Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  Sef started to shake his head. And then he stopped. “Once, I saw a soldier. He wore a red tunic over his ringmail, and on the tunic was a lion. A black lion, rearing up.” He pointed. “Like that one.”

  Donal smiled. “That soldier was Carillon’s man, as they all are. So am I. But—I am not a soldier. Not as you know soldiers.”

  “A warrior.” Sef dipped his black head down. “I know about the Cheysuli.”

  “Not enough. But you will learn.” Donal smiled and reached down to catch Sef’s chin. He tipped up his head. “My name is Donal, Sef, and I am the Prince of Homana.”

  Sef blanched white. Then he turned red. And finally, before Donal could catch him, he fell downward to smack his bony knees against the salt-crusted cobbles. “My lord!” he whispered. “My lord—the Prince of Homana!”

  Donal suppressed a laugh. It would not do to embarrass the boy simply because he was so in awe of royal rank. “I do not stand on ceremony. Serve me as well as you would serve any man, and I will be well-pleased.”

  “My lord—”

  Donal reached down and caught a handful of thin tunic, then pulled Sef up from the cobbles. “Do not be so—overwhelmed. I am flesh and bone, as you are.” He grinned. “If you are to serve me, you must learn I am not some petty lordling who seeks elevation in the eyes and service of others. You may come with me as my friend, but not my servant. I left enough of those back at Homana-Mujhar.” His voice was gentle. “Do you understand me?”

  “Aye,” Sef whispered. “Oh…my lord…aye!”

  Donal released the ragged tunic. I will have to buy him better clothing, perhaps in Carillon’s colors—well, that will have to wait. But some manner of fitting clothing will not. “You shall have to earn your passage, Sef.” Donal looked down at the boy solemnly. “Are you willing to work for that passage?”

  “Aye, my lord!”

  “Good.” Donal squeezed a narrow shoulder. “All I require of you is your company. Come along.”

  “My lord!”

  Donal turned back. “Aye?”

  “My lord—” Sef broke off, pulling again at his ill-fitting, muddied clothing. “My lord—I wish only to say—” He broke off yet again, obviously embarrassed, vivid color flooding his cheeks.

  Donal smiled at him encouragingly. “Before me, you may say what you wish. If you speak out of turn, I will say so, but I will never strike you. Say what you will, Sef.”

  The boy sucked in a deep breath. “I wished only to thank you for coming to my aid, and to say that usually I win the fights.”

  Donal smothered a laugh. “Of course.”

  “They were five to my one,” Sef pointed out earnestly.

  “I counted them. You are right.” Donal nodded gravely.

  Sef studied Donal a moment. Then, anxiously, “You said I may say what I wish. Do you mean I may ask it as well?”

  “You may always ask. I may not always answer.”

  The boy smiled tentatively. “Then—I’d ask you what you’d do against five men, if you were ever attacked.”

  “I?” Donal laughed. “Well, it would be a different situation. You see, I have two lir.”

  “They would fight, too?” Sef stared at Lorn in amazement, then turned his bi-colored gaze to the sky to pick Taj out from the crying gulls.

  “They will always fight, to aid me. That is what lir are for.”

  That, and other things, Lorn reminded him dryly.

  “Then five men couldn’t stop you?”

  Donal understood what Sef inquired, even if the boy did not. “I do not doubt you fought well, Sef, and that bad fortune put you on the losing side. You need not make excuses. As for me, you must recall I am Cheysuli. We are taught to fight from birth.” His smile faded into a grim line. “There is reason enough for that. Even now, I begin to think.”

  “Cheysuli,” Sef echoed. He stood very still. “Will you tell me what it’s like?”

  “As much as I can. But it is never easily done.” Donal nodded his head in Taj’s direction, then gestured toward the wolf. “There is the secret of the Cheysuli, Sef. In Taj and Lorn. Understand what it is to have a lir, and you will know what it is to be blessed by the gods.”

  Sef glanced at him skeptically. “Gods? I don’t think there are any.”

  “Ah, but there are. I am no shar tahl, dedicating my life to the prophecy and the service of the gods, but I can tell you what I know. Another time.” Donal smiled. “Come along.”

  This time, Sef fell into step beside him.

