Carillon turned to Sef. “I am sure you are hungry. I suggest you ask in the kitchens for food.” He gestured and one of the silent servants waiting nearby came at once. “Escort the boy to the kitchens and see he is fed until he cannot keep his eyes open. Until the prince or I call for him, he is free to learn his way about the palace.”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man, tunicked in Carillon’s livery, nodded and looked at Sef. He waited.
Sef, still kneeling, looked up at Donal. “My lord?”
Carillon laughed. “I see he knows his master.”
Donal gestured Sef up from the floor. “You may go.”
Silently, Sef stood up, bowed quickly, and went with the liveried servant.
“I am sorry for what the boy said.” Carillon’s tone was compassionate. “You need no reminding about your father’s fate.”
“One warrior’s tahlmorra is not necessarily easily accepted by his kin,” Donal responded evenly. “But—I hope the gods grant me a life as effective as his.”
“Effective?” Carillon did not smile. “A modest way of describing Duncan’s loyalty and dedication. And odd, from his son—”
“It does no good to dwell upon it,” Donal interrupted. He felt the clenching of his belly; the sudden cramping of his throat. He had said more of his father to Aislinn than he had said to anyone in a very long time. And it was no easier speaking of him to Carillon, who had known Duncan better than most. “Tynstar defeated my jehan, but not before he accomplished what he was meant to.”
“Siring you?” Carillon’s mouth twisted a little. “Aye, he sired you—and in doing so forged the next link in the prophecy.”
The link that excluded a Homanan Mujhar. Donal wondered for the hundredth time whether Carillon himself resented the upstart Cheysuli prince as much as everyone else. So much had been given to him when he deserved none of it.
An accident of birth. No more. And yet Donal knew it was not. The gods had decreed his fate.
Carillon appraised Donal. “For a poisoned man, you seem uncommonly fit. Is what Aislinn said true?”
“True. And I am fully recovered.” He was not; Donal knew it. He was weary from the ride, too weary. He needed food and rest. But his pride kept him from saying so to Carillon, who faced more poor health than any man Donal knew.
“Good. Come and show me.” Carillon turned abruptly and headed toward a corridor.
“Show you?” Donal went after him. “Show you what?”
Carillon’s stride was crisp and even. His back was rigid. There was no sign of advancing age in him, save for the twisted fingers. “Rowan!” The shout echoed along the corridor. Donal, hastening in the Mujhar’s footsteps, frowned into the candlelit passageway.
Shortly after a second shout, Rowan stepped out of a doorway. His black hair was tousled and damp, and his clothing was a little awry, as if he had only just put them on following a bath. “Aye, my lord?”
“My sword is in my chambers,” Carillon said briefly. “Do me the favor of bringing it to the practice chamber.”
Rowan’s yellow eyes reflected startled speculation. “Aye, my lord. At once.”
“Carillon, what do you mean to do?” Donal at last fell into step with the Mujhar.
“I mean to find out what order of skill you claim.”
“Sword skill?” Donal, hastening his steps yet again, shook his head. “Carillon, you know—”
“—know what? That you, as a Cheysuli, claim yourself above the use of a sword? Inviolate to its threat?”
“No, of course not.” Donal bit his tongue to repress his exasperation. “I can be wounded as easily as a Homanan—it is only…Carillon, will you slow down—?”
“Only what?” The Mujhar did not slacken his pace. “Is it only that you would simply prefer to keep yourself to bow and knife?”
“I am good enough with both!” Donal, pride stung, stopped dead in his tracks. Carillon also paused.
“Aye,” he agreed, “you are. But the future Mujhar of Homana must also wield a sword.” He stretched out his hand as Rowan came striding down the corridor with a scabbard clenched in his hand. “This sword,” Carillon said, accepting it from Rowan.
Donal scraped one hand down through his hair and over his face. “Carillon.” His voice was nearly throttled in his attempt to remain calm. “Do you forget I am Cheysuli?”
“I think that is impossible.” Carillon’s voice, raspy now, sounded harsh in the shadowed corridor. “You take such pains to remind me whenever the chance arises.” Methodically, he held the scabbard in his left hand and placed his right on the heavy golden hilt. At the edge of his hand, set into prongs in the pommel of the hilt, glowed the dead-black stone that had once been brilliant crimson. A blood-red ruby, called the Mujhar’s Eye, and perverted by Tynstar’s sorcery.
