Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  Donal cleared his throat. “Lachlan—where is your harp? Have you left your Lady behind?”

  The Ellasian’s blond hair shone in the candlelit room. Unlike Carillon or Finn, he seemed not to have aged at all, save for a fine tracery of lines at the corners of his blue eyes and faint brackets at his mouth. Blond, he was a stranger; Donal recalled him from a time when he had dyed the fair hair dark.

  “No. She is in my chambers. Why?—do you want a lesson?” Lachlan smiled. “When you asked me once before, as a boy, I said you had the hands of a warrior instead of a harper.” He glanced at his own supple hands. “And, as for tonight—surely there will be other things for you to master.”

  Finn’s tone was subtly mocking. “And what have you mastered since last we saw one another?”

  “I?” Lachlan’s handsome face smoothed into a hospitable blankness, while diplomacy ruled his tongue. “I have mastered happiness, Finn…and you?” The tone altered a little. “How is it with you—now that Tourmaline is dead?”

  Donal saw the taut muscles of Finn’s jaw relax just a little. It was shock, he knew; Finn, with most things, was imperturbable. But then no one mentioned his dead cheysula to his face.

  Finn’s face remained expressionless, but only the habitual solemnity of a Cheysuli gave him the control. Donal saw through it quite easily.

  But then the control was released. Donal saw his uncle’s eyes naked for the first time in his life, and the intensity of the pain stunned him.

  Finn looked directly at Lachlan. “Had I to do it over again, I would give her up to you.”

  The High Prince of Ellas was clearly shocked. “Lodhi—why? Torry wanted you. She went with you willingly.”

  The tone of Finn’s voice was hollowed. “You could have kept her alive.”

  Color drained out of Lachlan’s face. His hand, holding a goblet of gold filled with rich red wine, shook enough to make the metal glitter. “But—it was you she wanted. All along. Carillon made it quite clear.”

  “And you she should have taken.” Finn glanced at Donal. “It is—hard to admit it when one has made a mistake. I was too selfish, too proud. Duncan had won Alix—I would not allow Torry also to go to another man when I wanted her for myself. I was—wrong. But the price was exacted from her.”

  “I am sorry,” Lachlan said finally. “I had no right to bring it up. This is not the time for recriminations—I banished those long ago.” Briefly, he smiled. “And I am wed now myself—a lovely woman. She loves me well, and I am content with her.”

  Finn smiled ironically. “Where would you find such a fool as that?”

  Lachlan grinned back, unoffended. “In Caledon, of course, since our realms have made a peace at last. We have two sons.”

  Finn’s mouth hooked down sourly. “Aye, your House runs to boys. How many brothers have you?”

  “Five. And five sisters.” Lachlan laughed at Donal’s startled glance. “Speaking of that: would you care to meet another of Rhodri’s sons?”

  “Who?” Finn asked suspiciously. “Is this one a harper, too?”

  “No. Not even a priest of Lodhi, though he does, when he must, admit to calling upon the All-Wise. Usually when he is in dire need of assistance.” Lachlan turned and gestured. A young man approached: blue-eyed, dark-haired, well-dressed in quiet brown with little jewelry. He moved with Lachlan’s fluid grace. He was not as tall and did not claim the same purity of features, as if they had blurred in him somehow, but he was handsome enough and his mouth was expressively mobile.

  He looked at his brother quizzically; there was a glint in his sleepy eyes. “Aye, my lord High Prince?”

  Lachlan sighed. “This is Evan, my youngest brother. Twenty years divide us, but we are closer than the rest. All the others are dutiful sons; Evan and I are the rebels.” He smiled at his brother. “He decided to come to Homana because he had heard all the lays I sang of Carillon’s exploits. He said he must meet these Cheysuli warriors, to see if the stories were true.”

  Evan executed a graceful bow before a startled Donal. “I must admit I expected something other than civilized behavior from you, my lord. I thought Cheysuli were spawned with tails and fangs.”

  For a moment, Donal thought he meant it. Then he heard the ironic humor in Evan’s tone. He smiled. “Beware your back—when the moon is whole we seek the souls of such men as you.”

