
ceives 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 nicker in
green eyes. Then a shudder wracked the Cheysuli.

"Tahlmorra," he gasped, in the tongue I did not
know. "Tahlmorra lujhalla-—"

My father overrode him. "Have you ever won-
dered," he mused, "what it would be like to be
trapped in lir-shape forever?"

"—lujhalla 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 thts, 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 min-
ions; at my mother who watched me with undimin-

471

472 Jeaalfer Robersoa

ished avidity. Lastly I looked at him, who served
Asar-Suti with an unflagging, perfect service.

"Leave it," I said evenly. "The hunt may com-
mence 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 denied myself. That I had per-
mitted 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 car-mined 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.

A TAPESTRY w LIONS

473

"Will you burn yourself too?"

I swung. The names 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."

1 drew back my lips from my teeth. "Shape-
changer!"

The light in her eyes was livid. She looked be-
yond 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 bum 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?"! 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 daugh-
ters." 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

474 Jennifer Roberson

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.

" 'The Lion shall lie down with the witch,' " my
mother quoted. "It is what their madman says,
the shar tahl who was a prince."

"Aidan," I murmured; I was consumed by real-
ization, 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 indi-
cation! 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

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            47S

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
nightshirt—all had been consumed. All that re-
mained 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.

476 Jennifer Roberson

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 gri-
moire. 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 acknowl-
edged 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 contem-
plated the ring. "Exactly the same, Ginevra. In all
ways, the same. If I were to cut into my left hand

A TAPESTRY OF Lio\s

477

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 me7 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 casti-
gate 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

478 Jennifer Roberson

it no other way. In anything we do, there is no
shame."

I nodded, grateful he would do so much to dis-
card 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 enter-
taining, 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—" 1 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 pre-
vent 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.

A TAFESTKY w LSONS

479

I pressed my hands against my mouth to suppress
another lest I shame myself.

There were drugs, I knew. There were all man-
ner of ways.

I did not want the child. I desired the child to
die.

There were other ways than 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 cham-
ber 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.

480 Jennifer Robersoa

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 sur-
render." 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?"

His words were in my head. "Cheysuli—Ihlini ...
what difference does it make? What matters is that
we have one another."

I had sworn him an oath.

I looked at the cat. "Oaths are made to be
broken."

He was the father of my child.

The father of the Firstborn.

Anguish welled up. "Let me be free of this!"

It echoed in the undercroft, disturbing all the
cats.

They know what they have lost. They long for it
back.

" 'Let them alone,' you said- 'They have known
their cages too long.' "

He was not caged. He would not be caged. My
father would kill him, then strip the pelt from his
body and use it for a rug.

Would he have us couple on it when he saw I
had no bed?

The jaws clenched together. "For that, then," I

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           481

said. "I honor my oath that much—and then we
are quit of each other."

I knew what I had lost. I longed for it back. But
knew I could never have it.

In the hour before dawn I went out of Valgaard,
crossed the smoky Field of Beasts, and passed
through the defile into the canyon beyond. There
I found the cat I had known as man, whose name
was Kellin.

I was bundled in a heavy cloak. "You know
what you are," I said. "/ know what you are. Ac-
cording to my father, what you are is what you
shall be—until he desires to add a new rug to his
floor to keep his feet warm in winter."

The eyes were huge and green. Sense had re-
turned to them. They glared balefully.

"I owe you an oath," I said- "I gave it freely,
not knowing what you are, and could in all good
conscience claim its meaning forfeit .. . but there
are things between us that are not so easily gov-
erned." I looked at the female beside him. "Did
you tell her there is a child? That the child of the
prophecy, so beloved by the Cheysuli, lives here in
my body?" I pressed my hand against cloak-
swathed belly. "If I suffer this child to live, I bring
down my people. I destroy an entire race. That I
will not do. But neither will I permit my father to
kill you. I have no desire to gaze each winter upon
the stones they will put in the sockets that once
were your eyes."

The black tail lashed. Green eyes did not blink.

"Then come," I said roughly, angry that I cared.
"I will set you free of this shape so you may re-
sume your own. We have fought for centuries, the
Ihlini and Cheysuli—I think it will do no harm if
we fight a while longer."

If it came, it came. But I would not, as my

Jennifer Robersoa

482

mother threatened, live to see it. The god would,
in making the bargain, require something to seal
it. All I had of value was what he had given me.

Worth giving up, I thought, 50 / need not spend
the centuries watching the descendants of our races
waste lives trying to kill one another in the name of
a prophecy.

Worth giving up so I need not replace my
mother in my father's bed for the balance of
forever.

Interval

The woman knelt at the Gate, and fire bloomed in
her hands. She held them out steadily, reached
across the pool, and shaped living god/ire into a
reflection of itself. In her hands the god writhed
as he writhed within the Gate.

She parted her hands and drew them apart.
Flame surged in her palms, licking from her fin-
gers as each gout of godfire stretched toward the
other. Then she brought her hands together and
joined the halves again. She built of flame a gob-
let, then fed it on itself. Bloody runes formed on
the rim. In the bowl sparks snapped; smoke rose
from the contents.

She raised it to her mouth and drank the flame
away. The goblet was banished. Godfire glowed in
her eyes.

She looked at the cat who crouched nearby, be-
side the rim of the Gate. Tufted ears were flat-
tened. Fire blazed in green eyes as the tail beat
basalt.

The woman's mouth opened and smoke issued
forth. Her voice was alive with light. Each word
was a spark that broke from her lips and formed
into a rune. The words she spoke bound them-
selves into sentences, until the runes formed a
necklet that dangled in midair.

"He did not know," she said. "He believed him-
self Ihlini. He came to you consenting, eager for

483

484 Jennifer Robersoa

your touch, eager to serve the Seker. He meant to
bind himself to you. What you revealed in his soul
was not what he expected."

Viscid liquid boiled. Smoke billowed up. The
runes that had been words burned brightly in the
darkness.

"I do not question the punishment; he is Chey-
suli, and transgressor. But he meant only to serve.
His heart was empty of hostility. He meant no
sacrilege."

A second necklet was conjoined with the first
into a glowing girdle. It moved from the air to
bind itself around her hips; to seal her wrists to-
gether. Smoke issued from her nostrils. Her eyes
wept blood.

"To the god of the netherworld. Who Made and
Dwells in Light; who illuminates our souls, I offer
this bargain: my immortal life in exchange for his
true guise."

The blood she wept was black. It ran down her
cheeks to fall into the Gate, where the godfire
hissed in welcome to itself.

She prostrated herself. Her hair tumbled free of
pins and fell down into the Gate, where the godfire
crept up the strands. It lingered at her hairline.
then spilled in a glistening net to sheathe her face
in a glowing filigree.

