A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  “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 between them I could not understand. “Melusine, do you believe you have displeased me? You are all I could wish for. You suit me.”

  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 unsettled. She hated to be used; before, I had 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 nothing of it.

  The ends of the splint tapped down; Devin winced. It would not stop him, I knew; I had 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, flat 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 glittered 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. Forgoing 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 bindings? Why not ensorcell my leg?”

  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 Cheysuli 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 Valgaard 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 ori’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 properly. “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 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 husband.” 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 deepened. “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, hesitated 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 myself.” 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 difficult? See this?” I made a gesture and felt the tingling 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 remained 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 himself; he did not yet know how to ward himself. A sheen of perspiration coated his face. “Ginevra—”

  “What is it?” I left my chair and knelt by the bedside. “Devin�
�what is it?”

  “That—that—” His eyes were frightened. “I remember. 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 shallow and quick. “Can you do such a thing?”

  Against his flesh, I said, “I can do many things.”

  The hand turned in my own. He caught my fingers, 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.

  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 defined by you.” His eyes burned livid as godfire, 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 mobility 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 li’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.

  “I have clothing. And you have already said appearance 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 provide 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?”

  “There is no shame in this. My father understands.”

  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 hardened streamers of creamy wax. My father preferred the chamber when he desired to have private discussions; he saw no need for opulence among his family.

  Devin was nonetheless impressed. It takes people 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 indecorous position, perhaps, but modesty was protected by voluminous skirts; I had, of late, put off hunting trews to wear silks and velvets. 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 sigh and examined the room. His spine was very rigid. Nervous—and for what? He will be Lochiel’s son. “Be at ease,” I suggested.

  “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. “Besides, 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 chamber. 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 t
han Devin. “Has nothing come back?”

  “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 daughter.” 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 completely, 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 indeed 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 released 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 augmented by service to the god, and a perfect obedience. Not powerlessness, Devin. Never that; more.” My father put a hand upon Devin’s head. “Together, 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.”