Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  “And so you have been here with me for all this time?” He shook his head. “Perhaps it was best, but I am sorry if it caused you inconvenience. Sef is—unaccustomed to royalty.” He sat very straight, then arched his spine to crack all the knots. His midsection was extremely tender, within and without, and his muscles felt like rags. Even the lir-bands on his bare arms fit a little loosely—he had lost flesh as well as ten days.

  He clasped each band, squeezing it against his arm. Beneath his fingers curved the shapes of wolf and falcon, honoring Taj and Lorn in traditional Cheysuli fashion. When a Cheysuli boy became a man, acknowledged so by the bonding of his lir, he put on the traditional armbands and earring to mark warrior status. Donal, gaining his lir younger than most, had worn his gold for fifteen years.

  “You seem much improved.” Aislinn ventured.

  “Aye. Weary and sore, but both shall pass soon enough.” He rolled his head from side to side, loosing the tautness of his tendons. “You need not be frightened of me, Aislinn. I do not take retribution on the woman I must wed.”

  “Must wed,” she echoed, and he saw how tightly set was her jaw. “That is it, is it not? You must wed me. My father has taken the choice from you.”

  “You knew that.” Carefully he rose, steadying himself by pressing his calves against the bedframe. He felt old, at least as old as Carillon— “Gods!” he blurted. “Have you done that to me?”

  “What?” she demanded crossly. “Do you accuse me yet again?”

  “Am I old?” He tried to take a step forward and found it weak, wobbly, lacking all grace or strength. Before him rose the specter of premature aging, and what it had done to Carillon. “Have you made me like the Mujhar?”

  Aislinn made a rude, banishing gesture. “You can only hope to be like my father…no man can match him, Donal. Do not try.”

  He lifted one hand and saw firm, sun-bronzed flesh, taut and still youthful, though the palms were callused and tough. He made a fist, and saw how quickly the muscles responded. Not old, then…just—weakened. But that will pass.

  The hand flopped back down at his side. “Aislinn—”

  She rose. The stool scraped against the pegged wood of the uneven floor. “I want to know who she is.”

  For a moment he could only stare. “Who do you mean?”

  “Sorcha.” She was pale and very stiff in her movements. And every inch the princess. Donal, who had intended to ask her what had caused her change in manner, suddenly understood it very clearly.

  “Ah.” He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. “Sorcha.”

  “Who is she?”

  There was no help for it, he knew; the time had come for truth. Evasion was no longer an option. “Sorcha is my meijha,” he answered evenly. “In the Homanan tongue it means light woman.”

  Aislinn’s gray eyes widened. “Your whore—?”

  “No.” He cut her off at once. “We have no whores in the clans. We have meijhas, who hold as much honor as cheysulas.”

  Color stood high in Aislinn’s fair face. “You see? There are many Cheysuli customs I do not know.” An accusation; he did not run from the guilt. “Then it is so: because we are betrothed—and because my father would never allow it, having no other male heir—you cannot wed your meijha. You must wed me instead.” Aislinn stood rigidly before him: a small, almost fragile young woman, yet suddenly towering in her pride. “Do I have the right of it?”

  “Aye.” That only; more would be redundant.

  “And—Ian?”

  “Ian is my son.”

  Aislinn paled. He realized, belatedly, Aislinn would probably feel a woman with a child posed more of a threat than simply a woman alone. “A bastard—”

  “My son.” He pushed himself out of the cot. “Aislinn—I know you only echo what words you have heard before…but I will allow neither my meijha nor my children to be abused.”

  “Children!” She gazed at him in shock. “There are more?”

  There was no easy way. And so he told her as simply as he could. “Sorcha is due to bear another child within the month. It is why I wish to leave this place and hasten back—”

  “—to the Keep.” She nodded jerkily. “That is why, is it not? Not that you wish to fulfill my father’s wishes.”

  “Aye,” he told her gently. “I want to go home to my family.”

  She stared up at him, clearly stunned as well as hurt. He saw how her mouth trembled, though she fought to keep it steady. “Then—there is no hope for me. I am bound to a loveless marriage…and all because of the throne—”

  “Aye,” he said softly. “You have begun to feel its weight—the weight we must share.”

