Legacy of the Sword Read online

  “Had it?” Sef whispered.

  Donal did not hear him. He watched Aislinn, frowning slightly as he saw how she began to rouse. Color was returning to her face.

  “My lord? Was it?”

  Donal glanced back. “What?—oh, aye. It was. But I could not discover the whole of it, or who had the doing of it. Electra, most likely—or Tynstar, through Electra herself.” He suppressed a shudder. “But now, I think it is time we all got some rest. The princess particularly.” He glanced back at her. She seemed almost to sag into the bed, though she continued to sit; Donal set a hand onto her shoulder. “Aislinn, I know you were merely the gamepiece. But no matter how small the piece, it can overtake even the highest.”

  He rose. How in the names of all the gods am I to tell Carillon what Electra has done to his daughter?

  And then, as he turned to go, he felt a wave of heat wash up to engulf his body. And he fell.

  The Mujhar himself poured two cups of steaming spiced wine. He had dismissed the servant, even Rowan, which was an indication in itself that the conversation was to be expressly private. Warily, Donal accepted the cup and waited.

  Carillon turned. “Tell me how Sorcha and Ian fare.”

  In bed, bathed in sweat and filled with pain, Donal stirred. He groaned, inwardly ashamed of his weakness, yet knowing there was nothing he could do. The sorcery had drawn him in. All he could do was lose himself in memories he would rather forget.

  “Ian has a fever,” he told Carillon. “A childhood thing, they tell me—but he is better. Sorcha is well.” He paused. “My jehana says the child will be born in four weeks. I would like to be with her when the pain comes upon her.”

  Carillon sipped idly at his wine. But his eyes, half hidden beneath creased eyelids, were bright and shrewd. “Provided you are returned, I have no quarrel with that.”

  “Returned!” Donal lowered his cooling cup. “Where is it I am to go?”

  “To the Crystal Isle.”

  “The Crystal Isle?” Donal could not see any reason he should go there. It was nothing more than a convenient place for Carillon to keep his exiled wife imprisoned. “Why would you send me there?” He grinned. “Or have I displeased you of late?”

  Carillon did not return the smile. “You please me well enough…for a prince who has more interest in Cheysuli things than Homanan.”

  “I am Cheysuli—”

  “—and Homanan!” Carillon finished. “Do you forget your mother is my cousin? There is Homanan blood in those veins of yours, and it is time you acknowledged it.” Carillon set down his wine and paced to the firepit. His age- and illness-wracked hands went out to bathe in the heat, and Donal saw the edges of the leather bracers he wore on either wrist. For decoration, most thought, to hide the old Atvian shackle scars. But Donal knew better. Carillon needed them to guard his waning strength.

  “I do acknowledge it.” Donal damped down his impatience and frustration. “But I have lir and responsibilities to my clan. To my su’fali, who is clan-leader. To my jehana, to my son, and certainly to my meijha.” He paused. “Would you wish me to turn my back on my heritage and tahlmorra?”

  “Part of that heritage places you first in the line of succession,” Carillon said flatly, still warming himself at the fire. “So does your gods-dictated destiny. I would have you remember all the responsibilities you have, for there are those to Homana as well. Not merely the Keep and your clan.”

  Donal twisted in the bed. Every portion of his flesh ached until he wanted to cry out with the pain. Fire had settled into the pit of his belly, burning relentlessly, and against his will he began to double up. Fists dug into the flesh of his belly, trying to knead the pain away, but it did not go.

  “Do you say I neglect Homana?” he whispered through his pain.

  “Aye, I do.” Carillon turned to face him squarely. “You neglect my daughter, who is to be your wife.”

  Donal stared at him. The wine cup was forgotten in his hands. The frustration and rising anger melted away into shock. “Aislinn?” he said at last. “But—you sent her away to visit her jehana.”

  “Aye. And I would have you fetch her back to Homana-Mujhar, so I may have her with me again.”

  Donal felt a wave of relief sweep through him. If Carillon only wanted her brought back for company, the fetching would not be so bad. “I will go, of course. But—surely you could send Gryffth or Rowan, or someone else. I wish to be with Sorcha when the child is born.”

