Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  He tried to regulate his breathing. He tried to hoard his waning strength. Lir-shape was gone, he knew; he was in too much pain to hold either form. But it would do little good if he could. With the wall shut, even a wolf or falcon would know captivity.

  He felt the sweat of pain drip off his face. He shut his eyes and waited.

  * * *

  “Donal.”

  A band of dull pain cinched his brow like a fillet of heavy iron. His lip bled from where he had bitten it. He tasted the salt-copper tang. Sweat ran down his face; no more the dampness of fear.

  He dared not open his mouth, even to ease his lip, or he would disgrace himself.

  “Donal.” It was Carillon’s voice, from where he stood at his bedside. “Donal—Finn is here.”

  His eyes snapped open. Through a haze of fever and pain he saw Finn come into the room. “Su’fali,” he whispered hoarsely, “tell them no, tell them no—” He shifted against the bedclothes, trying to outdistance the pain. “Su’fali, tell them no. They want to take my arm.”

  Carillon looked at Finn compassionately, but tension was in his tone. “The bones are badly broken. And the burns—they could poison him in three days.”

  “You cannot take his arm.” Finn moved toward the bed with Storr padding at his side. “You know better, Carillon.”

  “What do I know? That foolishness about a maimed warrior not being a useful man?” Carillon thrust out his twisted hands. “See you these? I am crippled, Finn—but I rule Homana still!”

  Finn bent over his nephew. “A maimed warrior cannot fight. He cannot hunt. He cannot tend his pavilion. He cannot protect his woman or his children. He cannot protect himself.” He felt Donal’s burning brow. “You know all this, Carillon—I was the one who told you. A maimed warrior cannot serve his clan, nor can he serve the prophecy. He is useless to his people.”

  Carillon stood at the bedside. He was trembling. Donal saw it in his hands, in his face; in the rigidity of his spine. The grayish pallor of shock was slowly replaced with the flush of rising anger. “You threaten that very prophecy by sentencing him to death.”

  “I sentence Donal to nothing. I will heal him. Is that not why you sent for me?”

  “And if the healing does not work?” Carillon challenged. “Occasionally it does not.”

  “Occasionally, when the gods see fit to deny it.” Finn did not spare a glance for the lord he had once so loyally served. “Donal—what happened?”

  His arm pained. “Carillon took me to the Womb of the Earth,” he said breathlessly. “He left me there. I—gave myself up to the gods. But someone came. Someone—came at me with the torch. I—fell.” He shut his eyes a moment. “When I could, I took lir-shape, but—I could not control the fall. I—could not—fly properly. And so—I hit the wall.”

  Finn nodded. He glanced around for a stool, found one, hooked it over with a booted foot. In the light from a dozen candles, the gold of his lir-bands gleamed. “Nothing more,” he said quietly, sitting down upon the stool. “Nothing more until I am done, and the arm is whole again.” Briefly he smiled. “Shansu, Donal…I will take the pain away.”

  “Ru’shalla-tu,” Donal said weakly. May it be so.

  He closed his eyes. He felt the encouragement of both his lir and the presence of Storr as well. Finn did not touch him—he merely sat on the stool and looked at Donal—but after a moment his eyes went opaque and detached. The yellow was swallowed by black.

  Donal drifted. He was bodiless, bound by nothing but the pain. It flared and died, pulsing in time with his heart; he wondered if they were linked. But then, slowly, he felt the pain diminish, and the beating stopped altogether.

  Am I dead? he wondered briefly, and found he did not care.

  Floating—

  —painlessness swallowed him.

  * * *

  Donal slept for three days following the healing, and on the fourth he got out of bed. In dressing he discovered there was no pain in his healed arm, no stiffness in the bone. Only new flesh, too pink against the sunbronzing of older skin.

  Shall we come with you? Lorn inquired as Donal tugged on his boots.

  No. I only go to see Carillon.

  Taj, fluffed to twice his size as he hunched on his perch, emitted a single permissive sound. Lorn yawned, stretched, then rose to seek out a warmer place in Donal’s bed. Wolflike, he turned three times in place before settling down. Lirlike, he thanked Donal for his leftover warmth.

