Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  Aislinn, I swear…I never wanted it this way…. And until the night of their wedding, Donal had not believed he wanted it at all.

  Now he knew he had wanted it longer than he cared to acknowledge. He recalled clearly the young woman who had met him on the Crystal Isle: haughty, defiant princess; later, vulnerable, frightened girl. An assassin as well, but it was yet another facet of her being. She was neither the complaisant, spiritless woman so many Homanans were, nor the cold, powerful sorceress Electra had made of herself. Aislinn was merely—Aislinn. And in their mutual battle against her mother, each sought release whatever way they could find it.

  Sul’harai. He did not know the Homanan word for the concept. He only knew that with Sorcha, the experience was familiar. The simultaneous sharing of the magic in their union. Not one-sided. That was easy enough for a woman; easier for a man. Simultaneous. And now, he found he wanted it as much with Aislinn.

  “I will win, Electra—” And with the strength of the lir-bond, Donal smashed all of Aislinn’s barriers and left nothing in his wake, emptying her resistance like a seedbag spilling grain.

  And as she lay empty before him physically and emotionally, he replaced the abhorrence Electra had put there with a terrible need for him.

  Not rape… not rape, if she wants me as I want her—

  But he realized, as she roused to his hands and his mouth, the compromise was a curse as well as a blessing. Because if the time came Aislinn ever turned to him out of genuine affection, he would never know it.

  * * *

  At dawn, Donal stood at the edge of the oubliette. One torch roared against the silences of the vault. Light rushed across the creamy, gold-veined marble, and the lir leaped out at him.

  He teetered. Closed his eyes. Oh gods, what have I done—what have I done to the girl—?

  The torch roared. Everything else was silence.

  Except for his screaming conscience.

  Remorse? That, and worse. Yet he welcomed the guilt, the anger, the horror; the sickness that turned his belly. It meant he was a man after all, not a beast; not a thing who took and was pleased by the taking, not caring how it was taken or who was hurt. When she awakened Aislinn would recall only a part of what had happened, because the compulsion worked that way, but he would know it all. He would remember everything.

  See what I have become?

  He stared down into the void. It was not death he sought; not suicide. Not a form of expiation, to pay for the loss of his soul. He had no wish to die regardless of the reason. Suicide was taboo; he was too much a warrior to consider denying himself the afterworld. But he wanted a way of assuaging some of the pain.

  “My lord—?”

  Donal spun at the brink of the void. He was reminded suddenly of the other time he had visited the Womb, and how someone had tried to push him in. Memory flared; he threw up an arm against the assassin.

  “My lord!” Sef’s voice, and shocked. Memory faded; Donal saw the boy standing just inside the open door. His odd eyes were stretched wide in fear. “You do not mean to jump—”

  “No.” The weight of the Womb was at his back, begging him to give himself to the Jehana. “No, Sef—I do not mean to jump.” Donal felt sweat sting his armpits; he smelled the fear on himself. No, he had not meant to jump, and yet he had come close to it regardless. “What are you doing here?”

  He said it more sharply than he intended. Sef’s face blanched white. “I—couldn’t sleep. Bevin had a girl with him, and—” He broke off, plainly embarrassed. Sharing a room with Bevin meant sharing a room with many women as well. “I—went out to walk. I—went to the Great Hall, to see the Lion sleeping.” Color washed back into his face. “There was a stairway in the firepit, and so I came down to see where it went.” He looked sidelong at the walls with their leaping lir. “What is this place, my lord?”

  “The Womb of the Earth.” Donal saw no sense in secrecy, not when the boy had seen it himself. “Cheysuli made it long, long ago. Legends say a man who will be Mujhar must go back into the Womb to be reborn a king.”

  “Have you?”

  “Gone in? —no. For me, I think there is no need.” He did not pursue it further. For Carillon, the rebirth had been required; for a man born to the clans with the gifts of the Old Blood, there were other initiations.

  Sef stared around the vault. “So many animals…they look so alive.”

  “They are not. At least—not now.” Donal frowned a little. Who was to say the lir had never been alive? Perhaps they only waited for the Firstborn to come again before they broke free of the stone.

