Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Maybe he meant this corner,” Aislinn said, as they rounded yet another.

  Lir, Taj said, flying overhead. Then, more urgently, Lir!

  Five men came into the street. From out of the shadows they flowed, bristling with weapons. Three behind and two in front. Donal cursed beneath his breath.

  Aislinn hesitated, then glanced up at him. He tightened his grasp on her arm, hoping to go on without the need for conflict, but the men moved closer together. All exits were blocked, unless he flew over their heads. But that would leave Aislinn alone.

  One man grinned, displaying teeth blackened by a resinous gum he chewed even as he spoke. “Shapechanger,” he said, “we been watching you. You with your pretty girl.” The grin did not change. He bared his teeth. “Shapechanger, why do you come out of your forest? Why do you foul our streets?”

  Donal glanced back quickly, totaling up the odds. With Taj and Lorn, he was hardly threatened, but there was Aislinn to think about.

  The man stepped closer, and so did the others. “Shapechanger,” he said, “Homanan girls are not for you.”

  “Nor are they for you.” Silently, Donal told Taj to continue circling out of range. Lorn moved away from his leg to widen their circle of safety.

  “Donal!” Aislinn cried. “Tell them who you are!”

  “No.” He knew she would not understand. But men such as these, now bent on a little questionable pleasure, might see the implications rife in holding the Mujhar’s daughter. Fortunes could be made.

  “Donal—!”

  Black-teeth laughed. “Who are you, then? What does she want you to say?”

  “Move away, Aislinn,” Donal said. “It is me they want, not you.”

  “Is it?” Black-teeth asked. “What does a man do when faced with a woman who consorts with the enemy?”

  “Donal—stop them—!”

  One of the men scooped up a stone and hurled it at Donal. He heard it whistle in the air and twisted, trying to duck away, but even as that stone missed another one did not. It struck a glancing blow across his cheek, smacking against the bone. And then all of the men were throwing.

  He heard Aislinn cry out. But mostly he heard the cruel hatred in their voices as the men taunted him.

  “Shapechanger!” they cried. “Demon—!”

  Taj, he asked, where are you?

  About to impale the leader—

  Lorn—?

  Can you not hear the man screaming?

  He could. One of the men reeled away, clutching at his right leg. Lorn released him and leaped for an arm, closing on his wrist. The man screamed again, crying out for help, but the others were too busy.

  Black-teeth fell away, clawing at his back. Taj still rode his shoulders with his talons sunk into flesh. Donal, left with three men, drew his knife to face them.

  No more rocks did they throw. In their hands were knives. No longer did he face Homanans merely out to trouble a Cheysuli, but men intent upon his death.

  He was angry. Dangerously angry. He felt the anger well up inside, trying to fill his belly. Not once had he faced a man merely trying to steal his purse; not once had he faced a man simply wishing to fight, as men will sometimes do. Not once had he faced any man attempting to take his life. And now that he did, it frightened him.

  But the fright he could overcome, or turn to for strength. It was the anger that troubled him most; the anger that came from knowing they saw him for his race and marked him for death because of it.

  When a man dies, he should die for a reason—not this senseless prejudice—

  And with an inward snap of rage and intolerance, he summoned the magic.

  He knew what the Homanans saw. What Aislinn saw. A blurring voice. A coalescing nothingness. Where once had stood a man, albeit a Cheysuli man, now there was an absence of anything.

  It was enough, Carillon had said once, to make a man vomit. The Mujhar had seen such happen before, when Finn had taken lir-shape. Apparently it was true, for one of the men cried out and soiled himself even as Donal changed.

  It was so easy. He reached out from within, seeking the familiar power. He sank every sense down into the earth. Almost at once he was engulfed by taste, touch, scent, sound and all the bright colors of the magic. He was no longer Donal, no longer human, no longer anything identifiable. He was a facet of the earth, small and humble and incredibly unimportant—until one looked at what he had done and would do, and the effect it would have on others. No Cheysuli, fully cognizant of his place within the tapestry of the gods, could possibly deny the need for loyal service. Donal, closer to the tapestry than most, did not even think of it.

