Free Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 by A Tapestry of Lions (v1.0) Page A

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.
               

Four
     
                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