Her breath was made of flames. "Let him go,"
she begged. "Let him be a man. I will give you
my life. I will give you the child."

Godfire gouted forth. It broke in a wave over
the cat, bound it in white fire, then dragged it
inexorably toward the Gate.

"No!" she cried. "I promised you the child!"

Claws locked into stone. And then the claws
were human fingers with bloodied, broken nails
digging into smoking rock. "Ginevra!" he shouted,
with the voice and mouth of a man. "Ginevra!"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

485

She broke free of her bonds and thrust herself
to her knees, hands locked around wrists that were
fleshed in human flesh. She dragged him forth
from the Gate, breaking bonds- He climbed out,
dripping gouts of godfire, and was reborn as a
man.

Her grasp on his wrists broke as she fell to her
knees. "Done," she gasped.

The man's breathing was labored. He bared
human teeth in a snarl that was wholly bestial, as
if he had forgotten how to make his mouth form
words.

"Go," she said raggedly. "The bargain is made.
If you linger now, you invite his renewed interest."

The man laughed harshly. He knelt upon the
floor in an aspect of obeisance, but the burning in
his eyes was born of different loyalties. " 'The Lion
shall lie down with the witch.' "

She stared at him. "What?"

"My jehan had the right of it. And now we are
wed—Lochiel's daughter and the Prince of Ho-
mana." The laughter broke again from a throat
made raw from fire. "How the shar tahls will un-
tangle our birthlines I dare not predict; it may
take more decades than either of us has."

Her face spasmed. "Go."

"Not without you,"

Her breath halted, then resumed. Color ebbed
in a face of fragile, faceted planes, delicate as the
arches that shattered overhead. "That is finished.
That is over."

Green eyes burned in the clean, sculpted fea-
tures that were, in their fierceness, in their avidity,
far more feral than human. He was predator to
her prey.

"Go," she said again, as the Gate behind her
blazed. "There is nothing between us now."

He closed his hand around her wrist. "What is

486             Jennifer Roberson                      -^

between us now is of an entirely different making    -^
than what we shared in bed."

The woman's laughter echoed in basalt, and
crystal arches. "Enmity?"

He pulled her from the floor. "His name is
Cynric."

One

Kellin knew it at once. She does not understand—
she has no comprehension of what we did here, in
drinking from the cup.

Ginevra tore free of his grasp. Between them she
built a wall of conjoined, blazing runes.

His own shredded it- "I drank of the cup," he
told her. "What I know is not forgotten."

Ice-gray eyes were black in comprehension.
"What have I done?" she whispered. "What have
I wrought?"

Oddly, he wanted to laugh. "I think—peace."
His mind moved ahead to means. Kellin turned.
"Only one thing remains—"

She saw what he meant to do. "No! Not that—"

He did not heed her but went straight to the
glassy basalt pedestal, all twisted upon itself, and
snatched up the heavy links. He would take the
chain to his father and prove himself worthy of
being Aidan's son.

He turned back to Ginevra. Her face was bathed
in light, but the shadowed hollows beneath her
cheeks underscored the exquisite architecture of
her face. Gods, but she is magnificent. They wrought
well when they made her. Hoarsely, he said, "Now
we go."

"No! Not me!"

She was pride incarnate, and beautiful, blazing

489

490 Jennifer Roberson

with determination. Light from the Gate glowed
in her hair. All of it was silver now save for the
pure white frame around her face. She did not
know. She had not comprehended what the god
had stolen from her in addition to what was
offered.

Knowing what she is alters nothing. NOTHING. /
want her as much now as I did before. And—I need
her as badly.

Yet looking at her, knowing what he knew of the
woman who was Ihlini, but also whom he loved,
Kellin was keenly aware of a strange division in
his soul. He, too, had been raised to believe in
certain assurances, in certain absolutes, such as a
conviction that only one race could—and should—
survive- Assumptions were made predicated on
traditional beliefs; he wondered now if perhaps
disservices were done in the name of service.

To the IhHni, service to the Seker is as binding—
and as honorable—as ours to Cheysuli gods. In that
moment he understood. He comprehended at last
how his father could, in the name of prophecy,
give up a son.

Should he not be able to sacrifice something as
well to serve a greater purpose?

He looked at the woman. A small part of him
wanted to say she was Ihlini, and enemy, and
therefore worthy of hatred; but the greater part of
him recalled the other woman. Had he not said it
himself? "Prejucide and hatred is created, not born."
He had loved her as an Ihlini, knowing no differ-
ent; now that he did know, why should all things
change? Ginevra was simply Ginevra.

Kellin laughed painfully, cognizant of a truth
that no child could comprehend. He gave up his
son's childhood, but will have him in adulthood. I
give up old prejudice so I may have a woman, and
therefore serve the greatest purpose of all.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           491

Ginevra scrambled up as he rounded the Gate.
"I gave you your freedom! Now go!"

His hand closed upon her wrist. The other
clutched the chain. As she struggled to break free
he caught handfuls of her hair, all tangled with
bloodied fingers and links of rune-wrought gold.
He held her imprisoned skull very still between
his palms. "I want—" He could not say it. It filled
all of his being, he overflowed with it, but he could
not say it-

Her face twisted. "You want the child!"

Lips drew back. He did not mean to snarl, to
bare his teeth before her, but much of him recalled
what it was to be a cat in place of a man.

She was Lochiel's daughter.

Kellin laughed. He saw the spasm in her face,
the anguish in her eyes, and knew he had to ex-
plain. If he could but find the words. "Ginevra—" He
shut his teeth together. Why not let her believe it is
because of the child? It would be easier.

But he no longer desired to predicate decisions
on what was easiest- "I-have— I have lost too
much . . ." He would say it; he would. "In the
past—too many people." His breath stirred her
hair, stark white around her face, silver in his
hands- Say the words. Say them so she knows—say
them so YOU know. "If—if it is heresy—" He drew
in a hissing breath. "If it is heresy to love Lochiel's
daughter, then burn me now."

Her eyes were blackened sockets. Ginevra said
nothing.

His breath rushed out of his mouth. "I thought
it was a lie. This Lion, I swore, would never lie
down with the witch." His eyes were avid as he
cradled her face. "But he has, and found it good—"

"How can you say that?" she cried. "Knowing
what we are—"

"Knowing what we are is why I can say it." Kel-

492 Jennifer Roberson

lin clung to her more fiercely, wanting very badly
to find the proper words, but not knowing how.
He was afraid, suddenly. Afraid he could not win.
"Ginevra—"

A gout of godftre burst from the Gate- It show-
ered them with sparks. An eerie wailing whistle
accompanied smoke.

Ginevra flinched, then her eyes opened wide.
"He knows—the god knows—"

The ground beneath their feet shook. High over-
head, one of the arches shattered. Glass rained
down.

