Donal regarded him suspiciously. “What would you have me do?”
“Take the sword from me.” Carillon laughed again. “Win back your grandsire’s sword!”
“From you?” Donal shook his head. “Carillon, I could not. More than one realm knows what a renowned fighter you are. The harpers sing lays about you—I recall Lachlan’s Song of Homana even if you do not! I would be a fool to try.”
“A fool not to.” Carillon beckoned with two of his twisted fingers. “Come, Donal…take this Cheysuli sword from the hand of a Homanan.”
Donal swore beneath his breath. And then, invoking what skills he had learned from Finn and other warriors, he moved in against the blade. He ignored the bite of steel, concentrating instead on the surprise in Carillon’s eyes, and lifted a flexed forearm against the flat of the blade in a quick, chopping motion. And then, even as Carillon subtly shifted position to try another attack, Donal hooked a leg around his ankles and jerked him to the ground.
“My lord—!” It was Rowan, moving from his place by the door, until Donal stopped him with an outthrust hand.
“Do you want the same?” he asked. “This is between Carillon and me.”
“Donal—you do not know—”
“I know well enough!” Donal retorted. “He goaded me into this…let him reap what seed he sows.”
Slowly, Carillon hitched himself up on one elbow, wincing and swearing. He glared up at Donal. After a moment he stopped cursing and nodded absently. “Perhaps it is not so necessary for you to learn a sword after all. You are dangerous enough with nothing.”
Donal felt a pang of guilt and concern as he looked down upon the Mujhar. He saw again how twisted were the callused hands. “Carillon, I did not mean—”
“I care naught for what you meant, or did not mean!” Carillon’s shout was undiminished even by his undignified sprawl upon the stones. “Never apologize for downing your enemy. I might have slain you with that sword; instead, you disarmed me.” He smiled. “As I ordered.”
Donal bent down. “Here—take my hand—”
“Tend your wound, Cheysuli,” Carillon said crossly. “You are bleeding, and I am old enough to know how to find my feet.” He found them, pushing himself up from the floor, but he could not entirely hide a sharp grimace of pain.
Donal put a hand to his abdomen and felt the slice in the leather as well as the blood seeping through. The wound did not appear to be deep, but it hurt. Still, he shrugged. “It is nothing. Of no account. Honor enough, in itself.” He grinned, relieved to see Carillon standing before him, apparently all of a piece. “It is a scar gotten from Homana’s Mujhar, and a token of accomplishment. I am still alive. How many others can claim that after a confrontation with you?”
Carillon eyed him suspiciously. “You have a facile tongue. You must have got it from Alix.”
Donal smiled innocently. “My jehana taught me only reverence for royalty, my lord Mujhar.”
Carillon muttered something beneath his breath and gestured to the Cheysuli sword lying on the ground. “You may at least return my weapon to me. I may have need of more practice—for our next meeting.”
Donal, laughing, bent and grasped the sword by its blade. He ceremoniously offered it hilt-first to Carillon, making a solemn production out of the gesture. The Mujhar reached out to take it with a muttered oath. His mouth twisted in a grimace of acknowledgment, but before his fingers closed on the hilt, he froze.
“The ruby!” The shocked outcry came from Rowan.
Instantly Donal glanced down at the stone set so deeply in the prongs of the pommel. And then he lost his smile.
Like the stare of an unblinking serpent, the Mujhar’s Eye glared back at him. But no longer was it the tainted black of Ihlini sorcery. It glowed a rich blood-red.
He felt a frisson of fear and shock. “It was black—it has always been black—”
“No,” Carillon said hoarsely. “Before I plunged it into the purple flames of Tynstar’s sorcery, it was red as the blood in my veins. Do you see? That is a Cheysuli ruby, Donal, set there by your grandsire’s hand. Whole and unblemished, as it was meant to be, until tainted by Ihlini sorcery.”
As Carillon closed his hand on the hilt, Donal released the blade at once. And the ruby turned black again.
“No—” Donal blurted.
