[Chronicles of the Cheysuli 06] • Daughter of the Lion by Roberson Jennifer

Author:Roberson, Jennifer [Roberson, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781101650882
Goodreads: 32190815
Publisher: DAW
Published: 1989-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Seven

Alone, in the darkness, I went to see the Lion. To see the mythical beast shaped in wood to form a throne, and to ask him for the answers. Surely he had one.

I lighted a torch, thrust it into a bracket. It was hardly enough to fill the Great Hall with light, but sufficient for what I required. I left it near the silver doors and made my way toward the dais.

Out of gilded, ancient eyes it watched me as I walked. Such a huge, gape-mouthed beast, rearing up from the marble dais on bunched, wooden legs. No one knew who had made it, or even how old it was. For century upon century it had crouched in Homana-Mujhar, holding sovereignty in the Great Hall as the Mujhar held Homana. Cheysuli-made, I thought, like the rest of my father’s palace.

I stopped short of the dais. The flame far down the hall danced on its pitch-soaked wick, distorting light into darkness, darkness into light. The Lion seemed to yawn, displaying ivory teeth. Giltwork gleamed, lending depth to the woodcarver’s skill. Lending the Lion life.

“You,” I said quietly, “are a selfish, demanding beast, requiring too much of us. Stealing our freedom from us, denying us free will…warping us to your will in the name of a vanished race.”

Silence from the mouth. From the eyes, emptiness.

A wave of frustration rose to lap at my accusations, driving them shoreward toward the Lion. “For how many decades—how many centuries—have you sat here on the dais, secure in your power and pride, your absolute arrogance, knowing us faithful, dutiful children too honor-bound to even consider turning our backs on your demands? To reconsider our place in the tapestry of selfish gods, weaving us this way and that?”

Yet again, no answer. Nor did I expect it; it was only a beast of wood. Nothing more than a symbol, yet binding a race regardless. Locking shackles around our souls.

I climbed the marble steps. Faced the Lion squarely. Then, without thought, swung around and sat myself down on the cushion. Settled hands over the paw-shaped wooden armrests and thrust myself back, back, into the depths of the Lion Throne, feeling the head looming over my own, sensing the weight of years, of strength, of power. Acknowledging what it was even against my will.

Ambience. The trappings of heritage, shaping my heart, my will, my beliefs. I could deny it no more than myself.

And I wondered: Is this what Teir has done? Denied himself in his quest to free our race from gods-made iron?

Far down the hall silver flashed. The hinges were oiled so the door made no sound as it was opened, but the glint of torchlight on hammered silver gave the visitor away.

For a moment, it was Brennan. The height, the weight, the posture…everything was Brennan, except for the missing hand. And then he let the door fall closed and stepped into the guttering torchlight, and I saw clearly it was Hart.

Wrapped in the Lion, I waited. He came,

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