Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (32 page)

           
His broken wrist remained trapped.

           
The odd grip tightened, shirting on
his forearm.

           
"First the thumb," the
attacker grunted.

           
There was no air, no air at all—but
pain—

           
"First the thumb, then the
fingers—"

           
Kellin sucked frantically at air.

           
"—and lastly, the hand—"

           
He knew the truth then.
"Luce!" Kellin gasped.

           
"Gods—"

           
"None here, little princeling.
Only me." A grin split Luce's beard in the pallor of the night. "I'll
hold the hand just so—" He did it one-handed, while the other snagged the
long-knife from Kellin's belt.

           
One word, no more, "Wait—"

           
"What? D'ye think to buy me,
princeling? No, not Luce—he's enough coin to last him, and ways of getting
more." Luce's breath stank. He hooked an elbow up and slammed it into
Kellin's jaw. The back of Kellin's skull smashed against stone wall; he felt a
tooth break from the blow, and weakly spat out the pieces. Luce laughed.
"A love-tap, nothing more . . . and speaking of that, perhaps I should
make you mine to use as I will—a royal sheath for my sword—"

           
Kellin squirmed against the wall.
His vision yet swam from the blow, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He did not
know if it came from the empty root socket, or was expelled from pierced lungs.

           
Luce still pinned the broken wrist
against the wall. In the other hand gleamed the knife. He set the point between
Kellin's spread legs and tapped cloth-warded genitals. "The Midden's a
harsh place full of desperate people—but Luce would protect you. Luce would
make you his—"

           
"Sima!" Kellin shouted, spraying
blood and desperation. In the distance he heard growls and yelps, and the
wailing cry of an infuriated cat.

           
"Sim—"

           
But Luce shut it off with a dig of
an elbow into broken ribs. "First the thumb," he said.

           
Kellin understood what a lir was
for. He had repudiated his own. What, then, was left?

           
He hurt very badly. The injuries
were serious.

           
Even if Luce did nothing else, he
would probably die regardless.

           
Sima had said before she had given
him the key.

           
Now it was his task to open the door
again.

           
Kellin used the pain. He used the
pain, the fury, the frustration, the fear. He feasted on it, and allowed it to
fill his spirit until there was nothing left of the man but the elemental
drives to kill, and to feed.

           
As the knife came down to sever the
thumb from his hand, the hand was no longer there. In its place was the flexing
paw of a mountain cat.

           
With a shocked cry. Luce let go. The
knife glinted briefly, then tumbled into muck. Kellin dropped four-footed to
splayed, leathery pads, then twisted sinuously in the body made for fluid
movement, like water over stone; like runoff in the ancient cut of a waterfall
over sheer cliffs.

           
He will learn what it means to harm
a Cheysuli—

           
But then the thought spilled away
into a jumble of crazed images tumbled one against another, all stuck together
like layers of leaves adhered one on top of another, until vision fell out of
focus and no longer mattered at all. What mattered now was scent and the stink
of a frightened man; the sound of the man's sobbing; the taste of promised
revenge.

           
The cat who was Kellin reached out.
Easily—so easily!—he slapped a negligent paw across the giant's thigh. Claws
dug in sharply; blood spurted through rent cloth.

           
Luce screamed. Thumbless hands
clutched at his bleeding thigh, trying to stanch it. Lazily, exultant in his
strength, Kellin reached out again and slapped at the other meaty thigh so that
it, too, bled. As Luce sobbed and whimpered, he curved a playful paw around one
ankle and dug claws into bone. With a snarl that warped his mouth slantways, he
jerked the man to the ground. The sound of the skull splitting was swallowed by
his snarl.

           
The noise of the hounds was gone.
Tail lashed anticipation, beating against cold air. Kellin moved to stand over his
meal so no one else could steal it.

           
Lir!

           
Kellin did not listen.

           
Lir! Do not!

           
It was easier to frame the feelings,
the images, not the words. His mouth was no longer human.

           
His response was built of instinct,
not the logic of a man. You want it.

