Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Su’fali—” Donal’s voice was little more than a broken whisper. “Is this how you treated Carillon?”

  Finn stared down at him. His yellow eyes were black in the dimness of the chapel. Starlight shone in through the broken beamwork, but not enough to illuminate the place. “When he was deserving of it,” he said at last. Donal saw the crooked smile. “That was most of the time.”

  The kindling caught at last and began to smolder. Carefully Evan coaxed it into a flame, fed it more wood, then set the knife blade in the fire.

  “Patience, Donal,” Finn said softly. “Shansu, shansu—I will not let the boy prevail.”

  Blood still coursed from beneath Finn’s pressing hand.

  Donal felt weakness and lethargy seep into his flesh and spirit. Could he sleep, the pain would go away—

  “Donal!” Finn said sharply. “Do you forget your lir? He needs your aid. When the wound is closed, we will heal him. But I need you for that—do not give in now!”

  Donal reached instinctively for Lorn, but his own pain and Lorn’s weakness threw up a barrier in the link. He could sense the wolf’s presence—or was it Storr’s?—but nothing more. Taj as well was denied to him.

  Evan sighed and rubbed an arm across his eyes. The knife blade glowed crimson at the tip; heat slowly spread up the steel. When it had reached the hilt, Evan took off his fur-lined velvet doublet and folded it into a wrap to protect his hand as he held the knife. He took it out of the fire and carried it back to Finn.

  Donal, transfixed by the glowing blade that danced against the darkness, opened his mouth to tell them no.

  Finn nodded. “I will take my hand away. You must sear it quickly; I may not be able to hold him.”

  “Aye,” Evan said roughly. “I am sorry, Donal—”

  Finn released the wound. Blood welled up afresh, spilling down Donal’s chest. But Finn caught his shoulders and pressed his back against the wall. “Now—”

  Blood hissed as the blade came down. Fluids popped; flesh was seared together. Donal’s body spasmed and arched like a man in the clutches of death. Finn held him, spoke to him, but Donal heard nothing. He was eaten alive with pain.

  “Enough,” Finn said. He shut his fingers in the leather of Donal’s winter shirt. “Rouse yourself! Lorn has need of you.”

  Donal’s hand clawed at the cauterized wound, then spasmed away as the pain renewed itself. “Gods—have you slain me?”

  “Rouse yourself,” Finn repeated. “Do you deny your lir?”

  Sense crept back. With Finn’s aid, Donal got up onto his knees. At Lorn’s side he shut his eyes and waited for weakness to pass, then set his hands against the dry, staring coat. “Help me, su’fali.…I have not the strength to do it alone.”

  “Nor I.” Finn’s tone was uncommonly gentle. “Let yourself go, Donal. Give yourself over to the earth.”

  Donal’s head bowed down. The puckered seam in his neck blazed up as if newly cauterized. Donal shut his eyes.

  Give myself over…give myself over to the earth. But—what am I to do if the earth does not wish to give me up when the healing has been completed?

  But he could not wait for an answer he knew would not come. Instead, he sank his awareness into the warmth of the earth and sought Finn’s presence in the darkness. He found it. They linked at once, then sought the healing magic.

  A spring, bubbling up from underground. It flowed. It encapsulated their spirits, examined them, understood their need, and went onward to the wolf. It flowed, bathing him in its strength, until the wounds were healed and the bright burning of his spirit was renewed. And then it flowed away.

  “Done,” Donal mumbled. “See how he sleeps?”

  “Done,” Finn agreed. “Shansu, Donal…it is your turn now.”

  Donal opened his mouth to answer. Nothing issued from his mouth, not even a final sigh. He felt himself slump sideways and struggled to halt his fall, knowing the landing would hurt his wounds, but his body did not obey.

  He felt Finn catch him, and then he sank down into a sleep as deep as any he had known.

  Donal roused to pain. It burned in neck and shoulders, down his back. He felt as if someone had flayed him alive and left the bones to molder in the ruins.

  He lay perfectly still, still wrapped around the warmth of Lorn’s furred body. He felt the regular lifting of Lorn’s side; heard the subtle thumping of his heart. He lay relieved, with weary exultation: he was free of Strahan, and the wolf would recover fully.

  Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position. He grunted against his will; torn flesh and muscles protested. An exploratory hand told him someone had bandaged the talon wounds in his back and shoulders. Finn, most likely—and with Evan’s velvet doublet. He felt terribly weak, battered.

  He scowled, trying to clear his vision. He saw gray-green stones surrounding them in a tumbled circle. Some stones stood upright, sentinels in the dawn; others tilted against neighbors; a few lay on the ground. Broken beamwork littered the center of the chapel; a ruined altar stood farthest from the fire Evan had built.

  Finn squatted by the makeshift cairn. “Well?”

  Donal turned his head carefully. The flesh pulled; he touched a puckered seam half a man’s hand in length in the hollow where neck and shoulder met. “You have butchered me, su’fali.”

  “We did not touch your face,” Finn retorted. “When the marks of battle have faded, no doubt Sorcha will find you just as pretty as before.”

  Donal scowled.

  Finn stood, stretching elaborately. Mist drifted in the chapel and dew beaded on the stones. “I will fetch us something to eat. I go no farther until my belly is full again.”

  “Make it plump game,” Donal advised. “If Evan is as hungry as I am, we shall need a sizable breakfast.”

  Finn loosened the Homanan knife in its sheath. Donal, looking at the heavy hilt with its rampant royal lion, thought again how bitter it must be for Finn to know Carillon was dead.

  For so many years his task was to keep him alive…yet in the end, he aided his death.

  Finn glanced over at Evan, still curled up on a pile of leaves. “The Ellasian sleeps like the dead,” he said scathingly, and then he went out of the chapel with Storr trotting at his side.

  “I am neither asleep nor dead.” Evan rolled over and sat up. “I was merely trying to get warm.”

  “Then move to the fire.” Donal did so himself, albeit slowly, and put more wood on the flames.

  Evan got up, twisted to unkink his neck and spine, then moved to the fire and squatted down. “What is Finn about?”

  “Hunting breakfast.” Donal saw how Evan’s beard had come in, forming dark stubble along his jaw. He scratched at it, grimacing, and Donal blessed the gods for seeing to it the Cheysuli could not grow beards. Too much trouble to take it off each morning. He was amused by the transformation in his Ellasian friend. Evan’s normally immaculate appearance had undergone a decided change. He was dirty, grimy; his clothing was soiled and torn.

  Evan put his hands out over the flames. His fingers were scraped. Nails were broken. There was not much remaining of the prince who had come to Donal’s wedding. “I am sorry for the pain,” Evan said, looking at the bright red weal in Donal’s neck. “Finn said it was the only way.”

  “It was.” Donal did not finger the puckered seam. “But I do not see why you did not simply sever the rest of my neck.”

  Evan’s mobile mouth hooked down wryly. “I considered it seriously—but I thought Homana might wish to see her new Mujhar. She has not, you know….Strahan took you too soon. There are rumors you are dead.”

  “And if I am?” Donal looked at him squarely. “You are the son of a king and know of such things. In Ellas, what would happen if the High King were slain?”

  Evan shrugged. “Lachlan would become High King. There would be no great stirring among the subjects—do you forget Rhodri has so many sons? And Lachlan himself has two—by now, perhaps three. There would be an unremarkable passing
of the throne from one man to another.”

  Donal stared into the fire. “Not here. No, not here. Without me, Homana is Homanan again.” He bit at a torn flap of skin on one thumb. “Perhaps that is what all of this is about.”

  Evan frowned and added more wood. “What do you say? This is Strahan’s doing.”

  “Strahan’s, aye—but who else’s? There could even be Homanans. Not all are reconciled to Carillon’s heir.” He stood up for the first time, collected his senses, and glanced around. “Gods—this place—it makes a man feel humble.”

  He moved around the chapel slowly, looking more closely at tumbled stone and broken beamwork, fallen altar and vine-choked foundation pedestals. It was sunrise, but only the faintest tinge of orange got through the mist. It filled up the place with bronze and gold.

  Donal picked his way through the debris to the altar. It leaned haphazardly sideways, propped up by another stone. Its pedestal was shattered. But on the face of the altar were runes, velveted with lichen, corroded by dampness and time.