  Donal shivered. And Sef, staring at the oubliette again, mimicked him unconsciously. “My lord—this place frightens me.”

  “Then let us leave it together. There is nothing more for me here.” Donal took the torch from the bracket. “Come, Sef. I think it is time you learned some geography.”

  “My lord?” Sef stared.

  “Maps. If you cannot sleep, look at maps. It is better than counting trees.”

  He led Sef out of the vault and back up the one hundred and two steps to the Great Hall with its sleeping Lion. Donal shut the hinged plate and kicked ash and logs back over the iron to hide it. Then he took Sef to one of Carillon’s council chambers. Donal set the torch into an empty bracket, selected the appropriate map and spread it out on the table, then lighted the fat white candle. He touched a blue-shaded portion of the map. “There. That is Solinde.”

  “All of that?” Sef stood next to the stool upon which Donal sat. The boy stared avidly at the map, hands clasped behind his back, afraid to touch the valuable hide.

  “All of this, aye.” Donal’s finger swept around the blue borders of the realm. “Lestra is here, you see…the city, at the moment, is loyal; but much of the aristocracy is not—these men want to sever the alliance between Homana and Solinde, to claim the land their own.”

  “But—don’t they also want Homana?”

  Donal glanced at the boy as he hung over the map. “Tynstar wants Homana. The Mujhar believes the Solindish aristocracy would be content enough to ignore Homana, given Solinde again—but under Tynstar’s dominion, they give tacit approval to the war. The armies will ride against us while Tynstar, as ever, watches from a distance.”

  “Then—Solinde isn’t really your enemy,” Sef said. “It’s the sorcerer, isn’t it?”

  Donal sighed, smiling wryly. “You ask things I am not fit to answer. These are questions with historical implications—being clan-born and bred, I know more of the Cheysuli than the Homanans. But I can tell you this much: for years upon years, Solinde—under Bellam—fought to take Homana. Bellam, being an acquisitive man, wanted Homana for himself. But I do not doubt Tynstar blew a fire from the embers with exceedingly careful breaths.” Idly, Donal rested his chin in the palm of one hand. “Bellam is dead now and Carillon holds both realms—but I doubt the Ihlini will ever give up entirely. They will ever be our bane.”

  Sef frowned, screwing his pale face into an expression of concentration. “Then—if you slew the demon, Tynstar—we would be free of this war?”

  “Perhaps not entirely, but I do not doubt Tynstar’s death would have great effect on Solinde. In time, did he die, the traditional enemies might make a lasting peace.”

  Sef straightened from his hunched position over the table. “Then—why not send someone to slay him?”

  “Tynstar?” A wry smile that twisted Donal’s mouth. “Could that be done, it would have been long ago.”

  “But—he’s a man, isn’t he? A sorcerer, aye—but a man. Can’t he die like others?”

  Donal regarded the boy’s intensity. “Tynstar is a man, of course, and no doubt he can die. But he has escaped death for three hundred years—it will never be easily done.”

  Sef blanched. “Three hundred years—?”

  “He has the gift of immortal life from Asar-Suti himself.”

  “Gods—” Sef whispered. “How will we ever win?”

  “With my help, i
t will hardly prove so difficult.” Evan of Ellas, striding through the open door, grinned at them both. “I am coming with you.”

  Donal stared at him in shock. “I thought you had gone home to Ellas! After that tavern brawl—”

  “That brawl?” Evan asked nonchalantly. “I have seen worse in a brothel. No, I have not gone home to Ellas. Not yet. I prefer to stay here a bit.”

  “To come to war.” Donal shook his head. “A foolish way to pass the time, Evan. Ellas has no stake in this. If she lost a prince—”

  “She has seven others, if you count Lachlan’s sons.” Sleepy eyes alight, Evan shrugged negligently. “I have neither wife nor sons—that I know of—with which to concern myself. I will come with you.”

  Sef spoke up before Donal could. “But what would the Crown Prince say?”