  Evan grinned and took the goblet from his brother’s hand, swallowing most of the wine before Lachlan could protest. He handed it back with a challenging smile. Then he nodded at Donal. “She is a lovely bride, my lord.”

  “My name is Donal, and aye—she is.”

  Evan appraised him briefly. “I would drink to your future gladly—had I some wine.”

  Donal lifted his own winecup. “Then we shall go and find some. My cup is drunk quite dry.”

  “And I have none at all,” Evan pointed out.

  They went directly to the nearest trestle table holding all manner of liquor. Donal judiciously stayed with the vintage he had already tasted; Evan, methodically precise, tried four cups before he found the wine he preferred. Then he offered several elaborate toasts in honor of the Prince of Homana and his bride, all spoken in the husky unintelligible language of Homana’s eastern neighbor. Having scorched his throat with the words, Evan returned to Homanan and his wine.

  The Ellasian prince was full of good spirits, sweet wine and dry wit. He was patently unimpressed by Donal’s rank or warrior status; he was too obsessed with having a good time. Donal, accustomed to wary dealings with Homanans disturbed by his shapechanging or turned obsequious because of his rank, found it a novel experience. He relaxed with Evan as he only rarely relaxed with others. They were, he decided, kinspirits, drawn together by mutual liking, respect and circumstances.

  Evan watched the dancers. Donal watched Evan. “Will you inherit the Ellasian throne?”

  Evan burst into laughter, nearly spraying wine all over himself. “I? Never! There are four brothers between Lachlan and myself, and he has two sons. And his wife has conceived again; likely it will be a boy, and I will be farther away from the throne even yet.” He grinned. “Only if war, famine or plague slew all of them, leaving only me, would I inherit Ellas.” He shrugged, sounding insufferably contented with his lot. “I am insignificant within my House. I find I prefer it that way.”

  “Why?” Donal was fascinated.

  “As Lachlan said—I am somewhat a rebel son. Being insignificant leaves me the freedom to be whom I wish and to do what I wish. Within the bounds of reason. Of course, there are times my father forgets the order of my birth—was it fourth? No? Fifth?—but all in all I like it better this way.” His sleepy blue eyes were shrewd behind dark lashes. “Lachlan is the heir—you have only to look at him to see what the title means. He far preferred being a priest of Lodhi the All-Father and a simple wandering harper, but he was firstborn, and therefore High Prince of Ellas. Those years he spent with Carillon were his freedom. Now he must be a proper son to our father.”

  Donal looked at Lachlan still in conversation with Finn. “And does he resent it?”

  Evan laughed and quaffed more wine. “Lachlan resents nothing. He has not the darkness in him for that. None of us do.” He grinned and arched an eyebrow. “That is Ellas for you, Donal: a land of laughter and happy people.” His eyes followed the pattern of the dance. “Your wife enjoys herself with countless Homanan nobles. Is it not time you partnered her?”

  “It is customary for the bride to dance with all the men before she dances with her husband.” He shrugged. “Or so I have been told. Dancing is a Homanan custom. I learned because I had to.”

  Evan watched as Aislinn slipped through the pattern. “But she should not have so much freedom just after you have wed. She will think to seek it much too often.”

  Donal regarded him in amusement. “What do you know of women, Evan? You are younger than I.”

  “Twenty,” he said, unoffended. “I know more than you think. Now there is a
lady I would care to know better than I do at the moment.”

  Donal looked. He shook his head at once. “Never Meghan.”

  “Why not?” Evan demanded archly. “Do you think I could not win her?”

  “To win her you would have to win her father…and that you could never do.”

  Evan tossed back a gulp of wine. “In Ellas, I have frequent experiences with fathers. When they know who I am, the thing is always settled.”

  “Finn, I fear, would be less impressed by your rank than with your intentions toward his daughter.”

  Evan’s head turned sharply. “Finn? The Cheysuli?”

  “My su’fali—” Donal smiled. “Uncle, in Homanan.”

  “Then—she is Carillon’s niece—” Evan frowned. “Perhaps I looked too high. Still, she is a pretty thing…no, I think not. Why antagonize Cheysuli or Mujhar?” He tapped his silver cup against his teeth. “What of her?”

  Again, Donal looked. And again, he shook his head. “No.”