"No more time—" Kellin dragged her with him
as he headed toward the colonnade that led from
the Gate to the passageway beyond. More glass
shattered. The chime of its landing was swallowed
by the keening from the Gate. Godfire lapped at
the edges, then spilled onto the floor.

She staggered next to him, fighting to regain
balance. "I told you to go at once, so he would not
renew his interest! You lingered too long!"

He had, but it was for her. "Then we had best
make haste."

The voice echoed in the cavern, carrying easily
above the keening of the Gate. "Ginevra shall go
nowhere. She is my daughter—and within the
Seker's keeping."

They spun in place. Lochiel stood on the far side
of the Gate. In his outstretched palms danced
crimson runes. His cloak smoked of godfire, purl-
ing around his body. The ale-brown eyes, in lurid
light, were molten bronze in their sockets. The
clean architecture of bone, so clear and pure in
line, was visible behind the human mask that hid
perverted purpose -

"She made a mistake," he said, "but it is easily
rectified." The runes in his hand flared higher,
brighter, though the brilliance did not distract

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

493

him. They twisted into knots, then broke apart
and reformed. "First, there is the child. We cannot
permit it to live. Ginevra knows that. You have
only to look at her face."

Kellin did not. He knew what he would see
there. She was profoundly Ihlini; he did not know
if she loved him enough to bear the child whose
presence in the world would alter hers forever.

Scalloped arches broke from the ceiling in sheets
and fell behind them, shattering against basalt. A
splinter cut Kellin's cheek. The floor trembled
again. The Gate ran white with fire, bubbling over
its edges. Kellin had mastered the art of working
godftre in order to make runes, but he knew better
than to believe he might turn back the flood. Lo-
chiel was Lochiel: his arts were more powerful,
and his intentions deadly.

Kellin moved back two paces and took Ginevra
with him.

Lochiel's eyes were fixed on his daughter. "She
knows what must be done."

Color stood high in her face. "I serve the Seker."

"Aye," he said, "you do. In all ways necessary—
and in certain sacrifices."

"Wait—" Kellin blurted.

Ginevra cried out, then fell to her knees. Her
body shuddered once. Her face was alive with pain
as her mouth formed a rictus, then loosened its
hideous tension into slack astonishment. "—kill
me . . -" she gasped. "—to kill it, you kill me—"

"Sufficient punishment." Lochiel's runes blazed
more brilliantly. "You made a mistake."

Kellin dragged her up and turned her from the
Gate, pushing her onward. "Go on—go .. . get out
of the cavern!"

Ginevra screamed. "—inside me—" she gasped.
"—so black—" She thrust out her hands and
clawed at the air. Godfire sparked from fingertips.

Jennifer Roberson

494

Her hair, in the light, glowed silver. "My own—
father—"

Lochiel said calmly, "I can make other children."

Kellin built his own rune and hurled it across
the Gate, bleeding godfire as it flew. Lochiel's
blazed up, then shattered Kellin's rune into a
shower of impotent fragments. "Tricks," the Ihlini
said, and looked again at his daughter. "I would
kill a thousand Ginevras to destroy the Firstborn."

"You—will not . .. you will not—" She reached
out to Kellin, clawing. "Take—" She bit deeply
into her lip as his fingers closed on hers. "I—will
not—permit—"

"What choice have you?" Lochiel asked. "This
is your sacrifice. Accept it willingly, so you do not
shame me."

"Shame you! You?" Ginevra writhed against the
pain, laughing breathlessly. She clutched Kellin's
hand. "I need make no choice ... you have made
it for me—"

Godfire rose up in the Gate, then fell back,
splashing, to pool again on the floor.

She clutched his hand more tightly, "Kellin."
Her grin was ghastly as she bared it to her father.
"You are Lochiel the Ihlini, servant of the Seker—
but we—we—are more ... in my body lies the
Firstborn. Do you think he will allow you to kill
him?"

Lochiel laughed. "It is unborn, Ginevra! And
will stay that way."

"No—" She bit again into her Up. Blood ran
red, unsullied; she had given up immortality. "He
drank . .. and I drank. The child has tasted also.
What we are together is more than even you can
withstand." She bared her bloodied teeth in the
travesty of a smile. "The god, like your cats, is
hungry. I think it is time he was fed."

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           49S

Kellin felt her fingers bite into his own, setting
fingernails. He saw then what she meant to do.

"—help—" she gasped. "I cannot do it without
you-"

No. Nor could he without her, or the child in
her body.

"Earth magic," Kellin murmured- "This is a
Gate, like the Womb of the Earth. Here it is per-
verted, but there is still a stronger power—"

"Now!" Ginevra cried, and the walls around
them trembled- Archways tumbled down, shat-
tering to fragments against the floor.

Godfire blazed up. At its heart it burned white.
In its reflection, as its servant, Lochiel's face was
without feature. He was, in that moment, the ava-
tar of the god- "GINEVRA."

"He is hungry!" Ginevra cried. "He cries out for
food!"

''In the name of the Seker, in the name of Asar-
Suti~"

"Aye!" she cried. "In his name always, in all
ways. You are his creature; let the god have you!"

Lochiel's eyes were livid. "I will raze this for-
tress before I permit you to take that child from
here!"

Ginevra laughed. "You wanted to kill it! Now
you change your mind?"

"As I must," he said. "The Seker's aspect is of
godfire. I think he would like to be human once
again, that he may walk the land freely as he sun-
ders it."

She clung more tightly to Kellin's hand. 'Tf you
would give him a body, give him your own!"

"GINEVRA!"

"Your own!" she cried. And then, "Now, Kellin!"

With their power they burned out his eyes, leav-
ing blackened, melted sockets, and exploded the
runes in his hands. His clothing caught fire. The

496 Jennifer Roberaw

flesh of his face peeled away so the bone exposed
itself. A rictus replaced his lips, displaying perfect
teeth. Lochiel staggered forward, waving impotent
stubs on the ends of blazing arms, then tumbled
into the Gate.

The godfire within dimmed as if measuring its
addition. And then it burst upward in a geyser
of naked flame, licking at the jagged remains of
shattered crystal arches. The Gate bled godfire in
Lochiel's immolation.

A shudder wracked Ginevra. She fell to her
knees. Silver hair streamed around her, tangling
on the floor with steaming godfire and melting
glass. In the rumbling of the Gate, her sobs went
unheard.

"Come." Kellin urged her up. "If Asar-Suti de-
sires a second helping . .."

She caught great handfuls of god-bleached hair
in rigid, trembling hands. Tears shone on her face.
"What manner of man sires a child such as /, who
murders her own father?"

A ripple moved through the floor. It fractured
the massive columns that spiraled to the roof.
Black glass rained down. With it came more
arches, the fretwork of the ceiling, and then the
roof itself.

