Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  But Aislinn stared up at him in astonishment. “No,” she whispered, clearly terrified. “Oh, gods…no—”

  “It heals,” he said hoarsely. “All it does is heal. I promise you that—”

  “Promise me? You will slay me!” Her eyes were blackened by fear. “As you sought to slay me before—”

  “No.” He said it as clearly as he could, but his mouth did not work properly. He felt his knees buckle and clung desperately to the bedpost, sliding slowly to the floor. “I sought—sought only to know the truth….I would not have slain you—I swear—”

  Aislinn stared at him like a doe cornered by the huntsman. Red-gold hair tumbled over her shoulders; her mouth trembled. “I loved you,” she said. “I loved you all my life. But—you already had her.” Color crept into her waxen cheeks. “It was you I wanted, Donal—ever since I was a child. And—I wanted to bear children for you, as many as I could—but even that she had already given you!” One shaking hand was touched to her mouth as if she sought to halt her words, but she let them spill out with a ragged dignity. “There was no gift left I could give you that she had not already given—no gift at all… oh aye, I wanted her gone—I wanted her gone from here! But I swear I did not send her. Donal, I did not!”

  “I know.” He held himself up against the post. “I know it, Aislinn—”

  “What have you done to me?” Tears spilled down her face. “What have you done to me?”

  “Healing,” he mumbled, “only healing. I want you strong again.”

  She recoiled utterly. “Why? So you may send me away as my father sent my mother?”

  Donal felt his last reserve crumble. All the savage grief he had tried to suppress surged up into his chest until he nearly choked on it. He took handfuls of the silken counterpane, clenched it tightly in white-knuckled fists and wept. “I have no one.” Sobs hissed through a throat nearly sealed by grief. “I have no one left at all—” he closed his eyes “—except for you.”

  Aislinn said nothing at all.

  “Tahlmorra,” he said thickly. “All of it—” And he put his face down against the bed and knelt before her, a supplicant to the gods.

  Aislinn’s breath was audible. “Do you expect forgiveness?”

  He heard the savagery in her tone. “No,” he said, but the word was muffled against the bed.

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  He lifted his head and saw her face. The deathbed pallor was replaced by an angry flush high in her cheeks. Her emotion-darkened eyes glittered balefully.

  “I want you to live,” he told her plainly. “I ask for nothing from you save that.”

  “Why? So you may hurt me again?” Her hand shook as she touched her breast. “So you may hurt my heart again?”

  Her broken, vulnerable tone broke the final barriers against emotion. “What promises can I make you?” he asked in desperation. “What words would you have me say? After all I have done to you, do you expect me to change with a wave of a hand?” He felt bitterness in his mouth. “Would you wish to have me beg? I will do it.”

  “Beg me?” She stared.

  He shut his eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

  She swallowed heavily. “Once—I wanted your love. But that was too much to ask…you had given it to her.” Tears ran down her face. One shaking hand tried to hide the quivering of her mouth. “I only—I only wanted a chance—a chance to know what it was—”

  He could not answer her. He could only shut his eyes and put his head down on the bed again.

  “You do not love me.” The intonation was precise, as if she wished to make it clear.

  He looked at her sharply, fearing she sickened again. But he saw high color in her face and a startled recognition in her eyes. “You do not love me,” she repeated, with wonder in her voice, “but you need me. You need me.”

  The breath slipped out of his throat. “I need you,” he admitted. “By all the gods, I do.”

  Aislinn stared at him a long moment, all manner of emotion in her face. He saw anger and pain and grief and regret, but he also saw something else. Something akin to possessiveness.

  “Well,” she said with intense, peculiar triumph, “perhaps that will be enough.”

  Evan raised his goblet. “To Niall, the Prince of Homana. Four weeks old and thriving.”

  Donal smiled. He brought up his goblet to clash against Evan’s, then drank down a swallow of wine.

  They sat over their cups in Donal’s private solar. Sunlight spilled through the casements. Evan sat slumped deeply in a chair; Donal stretched out on a snow bear pelt with Lorn collapsed against his side. Taj perched on a chairback.

  Evan put up his feet on a three-legged stool. “What will you do about Strahan?”