  Donal went at once to Carillon’s private solar to speak of what had happened, and found Finn and Alix there as well. He had vague memories of them standing at his bedside, discussing the state of his health; he recalled also that he had tried, once, to tell them to go away, so he could get some sleep. He had slept, but he did not know if they had heeded his suggestion.

  Alix sat on a three-legged stool before the fireplace, indigo skirts spread around her feet as she nursed a goblet of hot wine; Donal could see the faintest breath of steam rising from the surface. Finn sat in a deep-silled casement, silhouetted against the sunlight and framed by chiseled stone. At his feet lay Storr, eyes shut. Carillon filled a tooled leather chair with his legs stretched out before him. From the tight-drawn look of the flesh around the Mujhar’s eyes, Donal knew he was in pain.

  “One good thing has come of this….” Donal shut the heavy door. “It brought my su’fali back to Homana-Mujhar.”

  Finn swung a booted foot. His smile was very faint. “I said I would come to your wedding. This is not so very premature.”

  “Should you be up?” inquired his mother. “Finn told us you might sleep for days.”

  “I have.” He waved her back down as she started to rise. “And aye, I should be up—or I will take root in that bed.” He scratched idly at the new flesh above and below the heavy golden lir-band on his arm. “Well, at least this way you two aging warriors may speak of old times without a hundred sycophants listening to every word.”

  Carillon shifted in the chair, clutching an armrest with one hand. “Old times can wait. For now, we need to learn precisely what has happened.” He moved into a more upright position, straightening the hunched shoulders. “Gods…when I remember the howling Lorn set up…and Taj would not stop flying around the hall….” He shook his head. “I left you alone in the Womb because that is the way it must be done. Lirless. Absolutely alone. I gave orders for no one to enter the hall. How could anyone have known?”

  “The Womb is not entirely secret,” Finn pointed out. “All Cheysuli know of it—though not precisely where; we are taught about it as children. It is one of the first lessons the shar tahls give us.” He frowned. “Still—I doubt any Homanans would know of it, save yourself. Who else is in this palace?”

  “Oh Finn, you cannot expect us to believe someone from Carillon’s household did this!” Alix shook her head. “They are too loyal to Carillon.”

  “Loyal to Carillon and Homana,” Finn said evenly. “Rank aside, there is a fundamental difference between Carillon and Donal.”

  Alix looked back at him levelly. The sunlight lay full on her face, leaching shadows from planes and angles to give her youth again. Donal could almost see the seventeen-year-old girl Finn had stolen from Carillon, then lost to his older brother.

  But the moment was fleeting; Donal, looking from his mother to his uncle, saw only a warrior and a woman, kin to one another through their father. Hale was in their faces.

  And had it not been for that jehan and Carillon’s foolish cousin, none of us would be here.

  “Foreigners, then.” Carillon scratched at his beard. “Well, there is Gryffth. The Ellasian Lachlan sent me—was it fifteen years ago?” He frowned, plainly shocked to find so much time had passed. “But he is the only foreigner in the palace at the moment. And Gryffth I trust with my life, as well as Donal’s. He helped Duncan and me win Alix free of Tynstar.” Carillon shook his head. “No, not Gryffth.”

  “No,” Finn agreed. One boot heel tapped against the wall.

&nbs
p; Donal perched himself upon the edge of a sturdy table and helped himself to wine. “I could not begin to hazard a guess. I know there are Homanans who would sooner see me something other than Carillon’s heir—and back in the Keep, no doubt—” he shrugged a little, mouth twisted wryly “—but I doubt any of them would wish to have me slain—” Abruptly, he set the wine cup down. “No—perhaps I am wrong. My reception in Hondarth was not precisely—warm.”

  “What are you saying?” Carillon sat upright in his chair. “What have you been keeping from me?”

  Donal saw how attentively Finn and Alix waited for his answer. And so he told them all, briefly, of the confrontation with the Homanan and the manure that had been thrown. “I felt it was not significant enough to tell you,” he said finally to Carillon. “It was—unpleasant—but nothing to fret the Mujhar.” He turned the cup in circles on the wooden tabletop, idly watching how the silver rolled against the satiny hardwood finish. “But—I do begin to see that not all of Homana is reconciled to the ending of the qu’mahlin.”

  “Nor ever will be,” Finn agreed.