Donal looked at Rowan. He saw nothing in the general’s face save a perfect blankness. Cheysuli blankness. He uses his race to thwart even me.
At last he looked at Carillon. “You wish me to spar against you.”
“Aye. As we have done in the past.”
Donal nodded his head in the direction of the sword. “You have not used that against me before.”
“Then perhaps it is time I did. It is your grandsire’s sword.”
“He made it,” Donal retorted. “He never used it himself. The Cheysuli never do.”
“Hale was all Cheysuli,” Carillon agreed. “But you claim a full quarter of Homanan blood, and that much entitles you to learn the proper use of a sword.”
Again, Donal glanced at Rowan. And again, he saw the blank expression. Carillon’s man to the core. For all he is Cheysuli, he seems more Homanan than Carillon himself!
Pointedly, Donal looked at Rowan’s left side. At the sword sheathed there. A Homanan sword, but wielded by a Cheysuli.
Color came into Rowan’s dark face. Cheysuli-born, Homanan-bred; adversity had taught him to stay alive, during Shaine’s qu’mahlin, by ignoring the truth of his origins. And now, though free to embrace the customs of his race, he did not. Cheysuli on the outside, Homanan on the inside; Carillon’s right-hand man.
In place of my su’fali, a proper liege man.
But Donal did not blame Rowan. Not entirely. Finn’s dismissal from Carillon’s service had been initiated by someone else entirely, and aided—albeit unintentionally—by Carillon himself.
There was, suddenly, tension in Rowan’s face. And Donal was ashamed. It is not his fault. He was raised by the unblessed. Lacking a lir, he lacks also a heart and soul. But he does the best he can.
“Come,” Carillon challenged, “show me what you know.”
Donal looked at the royal sword of Homana, knowing it was Cheysuli. And then he looked at Rowan.
Silently, Rowan pulled his forth. He offered the hilt to Donal.
The practice chamber had no aesthetics about it. It was a plain chamber of unadorned dark-blue stone, even to the floor, which had been worn into a perfectly smooth indigo-slate sheet from years of swordplay and footwork. Each wall bore only weapons racks: swords, long-knives, spears, halberds, axes, bows and other accouterments of war. Wooden benches lined the sides for students who chose to or were ordered to watch. Wall sconces with fat candles in them lit the room with a pearly glow. Donal had been in the chamber many times in fifteen years, but he far preferred the training sessions with Finn and others in the Keep.
Carillon stood in the precise center of the smooth, dark floor. He was still fully dressed, not bothering to shed even his doublet of mulberry velvet. His boots were low-cut, of soft gray leather, lacking the heavy soles of thigh-high riding boots. And in his twisted hands was gripped the gold-hilted sword with its baleful, blackened eye.
Idly, Donal slapped the flat of Rowan’s blade against his leather-clad leg. He stripped out of his cloak and dumped it onto the nearest wooden bench. Sighing, he turned to face Carillon. “My lord, this will be a travesty.”
“Will it?” Carillon smiled. “Then I am pleased you so willingl
y admit you lack what skill any soldier should possess.” He gestured sharply. “Rowan—the door. It may be the Prince of Homana will not desire anyone to see this—travesty.”
Briefly Rowan dipped his still-damp head in an acknowledging nod, then pulled the door tightly shut. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching both men in an attitude of nonchalance, yet intently aware of each.
Donal yet held the sword in one hand negligently. The hilt was unfamiliar, being made for Rowan’s hand, but then the hilt of any sword was unfamiliar to him. He had spent hours with an arms-master, being drilled until he thought he would go mad, but he had always been an indifferent student. He knew, did the time come when he would have to fight, it would be with knife or Cheysuli warbow.
Or lir-shape. This is foolishness.
“Come forth,” Carillon invited, “And tell me how it was you were poisoned.”
Donal’s short laugh was a bark. “I can tell you that without resorting to this, Carillon. And I think the answer is easy enough to come by. It was your cheysula, my Lord Mujhar. The Queen of Homana herself.”
