Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  Sef’s eyes were fixed on Donal’s face. “You are—different,” he said gravely. “Never do you make me feel a child. Oh, aye, there are times I deserve chastising, and you deliver it—but never do you treat me as if I were unworthy of courtesy. Others do.”

  Donal smiled. “Maybe it is because I am used to boys asking questions. I have a son, you see, though he lacks ten of your years.”

  “A—son?” Sef sat more upright. “But—I thought you were to wed the princess!”

  “I am. But I have a Cheysuli meijha, and she has given me a son.” He glanced back at the pavilion, wishing to go back in so he could join again in the link with Finn.

  “I didn’t know that.” Sef’s brows drew down in a frown.

  Donal smiled. “Does it matter? You are still my sworn man, are you not?”

  “What of your son?”

  “He is too young yet. Ian has years before he can serve me as you do.” He pulled Sef to his feet. “If the pavilion is too close for you, or you feel too frightened to enter, wait here. I will be out when I can.” He released Sef’s wrist, but as he did he felt something soft and supple against his fingers. “What is this?” he asked, peeling back Sef’s sleeve.

  It was a narrow bracelet of feathers bound around Sef’s wrist. Brown and gold and black.

  Sef jerked his wrist away and covered up the band with his other hand. “A—charm.” Color blazed into his face. “Protection against strong magic.” His eyes flicked toward the pavilion. “I was—afraid. When—when I was given time of my own to spend as I wished, I went into the city. I—found an old woman who makes charms and love-spells.” He shrugged defensively. “I said I was afraid of the Cheysuli, and she gave me this.” He exposed the feathered band briefly as the color ran out of his face. “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “Only if you paid her all the coin I gave you,” Donal said wryly. “Did you?”

  Sef’s eyes widened. “Oh no! Do you think I’m a fool? I only gave her half of it.”

  Donal tried not to laugh and did not entirely succeed. “Well enough, you drove a good bargain. But Mujharan prices are higher than those in Hondarth, I will wager.” He squeezed Sef’s shoulder. “There is no need for the charm. Shall I take it from your wrist?”

  “No—” Sef took a single backward step. “No,” he said more quickly. “I know you would never hurt me,” he muttered, “but what of all the others?”

  Donal shook his head and sighed. “There is much for you to learn, I see. Well enough, keep your ward-spell and know yourself safe from Cheysuli ‘sorcery.’” He turned to re-enter the pavilion, then glanced back. “You may stay here or wander, as you like. But it will be best that you do not come in again.”

  Blood came and went in Sef’s face. “No, my lord. I won’t.”

  Donal pulled aside the flap and went back inside the tent.

  Aislinn, he saw, was slumped over, held limply in Finn’s arms. He bent down at once to take her.

  “No,” Finn said. “She will be well enough. It is only the aftermath.” Strain had etched new lines in his dark face. Like Carillon, he had once been touched by Tynstar, and it showed occasionally in his appearance and slowed reflexes. But Finn, unlike Carillon, had not lost so many years. “It was—difficult.”

  Donal knelt down quickly. “Is she all right? Did you destroy the trap-link?”

  Finn frowned. “There was no trap-link, not as I know them. There was something, aye—you saw it as well as I—but not of Tynstar’s doing. And I think Electra, even using what arts Tynstar taught her, is not capable of setting one herself. But she did work some form of magic on Aislinn. There was an echo, a residue of—something. I could not catch it all…it was too elusive. And once the boy broke your portion of the link…” Finn shrugged, cupping Aislinn’s lolling head as if she were an infant. “I do believe Aislinn was somehow ensorceled to carry out Electra’s plans, but I think I have ended that.”

  “I hope you are certain, su’fali,” Donal said dryly. “I think I would be disinclined to wed a woman who wishes to see me slain.”

  Finn grinned. “I do not doubt Aislinn has personal reasons for viewing you with some disfavor—having known Homanan women before—but I hardly think you need worry about a knife in the back in your nuptial bed.” Then the humor slipped away. “Who is that boy?”

  “A foundling. He was in Hondarth alone, living in the streets and eating what he could find.” Donal shrugged. “He begged to come with me when I had done him a service, and so I let him come. Why? Do you think he may really be your son?”