"Ginevra!" Kellin dragged her to her feet one-
handed as he tucked the two pieces of chain into
his belt.

Cracks appeared in the rim of the Gate. Fissures
ran toward them. As the roof fell down, part of it
splashed into the Gate, so that godfire gouted forth.
In its depths, something screamed.

The floor beneath them rolled. From high over
their heads, from the bulwark of the fortress, came
a keening howl of fury.

"They know," Ginevra said. "The bonds are all
broken. Lochiel is dead and so they die—and Val-

A TAPESTRY W LIONS           497

gaard is falling." She caught his hand tightly. "I
have to find my mother."

As they burst from out of the passageway into
the corridor, Melusine was waiting. In her hands
was a sword made of livid godfire. "What have you
done?" she cried. "What have you wrought?"

Ginevra laughed crazily to hear her own words
repeated. "Lochiel is dead."

"The walls fall," Melusine said; in her eyes
shone the light of madness, yellow as a Chey-
suli's. "Valgaard is sundered . . ." She looked at
Kellin. "Kinsman," she said, then raised the
sword high.

"No!" Ginevra struck before he could, trans-
fixing her mother's breast with a single blazing
rune. The sword was snuffed out. "No," Ginevra
repeated. Her eyes were anguished. "Go away,"
she said. "Get out of Valgaard now."

Melusine laughed. "Without Lochiel? You must
be mad!"

"Mother—" But the floor between them fissured.
A jagged hole appeared. Kellin staggered, righted
himself, then caught Ginevra and yanked her back
as Melusine, screaming, tumbled in. "Mother!"

He did not remonstrate, nor try to explain there
was no hope as godftre gushed forth and drove
them back. Ginevra knew. "Shansu." he whis-
pered, though she would not understand.

She pressed a hand across her face so he would
not see her tears.

Kellin did not permit them to stop until they
were through the defile on their Valgaard horses
and safe within the canyon, where the floor did
not split, the walls did not fall down, and the roof
above their heads did not collapse upon them.
There Sima waited.

498 Jennifer Robersoa

He expected the link to be sundered by Gine-
vra's presence, but Sima's pattern was clear. You
did well, his lir said, to release my kin.

He thought of the undercroft, where he had,
with his power, torn the doors off their hinges and
permitted the cats to escape. They deserved a better
tahlmorra than to die with Lochiel.

Sima's eyes gleamed golden. Tufted ears slicked.
Do you understand?

No. I was taught we could not link when an Ihlini
was near.

There is some of the god in you. Not only in your
magic, but in your tolerance. You are both children
of the gods; the time for schism is ending. She
glanced at Ginevra. Tend her first. There will be time
for us later.

He climbed off his horse, hooked its reins over
a branch, then went to Ginevra's. "Come down,"
he said, and reached out a hand.

Ginevra looked down at him from atop her
mount. Ash marred her cheek. Silver hair was a
tangled tapestry on either side of her face. In her
eyes was an anguish of such immensity he feared
it might break her.

He could not help herself. "Meijhana—"

At the sound of the enemy tongue, spoken so
close to sundered Valgaard, Ginevra flinched.
Then, with careful deliberation, she unhooked a
foot from a stirrup and got off on the other side.
It put the horse between them.

She could not have taken a blade and stabbed
any deeper. He was eviscerated.

Gods, he prayed, let this woman never hate me. I
could not bear it.

Ginevra took the horse away to the far side of
the canyon. She sat down there upon a broken
stump clad in the stormwrack of her soul and

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           499

stared blindly into shadows with ice-gray eyes
glazed black.

With effort, Kellin turned back to his horse. He
unbuckled girths, pulled off saddle and blankets,
scrubbed down the damp back with a handful of
leaves. When he was done, he went to her horse
and did the same service. Ginevra said nothing-
Smoke crept into the canyon- It was laden now
with odors: burned flesh, the stink of the nether-
world, the smell of a world come undone.

"It is gone," Ginevra said.

Kellin turned from her horse.

"Gone." She sketched a rune in the air; he rec-
ognized bal'sha'a by the movement of her fingers.
But nothing came of it. Her fingers moved deftly,
yet nothing flared into brilliance in answer to her
shaping. "The Gate is closed," she said. The hand,
bereft of power, slapped down slackly and lay
curled in her lap. "And so now there is no godfire."
Her eyes were oddly empty. "Everyone I knew is
dead. 'Everything I knew is gone."

His voice shook. "Ginevra—"

Her face was a wasteland- "Lochiel was right-
We are truly destroyed."

"No." He drew a slow breath, treading care-
fully; he desired in no way to be misconstrued, or
what they had built between them—that now was
in jeopardy—would collapse into ruins. "No, not
destroyed." He would not lie to her; would never
lie to her. "This aspect of it, perhaps, but your race
survives. Asar-Suti is defeated, but there are Ihlini
in the world."

"Good Ihlini?" She smiled, but without amuse-
ment; it was a ghastly mockery of the smiles he
had won before. "Those who repudiate the Seker
will surely survive and be looked upon with favor,
but what of—us? Those like my father, and Stra-
han before him, and Tynstar before him." The line

500 Jennifer Roberson

of. her jaw was blade-sharp as she set her teeth.
"What of Ihlini like me?"

"You said it yourself: the Gate is closed."

She did not flinch. "Aye."

"I would like to think that as we end this war,
such Ihlini as they were will turn from the dark
arts to fashion a new world."

" 'Such Ihlini/ " she echoed. "Like me?"

He said it deliberately: "You are not your
father."

"No." Moonlight glinted in hair. "No, so I am
not- Or surely I would have killed you there at
the Gate." Her mouth warped briefly. "Perhaps I
should have."

"Aye," he agreed. "Or left the cat loose so the
hunt could commence."

It shook her. It shook her so badly he knew she
as much as he comprehended the precipice.

He gave her the truth. "I do not believe Cynric's
task is to have the Ihlini killed."

Her tone was harsh. "As we killed my mother
and my father?"

My poor meijhana. He went to her, and squatted
down before her. "No matter how hard you strike
at me, it will not bring them back."

Ginevra laughed harshly. "How can I strike at
you? You only did as I asked, there in the cavern.
What does it matter to me how it was done, or
that we used an unborn child for his power?"

He caught her hand. "Do not punish yourself for
choosing to live. You did—we did—what had to be
done."

"All of it? All of it?" Her hand shook in his. "My
father. My mother. My—home." Tears glazed her
eyes as she put a hand against her belly. "So falls
the Ihlini race. As according to prophecy—but be-
fore he is even born!" Her voice was raw. "Are
you pleased by it?"

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           501

He put his hand on her hand and let it rest
against her belly. "He is Ihlini, also."