  “I will give you leave for that, if you are back with Aislinn in time. I have said it.” Carillon’s voice was steady. “But I think it is time you thought also of wedding my daughter.”

  Donal tried to smile. “I have thought of it. Many times. But Aislinn is still very young—”

  “Not so young. Old enough to be wedded and bedded.” Carillon’s tone did not soften. “And was not Sorcha but sixteen when she bore your first child?”

  “And it died!” Donal cried it aloud, thrashing against the bed. Hands were on him, pressing him against the mattress, but he did not know them. “The child died, and Sorcha nearly did! Even with Ian the time was hard. And now that she will bear again—”

  “It does not matter.” Carillon’s voice was implacable. “It is past time you got yourself an heir.”

  Donal gestured. “You are only forty. Hardly ancient, no matter what Tynstar’s Ihlini arts have done to you. I doubt you will die any time soon. Give Aislinn a few more years—”

  “No.” Carillon said it softly. “I cannot. Look again upon me, Donal, and do not mouth such nonsense. Tynstar’s sorcery took away twenty years from me and—for all I feel but forty in my heart—I cannot hide the truth forever. Not from you or anyone else.” He stretched out his twisted hands. “You see these. Each day they worsen. So do my knees, my spine, my shoulders. A crippled man is not the Mujhar for Homana.”

  “You would never abdicate!” It was unthinkable in the face of Carillon’s pride.

  “Abdication is hardly the point,” the Mujhar said. “I doubt I have so many years left as you would prefer to believe. I prefer to have the throne secured…and so should you. It is, for all that, a Cheysuli thing.”

  Donal scowled. “You play me as Lachlan might play his Lady. Pluck this string, that one, and the proper tune is heard. You call my Cheysuli heritage into conversation, and you know what I will do.”

  “Then do it.” For a moment, Carillon smiled. “Aislinn is spoiled, as I have spoiled her, but she is also a warm and giving girl. I think you will find it no chore to wed my daughter.”

  But Donal could not reconcile the loss of Cheysuli freedom with the Homanan title the Mujhar promised.

  Aloud, he muttered: “I would rather wait. Not—long. A six-month. Perhaps a year.” Donal twisted. “Surely you can see your way clear to granting me the time. And Aislinn will need months of preparation…women do, and she is a princess—”

  “Donal,” Carillon said gently.

  “Aislinn is like a rujholla to me.”

  “But she is not your sister, is she?”

  He felt the sudden desperation well up in his soul. “But I would rather wed with Sorcha!” he shouted aloud. “I will not lie to you—it is Sorcha who should be cheysula instead of meijha—”

  “That I do not doubt.” Carillon sounded more compassionate. “I question nothing of her honor or her worth, Donal, as I think you know. But Homana requires all manner of sacrifices, and this one is yours to make.”

  “So, you would have me play the stud to Aislinn’s mare, merely to get a colt.” He said it clearly into the room at the White Hart Inn. “Yet even the Cheysuli, who have had more cause than most, cannot sanction their women to be treated as mere broodmares.”

  “I have cause,” Carillon retorted gently. “I have cause, I have reason, I have more than justification, though kings rarely have need of anything more than whim. Oh, aye, I have all the cause in the world.” He turned his back on the firepit. “I have a kingdom to rule as well as I possibly c
an. I have people to husband. Heirs to beget.” He smiled, but without humor. “but then we know I failed at that task, do we not? There is only Aislinn, only a daughter from my loins.” The smile fell away. “Do you not wed Aislinn, she will go to a foreign prince. And then we run the risk of losing Homana, into the hands of another realm. The Cheysuli, so odd and eerie in their magic, may become little more than game, once again. Hunted, branded demons…slain. It happened once, Donal. Can you tell me it will never happen again?”

  Donal could not. He knew it would destroy the prophecy, destroy the tahlmorra of his people…destroy, perhaps, even Homana herself.

  He thrashed, sweating, and doubled up yet again from the pain. With great effort, he gave the Mujhar his answer. “I guarantee nothing, Carillon. I know it as well as you. Perhaps better, since I bear the tainted blood.” He did not smile. It was not a joke. In some circles, it was said Shaine’s qu’mahlin should still take precedence over Carillon’s peace.