  The magic came at once to his call, filling him until he thought he might burst. He felt tension and urgency and utter need, a physical compulsion. Sul’harai, the Cheysuli called it; having no Homanan word to describe the act of the shapechange, they likened it to the instant of perfect love between man and woman. In that moment when he was neither man nor animal, Donal was more complete than at any other time, for he put himself into the keeping of the earth and took from it another form.

  He felt excess flesh and bone melting away, sloughing off his body to flow into the earth. There it would find safekeeping, allowing him to set aside fear for the loss of his human form while he assumed another. It was a manner of trading, he knew; while the earth held his human shape, it gave him another to replace the one he put off. But he could not say which cast was better—or which, in fact, held the essence of the true Donal.

  He felt the alteration in sinew and skin. He felt the wholeness that came with being completed. He felt the vivid vitality pouring through altered veins, muscles and flesh. No more was he Donal as the others knew him, having voluntarily put off that mold. In its place was a male wolf, yellow-eyed and silver-coated. And when he heard the screaming he knew the change was done.

  Donal bunched his powerful haunches, letting all his strength pour into the latter half of his body. He tensed and the fur of his ruff stood on end until he was hackled to the tail. And then he launched himself at the nearest man’s chest, jaws opening to display rows of serrated teeth.

  The body crumpled, collapsing beneath his weight. It crashed against the ground, blackened teeth clicking in inarticulate words of pain and horror.

  I could take his throat—tear it out—watch the blood spill out to soak into the cobbles. What harm would it do? He sought to slay me. Why not slay him instead?

  Wolf-shaped, Donal stood over the man, head lowered, teeth bared, almost slavering. A mist of anger and bloodthirst rose before his eyes. Everything he looked at had a fuzzy rim around it, as if it bled over into another form. Black-teeth’s gurgling moan of horror was lost as Donal gave in to the wolfish growl rising in his throat. And the other men, their terror-inspired paralysis vanishing, tore away.

  Donal could smell Black-teeth’s fear. It clogged up his nose until he was immersed in the rankness of the stench. Tongue lolling, he could taste the terror. It flowed out of the man like a miasma. And for a moment, a long moment, Donal teetered on the brink. He was angry, too angry; he was losing himself fast. In a flicker of lucid disbelief he saw himself clearly: wolf, not man; beast, not animal.

  Gods, is this what they meant when they told me never to resort to lir-shape when I was angry?

  He retreated at once, lunging away from the madness. He realized how close he had come to the fine line between control and animal rage. A warrior in lir-shape maintained his own mind and his comprehension of things, but the balance was delicate indeed. Donal had been warned many times that lir-shape carried its own degree of risk. Did a warrior grow so angry that he lost himself completely within his lir-shape, he also lost his mind. He would become a wolf utterly, with all a wolf’s savage power, awesome strength and lack of human values.

  And without recourse to human form.

  Donal fell back again, within and without, backing away from the sobbing man. He heard his own breath and how it rattled hoarsely in his wolf-throat; how h
e panted in despair. He heard also the echo of his own anger and his desire to slay the man.

  I have come too close, too close—by the gods, I nearly lost myself—

  At once, he sought to take back his human form. The response was sluggish, painful; he had gone too close to the edge. What was the essence of wolf in him did not wish to give up its shape.

  It hurt. Donal gasped, clawing out toward the earth. He had no wish to stay locked in wolf-shape. Not when he was meant to be a man.

  Then, all at once, the shapechange slipped into place. He was on one knee, one hand pressed against the cobbles. Paws turned to hands and feet, fur to hair, canines to human teeth. Man-shape once again, but he was not certain how much of the wolf remained.

  Lir!

  It echoed within the link. Taj and Lorn, both warning him at once.

  He spun around, thrusting himself upward, one hand going up to thwart the blow. He saw Aislinn then, whom he had forgotten—a wild look on her face as she sought to stab Donal with her knife.

  “Aislinn—”

  In the bloodied light of sundown he saw the flash of the blade as she brought it up from her side. Not overhand, not slashing downward, as novices usually did. From underneath, jabbing upward, as if she knew precisely what she did.