She wrenched her hand away and pressed both
against her mouth. Fingers trembled minutely.
Through them, she said, "How can you love me?
I am everything you hate."

"When I was Cheysuli—" He smiled to see her
start. "When I was Cheysuli, and knew it, I hated
Ihlini- There was no choice. They meant to destroy
my House- They had killed people I loved. They
would kill me. if I gave them the chance to do so."
He pulled her hands away and held them in his.
"When I was Cheysuli but no longer knew it, I was
free to understand that life is much more complex.
That the gods, when they act, when they wish to
humble a man, wield a weapon of irony."

"Vour gods'"

"Mine. Yours also." He lifted a strand of her
hair. In the sunset, the silver was gilt. "You knew
what would happen."

Ginevra stiffened.

"You knew very well. It was what you implied
when you came to me here, to fetch me to the
Gate so you could win me back my human form."
He looked into her eyes. "You grieve for more than
their deaths. You grieve because of your guilt.
That Lochiel's daughter, bred to serve her people,
preserved in the name of love the life of the only
man who could destroy her race."

"You shame me," she said.

It shook him. "In what way?"

"The truth. The truth shames me. I have betrayed
my race." She put trembling fingers against his
mouth. "And I would do it again."

He wanted in that moment, recognizing her
truth as an absolute, to give her a truth in return.
To admit to her—and to himself as well—what
demon had lived in his soul all his adult life.

502 Jennifer Roberson

Before, he had not known- And if someone had
told him, if someone had dared, he would have
taken solace in ridicule. / have used weapons in my
life, but none so sharp as the blade of honesty. It is
time, I think, to use it on myself and lance the can-
ker I have cherished.

Kellin took her hand away, caught up the other
one, then tucked both against his chest so she
could feel his heartbeat. "I have been afraid of
many things in my life, but none so much as the
intimacy of loving a woman. I lay with many, aye,
to assuage a physical need in vain attempts to dull
the emotional pain, but nothing sufficed. I was al-
ways empty, always in despair, despite what I be-
lieved. Despite what I yearned for." His fingers
warmed hers. He pressed her palms against his
heart. "In fear of losing others, I distorted my soul
on purpose. I cherished bitterness. I drove people
away, even those whom I loved, because I wanted
no one to care for me so / would not be required
to care for them ... to care was to lose them,
and I could not bear it. Not after so many
deaths," He carried her hands to his mouth and
kissed them. "The river gave me the chance to
become another man, perhaps the one I was
meant to be all along. What you see before you
now is not Kellin of Homana, but Kellin the man,
of whom Ginevra had the shaping." He set his
mouth against her palm. "I am your construct. If
you would destroy me now, you need only with-
draw your love."

She looked away from him. She gazed over his
shoulder. Beyond the defile, beyond the Beasts,
Valgaard yet burned. The air was laden with
smoke.

He would not release her hands. "What we have
shared could transfigure a world. Even this one."

The scent of smoke was thick. Ginevra's mouth

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

503

warped briefly. "I have no roof," she said. "It has
all fallen down."

Kellin cradled her face in his hands, threading
fingers into the shining wealth of her hair. Softly
he said, "Homana-Mujhar's still stands."

She flinched visibly; he saw she regretted it at
once. "I am Lochiel's daughter."

He pressed his lips against her brow. He kissed
it twice, thrice, then moved the great distance be-
tween forehead and mouth. Cynric or no, prophecy
or no, how could I even consider giving up this
woman?

He never had. Not once.

The truth seared his soul even as his lips shaped
words on hers with careful tenderness. "I need
you," he whispered, "as I have needed no one. You
are my balance."

He knew it was not enough. But it was all he
had to give her.

When her hand touched his shoulder, Kellin
opened his eyes. It was full night. He had not
slept. Neither had she.

He waited. He held his silence, his position. The
tension in her fingers, as she touched his shoulder,
was a reflection of his own.

The canyon stank of smoke. Valgaard burned.
The full moon above them was dyed violet and
black.

Her hand withdrew. When she touched him
again, her fingers were cool on his face. They
touched his mouth and clung.

Kellin sat up. He sat upon his heels even as she
sat upon hers; their knees touched, and hands.

Ginevra stared into his face. Her own was shad-
owed in the shroud of her hair. He saw the angle
of a cheekbone, the curve of her brow. Her eyes

304 Jennifer Roberson

were pockets of darkness. "If I am your balance,
you are my Ufestone."

In silence, Kellin waited.

She took one of his hands and carried it to her
breast. She cupped his fingers around it. "Make
me feel again."

Two

Ginevra stopped Kellin at the top of the steps
leading into Homana-Mujhar. Rigid hands bit into
his forearm as he turned immediately. "Meij-
hana-—what is it?"

Her face was a sculpted mask with burning ice
for eyes. "How will you say it?" she asked. "How
will you tell them who I am?"

Kellin smiled, moving down a single step so he
did not tower so much; she was shorter than he,
and delicate, but her stature belied the dominance
of her spirit. "Easily. I will say to all of them:

'This lady is Ginevra. This lady is my cheysula.
You all of you should be pleased the beast is
tamed at last.' "

Color bloomed in her cheeks. Fingernails dug
through fabric into flesh that was lighter than the
norm for a Cheysuli, but darker than hers. "And
will they want me tamed? The wicked Ihlini?" She
had left tears in Solinde; what she gave him now
was pride fierce as a Cheysuli's. "At least you came
to my home without excess display!"

It took effort for him to keep his hands and
mouth from her here and now, out of doors, before
the palace entrance and all the bailey, and the
soldiers from the guardhouse. "I was unconscious,"
he reminded her. "I have not the slightest idea if
there was display, or no. For all I know, you might

505

506 Jennifer Roberson

have hung me from my ankles and dried me over
a fire."

Ginevra let go of his arm. "It never would have
worked. Your brain was much too soggy!"

"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

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             507

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.
/; is for you to do, she told him.

Kellin smiled. "He wil^ understand. Once I have
explained it. All of them will." He laughed aloud
for joy. "Most assuredly my jehan, who undoubt-
edly 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 ham-
mered doors, and saw, as expected, the Mujhar
sitting quietly in the belly of the Lion, contemplat-
ing 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

508 Jennifer Roberson

much he longed to say, much he meant to share,
but especially Ginevra. / 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 fol-

"ff

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             509

\     lowed 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 re-
quired 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 ser-

510             Jennifer Robersim

vant. 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. / do not want
to be Mujhar.

He had wanted it all of his life.

/ 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.

A TAFBSTRV w LIONS

Sll

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 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 unsur-
prised; 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 pre-
pare 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. "/ 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."

512 Jennifer Roberson

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 com-
plete. 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 Dun-
can—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.