  In the morning the ship’s captain, paid generously beforehand in freshly minted gold coin, cast off readily enough for the Crystal Isle. Donal questioned him and learned all traffic to the island was closely watched by men serving the Mujhar; the man had agreed to transport Donal and Sef only after a close look at the royal signet ring. For once, Donal was glad Carillon made him wear it.

  The captain was a garrulous man, perfectly content to while away the brief voyage by telling Donal all about the Queen of Homana’s confinement. He confided there were Cheysuli on the island with Electra so she could use none of her witch’s ways, and they kept Tynstar from rescuing her. He seemed little impressed with the knowledge that he transported the Prince of Homana himself, being rather more impressed with how he could use the knowledge to his own best advantage in fashioning an entertaining story full of gossip and anecdotes. Donal did not doubt a tale of his visit to the island, undoubtedly much embellished, would soon make the rounds of the taverns. He quickly grew tired of the one-sided conversation and withdrew with what politeness he could muster, turning his back on the man to stare across the glassy bay.

  Behind them, Hondarth receded. The painted cottages merged into clustered masses of glowing white, luminescent in the mist against a velvety backdrop of heathered hills. Before them, the island grew more distinct as the ship sailed closer, but Donal could see none of the distinguishing features. Just a shape floating on the water, wreathed in clouds of fog.

  He became aware of Sef edging in close beside him. The mist shrouded them both and settled into their clothing, so that Sef—wrapped in a deep blue cloak Donal had purchased for him the day before, along with other new clothing—looked more fey than human. His black hair curled against his thin face—now clean—and his mismatched eyes stared out at the island fixedly.

  “It should not frighten you,” Donal said quietly. “It is merely an island. A place.”

  Sef looked at the eerie, silent blanket of sea-spray and morning fog. Even the crying of the gulls was muted in the mist. “But it’s an enchanted place. I’ve heard.”

  “Do you know the old legends, then?”

  Sef seemed hesitant. “Some. Not all. I’m—not from Hondarth.”

  “Where are you from?”

  The boy looked away again, staring at the deck. Then, slowly, he raised his head. “From many places. My mother earned bread by—by…” He broke off uncertainly. His face colored so that he looked younger than the thirteen years he claimed. His voice was nearly a whisper. “Because of—men. We—didn’t stay long in any single place.” He shrugged, as if he could dismiss it all. But Donal knew such things would never entirely fade, even with adulthood. “She died almost a year ago, and I had no place else to go. So—I stayed.”

  Donal heard the underlying note of shame and loneliness in Sef’s tone. “Well, travel befits a man,” he said off-handedly, seeking to soothe the boy without insulting him with sympathy. In the clans, the Cheysuli rarely resorted to emphasizing unnecessary emotions. “You are of an age to learn the world, and Hondarth is as good a place as any to begin.”

  Sef did not look at him. He looked instead at the Crystal Isle as they sailed closer yet. The fog thickened as they approached, wrapping itself around the ship until it clung to every line and spar, glistening in the brassy sunlight so muted by the mist. Droplets beaded the railing and their cloaks, running down the oiled wool to fall on the deck. Their faces were cooled by the isle’s constant wind, known to Cheysuli as
the Breath of the Gods.

  “Will you still keep me with you?” Sef asked very softly.

  Donal looked at him sharply, frowning. “I have said I would. Why do you ask?”

  Sef would not meet his eyes. “But—that was before you knew I was a—bastard.”

  Donal made a quick dismissive gesture. “You forget, Sef—I am Cheysuli, not Homanan.” Inwardly he shut his ears to the voice that protested the easy denial of his Homanan blood. “In the clans, there is no such thing as bastardy. A child is born and his value is weighed in how he serves his clan and the prophecy, not in the question of his paternity.” Donal shook his head. “I care not if your jehan—your father—was thief or cobbler or soldier. So long as you earn your keep.”

  “Then the Cheysuli are wiser than most.” The bitterness in Sef’s young voice made Donal want to put a hand on one narrow shoulder to gentle him, but he did not. The boy was obviously proud as well as uncertain of his new position, and Donal had more cause than most to understand the feeling.

  He pointed toward the island. “Tell me what you know, Sef.”

