A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Corwyth gestured, and one of his companions answered with a wrapped packet and leather flask delivered to Kellin at once. “Bread, and wine. Eat. Drink.” Corwyth 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 parcel. It was a lumpy, tough-crusted loaf of Homanan journey-bread. He set it aside carefully, ignoring Corwyth’s interest, and unstoppered the flask. Without hesitation—he would give nothing to the Ihlini, 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 vintage,” 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 heard of the Midden exploits undertaken by the Prince of Homana.”

  Midden exploits. He detested the words. He detested 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 almost immediately.”

  Kellin glared at him. “Then why stop at all?”

  “Why, to keep you and anyone else from claiming 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 expel 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,” Corwyth suggested. He turned away in an elaborate swirl of heavy cloak.

  “Ku’reshtin,” Kellin muttered.

  Silence answered him.

  * * *

  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 before he could protest. The Ihlini gripped tightly, crossed one wrist over the other, and pressed until the bones ached in protest. “Flesh into flesh, Kellin. 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 together 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 Valgaard itself. Kellin had heard tales of the Ihlini 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 posture, 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. Kellin 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 beneath shod hooves. As afternoon altered to evening, 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 perspiration. He shivered. Disorientation broke up 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 Ihlini’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 discomfort, then shifted again. He could not be still.

  Just like in Homana-Mujhar. He fixed his eyes on Corwyth, who sat quietly by a small fire. “Was it you who drove me from the palace?”

  “Drove you?”

  “With sorcery. Was it you?”

  Corwy
th 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 surprise was unfeigned. “Would the Cheysuli 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, certainly—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 bastards, 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 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.”

  “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 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 myself. 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 eyelids, or stop his heart again.

  But Corwyth did not even look at his captive. The sorcerer quietly went about his business, pacing out distances. Each time he halted, he sketched something in the air. The rune glowed briefly purple, 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 declarations of a separate Ihlini prophecy—or of the Cheysuli one entire—was nothing but arrant nonsense 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.

  But why not? It was a Cheysuli custom that killed Blais, not an Ihlini.

  Heresy.

  Is it?

  Kellin inhaled carefully, held his breath a moment 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 undermine his own convictions, which would in turn undermine a spirit that might yet protest its captivity; 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 upright 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, shearing 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 Kellin’s life.

  Corwyth spared him a glance, as if to forestall any attempt on Kellin’s part to escape. But Ke
llin 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 commented, “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.” Corwyth smiled. “He keeps them in Valgaard, in cages beneath the ground.”

  A fourth scream sounded closer yet. Even Corwyth got to his feet.

  A shudder wracked Kellin. “What is—” he gritted his teeth against another assault. “—ku’reshtin—” 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!”

  I am your only escape.

  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 lir 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. I 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 permanent link.