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS             513

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 /ir-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 with-
stand the desire to set it on his brow.

The voice was light and calm, pitched to reach

514 Jennifer Robersoa

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 fa-
ther 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 mad-
ness, 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

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             SIS

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 / 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 ac-
knowledgment, and a warmth that left him

516 Jennifer Roberson

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 Chey-
suli 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 sepa-
rate 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 ofVal-
gaard. 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 de-
clare 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.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            517

"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 Ur-
gold! How could this chain me?"

"Memories," Aidan answered. "History and her-
itage, and an ancestry that reaches across centu-
ries. When the Lion roars he must recall what
went before, so he will rule the world wisely. Re-
sponsibility 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-bom 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 looked 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.

518 Jennifer Roberson

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. "Biythe has borne only
girls, and will bear no more. Cluna bore three still-
born 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 EUasian."

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 oflhlini 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.

Kellin drew in a breath. What manner of power
will you claim? Will you be human at all?

Sima, at his feet, sent a lazy suggestion through
the link that he let the child grow up and discover
for himself what his tahlmorra was. That a father
could, if he watered the clay too much, turn it into
sludge so that no one at all could use it.

Kellin smiled, /s that what I was? Sludge?

Sima blinked. Clay with too much grit. You cut
the flesh of an unsuspecting potter.

Ah. He laughed softly. And then he thought of
other children who had no father to water them
at all. / will have them come here.

519

520 Jennifer Roberson

Sima yawned. Be wary of asking too much. You
gave them to those women; if you mean to take them
back, you will do more harm than good.

They are my children.

Bastards.

He heard the echo of his own arrogance, and
knew what Sima intended. He acceded to a greater
wisdom than his own; she was, after all, lir. "Then
I will give them leave to come whenever they like,
so they will know their heritage."

And?

He smiled. And I will go to them, so I will share
their lives.

Better. She lashed her tail once. What will you
do with the others?

What others? He stiffened. And there more?

I mean the ones to come later.

Later! Sima, by all the gods, do you think me a
selfish, rutting fool? What man in the world would
turn to another woman with this one in his bed?

Sima purred more loudly and shut her golden
eyes. She offered no comment. Her work was done.

Kellin laughed softly and looked down upon his
son. Where would a warrior be without a lir such as
Sima? Or Sleeta? Or Teel? Or Ion's Tasha? Or Blais
Tanni? He touched his son's brow. What lir will
you have—if you have a lir at all?

"Kellin."

He glanced up. Hart stood in the doorway. He
knew without being told what his kinsman had
come to say. "They are here," Kellin said. "Conn.
And Keely."

Hart's face spasmed. "Did Aidan forewarn you?
Or have you your own measure of his power of
prophecy?"

It hurt, but he knew the pain was shared. It
goaded all of them. "I have no power at all, save
what any of us do. I know only what we all do—

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            521

that the Lion shall swallow the lands." He beck-
oned one of the women, gave her Cynric, and rose.
"You came to give me Solinde. I think we will find
they have come to do the same with their own
realms."

In Hart's eyes was a measure of quiet respect.
"Brennan wrote me of his fears, of his frustrations.
He knew very well what you could be, if you per-
mitted yourself to achieve it, I see now he was not
wrong." He nodded slightly. "A fitting legacy for
my rujho. He wrought well, did Brennan. And Ho-
mana shall prosper for it."

Kellin paused in the doorway; it was Corin he
saw first. The Lord of Atvia stood with his back to
the deep-silled casement. A ruddy fox sat beside
one leg: Kiri. Midday sunlight glinted off ^r-gold.
The once-tawny hair had faded, intermixed with
silver, and the beard Corin yet wore showed traces
of white, but no sign of age softened the tension
in his body or the pride in his stance. For all he
had none of the color, he was Cheysuli to the bone.

Kellin was aware of them all within an instant
of entering the chamber: Aileen's solar, with Ai-
leen in it, seated on a chair; near Corin stood a
dark-haired woman with eloquent brown eyes he
knew was Glyn, Conn's cheysula; a second woman
in a chair with hair a pristine white and eyes like
ice—Ginevra's eyes—was lisa, Hart's Solindish
queen; and Keely, Corin's twin, seated nearby with
Scan of Erinn at her back. The Erinnish lord was
huge, dominating the chamber. Even in quietude
his presence was of the kind another man, even a
king, could not ignore.

And lastly Aidan, his father, who stood quietly
behind his mother with a raven close at hand,
watching the tableau as if he knew very well what
was to come.

522 Jennifer Roberson

No doubt he does know. Kellin looked back at
Corin even as Hart moved by him into the cham-
ber to join lisa. He wondered what had passed
among his kinfolk as they awaited his arrival.
They had spoken of Brennan certainly; a quiet
grief lingered in Keely's eyes. Her face was tautly
drawn over high, pronounced cheekbones. The
stubborn jaw was set. But Kellin saw a softness
there that she might not acknowledge; she was,
they all said, a very proud woman.

He smiled faintly to see her in skirts. He had
heard the stories of her tempestuous youth. She
belongs in jerkin and leggings, with a sword in her
hands. Shona, they said, had been very like Keely.
In the face of his granddame, he looked for his
mother. In the face of his grandsire, he looked for
himself.

But Sean was all Erinnish, bred in the Aerie's
mews; Kellin was Cheysuli. As well as other things,
which bring me to this point.

Sean's rumble broke the silence. "Lad," he said,
"we've come for other things, but we owe our re-
spects to the Mujhar of Homana."

"Leijhana tu'sai," Kellin said, and saw the star-
tled speculation in Keely's eyes; had she heard
that Brennan's heir repudiated his race? Well, it
was time they understood. "In the name of my
other grandsire, I welcome you to his home."

"Yours," Keely said softly.

Corin's smile was grim. "I came to speak with
Brennan on a matter of some importance. I find
instead I must speak to his heir. It may be—
difficult."

Kellin nodded. "You none of you know me." He
looked at Keely; at Sean. "Not even you, who
raised a proud daughter well worthy of my jehan.
And I, am I fortunate, will be worthy of them."
He stepped aside and beckoned Sima in. The cat

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            S23

slid through with a rub against his leg, then pad-
ded to a deep-silled casement aglow with midday
sun. She leapt up, curled herself, and settled on
the sill, "You may have heard nonsense of a
young, foolish prince desiring nothing of a lir for
fear he would lose her, or himself if she were
killed. But that man was ignorant. He did not
know what manner of gift the gods offered." He
looked at Sima and saw they did the same. "In
time, he came to see that a warrior without a lir
is not a man at all ... and wholly unfit to inherit
the Lion Throne."

Tension fled Conn's shoulders. His smile wid-
ened. "News travels slowly."

"Much more slowly than rumor."