  Finn flicked him a glance from half-lidded eyes. “I will not discount the possibility.”

  Donal sat back on his heels. “You do think he is—”

  “I said: I would not discount the possibility.” Finn repeated firmly. “That does not mean I claim he is.”

  “No,” Donal conceded. He chewed at the inside of his left cheek. “But—why should you think so? Burned dark, he might be one of us—but he lacks the yellow eyes.”

  “So does Alix. So do many of our halflings.” Finn shrugged. “Perhaps he is mine, perhaps he is another’s. There is definitely something familiar about him, but I think it does not matter.”

  “Not matter!” Donal stared at him in surprise. “How can you be so callous?”

  Finn’s black brows lifted. “I will force paternity on no one, Donal. And he did not seem over fond of the Cheysuli.”

  “He has not had a chance to know us. Given time—”

  “Given time, he may find himself content to be your man.” Finn smiled. “Not a liege man, perhaps, but a loyal companion. And I think you are in need of one.”

  “I have my lir. They are more than enough.”

  “Aye. But you will also have Aislinn.” Finn looked down on the sleeping princess in his arms. “Odd, how she resembles both and neither of her parents. It is the coloring, I think—strip the red from her hair and make it blond, and she is nearly Electra come again.”

  Donal reached out and touched Aislinn’s hair, smoothing it against her scalp. She looked younger as she slept, but she was no longer a little girl. “No. Not Electra. Perhaps she has the features, but none of the witch’s ways.” He sighed and took his hand away.

  “Donal.” Finn’s tone was oddly serious, for a man who only infrequently sought decorum. “I know what you face, now that you must wed her. But you are Duncan’s son, and I know you have the strength.”

  “Do I?” Donal looked again at Aislinn. “I am not my jehan, much as I long to be more like him. And I could not begin to say if I share his dedication.”

  “He was born with that no more than any man,” Finn said. “He learned it because he had to. So will you.” He nodded toward the doorflap. “Go and see your meijha. You owe her a little time.”

  “Aislinn?”

  “I will keep her with me.”

  Donal felt the guilt begin to pain him sorely. “My thanks, su’fali. It is every bit as difficult as you warned me, that day so long ago.”

  The scar writhed as Finn’s jaw tightened. “I am not your jehan, nor can ever be. But I would give you what aid I can. It is only that eventually you must bear the weight yourself.” Again he motioned with his head. “Go and see your meijha. I will give you what time I can.”

  Donal stepped outside the pavilion, glad to feel the fresh air again, and found his sister in deep conversation with Sef. In all excitement of having Aislinn tested by Finn, he had forgotten Bronwyn entirely. He had not seen her for longer than he cared to admit. But then, he put her from his mind as often as he could.

  No. Not Bronwyn. What Bronwyn could become.

  She turned as he stepped out. She resembled their mother mostly, with Alix’s amber eyes and lighter complexion, but her hair was Cheysuli black.

  Or Ihlini black. In that she could take after Tynstar.

  Donal shut off the thought at once. He could not clearly recall precisely how or when his mother had told him Bronwyn was not Duncan’s daughter,
but another man’s entirely. And neither was he Cheysuli, but Tynstar himself. Tynstar of the Ihlini. No, Donal could not recall the words, but he could all too easily summon up the disbelief and astonishment he had felt.

  That, and the fear.

  One day, she will learn what powers she claims. She will begin to play with them….

  He did not want to think of that day. It had been fifteen years since Alix had escaped from Tynstar’s lair bearing the sorcerer’s child in her belly. Bronwyn as yet had shown no signs of Ihlini powers, but she had been increasingly moody lately. The lir themselves had been unable to predict when she might come to know her powers; all they could discern in her was the Cheysuli blood she claimed from her mother’s side, as if Alix’s Old Blood were canceling out that of the Ihlini. No one but Alix, Finn, Carillon, Sorcha and himself knew the girl’s true paternal heritage, not even Bronwyn herself. But it was possible her father’s legacy might wake in her at any time, and so they watched her more closely each day.