  Evan’s brows shot up beneath his dark brown hair. “No? Why say you no? Is she close to the Mujhar?”

  “Closer to me, Ellasian. Bronwyn is my sister.”

  Evan swore in disgust. “Are there no women here who are not kin to royalty?”

  “Very few.” Donal grinned and pushed his cup into Evan’s hands. “I think I will do as you suggest and dance with Aislinn…before you look to her.”

  Before Donal could reach Aislinn, Carillon intercepted him. “Donal—come with me. There are men you should meet.”

  Politics, of course. “I mean to dance with Aislinn.” He thought perhaps an appeal to Carillon’s parental prejudice would delay the need for such discussions.

  Carillon smiled, seeing through the tactic at once. “Aislinn can wait a few moments. These are men you will need to know.” The Mujhar’s hand was on Donal’s arm as he turned him away from the dance floor. “I know, this is your wedding celebration—but you will soon learn that such occasions offer opportunities other times do not.”

  Reluctantly, Donal went with him to the knot of noblemen. Two of them he knew, having seen them year in and year out in Homana-Mujhar while they danced attendance on Carillon. Three others were strangers to him, but their accents were Solindish.

  Carillon conducted the introductions smoothly with light-handed authority. The nuances told Donal the Mujhar meant to emphasize that this Cheysuli was now the Prince of Homana; did the Solindish seek to discount him, they discounted the man who would one day rule their realm.

  But it was the Homanans Donal watched more closely. He expected hostility from the Solindish; it came as no shock when he perceived it, however veiled. But the two Homanans, watching him silently, seemed tense, expectant.

  Gods—it is worse than I thought it might be. Surely Carillon can see it. These men and others like them will never accept me as Mujhar.

  Carillon’s hand was on Donal’s shoulder. “Of course we all realize the alliance between our two realms precludes any more war—” his smile was eloquently bland “—so I doubt Donal will ever see it. No doubt he will value the ongoing peace as highly as I do.” Carillon inclined his head at the Solindish nobles. “It will be a mark of Donal’s tenure as Mujhar that his reign will know only peace, and will no longer need petty squabbling.” The hand tightened. “It would please me well to know I am succeeded by a man who can hold the peace so truly.”

  “Peace is indeed something all of us desire,” murmured one vermillion-clad Solindishman.

  “Of course, I do not doubt the people of Solinde will be somewhat alarmed by the ascension of a Cheysuli in place of their own Solindish House—” Carillon’s smile, once more, held the faintest touch of irony “—but perhaps by the time it comes to that, they will be reconciled to Donal.”

  There was a quick exchange of glances among the Solindishmen and the Homanans, Donal noted.

  “Perhaps it is time I sent for Duke Royce to come home from Lestra,” Carillon mused. “He has been regent of Solinde for more than fifteen years—he is no longer young. I think Solinde might benefit from another, younger man.” He did not smile as he looked at the Solindishmen. “How better to accustom a realm to its future Mujhar than to send that man there now?”

  Gods—is he serious? But Donal dared not show his surprise at Carillon’s intentions.

  One of the Homanans stared. “You send him there now?”

  It was not, Donal knew, the reaction Carillon wanted. At least, not from the Homanans.

  The Mujhar shrugged. “First he and my daughter shall spend some time together as befits those newly married. At Joyenne, I think, before they go to Lestra.” Carillon’s hand tightened yet again on Donal’s shoulder, as if he meant to pull him closer in a brief hug of parental approval.

  And then the woman screamed.

  Donal spun even as Carillon did. He saw a mass of colors, staring eyes and open mouths, all clustered within the hall, all running into another in a collage of shock and stillness. And then he saw the man with the sword in his hand.

  His thoughts were disjointed. —coming at Carillon…a sword—at a wedding—? But—no man may bear a sword into the Mujhar’s presence…and all the guards are in the corridor—

  His own hand flashed down to clasp his long-knife and came up filled with steel and gold. Next to him, Carillon too had armed himself. But the enemy’s sword, even as it sliced through the air in a blaze of shining steel, fell free of the assailant’s hand. And the man himself, so close to the Mujhar, dropped a moment later to join his weapon on the floor.

