A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  “There is no need to fear me,” Brennan said quietly. “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 Urchin’s eyes: tall, dark warrior with silvered hair; yellow eyes clear and unwavering as a wolf’s, with the same promised fierceness; lir-gold 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, 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, slipping 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 beneath. “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—before 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 Urchin to a guardsman and ordered him put up on 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 looking 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.”

  * * *

  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 pommel to avoid Urchin and slid off, throwing glittering, 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. Nothing more.”

  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 corners. “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 cushions and carpets lay the fortune-teller. A gaping, ragged hole usurped the pl
ace 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 corner. Massive silver doors threw back redoubled torchlight, so bright he nearly squinted. They must have polished them today. But that was not important. Importance 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 gleaming in mouth and eyes.

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

  Twice he had come, since Ian had died. First, to chop the Lion into bits; again to burn the tapestry hanging just behind, lest the Lion summon confederates 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 flame 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 warning: “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?”

  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 customary 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 fascination. “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 easier 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 Ian, 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.” 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 renounced 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. Something more: part priest, part warrior, part fortuneteller—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.”

  “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.

  “In fact,” the queen went on, “he told me yesterday he was quite impressed with both of you. Urch
in 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 learns 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 Erinnish, 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; Corin himself had prevented 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 learn 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.” 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 assuredly it offers nothing more than the dusty odor of history and the burdensome weight of tradition.”