A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  Kellin knew better than to protest; let them believe 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 message, 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 acquiescence, 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 something he wants to tell her…something I am not to hear—” Kellin bit off his sentence as his grandmother 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: resignation, 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 reason 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 appropriate to a soldier. “And when will it be right? When his son is a grown man, seated upon the Lion Throne Aidan himself should hold?”

  The Mujhar answered merely, with great weariness, “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 cat!” she said. “’Tisn’t the same, Brennan. And even if it were, you have Sleeta here. I have nothing. Nothing but memories of the child I bore, and the boy I raised….” Her voice thickened 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 mortal desire. Not for me, nor for you—”

  “For his son?”

  “No. I will not interfere.”

  Taut silence, as Kellin spun tightly away. Urchin 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.”

  “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 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 opportunity 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 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 de
sire 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 Clankeep. We are going to the Crystal Isle. To my jehan.”

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

  “Two weeks of riding,” Kellin answered promptly. Then, evoking his Erinnish granddame, “And but a bit of a sail across the bay to the island.” Inwardly, he said, And to my jehan.

  “Two weeks?” Urchin scratched at his nose. “I didn’t know 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 which to be proud. I thought it well behind me. When I married—” He broke it off, abruptly, nostrils pinched and white.

  Alerted, Kellin answered the scent. “You are married?”

  “I was.” Rogan’s face was stiff, and his spine. “She is dead. Long dead.” He guided his mount with abrupt motions, which caused the gelding to protest the bit. “Before I married Tassia, I gambled away all my coin. She broke me of the habit, and made me use my wits for something other than wagering.”

  “And so you came to Homana-Mujhar.” Kellin nodded approvingly. “I recall the day.”

  “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 Ian died.”

  “How far do we go today?” Urchin asked, oblivious 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 Rogan’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. Deliberately 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 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 Homanans, 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 respect. “But how can they—”

  A shadow fell across their table, distracting Kellin 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 beguiling smile.

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

  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 Corwyth, 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 you 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, but 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.” Corwyth ignored Urchin utterly as he turned his attention to Rogan. “Will you throw first, or shall I?”

  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 Corwyth 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 Rogan’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. “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 fascination.

  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 declared. “No.”