  She wore a gown of deepest purple trimmed with wine-red yarn in a linked pattern of animals. Birds and bears and cats promenaded at collar and cuffs. The front of her skirts was hooked over the tops of her leather boots, as if she had been running. As it was Bronwyn, she probably had been. She rarely ever walked.

  She is wild. So wild. Someone else might say it was the recklessness of girlhood. But—I cannot help but wonder if there is more to it than that.

  “Rujho.” Bronwyn smiled at him, exposing even white teeth in a face darker than Sef’s but lighter than her brother’s. “I came to see you, not knowing you were busy. Sef told me what you sought to do.” Her smile faded. “Is Aislinn all right?”

  “Aislinn is fine. Whatever was there does not seem to be permanent.” He glanced at Sef. “I assume the introductions have been concluded?”

  “I told her my name,” Sef answered. “Should I have said more?”

  “Not unless there is more.”

  Sef looked back at Bronwyn. Donal, having seen young boys impressed with girls before, hid a smile. He had the distinct feeling that Sef, if Bronwyn were interested, would spill more of his life to her than to anyone else, including the Prince of Homana.

  “Then I leave you in companionship to one another,” he told them. “I have private business now.”

  “With Sorcha?” Bronwyn asked as he turned to go.

  Donal abruptly turned back. Bronwyn as well as anyone in the Keep knew what he shared with Sorcha. She knew also he was betrothed to Aislinn; it was common knowledge in the clans. But Bronwyn was Aislinn’s friend, and he did not doubt she felt conflicting loyalties nearly as much as he did, if in a different way.

  “Aye, with Sorcha,” he said at last. “Bronwyn—you will give Aislinn what comfort you can—?”

  Bronwyn lifted her head. She had pulled her hair back in a manner too severe for her young face, braided very tightly and entirely bound with purple yarn. The color was striking on her, but it reminded him of the Ihlini. It reminded him of Tynstar, and the lurid fire he summoned from the air.

  “Aislinn loves you,” Bronwyn told him. “When we are together—here or at the palace—she tells me how you make her feel.” Abruptly she looked away, embarrassed. “Donal—I know what there is between meijha. and warrior…but I do not think Aislinn does. The Homanans do not share.”

  Donal flicked a glance at Sef. The boy listened, but he did so from behind a tactful mask. That much he had learned of royal customs.

  “Aislinn must learn,” Donal said finally, knowing he sounded colder than he felt; not knowing how else to sound. “You learned. Meghan learned.”

  “Meghan and I were born of the clans.” Bronwyn’s voice was pitched low, as if she recalled Aislinn inside the tent. “There is a difference.”

  Donal turned to face her directly. “You are nearly Aislinn’s age. And you and Meghan know her better than anyone. Tell me what you would do in Aislinn’s place.”

  Bronwyn clearly had never considered it. She looked thoughtful, then shrugged and spread her hands. Her expression was deeply troubled. “I have been taught a warrior may have both meijha and cheysula. It is difficult for me to think of it differently. But—I have heard how Aislinn speaks of you, and how she dreams of the wedding and the marriage—” Bronwyn stopped short as anguish filled her eyes. “Oh rujho, be gentle with her. I think she will never understand.”

  “Oh, gods…” he said aloud, and then he turned and left them both.

  * * *

  He went straight to the pavilion he shared with Sorcha without paying much attention to how he got there. He was distantly aware of the normal sounds of the Keep—children laughing, babies crying, a woman singing, a crow calling—and myriad other noises. The Keep had stood so long the ground underfoot was beaten flat, fine as flour. Grass grew only in patches beneath the trees. The wall was a gray-green serpent snaking through the trees, showing a flank of stone. Donal smelled roasting meat.

  And then he stood before the slate-gray pavilion he had adorned with silver paint; running wolf and flying falcon. The breeze caused the oiled fabric to billow as he pulled aside the doorflap, then passed through and set the firecairn to smoking. Blue-gray, it flowed through the interior like thin, insidious fog.

  “Sorcha?” He let the flap settle behind him.

  A slim hand caught the edge of the tapestry curtain dividing the sleeping area from the front section of the pavilion. He saw Sorcha’s face as she pulled the curtain back, and the hugeness of her belly.