  Alix, mute but obviously disturbed, picked worriedly at the nap of her indigo skirts.

  “I am not surprised,” Finn went on calmly. “I think there are many Homanans who care little enough that we exist—there is nothing they can do about that, short of starting another qu’mahlin—but I also think they would actively resist a Cheysuli as Mujhar. And you are next in line.”

  Donal frowned. “But would they try to have me slain?”

  Alix’s mouth was grim as she looked at Finn. “Would they?”

  He shrugged. “It is possible. Shaine’s qu’mahlin was a powerful thing. It bred hatred and fear upon hatred and fear, and fed off violence and ignorance.” He glanced at the Mujhar. “I remember what it was like when Carillon and I came back from Caledon. The purge was over, but there were many Homanans who desired to see me dead.” For the first time a trace of bleakness entered his tone. “We would be wise not to discount the possibility that the qu’mahlin still exists for those who wish it to.”

  “Even now?” Donal demanded. “You and Carillon came back nearly twenty years ago. Time has passed. Things change. People get older and less inclined to violence.” He shrugged. “Perhaps there are some bigots left, but surely not enough to do Homana harm.”

  Finn eyed him. “I am fifty. Old, to your way of thinking, harani. And would you consider me a nonviolent man?”

  Fifty. Donal had not counted up the years lately. To him, Finn was ageless. And certainly never incapable of violence. “No,” he said distinctly, and Finn smiled his ironic smile.

  Carillon rubbed wearily at his brow. “Gods—will it never end? What will happen when I am dead?”

  “When you are dead it will be Donal’s problem.” Finn stretched out one foot and touched the toe of the boot to Storr’s left ear. “There is another problem for us to settle before that one comes upon us.”

  “Such as: who tried to murder my son,” Alix said flatly. “Oh, aye, let us turn our attention to that.”

  Donal shook his head. “I saw nothing clearly. Only light, fire—a shape. Someone hooded and cloaked.”

  “Think back,” Finn advised. “Call up the memory. Think what you saw before you fell.”

  “Fire,” Donal repeated, recalling that too clearly. “Flames from the torch. It was thrust at me—I threw up my arm to block it.” He suited action to words. “I was thrown off balance—I stepped back…and fell.” He shuddered, recalling the sensation of weightlessness. “I did not even hear the wall open.”

  “Think again,” Finn said patiently. “You saw a hooded, cloaked figure. Tall? Short? Heavy? Slender?” The toe caressed Storr’s ear, flipping it up and down. “Think of everything you saw—even the bits and pieces. If there is an assassin in this place, he will likely try again.”

  Donal was conscious of their waiting faces, reflecting expectations. He frowned in concentration, summoning up the memory in vivid recollection. “Much shorter than I—even you, su’fali. Slender. The cloak was not a large one. And I remember hands.” He sat up so rigidly he nearly overturned the table. “Hands! The hands upon the torch!” He stared blindly at Finn, seeing only the hands upon the torch. “Slim, pale, delicate hands, clutching a torch that seemed too heavy, too awkward for a man—” He stopped short. Stunned, he turned to Carillon. “My lord—it was a woman—”

  Color drained out of Carillon’s face and left it a bearded deathmask. “By the gods—say it was not Electra—”

  Finn shook his head. “Electra is not here. Believe it—I would know it. The trap-link has bound us forever.”

  Donal still stared at Carillon. “But—what if it were Aislinn—”

  “Oh, Donal, no!” Alix cried as Carillon thrust himself out of his chair.

  “Have you gone mad?” the Mujhar asked hoarsely. “Do you think Aislinn could seek to push you into the Womb of the Earth?”

  “No more than Bronwyn could,” Alix said.

  Donal’s hand, reaching for the goblet, knocked it over abruptly. He heard the dull chime of silver rim against dark hardwood; the sibilant splatter of wine against carpeted floor. But he did nothing to pick up the overturned goblet. Instead, he looked at his mother in something akin to shock.

  “How can we say that?” he asked. “How can we say for certain Bronwyn would never do it?”