  “Then I do not want it.” Aislinn’s hands rose to cover her mouth. She looked directly at him. “I will have this betrothal broken.” The words were muffled, but he understood them.

  For just an instant, he felt a surge of hope well up from deep inside. Does Aislinn ask it, Carillon will have to break the betrothal. And I will be free.

  But the hope, as quickly, died away, and in its place was futility. “Aislinn,” he said helplessly. “I doubt he will agree.”

  “He will,” she said. “He will do as I ask.” She drew in a trembling breath and tried for a steady smile. “He agrees to whatever I want.”

  Donal admired her brave attempt at confidence, even though it failed. But inwardly, he knew the truth. He will not agree to this, my determined Homanan princess. Not when realm and prophecy depend so much upon it.

  But he had no heart to tell her.

  “Gods!” Sef breathed. “Is this where you live?”

  Donal looked at the boy. His mouth hung open inelegantly as he stared about the inner bailey of Homana-Mujhar; though it was far smaller than the outer bailey, the inner one was, nonetheless, impressive. Massive rose-colored walls jutted up from the earth, thick as the span of a man’s outstretched arms. The outer wall was thicker yet, hedged with ramparts and towers. The clean, unadorned lines of the walls and baileys lent Homana-Mujhar an austere sort of elegance. But Donal thought the legends told about the palace formed at least half of its fabled reputation.

  And we Cheysuli built it. Inwardly, he laughed. Outwardly, he smiled at Sef. “This is where the Mujhar lives, and the princess. I—visit here often, but the Keep is my home.” Donal gestured eastward. “It lies half a day’s ride from here. If you wish, I will take you there some time.”

  But Sef appeared not to hear him. He twisted his shaggy head on a thin neck, staring around at the walls and towers and the liveried guardsmen passing along the walkways. In the midday sun the ringmail and silver of their steel glittered brightly.

  The iron-shod hooves of the three horses clopped and scraped across slate-gray cobbles. Donal led Sef and Aislinn past the garrison toward the archivolted entrance of the palace. Though he preferred a side door in order to avoid an excess of royal reception, for Aislinn he would enter through the front.

  And then, as he saw Carillon come out the open door to wait at the top of the marble steps, he knew he had chosen correctly.

  Donal turned to speak to Aislinn, then shut his mouth at once. He saw how she stared at her father; he saw the shock and disbelief reflected in her eyes. Before him the color drained out of her face, even from her lips, and he saw how her gloved hands shook upon the reins.

  “Aislinn—?”

  “He is—grown so old—” she whispered. “When I left, he did not look so—so used up.” Aislinn turned a beseeching face to Donal. “What has happened to him?”

  Donal frowned. “You have heard the story, Aislinn: how Tynstar used his sorcery to try and slay your jehan, and in doing so aged him twenty years. That is what you see.”

  “He is worse—” She spoke barely above a whisper. “Look at him, Donal!”

  Accordingly, he looked more closely at the Mujhar, and saw precisely what Aislinn meant.

  She sees more because she has not seen him in two years, while I—having seen him so often for those two yea
rs—do not mark the little changes. But Aislinn has the right of it—Carillon has aged. Tynstar’s sorcery holds true.

  In truth, the Mujhar was but forty years of age, yet outwardly—because of sorcery leveled against him fifteen years before—he bore the look of a sixty-year-old man. His once-tawny hair had dulled to a steely-gray. His face, though partially hidden by a thick silvering beard, was care-worn, weathered to the consistency of aged leather. The blue eyes, deep-set, were crowded around by clustered creases. And though a very tall and exceptionally strong man—once—age had begun to sap the vitality from his body. The warrior’s posture had softened. Pain had leeched him of any pretense of youth.

  That, and Tynstar’s retribution. Donal felt a flutter of foreboding. If he grows so old this quickly, what does it mean for me?

  He saw how stiffly the shoulders were set, how they hunched forward just a little, as if they pained Carillon constantly. Perhaps they did. Perhaps his shoulders had caught up at last to his knees and hands as the disease ate up his joints.