  Sef looked. “They say there are demons, my lord.”

  Donal smiled. “Do they? Well, they are wrong. That is a Cheysuli place, and there are no Cheysuli demons. Only gods, and the people they have made.”

  “What people?”

  “Those of us now known as the Cheysuli. Once, we were something different. Something—better.” Like the boy, he stared across the glass-gray ocean toward the misted island. Finally it grew clearer, more distinct. It was thickly forested, cloaked in lilac heather. Through the trees glowed a faint expanse of silver-white. “The Firstborn, Sef. Those the gods made first, as their name implies. Later, much later, were the Cheysuli born.”

  Sef frowned, concentrating, so that his black brows overshadowed his odd eyes. “You’re saying once there were no people?”

  “The shar tahls—our priest-historians—teach us that once the land was empty of men. It was a decision of the gods to put men upon the Crystal Isle and give it over to them freely. It is these original men we call the Firstborn. But the Firstborn soon outgrew the Crystal Isle, as men will when there are women, and went to Homana: a more spacious land for their growing numbers. They built a fine realm there, ruling it well, and the gods were pleased. As a mark of their favor, they sent the lir to them. And because of the earth magic, the Firstborn were able to bond with the lir, to learn what lir-shape is—”

  “Shapechangers,” Sef interrupted involuntarily, shivering as he spoke.

  Donal sighed. “The name is easily come by, but we do not use it ourselves. Cheysuli is the Old Tongue, meaning children of the gods. But men—Homanans—being unblessed, all too often resort to the word as an insult.” He thought again of the Homanan in the Market Square; the woman who had made the sign of the evil eye; the splatter of manure against his cloak. And all because he could shift his shape from man into animal.

  Surely the gods would never give such gifts to us was there any chance we would use them for evil! Why must so many believe we would?

  They do not understand. Taj floated lightly, pale gold in the silver mist. They are unblessed, and blind to the magic.

  Why do the gods not make them see?

  Blindness often serves a purpose, Lorn explained. Sight recovered is often better than original vision.

  Donal looked directly at Sef. “Shapechanger,” he said clearly. “Aye, it is true—I shift my shape at will. I become a wolf or falcon. But does it make me so different from you? I do not doubt there are things you do that I cannot. Should I castigate you for it?”

  Sef shivered again. “It isn’t the same. It isn’t the same. You become an animal, while I—” he shook his head violently, denying the image, “—while I remain a boy. A normal, human boy.”

  “Unblessed,” Donal agreed, for a moment callous in his pride.

  Sef looked at him then, staring fixedly at Donal’s face. His disconcerting gaze traveled from yellow eyes to golden earring, and he swallowed visibly. “The—the Firstborn,” he began, “where are they, now?”

  “The Firstborn no longer exist. And most of their gifts are lost.”

  Sef frowned. “Where did they go? What happened?”

  The taffrail creaked as Donal shifted his weight. “It is too long a story. One night, I promise, I will tell you it all—but, for now, this will have to content you.” He looked directly at the boy and saw how attentive he was. “I am told the Firstborn became too inbred, that the gifts began to fade. And so before they died out they gave what they could to their children, the Cheysuli, and left them a prophecy.” For a moment he was touched by the gravity of what his race undertook; how important the service was. “It is the Firstborn we seek to regain by strengthening the blood. Someday, when the proper mixture is attained, we will have a Firstborn among us again, and all the magic will be reborn.” He smiled. “So the prophecy tells us: one day a man of all blood shall unite, in peace, two magical races and four warring realms.” Fluidly, he made the gesture of tahlmorra—right hand palm-up, fingers spread—to indicate the shortened form of the Old Tongue phrase meaning, in Homanan, the fate of a man rests always within the hands of the gods.

  “You said—they lost their gifts—?”

  “Most of them. The Firstborn were far more powerful than the Cheysuli. They had no single lir. They conversed with every lir, and took whatever shape they wished. But now, each warrior is limited to one.”

  “You have two!” Sef looked around for Taj and Lorn. “Are you a Firstborn, then?”