  “Lachlan?” Evan’s brows rose, though he looked a bit surprised at Sef’s presumption. But it was Donal he answered, not the boy. “Lachlan knows he cannot gainsay me when I put my mind to a thing.” He grinned. “You need my help, Donal. You may as well admit it.”

  “It isn’t Ellas’s war,” Sef said.

  Donal glanced sharply at the boy. Sef stood stiffly by the table, facing Evan squarely. His chin was thrust upward, as if he prepared to do battle. “Sef. This is better left to the Prince of Ellas and me. You may go.”

  Sef stared fiercely at Evan a moment, then abruptly turned to Donal. “Aye, my lord. But—” He broke off and shrugged. “I just—I just want to come with you.”

  “And you think I will not take you if the Prince of Ellas comes?” Donal shook his head. “Sef, I have already said you may go to war with me—though I do not understand why you would want to, any more than I understand him.” His glance included Evan. “You may come. Now—you may go.”

  Sef went. Donal shook his head and Evan, staring after the boy, merely sighed a little and shrugged. “He worships you, Donal. I think he would give his life for you.”

  “So long as he does not have to.” Donal looked at Evan and began to smile. With the Ellasian prince he felt a weight lifting from his soul. Before Evan, he was free to be the man he so seldom had been able to be. “I think we will show Solinde how two princes can force a realm to its knees.”

  Evan raised one dark eyebrow. “If we can destroy a single tavern, we should surely have no difficulty with an entire kingdom.”

  When the Homanan army marched at last across the western borders into Solinde, it met with little resistance. Carillon took care to distinguish Solindish crofters and citizens who had no stake in the battle beyond trying to survive while their realm was battered by war, from those who supported Tynstar. Much of the realm still served Carillon’s interests, albeit reluctantly. Still, the tension was apparent from the moment they crossed the border.

  The Cheysuli moved within the ranks independently, under the command of their clan-leaders who dealt directly with Carillon. Donal, who had grown up in the aftermath of Shaine’s qu’mahlin, had known only a grudging peace between the two races. The incident in the tavern—compounded by recollections of his reception in Hondarth and the reaction to his wedding—served to remind him that the restoration of his race was hardly completed.

  He found that most of the soldiers accepted the Cheysuli readily enough—the races had fought together to help win Carillon his throne—but there was uneasiness within the ranks. It was Carillon who kept the peace. And Rowan, whose Homanan ways and Cheysuli appearance made him a man of both and neither races.

  Evan proved an easy companion for Donal. Together they argued and debated and discussed all manner of strategy in all varieties of emotions, but always recognizing the bond of true friendship. It was a bond Donal had never experienced before, being caught between his Homanan rank and Cheysuli warrior status, and he found it was one he valued greatly. It was not the same as the link with his lir, but it was very satisfying nonetheless.

  Now, seated across the table from Carillon in the Mujhar’s crimson field pavilion, Donal realized his present companion was somewhere else in spirit if not in body. Carillon, done with eating, sat back on his three-legged campstool. One hand cupped the footed silver goblet filled with his favorite wine.

  It was mid-summer and temperate. An evening breeze rippled the brilliant fabric of the pavilion. Light from the setting sun crept through the weave of the fabric and splashed color into the interior, so that the blond wood of table and chairs was dyed a rich ocher-bronze. The silver shone golden in the light.

  Donal smelled roasting boar, spitted in the center of the camp. He smelled the bouquet of Carillon’s wine and a faint tinge of bitterness he ascribed to the coals in the brazier. He smelled the aroma of war, though they had barely met a soul in battle. He smelled death and futility, and the strivings of men who would spend their lives in defense of a throne they would never see, a throne that one day would be his.

  Carillon slowly turned his goblet in circles on the wood. “Where is Evan tonight? I invited both of you.”

  Donal smiled. “You recall those Solindish crofters’ daughters who felt compelled to follow us? Evan found several more than willing to share their favors with him. He sends his regrets.”

  Carillon laughed. “I am glad one of us can lose his cares in a woman’s flesh tonight.” Abruptly, he sat upright on his stool. “Gods—I have forgotten! A message for you from Aislinn came earlier today—I put it aside and forgot it. There—in the small chest by my cot.”

