Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (9 page)

           
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 comers. "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 place his throat had been.

           
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 comer. 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 name 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 fortune-teller—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. Urchin
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; Conn 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."

           
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."