  Donal scowled into his cup of wine. “What can I do? He is Ihlini—he has what freedom he can steal.”

  “Could you not set a trap for him?”

  “He has gone underground. There is no word of him. He could be in Valgaard by now, high in the Molon Mountains. He could be in Solinde, sheltered by those who still serve the Ihlini. He could be almost anywhere, Evan—there is nothing I can do. Except wait.” And the gods know I will do that, no matter how long it takes.

  Evan sighed and swirled his wine. “I know, I know—but it seems so futile to do nothing. You know he will do what he can to throw you down from the throne.”

  “He is a boy,” Donal said. “I discount neither his power nor his heritage—but he is a boy. I think it likely he will wait until he grows older, old enough to inspire trust in other men. Oh, he will lead the Ihlini on the strength of his blood alone—but how many others will follow? I think he will play at patience.”

  “Donal?” It was Aislinn, standing in the open doorway. “A messenger has just come with word from Alaric of Atvia. It seems he is in Mujhara, intending to see you.”

  Donal pressed himself upright. “Alaric is here?”

  Evan nodded. “I said he would come, did I not? He will offer fealty, does he have any sense at all.”

  Aislinn, hair braided and threaded with silver cord, pulled her pale green mantle more closely about her shoulders. “Shall we have his baggage moved into the palace?”

  Donal, frowning, nodded. “Aye. It would transgress all decency did we leave him at an inn. Aye, send servants for his baggage. Gods!—I need a bath!”

  Evan laughed. “Let him see you as you are.”

  Donal, draining the rest of his wine, cast Evan a sour glance. “I intend to—but I also intend to show him what courtesy I can muster…can I muster any.” He turned to leave the room. “Aislinn—have Torvald set out fresh clothing.”

  “Aye,” she said. “Cheysuli or Homanan?”

  He stopped in the doorway. She faced him squarely, exhibiting no fear. What had passed between them after the healing had fashioned her into another woman.

  One I do not know. “Which would you say is more fitting to receive a man who was once an enemy?”

  Aislinn smiled. “The shapechanger, my lord. How can you consider anything else?”

  Donal received Alaric in the Great Hall, ensconced in the Lion Throne. He had put on blue-dyed Cheysuli leathers and a torque of gold around his throat to match his heavy belt. To Alaric, he did not doubt, he would resemble nothing more than a crude barbarian. Which was precisely what he desired.

  So I may lull him into carelessness? On the throne, Donal smiled.

  Alaric was nothing like his brother. His height was average, no better; hair and eyes were dark brown. He dressed well but conservatively, in black breeches and velvet doublet, showing no ornamentation other than a silver ring set with black stone on one hand and a narrow chain of office—also silver—around his shoulders. He was accompanied by five Atvian nobles, all dressed more richly than himself, but none of them claimed the same intensity or the air of absolute command Alaric held even in silence.

  Donal considered the formal greetings he had learned. He discarded them all at once. He disliked Alaric insta
ntly; he disliked diplomacy even more.

  He waited.

  Alaric stood before the dais. He inclined his head a trifle. “My lord—I have come to offer fealty—and to tender an alliance.”

  “Why?” Donal asked.

  A minute frown twitched the arched eyebrows. But Alaric’s face retained its bland, cool expression. “Plainly, my lord, you have overcome my realm. My brother is slain and I am Lord of Atvia in his place…but I do recognize the virtue in admitting our defeat. You have—quite effectively proved your competence as a king.”

  Donal regarded him appraisingly. “Have I? Enough to keep you from our borders forever? Or only until you rally an army again?”

  A muscle jumped in Alaric’s shaven face. “A king does not offer fealty to another unless he intends to honor it, my lord.”

  “Usually.” Donal relaxed in the Lion. “Not always, but—” He waved a hand. “Enough of this. You offer fealty, which you owe me, and an alliance, which undoubtedly you need more than I do.”

  Alaric’s mouth was tight. “Aye, my lord—like you, I do not doubt it.”