  Gods, but I hope I never know the pain he knows, Donal thought fervently. He ignored the twinge of guilt that told him he was selfish to think of himself when Carillon stood before him. Spare me what Carillon knows. I think I lack the courage it takes to face what he has lost.

  He looked briefly at the hands that hung at Carillon’s sides. The reddened fingers were twisted away from his thumbs, almost as if someone had broken all the bones. And the knuckles were ridged with swollen buttons of flesh. How he managed to hold a sword Donal could not say. But he did.

  Carillon is what keeps Homana strong…Carillon and the Cheysuli. Does he fail any time soon, it is all left to me—and I do not want it!

  “Aislinn!” Carillon called. “By the gods, girl, it has been too long!” He put out his twisted hands, and Aislinn—forgetting her royal status and the need for proprieties—jumped down from the saddle before the stable lads could catch the reins.

  Donal bent over and caught Aislinn’s mare before she could follow the girl up the marble steps. He reined her back, then handed the leather over to the first boy who arrived to take the horse.

  Aislinn gathered her skirts and ran up the black-veined steps, laughing as she climbed. Carillon caught her at the top of them, lifting her into the air in a joyous, loving hug. Donal, watching, saw yet again how close was the bond they shared.

  It is almost as if she spent no time with Electra. She nearly makes me think she is nothing but a girl not quite become a woman—but I dare not trust her. Not until Finn has tested her.

  The Mujhar did not appear an aged, aging man as he hugged his only child. The twisted hands pressed into the fabric of her blue cloak, tangling in the wool. His face, seen over Aislinn’s right shoulder, was younger than ever before. But the image faded as he set her upon her feet, and Donal saw again how Carillon had grown older in two years.

  “Donal, climb down from that horse and come in!” Carillon called, one arm still circling his daughter’s shoulders. “And tell me why it is that the baggage train arrived ahead of you.”

  “Dismount,” Donal said in an aside to Sef. “This is the Mujhar you face, but be not overcome by him. He is not a god, just a man.”

  Sef’s expression was dubious. But he shook free of his stirrups and slithered down from the saddle, scraping his belly against the leather. Another stable lad took his horse; yet a third caught Donal’s reins with a low-voiced “Welcome back, my lord.”

  “My thanks, Corrick.” Donal gestured to Sef. “Come with me.”

  “Now?” Sef demanded. “But—you go with the Mujhar!”

  “So do you.” Donal gestured him up the stairs, and after a monumental hesitation, Sef climbed.

  “You are somewhat late,” Carillon said quietly when they reached the top of the steps. “Some manner of delay?”

  “Some manner,” Donal agreed blandly.

  “He was ill,” Aislinn declared. “Someone—poisoned him.”

  Carillon made no movement, no sound of dismay. His face tightened a little, but otherwise Donal observed nothing that indicated concern. “Well then, you had best come in. As you do not appear in imminent danger of dropping dead at my very feet, I must assume you are completely recovered.”

  Donal smiled a little. “Aye, my lord, I am.” But he had never been good at lying.

  Carillon did not seem to notice. “Well enough. Let us leave off standing out of doors. It may be spring, but it is cold enough to qualify as fall.” He turned and escorted his daughter into the palace as Donal, Sef and the lir followed.

  It is not so cold, Donal thought, concerned. Not so cold as to trouble a man. But he said nothing to the Mujhar. He merely followed him into the palace.

  “I will have you fed first,” Carillon said, “and then you, Aislinn, must rest. I doubt not you are weary.”

  “I have not seen you in two years,” she protested, “yet you send me to bed like an errant child.”

  “You are an errant child. Have you not kept yourself from me for longer than I wished?”

  Her right arm was at his waist as they paused in the entry hall. He had not thickened or put on weight with advancing age, but he was considerably larger than she. “I must speak with you, father. It is important—”

  “Another time.” Carillon’s tone left no room for argument, even from a beloved daughter. “If you do not wish to look like me before your time, you must get the rest you require.”

  Aislinn, shocked, pulled back from his side. “Do not say that! You are not old!”

  Sadly, Carillon bent and kissed her on the crown of her head. “Ah, but you give yourself away with so valiant a protest. Aislinn, Aislinn, I have seen the silver plate. Give me truth, not falsehood; I value that over flattery.”