“Come forth.” Carillon’s tone brooked no refusal. “I, at least, can speak while I spar. Can you?”
He baits me…by the gods, he baits me! Donal moved forward, clad more comfortably than Carillon in snug Cheysuli leggings and sleeveless jerkin dyed a warm, soft yellow. Though he hated swordplay, he could not help but move into a defensive posture as Carillon settled the rune-kissed blade more comfortably.
Carillon grunted. “Electra, was it? I would have guessed the Ihlini.”
“Oh, Tynstar may have encouraged it.” Donal shifted Rowan’s sword until it rested more comfortably in his hands. “But Electra had the doing of this, I am quite sure. But—not alone. She had help.”
“Who? Have I traitor on the island?”
“Traitors, rather…though I think it is too harsh a word. I believe she was unknowing.” Donal touched his blade gently to Carillon’s in brief salute. “It was Aislinn, my lord.”
“Aislinn—!” The Cheysuli blade lowered slightly before Carillon caught himself. “What is this idiocy?”
Donal shook his head. “No idiocy, my lord—it is the truth. Ask the girl; better yet, ask Sef. He saw what she tried to do.”
“Come at me!” Carillon rasped. “Tell me this over the sword-song!”
Donal stepped in. He parried Carillon’s opening maneuver, parried again, and ducked a vicious two-handed swipe that whistled near his ear. He hissed in startled surprise, then danced aside yet again as the sword swooped back to catch him on its return.
“Say again,” Carillon ordered. “Say again it was my daughter!”
“It was.” Donal skipped aside, blessing his Cheysuli quickness. Sparring this might be, but Carillon did not spar as most men did. He was strong enough to stop a powerful blow even as he loosed it to the full extent of the maneuver, and so he sparred with little held back. Except he is no longer as strong as he once was…gods!—he could take my head with another swipe like that!
“Do not hang back like a fearful child!” Carillon shouted. “At me, Donal! I am the enemy!”
The royal blade blurred silver in the air, so that the runes bled into the steel and became invisible. Donal saw only the displacement of air and heard the swoop of slicing steel. He moved in instinctively, answering Carillon’s challenge, and tried to turn the blow aside. But his blade was battered aside almost at once, then twisted out of his hands. His wrists and forearms cried out their abuse as he fought to hold on, but the hilt slipped from his hands. The sword fell against the floor.
Carillon took a single step forward. The tip of his blade rested lightly against Donal’s abdomen, scraping softly on the gold and topaz of his buckle. “It is your life, boy,” the Mujhar rasped. “It is not me you face, but the enemy. Perhaps a Solindish soldier, or an Atvian spearman. Neither will allow you time to retrieve a fallen weapon.”
“Do you expect me to believe such a transparent ploy as that?” Donal snapped. “Or do you say we go to war tomorrow?”
The tip pressed more threateningly. “Not tomorrow. Perhaps the day after.” Carillon’s jaw was set like stone. “I have been receiving regular messages from couriers out of Solinde these past four weeks. Royce, in Lestra, believes there will be a full-scale rebellion before a sixth-month is past.”
“Rebellion.” Donal felt the clenching of his belly. “You have feared it, I know…and you have not let me forget what might happen did Tynstar ever rally the Solindish again. But why would they follow him after so many years of peace?”
“Peace?” Carillon laughed. “You might call it that, having no knowledge of what war is. But Solinde is far from peaceful. Royce has put down insurgents time and time again, and there is talk Tynstar does move, even now, to unite the Solindish rebels.”
“If he does—”
“If he does, we will go to war again. Not today, perhaps not even tomorrow—but very soon.” Carillon regarded his heir. “Now, as you know so much, tell me about Osric of Atvia.”
“Osric! The Atvian king?” Donal frowned. “He is at home, is he not, quarreling with Shea of Erinn over an island title?”
“Aye,” Carillon agreed. “But what if Osric, deciding to avenge his father’s death at Homanan hands—as well as tiring of paying me twice-yearly tribute—quits quarreling with Shea of Erinn and chooses to march on Homana?”