  Donal pushed back from the table and rose, going at once to the teak casket near the bed. Inside it he found a parchment scroll sealed with wax, stamped with the royal Homanan crest.

  He broke the seal. He was afraid as well as curious; in the two months since the army had marched into Solinde, there had been no letters from Aislinn. There had been nothing but silence between them.

  Donal read the message, then stared blankly at the lettering. “She has—conceived.”

  Carillon rose slowly to his feet. “She is certain?”

  “There has been confirmation.” Donal sucked in a deep breath. “Well, my lord…forced or not, it seems to have succeeded.”

  “Thank the gods,” Carillon said fervently, “the throne is secured at last.”

  Donal shook his head. “Only if the child is a boy.”

  “You have already sired one—is it so foolish to think there may be another?” But Carillon turned away to pour more wine in his goblet, not bothering to wait for a response, though Donal offered none.

  He watched Carillon drink. Of late the Mujhar drank more and more, no doubt to ease his pain. Even in the dry warmth of a Solindish summer, his swollen joints ached.

  I could not bear it, Donal knew. I swear—I could not bear it…and he leads us all to battle.

  He looked again at the message, penned in a wavering hand. From Aislinn herself, he did not doubt; a scribe would do it more carefully.

  Gods, what is she thinking…what does she think of me? “She says she is well,” he told Carillon. “But—first births are often hard. With Sorcha—” He broke off abruptly, knowing it was not the time to speak of his meijha. But then he turned sharply to Carillon. Of late there had been a bond between them of mutual affection and circumstances. Donal recalled how Carillon had taught him to read a map and explained the battles he had fought with Finn at his side. But now, with the specter of Sorcha suddenly between them, he felt the faint tension rise up to mock them both. “You hate me for that, do you not?” Donal asked. “For keeping Sorcha when Aislinn is my cheysula.”

  Carillon moved to one of the supple leather chairs and sat down slowly, lowering himself carefully into the seat. “I have learned, over the years, to respect many Cheysuli customs. I admit I do not understand most of them, but I have learned what integrity there is in your race. Though, given a choice, I would prefer you set aside your meijha—for my daughter’s sake—I will not ask it of you.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  Carillon smiled. “No, I did not. Well
enough.” He shifted in the chair and drank more wine; the pale, sweet wine with its acidic bouquet, that Carillon allowed no one else to touch. “I do not hate you, Donal. I kept myself to Electra when we were together because I desired no other—she would inspire fidelity in any man, regardless of his tastes…but it does not mean I cannot comprehend your ability to wed one woman and keep another as well.” He gazed into the brazier coals. “For all that, I am the last to speak of such things as a man desiring only one woman when there is another one he cares for. The gods know I wanted your mother badly enough, even when both of us were wed to other people.” There was pain in his voice as he said it, immense pain; he had taken the news of Alix’s death very badly.

  Donal’s hand closed spasmodically on the parchment, crumpling it into ruin. “My jehana—?”

  Carillon turned. In his eyes was an arrested expression. “Did she never tell you?”

  “My jehana?” It was all Donal could manage.

  Carillon sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. “An old story, Donal….I thought surely you must know it by now.” Twisted fingers scraped silver hair back from his pain-wracked face. “Gods—I cannot believe she is gone. Not Alix. After all she has been to me…after all she has done….”

  And my jehan? Donal wanted to ask. You say nothing of my jehan. Is it that even in death you compete?

  Aloud, Donal said, “What old story, my lord?”

  Carillon shook his head after a moment. “I never stopped caring for her, Donal, even after she wed your father. Even after she had borne you.” He swirled wine in his goblet. “I wed Electra. And when that marriage was finished, I turned again to your mother.”

  Possessiveness overruled Donal’s empathy. “Even while she was Duncan’s cheysula—?”

  “No.” Carillon looked at him. “Your father was already lirless. Dead—or so we believed.” Carillon’s brow furrowed a little, as if reflecting a measure of his grief. “The day I took you and your mother back to the Keep, I asked her to marry me. I would have made her Queen.”