  She does…by the gods—she does—

  For a moment, for one fatal moment, he hesitated. But she did not. She thrust upward with the knife even as he sought to jerk out of her way, and the blade sliced across the knuckles of one hand. He cursed, jumping back, and then he saw Sef hurl himself at Aislinn.

  “No—no! I won’t let you hurt him!”

  Aislinn cried out. Donal saw the flash of the blade as Sef set his teeth into her wrist; the knife was perilously close to the boy’s thin face. But Sef ignored it, shutting his teeth into flesh, and Aislinn cried out in pain.

  Donal stepped in at once. But Sef’s teeth had done their work; the knife fell clattering to the street. Donal prudently kicked it out of reach, then caught Aislinn’s arm and one of Sef’s shoulders.

  “Enough—enough! Sef—let be…I have her now.” Donal caught Aislinn under both arms and set her against the wall, pinning her there with his left hand. The right one he carried to his mouth, sucking at his bleeding knuckles. He tasted the acrid salt of blood and the bitterness of futility.

  “Aislinn…Aislinn!” He held her against the wall as she struggled feebly to get away. “What idiocy is this?”

  “Witchcraft.” Sef whispered. “Look at her eyes.”

  Donal looked. To him, they appeared swollen black with fear and senselessness. Her face was the color of death. “Aislinn—this is madness—”

  But she said nothing at all.

  It was Electra. It must have been Electra! Gods, will the woman never give up? Still holding Aislinn, he glanced back at the man on the ground. Black-teeth was alone, deserted by his cohorts. But he remained, gibbering incoherently.

  Was all of this planned? Donal wondered suddenly. This attack, knowing how Hondarth feels about Cheysuli, and then, having failed, an attack from Aislinn herself?

  It made him ill. He felt the slow roiling of his belly and the hollowness of his chest.

  He looked at Aislinn again. Did Electra tell the truth? Has she made Aislinn into a weapon against her father—or even against me?

  Aislinn was still his prisoner. She had fallen into silence, staring blankly at the ground. The hood had slipped from her head to bare the rose-gold hair. It glowed brightly in the sunset.

  Donal closed his eyes. He felt unsteady, unbalanced by the attempt. But then no one had ever tried to slay him before, and he did not doubt it was unsettling for any man. I would not care to repeat it.

  You may have to, in the future. Taj pointed out. There are enemies in every corner.

  Including my betrothed?

  The lir chose not to answer, which was answer enough for Donal.

  “My lord?” It was Sef. “What do we do now?”

  Donal looked again at Aislinn. One of the stones had struck her, bloodying her brow. He lifted his wounded hand to wipe it away, then did not. The hand dropped back to his side. She gets no tenderness from me, until I know what she plans. He glanced at Sef. “Did you fetch my horse?”

  Sef gestured. “There.”

  The chestnut stallion stood patiently in the shadows. Donal nodded. “Then find us this inn you suggested.”

  Sef looked at Black-teeth, still cringing on the cobbles, and at Aislinn, bloodied and vacant. Then at Donal, who still felt distinctly ill. The eyes were huge in his thin, pale face. “What—what will you do to her?”

  “I do not know.” Donal gestured. “Sef—show us to this inn.”

  Sef, bent down and picked up the knife. “My lord—?”

  “Keep it,” Donal told him. “But never give it to the princess, or I may lose more than a little flesh.” He sucked again at the cut across his knuckles.

  “But why?” Sef whispered. “Why would she try to slay you?”

  “I think she has been—influenced—by her jehana.”

  “The Queen?” Sef’s eyes widened further. “You say the Queen set her own daughter on you?”

  “Or Tynstar, through his meijha, if it is true what Electra told me.” Donal gestured. “Sef—walk. I have no wish to tarry here a moment longer.”

  Sef no longer tarried.

  * * *

  The White Hart Inn was everything Sef said it was. It boasted good food, better wine, warm beds and spacious rooms. Donal took one for himself and Sef and another for the princess.