           
No. No, lir. Leave it. A bleeding
Sima was free of dogs, though some lay dead, others dying, while another ran
off yelping. Leave it.

           
He challenged her. YOU want it.

           
No.

           
I hunger. Here is food. He paused.
Are you my mate?

           
Come away.

           
He panted. He drooled. Hunger was
paramount, but pain ate at his spirit. It was easiest to give in, to let
instinct rule a comprehension that was, even more quickly now, flowing away
from him. I hunger. Here is food.

           
You are man, not cat.

           
Man? I wear a cat's shape.

           
You are man. Cheysuli. Shapechanger.
You have borrowed this shape. Give it back. Let the earth magic have it back.
When you have learned the proper balance, you can borrow the shape again.

           
He let his tail lash. Who am I,
then?"

           
Kellin. Not cat. Man.

           
He considered it. I do not feel like
a man. THISis man, this food here beneath me. Saliva dripped from his jowls.
You want it for yourself.

           
Come away, she said. You have wounds
to be healed. So have I.

           
The dogs hurt you?

           
I have hurts. So do you. Come away,
lir. We will have them healed.

           
Nearby a door was opened. Someone
looked out into the street. He heard a gabble of voices. He understood none of
the words- Noise, no more; the noise of puny humans.

           
He lowered his jaws. Blood, sweat,
urine, fear, and death commingled in a powerful perfume. He would taste it—

           
NO. The female was at his side. She
leaned a shoulder into his. Her chin rubbed at his head. If you would feed
here, there will be no choice but to kill you.

           
Who would kill me? Who would dare?

           
Men.

           
Inner knowledge gloated. They could
not accomplish it.

           
She leaned harder, rubbing against
his neck.

           
They could. They would. Come away,
lir. You are badly hurt.

           
Another door opened. A slash of
candlelight slanted into the street. In its illumination he saw the dead
hounds, the slack hulk of a man. Voices cried out, full of terror.

           
Away? he asked. But—the food—

           
Leave it, she said. There is better
elsewhere.

           
The big cat hurt. His wounds were
uncounted, and untended; he required tending. He went with her then because the
urge to feed had left him. He felt disoriented and distant, unsure of himself.
She led him away from the alley to another not far away and found a hidden
comer.

           
Here, she said, nudging at a
shoulder.

           
She was wounded, he saw. Blood
spiked the fur on her spine. He turned to her. tending the bites, licking to
wash the blood away. She had been hurt by the hounds, torn and tainted by the
audacity of mere beasts who did not know what it was to be gods-blessed.

           
Leave it, she said. Remember what
you are.

           
He paused. I am— He checked.

           
Gold eyes were intent. What are you?

           
I am—as you see me.

           
No.

           
I am—I am—

           
Remember! she snapped. Recall your
knowledge of self.

           
He could not. He was what he was.

           
She leaned against him. He smelled
her fear, her blood. She was alien to him, who did not know what she was to
him. Stay here. You are too badly wounded to walk. Wait here for me.

           
It frightened him. Where are you
going?

           
For help. Stay here.

           
She left him. He crouched against
the wall, tail whipping a counterpoint to the pain in his foreleg, in his ribs,
in his jaws. Licking intensified pain.

           
He flattened his ears against his
head and pulled back his lips from his teeth in a feral grimace of pain and
fear.

           
She had left him alone, and now he
was helpless.

           
Men came. And torches. The big cat
shied back, huddling into a comer as he snarled and growled a warning. He
slitted eyes against the flame and saw silhouettes, man-shapes holding sticks
with fire blooming from them. He smelled them: they stank of anticipation,
apprehension; the giddy tang of an excitement nearly sexual, as if they hoped
to mate once the task was done. The odor was strong. It filled up his nostrils
and entered his head, causing the reflex response that dropped open his jaws.
Raspy in- and exhalations as he scented the men made him sound like a bellows.

           
Lir. It was the female. Sima. Lir,
do not fear.

           
They have come to help, not harm.