  He bent, picking at the runes with a broken nail. Pensively, he frowned. And then, when he could piece together a portion of the inscription, he let out an involuntary blurt of sound.

  Evan left the fire. “What is it?”

  “It is no wonder we were not disturbed last night by Strahan or his minions. This is a holy place.”

  “Finn said it is a chapel.”

  “Was. Look at the inscriptions—see how they border the altar?” Another gesture indicated the other stones. “Each one is inscribed, I will wager, though time has hidden the runes. See you here? These runes—see how they are cut so deeply into the stone?” He tapped with the broken nail. “This place offers the guardianship of the gods to any who would seek it of Cheysuli or Firstborn blood. Sanctuary, Evan. Even the Ihlini cannot touch us here.”

  Taj’s scream cut through the mist like a scythe.

  Donal spun around and felt the scabbing of his wounds tear apart. “Evan—come!”

  He ran. He felt the fire in his neck and back and shoulders, but he did not pay attention. He ran.

  Thorns snagged at his flesh and leathers as he leaped over fallen trees and skipped across tumbled boulders with the borrowed energy of fear. He heard Evan coming behind him, cursing the briers, but Donal had no time for oaths. Only prayers.

  He broke from dense undergrowth into a tiny clearing. He stopped. He stopped so quickly Evan ran into him from behind. But he said nothing to Evan’s irritated question. He could not. He could not speak at all.

  Finn lay on his back in the clearing. His limbs were sprawled in an obscene parody of his normal fluid grace. He stared upward into the misted sky and blood ran from his mouth.

  The sword stood up from his ribs like a royal standard. The hilt was gold, lion-shaped; the pommel stone was baleful black.

  Su’fali— Slowly, jerkily, Donal moved across the clearing until he stood at Finn’s side. He knelt, knowing shock and pain and a tremendous, blossoming grief. “Su’fali!” he shouted.

  Finn’s left hand lay loosely clasped around the blade. Fingers were stained with his blood. Already his furred leather shirt was sodden.

  As if it had been twisted in his body. Donal felt the wild grief break free. He swore softly in the Old Tongue, repeatedly, with all the pain and rage he felt.

  Finn’s mouth moved in a tiny smile. “You have, at least, learned enough of the Old Tongue for that.”

  “Su’fali…su’fali…what can I do?”

  “Do not grieve, kinsman. It is a warrior’s death.”

  “Who?” Donal heard his voice quaver. “Who has done this to you?”

  “The boy. Retribution, he said, for the loss of jehan and jehana.” Finn’s face twisted briefly with immense pain; the scar writhed upon his cheek. “He—wanted the sword back when he was done with me. He tried to take it back. But—I am Hale’s son and perhaps the sword knew me—the magic came, the sword-magic— Strahan was denied even as he put his hands upon the hilt—” Muscles in his jaw stood up. “He wanted you as well, harani—he wanted to slay you with the sword Hale made for you—to prove the legend false—”

  “Say no more,” Donal begged. “Waste none of what strength is left—”

  “He said you had denied the sword time and time again, diluting the magic—but he was willing to claim it—” A trickle of blood overspilled Finn’s lips. “You must claim it, harani. The sword is yours.” He swallowed heavily. “It begins…it begins again…with yet another generation—”

  “Say nothing,” Donal ordered desperately. “Be silent, su’fali—I will seek the magic—”

  “There is nothing you can do,” Finn said clearly but as from a great distance, “Release my spirit when I am dead. You know the custom, Donal. The rite for a warrior slain in battle.”

  “Aye.” The word rasped in Donal’s swelling throat.

  Finn’s fingers traced the shining blade and left a smear of blood. “Strahan sought to hurt you by slaying me, but he has given you back the sword that will, in the end, defeat him. Justice from the gods.”

  Justice? No, I think not—not when it slays my su’fali—

  “Say you will take it…” Finn’s voice was just barely above a whisper. “Say you will take it and slay Osric of Atvia with it—to avenge Carillon’s death—”

  “What of yours—?” Donal cried.

  “My death does not matter. It was ever my tahlmorra to die in the service of the Mujhar. And—I have served them both—” Briefly he shut his eyes as pain spasmed across his face. “Donal—”

  “Aye?”