“End the tribute,” Donal suggested. “It would give him one less reason to consider such a march.”
Carillon’s smile held little amusement. “I instigated the tribute in retribution for coming against me the last time. Thorne paid for it with his life, leaving his son to succeed him; therefore the son must also pay for the father’s folly. Do I end the tribute, Osric will judge me weak. It would be an indication that Homana’s aging Mujhar, at last, is losing strength, opening an avenue of attack for Osric. No, no—policy dictates I continue to ask tribute of Atvia. There is no other choice.”
Donal had no desire to entangle himself in the intricacies of kingcraft, even verbally. “We were not speaking of the potential for war, my lord, but of your daughter’s complicity in Electra’s attack on me. Should we not finish that topic before we begin another?”
“Gods, but you drive me mad!” Carillon said through gritted teeth. “Look at me, Donal! What do you see? An old man growing older, and more quickly than anyone might have thought.” Briefly, he shrugged, and a faint wince of pain cut across his face. “It was your father who told me Tynstar gave me nothing I would not experience anyway; that the disease would devour my body eventually regardless of what I did…and it does. Oh, aye—it does. Who is to say I will live to see the new year?”
“You are the one speaking idiocy now!” Donal was taken aback by Carillon’s intensity. “Aye, you grow older, but even now you wield a sword. Even now you defeat a Cheysuli!”
“Aye, I do. And no warrior I have ever heard of gives in to an enemy so easily.” The tip pressed close yet again. “You speak of Aislinn’s complicity? Then you had best speak a little more clearly. Now.”
Donal sighed. “I cannot say for certain, Carillon. There is no doubt she was—involved. It was her hand that held the knife.” He put up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Healed now, and easily enough—it was not so much of a cut—but I got the cut because Aislinn tried to put a knife in my back. And would have, had my lir not warned me. And even then, she cut me. It was Sef who held her back.”
“Aislinn—did that?” Carillon’s eyes were on the sun-bronzed knuckles.
“Aye, she did. But I doubt it was her decision—I am sure she was ensorceled.”
“How?” Carillon snapped.
“By Electra, my lord—who else?”
The creased lids with their silvered lashes flickered just a little. “Aislinn is her daughter. Do you tell me Electra would stoop to such perversion?”
Donal did not smile. “You know her better than I. Tell me, my lord, if Tynstar’s meijh
a would.”
The breath was expelled suddenly; an explosion of disbelief and horrified acknowledgment. The sword tip wavered against Donal’s abdomen. “She would,” he whispered. “By the gods, she would. And I sent Aislinn there—”
“My lord.” Donal did not move; not even in the face of Carillon’s emotions did he dare give the sword tip a chance. “My lord—what else could you have done? She was of an age where she needed to see her jehana… even one such as Electra.”
“Oh no…I could have refused. I should have. And now you tell me Aislinn tried to slay you?”
Donal was moved to offer any sort of reassurance, though the transgression was serious enough. He could not bear to see a man who was so strong be overcome by the plotting of his treacherous wife. “My lord—at least she failed.”
Carillon was not amused by the purposeful mildness of the statement. “This time. But if it is true she was ensorceled, who is to say she will not try again?”
Donal drew in a careful breath. Deliberately he kept his tone light, seemingly offhand. “There is a way. I could determine if the ensorcelment is still in effect.”
“How?”
“Let me take her to the Keep. Let my su’fali go into her mind.”
Carillon’s brows drew down. “Why Finn? Why not you? I know you have the power.”
“I have tried,” Donal said gently. “There is a barrier there, the residue of someone else’s presence.”
“A trap-link?” Carillon demanded at once. “Do you say Tynstar has touched my daughter through Electra?”
“That—that is better left to Finn to determine.”
“Then we shall let him,” Carillon rasped, “but only on one condition.”
Donal stared. “You speak of conditions when this may be your daughter’s sanity?”
“When I am forced to. And you force me, Donal.” Carillon was unsmiling. “I set you a task. A simple task, for a Cheysuli.” Suddenly, the smile was there. “Finn could do it. He has done it. That Duncan could have, I do not doubt. And now it is your turn.” He laughed. “Are you not their blood and bone?”
Legacy of the Sword Page 10