  Donal led Aislinn up to her room and sat her down on the edge of the bed. Then, gently, he sponged away the dirt and blood on her face with a clean cloth borrowed from the innkeeper, along with a basin of water. Aislinn sat on the bed and let him minister to her, though at first she had flinched from his touch.

  When she was clean again, though too pale, he gave the basin to Sef to return. Then he turned to Aislinn. “Do you understand what you have done?”

  He was not certain she would answer. She had not spoken since she had attacked him.

  But this time she broke her silence. Slowly she looked up to meet his eyes, and he saw how her own were clouded and unfocused. “Done? What have I done?”

  “Do you not recall it?”

  She seemed bewildered by his questions. “What is it you wish me to recall?”

  Donal put out his hand. She flinched back, then allowed him to touch her. Gently he fingered the lump where the stone had struck. There was hardly a mark to show what had happened, though—with her fair skin—he was certain there would be a bruise in the morning.

  Yet he did not think the stone had struck hard enough to damage her memories. Unless they were damaged before…by someone with reason to do so.

  Aislinn’s eyes, Electra’s eyes, regarded him almost blindly. Gently, he traced one brow and then the other with his fingertips. “Aislinn, do you trust me?”

  “She said I should not—she warned me I should not, but—I do.” She frowned a little. “Is it all right?”

  “Aye,” he said roughly, “it is all right. I would never harm you. But—I think someone has. I think someone has meddled with your mind.” He leaned closer to her. “Aislinn—there is a thing I must do. But I will not do it with you unknowing…or unwilling. You say you trust me—let me prove the worthiness of that trust.”

  Her eyes were almost vacant. “What would you have me do?”

  He wet his lips before he spoke. “Allow me to touch your mind.”

  She put up her hand. Her fingers touched his own. But she did not still their gentle movement across her brow. “You mean to use your magic.”

  “Aye,” he admitted. “I must. I must see what Electra has done.”

  Her very disorientation seemed to lend credence to his suspicions. Aislinn merely shrugged.

  Again, he wet his lips. He slipped his free hand up to cradle her head in his palms. Slowly, with great care and gentleness, he slipped out o
f his skull and went into hers, tapping the strength of his magic.

  Gods, do not let me harm her. If Tynstar has set a trap-link, or Electra— He discontinued the thought at once. The implications were too serious. A trap-link might well have been set in Aislinn’s mind, waiting to snare him—or any other Cheysuli entering her mind—and hold him for later disposal.

  Unless, of course, the trap was set to slay him.

  He dismissed the thought. If such a trap existed, it was already too late.

  He felt the slow consummation of his bonding with the earth. He tapped the source of Cheysuli magic, drawing it up through an invisible conduit, until it filled him with power and strength. He sliced through Aislinn’s young barriers painlessly and slipped into her mind. And he faced, for the first time in his life, the full knowledge of his power and abilities. He had only to twist here, touch there, and Aislinn’s will would be replaced with his own.

  But the thought was anathema to him. He was Cheysuli, not Ihlini.

  Aislinn’s eyes widened, then drifted closed. He saw how pale she was, how her jaw slackened so that her mouth parted to expose small portions of her upper teeth. She was his completely—

  Or is she? Someone else has been here before me—!

  He withdrew at once, lunging out of her mind and back into his own, badly frightened by what he had felt. Residue. An echo. A feeling of other sentience.

  Gods—is it Tynstar? Did Electra speak the truth?

  “My lord?” It was Sef, kneeling by the bed. Donal saw how pale the boy’s face was; how fixed were his odd-colored eyes. And how fright was in every posture of his body. “My lord—did it hurt you?”

  For a moment, Donal shut his eyes. He needed time to regain his senses completely. But there was none. He took his hands away from Aislinn’s head, and smiled wearily at the boy. “I fare well enough. But I should have warned you—”

  “Was that—magic?” Sef’s eyes were widening. “Did you cast a spell here in this room?”

  “It was not a spell. We do not cast spells. We—borrow power from the earth. That is all.” Donal looked at Aislinn. “I had the need to know if sorcery had been worked, and so I used my own.”