  Finn struggled to tap the last of his reserves.

  “You never…never understood Carillon…his reasons for doing things the way he did them. Oh, I know—you are young, and youth lacks compassion and comprehension…but—he did what needed doing in the best way he knew how.” Again pain twisted his face. “I—did not always agree—but I cannot dispute results. He took Homana out of the flames of war and oppression and made her whole again. He restored our race to freedom—”

  “Su’fali—” Donal begged “—speak not of Carillon now—”

  “Should I not? But you are so much alike, Donal—when I speak of him I speak of you.” Faintly, Finn smiled. “There are differences, of course…but you claim the same pride and strength and determination. I pray the gods you use them as well as he did.”

  Donal swallowed painfully. “I swear—I will see to Osric’s death.”

  Finn caught Donal’s hand in his own. The firm grip was weak now, like a baby’s tentative grasp. “I do not—do not go into death without having done a portion of my service…the boy—the boy lacks an ear—”

  “Su’fali—”

  The bloody hand closed more tightly on Donal’s flesh. “I bequeath Homana to you, kinsman….Answer your tahlmorra.”

  Donal could not speak.

  Finn’s eyes were nearly shut. “I would ask—one more thing—”

  Donal closed his own.

  “Claim the sword,” Finn whispered. “Make it yours from this moment forth.”

  “Su’fali—”

  “Do as I command.” The voice was little more than a sound. “I am clan-leader of the Cheysuli….You may be Mujhar, but you are still a warrior of the clan.”

  Donal heaved himself to his feet. He stood over the dying man. “Su’fali…I am honored.”

  “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar,” Finn whispered. “Cheysuli i’halla shansu.”

  “Accepted.” The Homanan word hurt his throat. “Shansu, su’fali. Peace.”

  Donal put out both hands and touched the hilt. The ruby blazed brilliant red. He shut his hands in a stiff-fingered, unsteady grasp.

  And pulled.

  “Ja’hai-na,” Finn whispered as blood ran out of his body. “Oh, Alix…you would be so proud of your son—”

  Donal stood over the dead warrior with Hale’s sword grasped tightly in one hand. He felt the silent keening begin to well up in his soul. He dared n
ot let it become audible; such things were not done. Such things dishonored the code of his clan. But as his face twisted with the pain he could not help but wish he were a small child again, unknowing, and free to cry out his fear and anguish.

  When he could, he looked from the warrior’s face and stared blindly at Evan. Tears ran down his face. “I am King,” he said hoarsely. “Mujhar of Homana and Solinde. And I would trade it all could I have him back again!”

  Evan’s face was still and white as he slowly pointed.

  Donal turned. He dropped the sword instantly when he saw Storr. Storr, who stood silently by a huge spreading oak.

  Donal fell to his knees and gathered Finn’s beloved lir into his arms. Wolf, O wolf…he is gone…everyone is taken from me—

  You are not left alone, Storr said gently but with a frightening hollowness, You have your lir—the Ellasian—Rowan—the women who care for you so.

  Donal pressed his face against the silver pelt. But I lose them, one by one…I lose them all…my jehan and jehana—Carillon—Finn—now you—

  And one day you will lose more.

  Donal drew back. Storr was wiser than anyone he knew. You are in pain, he said in alarm as he saw how heavily the wolf panted.

  It does not matter. It is time for me to go.

  You will die if I do not heal you!

  You cannot heal a shattered lir-bond. The wolf pressed his muzzle against Donal’s arm. I am too old. My time is used up. And—I have no wish to survive, now my lir is gone.

  Storr—wait—do not leave me alone—

  The magic has ended, kin of my lir…it is time for me to go.

  Donal shut his eyes. I will miss you badly, old wolf.

  No more than I shall miss you. Storr’s tone was bittersweet. I had much of the raising of you.

  Donal smiled. He passed a gentle hand through Storr’s pelt once more, caressed the grizzled muzzle, and knew he could not gainsay him. I will tend him, Storr. I will tend your lir as he is due.

  He is deserving of honor— The wolf’s sigh was heavy, ragged; the sound of a life used up. He is deserving of much.