Ruefully, Corin laughed. "I know your birthline
as well as my own, as I am in much of it ... I
have no quarrel with it. But you are young to be
Mujhar."

"I am the age you were when you sailed away
to your island."

Corin looked at Keely. "A-long time ago, rujhoUa."

Keely's hair also had begun to silver, altering
the gold of younger years. "Much too long, I fear,
for either of us to recall the feelings of youth, and
why we did what we did." She smiled at her
brother, then looked to Keltin. "We are informed
there is a new Prince of Homana."

Kellin saw no reason to rely on courtesy, or the
traditions of a culture that now would be altered.
"More than that," he said easily. "Cynric is the
Firstborn."

Tension reinfected the chamber. He wondered if
they believed he would not acknowledge such a
thing; that he would deny sleeping with an Ihlini
despite what it had produced.

Kellin understood; it would be so for years, until
old prejudices died. "Her name is Ginevra. Among

524 Jennifer Roberson

the Houses in her blood is our own: she is, as am
I, a grandchild of Brennan."

The silence was heavy. Keely broke it. "We do
not question that. The gods made it clear that one
day it would happen, though I admit none of us
believed you might marry an Ihlini." She slanted
a troubled glance at Aidan, who had served as Cy-
nric's prophet. "But it is difficult for me to recon-
cile her as anything other than Lochiel's child. He
killed my daughter—"

"—and nearly his own." Kellin saw it register;

marked startled attention. "When he learned the
child she carried was Cynric, he tried to murder
her. Ginevra refused to submit to the sacrifice he
and his god required. With my help—and the help
of her unborn child—she killed her father- She de-
stroyed him in the Gate of his own god." He
looked at each of them, one at a time, until he
knew he had them. "We have fought the Ihlini
forever. It was Ginevra's choice that this war be
ended."

Keely's gaze did not waver. Her smile was bit-
tersweet. "If it is possible for you to care so much
for her, then perhaps I should take instruction in
the art of forgiveness. I would like to forgive; she
is, by marriage, my granddaughter. But such
things do not come easy to a childless woman."

"Childless!" Kellin looked at Scan and saw an-
guished affirmation. "But—you also had a son—"

The upstanding veins of Keely's hand knotted.
"Sean and Riordan went to Atvia to visit Corin
and Glyn. This time, I did not go." A spasm of
grief wracked her face- "This once, I did not go—"

"Keely." Sean put a big hand upon her shoul-
der. " 'Twas a storm in the Dragon's Tail- I was
injured ... in saving me, my son risked himself."
His eyes glazed abruptly though the voice re-

A TAPESTRY OF LSO!VS              525

mained steady. "In Erinn, men rule. There is no
one else left of my line."

Kellin drew in a breath. "Will Erinn have me?"

Aileen laughed softly. Grief had deeply marked
her, but she was still profoundly Erinnish in color-
ing and speech. "With your eyes, my lad? They'll
be needing no kivama .. . there's no mistaking
your blood! They'll be having themselves an Erin-
nish lord even if he is Mujhar of Homana."

"As for me," Corin said, "I have always known
I would go elsewhere for my heir." His hand en-
folded Glyn's. "A barren queen is worthless, some
men might declare—but I know better. I would
trade her for nothing, and no one." He exchanged
a smile with the woman who could not speak, and
looked back at Kellin. "It seemed natural to me
that Brennan be my heir should I predecease him,
despite the arguments of our youth. He was withal
a supremely compassionate and competent man,
a man who understood responsibility; he was far
better fit to rule than I." For a moment his voice
faltered, "That now is moot, but there is another
man to whom I might entrust my realm."

Kellin did not immediately answer. He was in-
tensely aware that all of them looked at him ex-
pectantly, awaiting his response. He knew what
it would be, but he wondered if they did; if they
understood at all what was about to happen in the
ordering of their world.

/; has nothing to do with me. But they do not see
it; they see only me, and think of immediacies in-
stead of the future. They have not yet reconciled
what it is I have done by siring a son with Ginevra.
I am Kellin to them, no more—except perhaps to my
jehan, who understands very well.

He smiled at Aidan and saw the answer in yel-
low eyes; indeed, his father knew. The shar tahl

526 Jennifer Roberson

knew many things. He was, after all, the mouth-
piece of the gods.

One day they will know. They will come to under-
stand. It has nothng to do with me.

Kellin glanced at Sima. Then he looked back at
the others and gave them their answer. "/ will
have none of your realms." Their startlement was
palpable in the minute stirring of their bodies, the
intensity in their eyes. "Should you predecease
me, you may be certain I shall respect and cherish
your lands, doing what I must to keep the people
content—but I will name none of them mine. I
will serve only as regent until such a time as my
son comes of age." He looked at his father; Aidan's
smile was content. "The Lion may swallow the
lands, but it is the Firstborn who shall rule them
in the name of ancient gods."

Epilogue

The Lion's claws curled down beneath Kellin's
hands. His fingers followed the line, tracing gilt-
etched wood. He sought the Lion's strength to
carry him through the ceremony that would, in its
celebration, herald a new age.

His arms were heavy with /ir-gold; his brow
ablaze with more. The weight at his left ear, after
its emptiness, was infinitely reassuring. He was,
at last, Cheysuli in all things; a /i'r-blessed warrior
who also knew his balance.

Kellin drew in a deep breath, held it a long mo-
ment, then released it slowly. He was aware of
approval emanating from" beside his right leg,
snugged between Mujhar and Queen to offer them
both support: Sima sat in silence with tail tucked
over paws- Great golden eyes were fixed on those
gathering to witness the investiture of a new
Prince of Homana.

So many people. His kinfolk, of course, grouped
near the firepit: Aileen first, wearing the fir-torque
Brennan had given her decades before. Their son,
Aidan, with a raven upon his shoulder and his
mother's hand in his. Hart with Rael, and lisa;

Corin and K-iri with mute Glyn; Keely flanked by
Scan. And lir, so many lir, in rafters and windows
and comers.

Others also: the Homanan Council, complete in
all regards, and the castle staff; Gavan, clan-leader

527

528 Jennifer Roberaoa

of Clankeep, with Burr and other shar tahls; plus
the multitudes of warriors, and women with large-
eyed children, from all the keeps of Homana. Ih-
lini also, from Solinde, who did not honor Asar-
Suti. No one was turned away. Those who could
not fit into the Great Hall gathered in corridors,
in other chambers, in the baileys; even, he had
been told, in the castle kitchens.

The firepit blazed. The sun beyond stained
glass slanted into the crowded hall, glinting off
?ir-gold and other ornamentation, tinting into a
likeness the fair Homanan faces and dark Chey-
suli ones.

Kellin noted it. He noted everything, but noth-
ing stood out so much as the woman at his side.