           
Fire.

           
They will come no closer, save one.
She slunk out of the blinding light into his slime-coated corner.

           
Blood crusted across her shoulders;
she had run, and bled again. Let the man come.

           
He permitted it. He pressed himself
against the wall and waited, one swollen paw dangling.

           
Breathing hurt. He hissed and shook
his head; a tooth in his jaw was broken.

           
The man came away from the fire.
Kellin could not judge him by any but a cat's standards: his hair was silver
like frost in winter sunlight, and his eyes glowed like coals. Metal glinted on
naked arms, bared by a shed cloak despite the winter's bite.

           
"Kellin." The man knelt
down on one knee, unmindful of the muck that would soil his leathers.

           
"Kellin."

           
The cat opened his mouth and panted.
Pain caused him to drool.

           
"Kellin, you must loose the
cat-shape. There is no more need."

           
The cat rumbled a growl; he could
not understand.

           
The man sighed and rose, turned back
to the men with flames. He spoke quietly, and they melted away. Light followed
them, so that though empty of men the corner still shone with a sickly,
frenzied pallor.

           
The men were gone. In their places
was a void, a blurred nothingness that filled the alley. And then a tawny
mountain cat stalked out of the fading flame-dazzle with another at his side: a
magnificent black female well into her prime. Her grace denounced the
gangliness of the young female with Kellin who was, after all, little more than
a cub.

           
Three mountain cats: two black, one
tawny gold. In his mind formed the images that in humans would have been
speech; to him, now, the images made promises that they would lend him required
strength, and the healing he needed so badly.

           
In their eyes he saw a man. Human,
like the others. His hair was not winter-frost, but black as a night sky. His
eyes were green coals in place of ruddy or yellow. He did not glint with gold;
he wore no gold at all. He was smooth and sleek and strong, with the blood
running hot in his veins.

           
Pain blossomed anew. Broken bones
protested.

           
Three cats pressed close. The tawny
male mouthed his neck; Kellin flattened his ears and lowered his head. He hurt
too much to display dominance postures to one who was clearly much older and
wiser than he.

           
Come home, the cat said. Come home
with me now.

           
Kellin panted heavily. In the muck,
his pads were damp with sweat. Weakness overrode caution. He let them guide his
mind until he saw what "home" meant: the true-body that was his.

           
Fingers and toes in place of claws.
Hair in place of fur, and smooth, taut flesh too easily bruised by harsh
treatment.

           
Come home, the tawny cat said, and
in its place was a man with eyes that understood his pain and the turmoil in
his soul. "I have been there," he said. "My weakness is my fear
of small dark places ... I will be with you in this. I understand what it is to
fear a part of yourself over which you have no control." Then, very
softly, "Come home, Kellin. Let the anger go."

           
He let it go. Exhaustion engulfed,
and a blurred disorientation. Spent, he slumped against the half-grown female.
She licked at his face and scraped a layer of skin; human skin, not feline.

           
Kellin recoiled. He pressed himself
into the stone wall.

           
"Kellin." Brennan still
knelt. Behind him torches flared. "Shansu, Kellin—it is over."

           
"I—I—" Kellin stopped. He
swallowed hard against the sour taste of bile. He could frame no proper words,
as if he had lost them in his transformation. "I."

           
The Mujhar's expression was
infinitely gentle. "I know. Come with me." Brennan paused.
"Kellin, you are hurt. Come with me."

           
He panted shallowly. He cradled his
wrist against a chest that hurt as much. His legs were coiled under him so he
could rise instantly in a single upward thrust.

           
Brennan's hand was on his shoulder.

           
Kellin tensed. And then it mattered
no longer.

           
He closed his eyes and sagged
against the stone.

           
Tears ran unchecked through grime,
perspiration, and blood old as well as new. He was not ashamed.

           
Brennan's hand touched his
blood-stiffened hair softly, tenderly, as if to frame words he could not say-
And then the hand was gone from Kellin's hair, closing instead on the arm that
was whole.