“Aye.” Carillon’s voice was hoarse, uneven. “By the gods—I understand it.” His eyes, rising to meet Donal’s, were filled with sudden comprehension. “I know now what Finn meant when he explained it to me.”
“Explained what?”
Carillon gestured. “How a Cheysuli sword knows the hand of its master. How it will serve well any man who wields it, because it must, but comes to life only in the hands of the warrior it was meant for. Do you not know your own legends?”
Donal stared in horrified fascination at the black stone in the golden hilt with its rampant Homanan lion. “I—have heard. But never have I seen the story proven—”
“Then look upon it, Donal. This sword was made for you.”
Slowly, Donal shook his head from side to side. “Oh, I think not…I think not. I am Cheysuli, and we do not deal with swords.”
“A Cheysuli made it…as once your race made the finest swords in the world, though none of the warriors would use them.” Carillon nodded. “Finn taught me much of the Cheysuli, Donal, and—once, for a very little while—I was Cheysuli myself.” He shrugged at Donal’s twitch of startled disbelief. “You do not yet understand, but you will. There will come a time—” He shook his head quickly. “Never mind. What we speak of now is how this sword was made for you.”
“No.” It came a burst of involuntary sound, but he knew no other answer. “Not—mine. It is yours.”
Carillon turned the sword in the candlelight, so the flames ran down the blade and set the runes afire. “Do you see? I know you read Cheysuli Old Tongue. Decipher these runes for me.”
Donal looked at them. He saw the figures wrought in the shining steel. He saw them clearly enough to read them, and then he drew back once more. “I will not.”
“Donal—”
“I cannot!” he shouted. “Are you blind? You tell me my grandsire made this sword for me while knowing what would happen, and I dare not acknowledge what it means.”
“The runes, Donal. I can have them read by another. I would rather you read them to me.”
He took yet another step back. “Do you not see? If that sword were truly made for me, it means I must succeed you. And I am not certain I can!”
“Why can you not?” Carillon, stricken, stared at him over the shining sword. “Do you say I have chosen the wrong man?”
Donal clapped both hands over his face. “No, oh no, not the wrong man—the right man!” His voice was muffled behind his palms. “But how am I to follow you? After all that you have done?” Donal stripped the black hair back from his face. “Gods, Carillon, you are a legend by which all men measure themselves. And you are living! Can you imagine how they will measure me when you are gone?”
Carillon’s aging face lost its color. “It is that, then. You fear you cannot live up to your predecessor.”
“Aye.” Donal sighed and let his hands drop down to slap against his thighs. “Gods—who could? You are Carillon.”
“I do not want that!” Carillon cried. “Gods, Donal, be yourself! Do not think about what others would have you be.”
“How not? There is nothing else I can do.” Donal caught his breath. The sparring session had sapped even more of his strength. The chamber wavered a little. He shoved a forearm against his brow to wipe the sweat away. “Surely you must see it, Carillon. Surely you must hear it. How they worship you even as they curse the heir you chose.”
“Curse you—”
“Aye.” Donal’s throat was dry. His voice scraped through the hoarseness. “There are times I almost hate myself. I play the polished plate and reflect the things they see. Cheysuli. Arrogant. Believing myself better than any Homana
n. And yet even as they mutter to one another how I will be given the Lion instead of earning it, I wonder if I am worthy of your trust.” He looked into the older man’s face. “Gods, Carillon—there are times I want nothing more than to turn my back on you, so I can keep a piece of myself.”
“No,” Carillon said hollowly. “Do not think of it. Without you, there is nothing.”
Donal raised both hands briefly and let them slap down at his sides. “The shar tahls say it is my tahlmorra to accept the Lion from you. But—I would sooner accept nothing from my jehan.”
Carillon flinched visibly. Donal saw it and realized he had hurt the man, though he had not intended to. He would not hurt Carillon for the world, not intentionally. And yet there were times he felt his very presence hurt him, because he knew himself living testimony to Carillon’s failure to produce a legitimate son of his own flesh and blood.