  “Gods,” he said in surprise, having lost track of the months upon sight of her. “Are you certain you will not burst?”

  Sorcha laughed, splaying one hand across her swollen belly. “No more than I did the last time.”

  Donal crossed to her, kissed her tenderly. “Where is Ian?” His hands went to her unbound hair and smoothed it back from her face.

  “Meghan has him. I sent him out with her, to give me a little peace. Bronwyn wanted to, but—” She broke off. He knew what she would not say, because she had no wish to hurt him. And he did not blame her for her growing distrust of his sister. None of them could afford to trust too much to an Ihlini, no matter how she was raised.

  Except for my jehana.

  A brief grimace of pain cut across Sorcha’s face. She placed a hand against the small of her back. “A boy, I think. Again. And soon. Very soon.”

  “How soon?” He was alarmed by the pallor of her face. Beneath his questing hand he felt the contraction in her belly. “Sorcha—the baby comes already!”

  “Oh, aye…impatient little warrior, is he not?” Her smile wavered. “Different from Ian. Different from the first unfortunate boy.” She grimaced. “I think—I think perhaps I had best lie down after all. Help me—?”

  He guided her down onto the pallet of pelts they shared. Sorcha’s tawny hair spread against the fur of a ruddy fox; he pulled a doeskin mantle over her and pushed a folded bearskin beneath her back for support. “Should I fetch my jehana?”

  “Not yet,” she answered breathlessly. “Soon. But I want to share you with no one for at least a little while.” Her eyes were green. Half Homanan, Sorcha showed no Cheysuli blood. But she had been born and raised in the clan, and her customs were all Cheysuli. “Aislinn is here,” she said.

  There was bitterness in her tone, and an underlying hostility. Never had he heard either from her before. He would have questioned her about it, but he saw how her face stretched taut with effort. Her hand clung to his as he knelt beside the pallet.

  “Aislinn is here,” she repeated, and this time he heard fear.

  “Aye. Aislinn is here.” He had never lied to her before; he would not begin now. No more than he would with Aislinn.

  “Does she know about me?”

  “She knows.”

  Sorcha smiled a little. “Proud, defiant warrior, close-mouthed as can be…letting no one see what goes on inside your head or your heart. But I know you, Donal.” The tension in her face eased as the contra
ction receded. “I can imagine how difficult it was to find the words.”

  “Now is not the time to speak of Aislinn.” He stroked her hand with his thumb.

  “Tell me what you told her.”

  “Sorcha—”

  “Tell me what you said.”

  He brushed hair out of his face. The urgency in her tone worried him. “Gods, Sorcha—this is nonsense…there are better times to speak of this—”

  “No better time.” Her fingers were locked on his hand. “I have borne you two sons and now perhaps another. I would bear you more willingly; I would do anything you asked me to.” She swallowed visibly. “But I will not give you up. I will not let you be swallowed up by that witch’s Homanan daughter.”

  “Sorcha—you are half Homanan,” he reminded her mildly.

  Sweat glistened at her temples. “And I would open my veins if I thought it would purge me of my Homanan blood. I would cut off a hand if I thought it would relieve me of the taint. But it would not—it would not—and all I can do is look at my son and thank the gods he has so little Homanan in him.” She sucked in a breath against the pain. “Gods, Donal—I hate the Homanan in me! I would trade anything to claim myself all Cheysuli—”

  “But you cannot.” He had never heard her speak so vehemently, so bitterly or with a spirit so filled with prejudice. It seemed as if the pains bared her soul. “Meijha, do you forget there is Homanan in me as well?”

  “Gods!” she cried. “It is not the same with you. You are the chosen—you are the one we have waited for—you are the one with the proper blood who will take the Lion from Homana and give it back to the Cheysuli—” She shut her mouth on a cry of pain and bit deeply into her lip. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his hand. “Oh Donal, do you see? You will leave us all behind. You will turn your back on your clan. They will make you into a toy for the Homanans—” Sorcha writhed against the pallet. “Never forget you are Cheysuli. Never forget you are a warrior. Never forget who sired you…and do not allow the witch’s daughter to turn you against your heritage with her Homanan ways—”