  But those were circles Donal did not patronize, being in no position to know them personally; did he know them, they would slay him.

  “I do not do it to you.” Carillon’s tone was ragged. Gone was the strength of his rank, replaced with the need of the man. “I do it for Homana.”

  Even as he forces me to do it for the Cheysuli. After a moment, Donal nodded. “I will fetch her back.”

  Carillon sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “I will give you this much—you may have eight weeks of freedom when you have brought Aislinn back. It is—not long, I know. But it is all I can spare.” Twisted fingers slipped up to comb through a silvered forelock. “I would have you fully acclaimed before the year is done.”

  Donal, hearing the Homanan portion of his fate sealed, could only nod. Then he glanced up and saw the Mujhar’s ravaged face.

  Carillon watched him with a hunger and sadness Donal could not comprehend. It sent a chill coursing down his spine. He stared back at the Mujhar, not knowing his own face reflected the very expression that had conjured Carillon’s pain. “I have lost you,” the Mujhar said quietly. “I am bound as cruelly by my royal heritage as you are by your tahlmorra, and I have lost you because of it.”

  “My lord?” Donal’s tone was soft.

  Carillon sighed and waved a twisted hand. “It is nothing. Only memories of the man whose face you wear.” He smiled faintly. “Your father lives in you, Donal…you have all of Duncan’s pride and arrogance and convictions. I did not fully understand him and I do not understand you. I only know that by pressing for this marriage, I have lost what little of you I once had.”

  “You have me still.” Donal spread his hands. “Do you see me?—I am not gone. I stand before you. I will ever be your man.”

  “Perhaps.” Carillon did not smile. “It simply must be done.”

  “I know it, my lord Mujhar.” Donal put out his right hand, gestured defeat. “Tahlmorra, Carillon.”

  “By the gods—” he blurted, lunging upward against the hands that tried to hold him. Small hands, two sets, one toughened, one soft and delicate. Sef, he knew, and—Aislinn?

  His eyes snapped open. He saw the dark wooden walls revolve until the movement dizzied him; he shut his eyes at once. A sour harshness preyed on his throat.

  “Lie down again,” Aislinn said. “So much thrashing is not good for you—it brings more pain.”

  He looked at her, and did not protest as she and Sef urged him down again. The bedclothes were soaked beneath him. He shivered. “It was you—”

  “Not me,” she declared. “Oh, aye, it was I who cut your fingers, but I swear I knew nothing of the poison. That, I fear, was my mother.”

  Weakness washed over him. “Lir,” he said raggedly.

  Here, upon the roof-beam, said Taj, though Donal could not summon the strength to look.

  And I. That from Lorn, sitting by the bed.

  Donal’s hand moved out to touch the wolf’s muzzle. Lorn nuzzled him gently, then pressed his nose into Donal’s limp hand.

  “Donal,” Aislinn whispered. “I am so sorry. I did not know…I swear it. Oh gods, do not die. What would become of me?”

  Through slitted eyes he watched her. The single braid was tumbled, as if she had spent no time on it for days. Strands of bright hair straggled into her face and he saw how furrows of concern had dug their way into the smooth flesh of her brow. Her cool, pale eyes were fastened on his face.

  Gods…those are Electra’s eyes. He swallowed and knew again the stripped feeling in his throat. “Aislinn, I swear—do you lie to me—”

  “No!” She leaned forward on the stool, reaching out to clasp his hand. “Oh Donal, no. I do not. Sef has—told me what I did, and what you did after—to find out why I did it. He—he said you found something.” Shakily, she touched her temple. “Is there—something in my head?”

  “Someone,” he said wearily. “I do not doubt it is your jehana’s doing, or perhaps even Tynstar’s through the link to Electra.”

  She paled. “Then—if that is true, it is not that I do these things willingly. Donal—do you truly think I could mean to slay you?”

  “I could not say, Aislinn.” Vacancy threatened to steal his senses from him. “I think—I think if they have meddled with your mind…you are capable of doing anything.”

  “Is there no way of gainsaying it?” she demanded in horror.