  A knife, hilt-deep, stood up from the dead man’s back in the very center of his spine. Donal knew the blade at once: a royal Homanan knife, with rampant lion and ruby eye. And he knew what man had thrown it.

  Carillon stood over the body. But he did not look at it. Instead, he looked at the warrior who had thrown the royal knife.

  Finn’s bare arms were folded across his chest. “It does appear, my lord, you lack a proper liege man.”

  “Aye,” Carillon agreed. His tone, though light, sounded hoarse in the silent hall. “Since I lost the one I had for so many years, I have been unable to find another.”

  The question was implicit in his tone. Donal, staring at Finn, felt a strange wild hope build up in his breast.

  Gods—did Finn return to Carillon…things would be as they were before— Except he knew they would not. Time had altered them both.

  Finn smiled faintly, darkly. “Aye,” he agreed. “It is difficult to find a man well-suited to the post. I have always understood a liege man to be—irreplaceable.”

  “Unless replaced with the original warrior.” Carillon’s face was perfectly blank.

  Donal looked not at Finn but at Rowan. The most loyal and dedicated of all Carillon’s generals wore, as Donal did, the colors of the realm. But Rowan’s garb, rather than Cheysuli leathers, was the silks and velvets of Homana.

  Yet it was not the clothing Donal looked at, but the face. The sunbronzed Cheysuli face which had abruptly lost its color, gone ash-gray in shock. Rowan’s hand was on the hilt of his long-knife, as if he had intended to draw it in Carillon’s defense. And yet—he did not look at Carillon. He looked instead at Finn.

  He waits, Donal realized abruptly. He waits for Finn’s answer. Though he is no proper liege man, he is everything else to Carillon. He has served him so well for all these years. I do not doubt he felt he could take Finn’s place in some small measure—perhaps more—and now he realizes Finn might return to Carillon’s side. Donal blew out a breath. I would not wish to live like that, ever on the edge. Ever wondering.

  But at last the wondering could stop.

  Finn looked down at the dead man. The golden hilt glittered in the torchlight. “No,” he said finally, with the faintest note of regret underscoring his tone. “I think those times are done. I have a clan to lead. Warriors to train.” He looked up and met Carillon’s eyes. For a long moment they seemed to share an unspoken communication. Briefly, Finn looked
at the twisted hands and the hunching of Carillon’s shoulders. “There is something I can offer you. If you will let me do it.”

  “Aye,” Carillon agreed, “when I have cleared my hall of vermin.” He replaced his own knife—a wolf’s-head Cheysuli long-knife—then bent and pulled the bloodied knife from the assailant’s back. He gave the royal blade over to Finn, then motioned to the guards who had come in at the woman’s scream. Quickly and efficiently two of them gathered up the body, the sword, and took both from the hall. The other six waited for Carillon’s command.

  He did not look at the Solindish noblemen who clustered near the center of the crowd. “Take them—” a wave of his hand indicted all six “—and escort them to their quarters. They will return home in the morning.”

  “But—my lord Mujhar—!” The gray-haired lord in vermillion velvet spread his jeweled hands wide. “My lord—we had nothing to do with this—!”

  “On the day of my daughter’s wedding, I have been attacked in my own hall,” Carillon said inflexibly. “Let there be no more diplomacy between us, Voile—our two realms will soon be at war. This assassination attempt might have won it for Solinde before the thing was begun, had it succeeded. But it failed, and you are uncovered—like a grub beneath a rock—your plan has gone awry.” He signaled his guards to surround the Solindish nobles.

  Donal watched the guards take the Solindishmen away. In a flurry of low-voiced commands Carillon ordered the music and dancing begun again; the celebration would continue. Then he and Finn took their leave from the hall, and Donal slowly put his knife back into its sheath.

  He turned, meaning to find a servant with wine, and nearly stumbled over Bronwyn who stood directly in his path. He caught her arms and steadied her, marking how pale she was.

  Her hand went out to touch him. “Donal—how do you fare?”

  “Well,” he told her. “Bronwyn—the thing is over now.”

  Fingers locked on the blue enameled torque around her neck. “The sword came so close—”

  “I am well,” he repeated. “Come, you had best go back to our guests.”