She stood quietly at his right, holding linen-
swathed Cynric, She wore a velvet robe of deep
bloodied wine that was, in its folds, in its richness,
very nearly black. At her ears she wore rubies and
jet; her slender neck was weighted with the gold
of his /ir-torque. Unbound silver hair fell in sheets
to her knees. The white around her face framed
an exquisite, alien beauty even more remarkable
for her pride, for the blazing of her spirit, for the
determination housed in icy Ihlini eyes.

This was her son. If it be her task alone, they
would none of them forget it.

Kellin smiled. They will remember her from this
day. No matter what else may happen, they will
never forget Ginevra.

He looked out again at the multitude, then rose
from the throne. He extended his right hand. Gine-
vra put into it her left, as her right arm cradled
Cynric. Two steps only, and they stood at the edge
of the marble dais steps.

Aidan moved out from the throng. His voice was
pitched quietly, but no one in the hall could not
hear what he said. "He is the sword." A shower of

A TAPESTRY OF Lims           S29

sparks rose up from the firepit- "He is the sword
and the bow and the knife. He is darkness and
light. He is good and evil. He is the child and
the elder; the girl and the boy; the wolf and the
lamb."

No one spoke. No child protested, no lir ruffled
wing.

Aidan's eyes were black. "/ am no one; I am
everyone. I am the child of the prophecy; child of
darkness and light; of like breeding with like until
the blood is one again."

Stained glass shattered. Empty casements dis-
played a sudden darkness: the moon slid across
the sun and did not depart. Inside, the hall was
black; outside, the world was.

People cried out in fear; Homanans, Kellin
knew. Cheysuli feared no gods.

Aidan's voice whispered: "The sword—and the
bow—and the knife."

Flames roared up in the firepit. The iron lid that
covered the stairway to the Womb was flung back
on its hinges, crashing into piled wood. In the
flurry of ash and flame came a greater, more com-
plex motion: the rushing torrent of dozens of lir
issuing from the hole. In the flames they were
creamy marble, with blind creamy eyes, but as
they burst forth into the light, into the darkness
of eclipse, marble shapechanged itself into the
clothing of living lir.

Ginevra's hand gripped Kellin's. He felt her
trembling; sensed the wonder in her heart, and his
own, that their son could be the inheritor of so
much power.

"/ am Cynric," Aidan said, "and I am Firstborn
of those who have returned."

Lir upon lir, freed of imprisonment, joined brother
and sister lir in hammer-beamed rafters, in rune-

530 Jennifer Roberson

rimmed sills, at the edge of the firepit. Others
gathered near the dais.

Firepit flames died. The hall was left in darkness.
"Cynric," Aidan said, "who will bring light to the
darkness so all men may see."
The darkness was complete. Silence was loud.
Then Kellin understood. He looked at Ginevra,
marking the sheen of silver hair in the dimness of
the hall. "Unwrap him."

Her mouth parted as comprehension filled her
eyes. Ginevra deftly freed the week-old infant from
embroidered linen wrappings. With an avid ten-
derness she handed him to Kellin, who raised him
up, naked, to the multitudes.

Tiny arms waved. In the darkness fire bloomed.
A pale, luminous gold born of infant-etched runes,
that encompassed the darkness and defeated it. Its
heart was livid white.

Upturned faces were illuminated. Kellin heard
murmurings, saw groping hands reach out to one
another. Homanans and Cheysuli were bound to-
gether by awe-
He looked at his kinfolk standing near the dais:

Aileen, crying; Hart and lisa; Corin and Glyn;

Keely and Sean, all clasping hands. Their expres-
sions were rapt.

Aidan raised his hands to encompass everyone.
"From among them shall come a hr worthy of the
Firstborn. Worthy of the child who had united, in
peace, four warring realms and two magical races."
His voice soared above them. "Cynric, child of
prophecy; the Firstborn come again!"

There was a shifting among the crowd as war-
riors looked at Ur, and an abrupt apprehension
that was palpable. Kellin himself felt it.

He looked sharply at Sima. What ts this? Will we
lose the lir after all?
Sima's eyes were fixed on him in an unwavering

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            531

intentness. Pupils were nonexistent. You have
wrought well. Decade after decade, until years be-
came centuries, the Cheysuli have labored well. It is
time now for two races to become one; for the power
to be fixed as it was once before. From you and Lo-
chiel's daughter will come others, and they in their
turn shall sire their own, until the Firstborn as a
race is viable again.

He felt a clutch of trepidation. What of us? What
becomes of the Cheysuli and the Ihlini? Do we die
out? Are we replaced? He cast a harried glance at
the gathered lir. Desperately he asked. Have I de-
stroyed my own race to elevate yours?

The tip of her tail twitched.

Kellin began to tremble. Sima—am I to lose you
after all? To my son? He could not bear it. He could
not bear the idea. Gods—do not do this! Would you
have me be a monster to my people?

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. / 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 man-

532 Jennifer Roberson

age. "Leijhana tu'sai—" he whispered, "for a lir
such as this.

With meticulous precision, the throne unbent it-
self. 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, Cheyuli,
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 be-
fore them now was the Lion of Homana as he once
was, before a power wholly perverted had shape-
changed 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 col-
ored 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

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            533

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 Chey-
suli 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 murmur-
ing, 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 lisa. 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

534 Jennifer Roberson

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 CheysuH" was not originally
intended as a series, but a single book only, titled
The Shapechangers. It was my first foray into writ-
ten 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 Brad-
ley, C.J. Cherryh, Katherine Kurtz, Patricia McKil-
lip. 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 shape-
changers and their animal familiars, and a girl
bom 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 anthro-
pology class in which we'd spent fifty minutes
drawing triangles and circles as a generational ex-
ercise, 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 every-

535

536 Jennifer Robersoa

thing, 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 Caril-
lon 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 qumahlin (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

CHEYSU1I/OID 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): chil-
dren of the gods-
Cheysuli i'halla shansu (chay-SOO-lee i-HALLA

shan-SOO)—(lit.): May there be Cheysuli peace

upon you.
godftre (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 ;'] zshuh-HIGH)—accept
ja 'hai-na (zshuh-HIGH-nuh)—accepted

537

538 Jennifer Robersoa

jehan (zsheh-HAHN)—father

jehana (zsheh-HAH-na)—mother

kureshtin (koo-RESH-tin)—epithet; name-calling

leijharm tu'sai (lay-HAHN-uh too-SIGH)—(to.): 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)
rujhoUa (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 T00)-~(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 sat-
isfaction in union of man and woman; de-
scribes 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.

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

539

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 (OOlS-kuh)—powerful liquor from the Steppes.
y'jahai (EE-zshuh-HIGH)—(^.): I accept.