“I care nothing for what others may think of you,” Carillon said. “They are fools. Homanan I may be, but I am not blind. I spent too many years with Finn to disbelieve in tahlmorra and a man’s place within the tapestry of the gods.” One corner of his mouth twitched in an effort to steady his voice. “There was a time Duncan himself told me how he longed to turn his back on his tahlmorra so he could share his life with his son. But his dedication was such that he could not ignore what lay before him, and so he met Tynstar and died. But—you should not judge yourself by others, Donal. Never.”
Insecurity suddenly overcame him. “I know I can never be what they would have me be. I am not you.”
“Be Donal,” Carillon said. “By the gods, you will be the first Cheysuli Mujhar in four hundred years!”
“Aye,” Donal agreed. “I will have your throne one day. That is more than enough. I will not take your sword.”
“But it is yours. Yours, Donal. You must accept it now.” Carillon held it out.
Donal took a single step away. “No. Not yet.”
“Do you deny your grandsire’s wishes?”
“Aye.” Donal stared at the runes. The runes that beckoned him; the runes he had to deny. And do I deny the power?
Carillon drew in a raspy breath. “Then—if not now…will you accept it at your acclamation?” The Mujhar smiled a little. “Shaine gave me this sword upon my acclamation as Prince of Homana. Surely you could accept it then.”
“No.” Yet another step away. “Carillon—I have no wish to strip you of your power. One day there will be no choice, but for now there is. And I have made it.”
Carillon’s eyes, staring down at the blackened ruby, were bleak in his care-worn face. It was the face of a man who sees his own ending, when he has only just gotten past his beginning. It was the face of a man who recognizes his tahlmorra and all the futility and insignificance of his presence within the palm of the gods. The face of a man who, when confronted with his chosen successor, knows that successor was already chosen long before.
The Mujhar looked at Rowan. “It is Donal,” he said clearly. “It is Donal, after all.” He laughed, but the sound was the sound of bittersweet discovery. “For all Finn and Duncan told me how important I was to the prophecy, it does not come down to me at all.” Slowly, he shook his head. “To Donal. I am only the caretaker of this realm…until another’s time has come.”
Donal, mounted on his chestnut, watched sidelong as Carillon mounted his own gray stallion. Tall as he was, he seemed to have trouble reaching up to the stirrup. But he mounted. With less grace than Donal had witnessed before, perhaps, but Carillon got himself into the saddle.
The Mujhar let go a short breath of effort completed and squinted in the morning sunlight, glancing over at Donal. “You look somewhat done in. Did you resort to the wine jug last night?”
Donal, who had resorted to nothing but his own imaginings following the confrontation with Carillon in the practice chamber, shook his head a little. “No. I did not sleep.”
Carillon’s silvering brows rose. “Did not—or could not?”
Donal grunted. “One and the same, last night.”
The Mujhar nodded. “Neither did I.” He glanced across Donal’s mount to the smaller bay horse beyond, its rider nearly out of earshot. “So, you bring your new servant along.”
Donal drew rein as his horse fidgeted, stomping one hoof against the cobbles of the bailey. Automatically he looked for Lorn, concerned for his welfare, but the wolf waited at some distance from the horses. Taj perched upon the bailey wall.
“Now is as good a time as any for Sef to see what a Keep is,” Donal told Carillon. “But where is Aislinn?”
“Delaying for as long as she can,” Carillon said dryly. “She wants no part of this.”
“She said she was willing before.”
“Aye. Before.” Carillon was unsmiling. “Before she knew aught of Sorcha and the boy.”
Donal felt the clenching of his belly. “Then—she told you how she found out.”
“Aye. She was—less than happy about it.” Carillon looked directly at his heir. “We have never played games with each other, Donal—we knew one day it would come to this. Even when you and Sorcha grew close—you knew.”
Carillon, Donal knew, did not precisely accuse. But he was Aislinn’s father and, though he understood Cheysuli customs better than any Homanan, no doubt he felt the relationship between Donal and his Cheysuli meijha was an insult to his daughter.
Donal drew in a deep breath that was just the slightest bit unsteady. “I—know. As you say, there have been no games. And I mean no offense even now…surely you must see that.”