  Alix thrust herself up from her stool. “Have you gone mad?” Unconsciously, she echoed Carillon. “She is your sister—”

  “And Tynstar’s daughter, do not forget.” That from Finn, still seated in the casement. “Alix—before you seek Carillon’s knife to throw at me—make yourself think clearly a moment.” He swung his foot again idly. “She is Tynstar’s daughter. Ihlini as well as Cheysuli, no matter what you have done to hide it from her and everybody else. Who can say what Bronwyn is capable of if the Ihlini in her seeks to dominate?”

  “No,” Alix said tautly. “Not Bronwyn, how could she? She is at the Keep.”

  “Not Aislinn,” Carillon said. “Look to another culprit.”

  “Aislinn tried to slay me in Hondarth,” Donal reminded him deliberately, and saw the shock in his mother’s face. “Aye—I did not tell you. It was Electra’s ensorcelment. But who is to say she has not tried it yet again?”

  Carillon thrust a hand in Finn’s direction. “You said he tested her!”

  “I tested her.” Finn slid out of the casement and stood before his Mujhar. “I swear—I tested her. There was an echo—a resonance—I thought I had rid her of it.”

  Donal grimly picked up the fallen goblet and set it straight again. “And if you did not?”

  “If I did not, and she is Tynstar’s weapon, there is yet another test,” Finn said simply. “Let her try again.”

  Donal opened his mouth to protest vehemently, but his intention was overridden by a thin voice raised on the other side of the door. “My lord! My lord! A message for you from the Keep!”

  “Sef,” Donal said, and went to tug open the heavy door.

  Sef nearly fell into the room. His hair was blown back from his face and he breathed as if he had run all the way up three flights of spiraling stairs. “My lord—a message from the Keep. From your meijha.” He paused, caught his breath. “She says your sister is missing. Bronwyn is not at the Keep.”

  Donal heard the swift, indrawn breath from Alix standing behind him. “What else does Sorcha say?” he asked the boy.

  “She says you had better come home to look for Bronwyn. She has been gone since yesterday.”

  Oh—gods…was all Donal could manage in the face of his mother’s fear.

  But it was Finn who had the answer. “Lir-shape,” was all he said. “It will be faster than going by horse.”

  “Wolf-shape, then,” from Alix. “You have no recourse to wings.”

  Lir, Donal called, and led the way out of the solar.

  And behind them, as they left the old man with the boy, Carillon cursed his infirmities.


  * * *

  Five wolves and a falcon fled through sunlight into the shadows of the sunset. Silver Storr and ruddy Finn; ruddy Lorn and grayish Donal ran shoulder to shoulder with Alix, the pale silver wolf-bitch with black-tipped tail. And above them all flew a fleet golden falcon.

  In lir-shape, Donal was aware of an edge to his apprehension. He was frightened for what they might find once they found her; he was worried that they would not find her at all. And if they did not, and she had come at last into a share of her father’s powers, only the gods could say what Bronwyn might do to them all.

  But the edge began to creep out from under his fear and express a new emotion. Anger. Frustration. Impatience and helplessness. And they drove him to the edge of infinity.

  What if I stayed in wolf-shape? he wondered. What happens if a warrior chooses to give up his human form for the other shape he claims?

  Inwardly, he flinched away from the questions. All Cheysuli, male and female alike, were taught that lir-shape was only a temporary guise, borrowed from the earth. In borrowing, the borrower must return that form which is borrowed. Donal had always believed the statement redundant; borrowing something meant it had to be returned, or it was stealing. Even as a child, he had understood the concepts very well.

  But now, so lost within the essence of the shape, he wondered how it could be considered stealing when what he wore was an integral part of his self.

  A lirless Cheysuli is not a man, but a shadow. He dwells in darkness of mind and body. He is driven mad by the loss, and gives himself over to death.

  There was a ritual, of course, because there had to be. Otherwise, the giving over of a life to the gods would be considered suicide, and that was taboo.

  Vines and creepers slashed Donal’s face. A thorn tore at his muzzle, drawing beads of blood. Curving nails dug deeply into the damp, cool soil, gouging furrows and leaving tracks. But the tracks were spoor of the wolf, not the trail of a man.

  He heard himself panting. But how could he be weary? In this shape he had almost endless endurance, because he knew how to pace himself.

  Odors filled his nose. Moist earth, old wood, rotting bark, nearby stream…but mostly he smelled fear. On himself and on the others.