  He laughed. It rasped in his throat painfully, and he hardly knew the sound. “Oh, aye—there is always a way. But I think you would not like it…and I doubt you would agree.”

  She stared down at the hand she held, dark against her own, though the illness had lent pallor to his flesh. “I will do what you wish, Donal,” she said quietly. “How else am I to prove I am innocent of this connivance?”

  “And if you are not?” He had to ask it. “If you are not, and seek this way of advancing Tynstar’s bid to throw down Carillon, you would do better to try another method.” He shut his hand upon hers almost painfully. “I am not the one to do it—I am still too young, and lack the experience one must have—but there are those who could do it for me.” He watched her eyes and saw how she stared back. She was clearly frightened, and there was no hint of satisfaction in her manner, as there might be if she sought the test out of some perverse plan to gain his confidence. “Even unknowing, do you agree to this?”

  “Aye,” she whispered finally. “I will—do what you wish.”

  He lifted her hand. “Then I hold you to it. You will be tested. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “But—may I know who will have the doing of it?”

  “Aye,” he said carelessly, releasing her hand. “I will ask my su’fali to do it.”

  Aislinn’s head jerked up. “Finn?”

  “Who better?” He looked directly at her. “He is clan-leader of the Cheysuli. And he has had some experience with Ihlini trap-links before.” Donal did not smile.

  “But—” She broke off.

  “I think,” said Donal, “we will know the truth at last.”

  “I swear it,” she whispered. “I did not know.”

  Waves of pain radiated upward from his belly. Donal felt the cramping of his muscles and knew again the total helplessness as he curled up against the fire. Even Taj and Lorn, seeking to lend him strength, could not reach him. The pain was absolute.

  “My lord?” It was Sef, bending over the bed. “My lord—is there nothing I can do?”

  “Watch,” Donal said huskily. “Watch Aislinn for me.”

  He heard her indrawn breath of dismay. But he had no strength to regret his cruelty. He dared not trust her now.

  * * *

  He recovered. Sef brought him hot broths at first to soothe the emptiness and ache in his belly, then brought stew when Donal could keep it down and finally, after ten days, brought meat, bread, cheese and wine. Donal ate a little of each food, drank down half a cup of wine, then set it all aside.

  “Enough. I will burst. More will have to wait.” He looked at Aislinn, sitting silently on
the stool across the room, and saw she intended to offer no speech. “Well, lady—I think we shall be on our way to Mujhara in the morning.”

  The light from the lantern was gentle on her face. It set up brilliant highlights in her hair and painted her face quite fair, gold instead of silver, though—save for her bright hair—she had the fairness of her mother. She had changed from plain brown gown and cloak to equally plain moss-green, save for the copper stitching at collar and cuffs. An overtunic of darker green hid much of her femininity, though no man would name her boy. Her features were too delicate.

  One day, she may rival her jehana’s beauty, though it be a different sort. Brighter, warmer, less cold and seductive as Electra’s—well, if I must take her as my cheysula, better a pretty one than a plain. Then he smiled inwardly, knowing the irony in his statement. Already you think of making her the cheysula Carillon wants, when she may be plotting against your life. Fool.

  No, said Taj. Practical.

  Realistic. That from Lorn.

  Donal sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was still in his clothing, he discovered; Sef, undoubtedly, had lacked the strength to strip him of the sweat-soaked leathers, and it was not Aislinn’s place to do it. He was rank with his own stench, and ordered Sef to fetch up a half-cask for bathing at once.

  Aislinn, still sitting silently on the stool, colored, clenching her hands in her lap. “You will send me out, of course.”

  “Have you not had your own room?”

  “You are in it,” she said softly. “When you fell, the most we could do was drag you into my bed. Sef would allow no one near you, not even the innkeeper’s wife. And so we tended you.” She shrugged. “We have been together here with you…Sef, you see, would not allow me to be alone.”

  He frowned. “Not at all?”

  Her gaze lifted to meet his. “But you said he must watch me,” she said simply. “I have begun to think of him as my jailer—or, perhaps, your third lir.” She did not smile. “He is—obdurate. You chose him well, Donal. I do not doubt he will serve you as well as General Rowan serves my father.”