  With tears in her eyes, she nodded. “Aye,” she whispered. “Oh gods, I have missed you! It was not the same without you!”

  Carillon hugged her again as she leaned against his chest. Over her head, he met Donal’s eyes. “Aye, I do know the truth. There is much we must speak about.”

  Mutely, Donal nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “My lord, I would have you meet Sef. It is my hope you will allow him to remain in Homana-Mujhar. Let him be trained as a page, if you wish, or perhaps—when he is old enough—as one of your Mujharan guards. I think there is good blood in him, albeit unknown.”

  Carillon looked at the boy. Sef was pale but he drew himself up to stand very straight, as if he already bore sword and wore the lion in the name of his Mujhar.

  “Do you wish it?” Carillon asked. “I will harbor no boys who do not willingly accept the service.”

  “M-my lord!” Sef dropped awkwardly to his knees. “My lord—how could a boy wish not to serve his king?”

  The Mujhar laughed. “Well, you will be serving your prince, not your king—I think you will do better with Donal. But I suggest, first, you put flesh on your bones and better clothing on that flesh. You are too small.”

  Donal marked how Carillon asked nothing about the boy’s background, or how he came to be riding with the Prince of Homana. He did not embarrass the boy, nor did he embarrass Donal with unnecessary questions. He simply accepted Sef.

  Sef, still kneeling, nodded. Black hair flipped down into his face, hiding the blue eye. But, for the first time, Donal saw Sef deliberately push the hair back.

  As if he has accepted what he is. Well, Carillon inspires all manner of devotion. He smiled. “Enough, Sef—few things are accomplished on stone-bruised knees.”

  Sef did not move. “My lord,” he appealed to Carillon, “is it true you nearly defeated the Ihlini demon?”

  “Tynstar?” Slowly, Carillon shook his head. “If that is what the stories say about me, they are wrong. No, Sef—Tynstar nearly defeated me.”

  “But—” Quickly, Sef glanced at Donal. He was asking permission to speak, and Donal gave it with a nod. “My lord Mujhar—I thought no one escaped an Ihlini. At least—not Tynstar.”

  Carillon tousled Sef�
�s wind-ruffled hair. “Even Tynstar is not infallible. More powerful than any I have known, it is true, because of the power he has borrowed from Asar-Suti, but he is still a man. And when faced with a Cheysuli—” He smiled grimly. “Let us say: Tynstar is a formidable foe, but not an impossible one.”

  “But—” Again Sef hesitated, and again Donal gave him permission to speak. “I heard, once, that Tynstar had slain a Cheysuli clan-leader.”

  Donal felt the sudden wrenching movement in his belly. That he had not anticipated.

  Carillon looked at him. Compassion was in his eyes. “Aye,” he answered Sef quietly. “Tynstar slew Duncan’s lir, and so Duncan sought the death-ritual as is Cheysuli tradition.”

  Slowly, Sef worked it out. And when he had, his eyes turned at once to Donal. His face was a mask of horrified realization. “Then if Taj and Lorn are slain—”

  “—so am I slain,” Donal finished. “Aye. It is—difficult for the unblessed to understand. But it is the price of the lir-bond, and we honor it.”

  Aislinn’s eyes widened. “You would not do it if you were Mujhar!”

  She meant it as a declaration. It sounded more like a question. Donal realized, in that moment, she had assumed once they were wed, the customs of the Cheysuli would not be so binding upon him. And he realized she believed he would turn his back on many of them once he was Mujhar.

  “Aye,” he told her. “Warrior or Mujhar, I am constrained by the traditions of my people. And I intend to honor them.”

  “You are Homanan as well as Cheysuli—”

  “I am Cheysuli first.”

  He saw shock, realization, and rebellion in her face. And a mute denial of his statement.

  Carillon’s hands came down on her shoulders. “You are weary,” he said in an even tone. “Go to bed, Aislinn.”

  “No,” she said, “first there is a thing we must discuss—”

  “Go to bed,” he repeated. “There will be time for all these discussions.”

  She flicked a commanding glance at Donal, as if she meant him to bring up the possibility of breaking the betrothal; he did not. He had no intention of it. Done with waiting, she picked up her skirts and ran.