  Donal laughed. “No, no, I am a Cheysuli halfling, or—perhaps more precisely—a three-quarterling.” He grinned. “But my half Homanan jehana bears the blood of the Firstborn—as well as some of the gifts—and by getting a child by my Cheysuli jehan she triggered that part of herself that has the Firstborn magic. I have two lir because of her, and I may converse with any, but nothing more than that. I am limited to those two shapes.”

  Sef turned to stare at the island. “Then—this is your birthplace.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Donal looked at the island again. “It is the birthplace of the Cheysuli.”

  “That is why you go?” Sef’s odd eyes were wide as he looked up at Donal. “To see where your people were born?”

  “No, though undoubtedly every Cheysuli should.” Donal sighed and his mouth hooked down into a resigned grimace. “No, I go there on business for the Mujhar.” He felt the curl of unhappiness tighten his belly. “What I am about is securing the throne of Homana.”

  “Securing it—?” Sef frowned. “But—the Mujhar holds it. It’s his.”

  “There are those who seek to throw down Carillon’s House to set up another,” Donal told him grimly. “Even now, in Solinde…we know they plan a war.”

  Sef stared. “Why? Who would do such a thing?”

  Donal very nearly did not answer. But Sef was avid in his interest, and he would learn the truth one way or another, once he was in Homana-Mujhar. “You know of the Ihlini, do you not?”

  Sef paled and made the gesture warding off evil. “Solindish demons!”

  “Aye,” Donal agreed evenly. “Tynstar and his minions would prefer to make the throne their own and destroy the prophecy. He wishes to have dominion over Homana—and all the other realms, I would wager—in order to serve Asar-Suti.” He paused. “Asar-Suti is your demon, Sef, and more—he is the god of the netherworld. The Seker, he is called, by those who serve him: the one who made and dwells in darkness.” He saw fear tauten Sef’s face. “In the name of his demon-god, Tynstar wishes to recapture Solinde from Carillon and make the realm his own, as tribute to Asar-Suti. And, of course, his ambition does not stop there—also he wants Homana. He plots for it now, at this moment—but we know this, so we are not unprepared; we are not a complacent regency in Solinde. And so long as Carillon holds the throne—and his blood after him—the thing will not be done. The Lion Throne is ours.”

  Sef’s hands were ti
ght-wrapped around the rail. “You’ll hold the throne one day, won’t you? You’re the Prince of Homana!”

  He glanced down at the attentive boy. “Now, do you see why I must teach you how to hold your tongue? Honesty is all well and good, but in Royal Houses, too much honesty may be construed as grounds for beginning a war. You must be careful in what you say as well as to whom you say it.”

  Sef nodded slowly. “My lord—I have promised to serve you well. I give you my loyalty.”

  Donal smiled and clasped one thin shoulder briefly. “And that is all I require, for now.”

  His hand remained a moment longer on Sef’s shoulder. The boy needed good food in him to fill out the hollows in his pasty-white face and to put some flesh on his bones, but his attitude was good. For a bastard boy living from hand to mouth it was very good indeed.

  Donal chewed briefly at his bottom lip. Being little more than an urchin, he may not prove equal to the task. He may not mix well with the other boys. But then I cannot judge men by how they conform to others—how boring that life would be—and I will not do it with Sef. I will give him what chance I can. He smiled, and then he laughed. Perhaps I have found someone to serve me as well as Rowan serves Carillon.

  * * *

  The prison-palace on the Crystal Isle stood atop a gentle hill of ash-colored bracken and lilac heather. The forest grew up around the pedestal of the hill, hiding much of the palace, but through the trees gleamed the whitewashed walls, attended by a pervasive silver mist. Stretching from the white sand beaches through the wind-stirred forest was a path of crushed sea shells, rose and lilac, pale blue and gold, creamy ivory.

  Donal stood very still upon the beach, looking inland toward the forest. He did not look at the palace—it was not so ancient as the island and Homanan-made at that—but at the things the gods had made instead. Then he closed his eyes and gave himself over to sensation.

  The wind curled gently around his body, caressing him with subtle fingers. It seemed to promise him things. He knew without doubting that the isle was full of dreams and magic and, if he sought it, a perfect peace and solitude. Carillon might have banished his treacherous wife to the island, but the place was a sacred place. Donal had thought perhaps the incarceration profaned the Crystal Isle.