A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  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. Ian lay with Lillith and sired Rhiannon. Rhiannon lay with my grandsire and bore—who? A daughter? The one who in turn lay with Lochiel and bore him the daughter with whom I shared a cradle?” Kellin hitched his shoulders. “And who, no doubt, would be the unlikeliest woman with whom I should be matched—and therefore is, in 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. I am not your lir. Have you not declared it? Have you not renounced 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 Cheysuli would look to another.

  A solution presented itself. An answer to the questions.

  Kellin shuddered once. Sweat ran down his temples 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.

  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 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 banished 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 so strongly that the weight of their faith, the contents of their spirits, destroyed the disbelief?

  The champion of the gods, called Belief, destroyed 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.

  A lirless Cheysuli had hurled himself into the Womb. He had placed his fate within the hands of the gods.

  Kellin’s shout echoed: “Tahlmorra lujhala 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 substanceless defiance of an ignorant child.

  Suicide was taboo.

  Paradox, Kellin thought: Suicide was taboo, yet a lirless 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, desperately, “Will you accept me?”

  The words rang in his head. Ja’hai-na, she said. Y’ja’hai.

  The lir-link meshed, locked, sealed itself together. 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 newborn 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 purpose 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 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. Is there something 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.

  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. I 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 certain 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. Brennan 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.”

  “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 decade 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 rattling 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.” 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 prophecy.” Irony spilled away. “Neither of us has a choice, grandsire. Neither Dulcie, nor me. Like you and granddame; like Niall and Gisella; like 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, grandsire. Wedding Dulcie means nothing at all to the gods, only the son born of the union.” Kellin gestured with the warbow. “Have it carved in stone, if you will, like the lir 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 different 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 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 pronounced 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. Kellin shrugged. “It will do well enough. At least she is half Ch
eysuli; 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.

  Teague, next to him on a red roan, lifted inquisitive 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 familiarity 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 disturbed 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.”

  Kellin considered it. “She did not appear to be much concerned for such things when I saw her last.”