“I see it.” Carillon shifted in his saddle, as if his muscles pained him. “Donal—I care deeply for my daughter. I would not have her hurt. But neither do I wish to trespass on Cheysuli customs.” He stared down at his twisted hands as he clutched reins and saddlebow. “Aislinn said she wished to break off the betrothal. In the face of her tears and tattered pride, I had to refuse her, of course…I had no choice.”
“No doubt it is difficult for a jehan to deny his child anything he or she wants.” Donal made his answer as judicious as he could.
Carillon’s smile was slightly sardonic. “Aye. And, soon enough, I doubt not you will learn it for yourself. Ian is of an age to exert his needs and desires.”
“I am sorry, Carillon,” Donal said wretchedly. “I would spare her as much pain and heartache as I could, were there another way.”
“I know that. But—I think there will come a day when you find you must make a choice.” He gestured with a nod of his head toward the marble steps. “And here is my tardy daughter.” Carillon motioned for one of the stable lads to lead the dun-colored mare forward.
Aislinn’s shining hair was plaited tightly, then doubled up and bound with green woolen yarn. The knot of bright hair hung over one brown-cloaked shoulder. Her dark green skirts were kilted up for ease of riding, and her legs were booted to the knees. With the grace of youth she mounted, unaffected in her movements, and gathered in her reins. Like most Homanan women, she disdained a sidesaddle and rode astride.
She glanced sidelong at Donal. He saw how red-rimmed the eloquent eyes were, as if she had cried the night through; her face was a little swollen and her mouth did not hold a steady line. But her pert nose with its four golden freckles was lifted toward the sky. “Do we go? Let us get this travesty over.”
Donal, despite the haughty words, sensed her unhappiness clearly. Aislinn was a young girl, badly frightened by what she faced, and resorted to what attitude she could in an effort to control her fear. He understood it. He had done it himself.
Her horse was close to his own. He leaned out of the saddle slightly and caught the back of her neck, squeezing gently. “You will do well enough.”
Her demeanor seemed less arrogant. “Will I?” she whispered. “Gods…I am so afraid—”
“Fear has its proper place—or so I am told.” He released her and reined his stallion around. “But I think there is little need for it in the Keep.”
“But
—it is Finn—”
“He is the last warrior you should fear. That much I promise you.”
Aislinn’s hands, gloved in supple amber-dyed leather, tightened on her reins. The dun mare crowded Donal’s chestnut. “Then I hold you to your promise.”
“If you wish, I will go in with Finn. You have felt my touch before. There is little I can do, lacking the necessary experience, but I can monitor what he does.” Donal shrugged. “Would it lend you some reassurance?”
Her gray eyes, pale as water, studied him a long moment. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. He saw the twisting of her mouth. “Aye. I want you there as well.”
He pushed the mare’s mouth away from his knee before her metal bit could bang against him painfully. “Then I will be there.”
But her fear remained. He could see it.
“Let us go,” Carillon said. “Sooner done, is it done with.” He gathered his reins and spurred the gray stallion about. But before he could go, Rowan called for him from the top of the marble steps.
“My lord—my lord—wait you.” The general ran down the steps rapidly. “Carillon—a courier has come. From Duke Royce in Lestra.” Rowan caught hold of one rein and held back the Mujhar’s horse. “I think, my lord, you had best hear what he has to say.”
At once, Carillon looked at Aislinn. His indecision was manifest. But even as she reined her horse closer to his, preparing to plead her case, he became more decisive. “Aislinn—you will be safe enough with Donal. You have heard what the general has said.”
“You promised to go with me!”
“And now I cannot.” His tone was gentle, but equally inflexible. “Were this testing not so necessary, I would say it could wait for another time. But it cannot, no more than can this courier.” He reached out and caught the crown of her head with one broad hand and cupped his twisted fingers around the dome of her skull. “I am truly sorry, Aislinn…but I know you will be safe with Donal.”
“You give me no choice,” she accused unhappily. “You give me no choice in anything!” Wrenching her mare around, she headed for the gates.
Legacy of the Sword Page 11