  Donal studied him. He knew instinctively Alaric was more than a competent warrior. He was also a strategist. A diplomat. He would give up much to gain more. But what does he want? And what will he give up in order to get it? He gestured idly. “Once before you came here. To Carillon, after he slew Thorne, your jehan. Then, you said Atvia would offer fealty to no foreign king.”

  Alaric inclined his head. “I was a boy then. I am a man now—and king in my brother’s place—and I must do what is best for my realm.”

  “Your fealty I will have—you can hardly refuse me now—but the alliance I must consider. What do you offer me?”

  Alaric gestured eloquently. “My brother died without heirs. He had two sons, but both are dead of fever. I myself am unmarried, without legitimate heirs. What I offer Homana is quite simple: myself. And a binding peace between our realms when children are born of this match.”

  Donal frowned. “You wish to wed a Homanan woman?”

  “No. I wish to wed your sister.”

  Donal’s hands spasmed against the clawed armrests of the throne. “You wish to wed with Bronwyn?”

  “Aye, my lord. If that is her name.” Alaric did not smile.

  Gods…he cannot mean it! But he knew Alaric did. When he could, he asked a single question. “Why?”

  Alaric’s smile was very slight. “My lord, I have said—to settle a peace between our lands.”

  “What else? We can make a peace without wedding my rujholla to you.”

  “Perhaps.” Alaric’s tone was negligent. “Perhaps not. But consider it in this light, if you will: a princess of Homana—though she be Cheysuli—is wed to the Lord of Atvia. From that union, provided the gods see fit to bless it, will come children. Sons, of course. And the eldest to rule in my place when I am dead.” Alaric gestured idly. “He would be your nephew, my lord Mujhar—and never an enemy. How better to insure peace between our realms?”

  “How better for you to make yourself a claimant for the Lion!” Donal’s fist smacked down on the throne. “Do not play me for a fool, Atvian—I am no courtier with silken tongue and oiled palms, but—by the gods!—neither am I blind. You desire peace between our realms? Then keep your armies from my borders!”

  Alaric’s dark brown eyes glittered, but only a little. He kept himself under control. “But of course, my lord—I had intended to. And yet—it seemed such a perfect way to link our realms. As for me desiring to claim the Lion Throne, I say no. Of course not. Do you not have a legitimate heir?”

  Donal smiled thinly. “Aye, my lord, I do.”

  “Then the continuance of your House is certainly insured.” Alaric smiled. “I offer this alliance because I desire to insure the continuation of my House. And nothing more.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Perhaps support against Shea of Erinn.”

  Donal sat back again, conforming his back to the crimson cushion. “What quarrel have you with Shea?”

  “He has usurped my brother’s title: Lord of the Idrian Isles. It was my father’s. It was his father’s. Shea claimed it when Osric died.” Alaric shrugged. “I want it back.”

  Donal frowned. “With Homanan help? Why should I offer that? Homana has no quarrel with Erinn.”

  “No. Nor do I wish to begin one.” Alaric spread his hands. “Mere word of this marriage would send Shea back behind the walls of Kilore and keep him from my shores until I can regroup my demoralized army—demoralized because of my brother’s death. I would not ask men of you, my lord, merely the appearance of support. It would be more than enough.”

  Donal frowned at the toes of his soft leather boots. “I cannot see a single sound reason for agreeing to this. It gets Homana nothing. You say it gets us peace, but that we should have anyway. We have defeated you.”

  Alaric shrugged. “And eventually the Atvian throne. Your nephew will be my heir. There will be Cheysuli princes in Atvia.”

  Donal shrugged. “I am not so certain that would serve anything—” Abruptly, he stopped speaking. His belly turned in upon itself. By the gods—it is the prophecy…even from the mouth of the enemy! He stared at Alaric in shock. Four warring realms—

  He pushed himself back in the throne before he could display his shock to the Atvian. The pattern lay before him as clearly as if Evan had thrown it himself. If I wed Bronwyn to him, her son will have the throne. Cheysuli in Atvia. Adding one more realm to the prophecy. By the gods, it will come true!

  Bronwyn in Atvia. No, he could not see it. She would never agree. The Cheysuli did not barter women or use them for sealing alliances.

  And yet, things change. So many things had to change. His own mother had told him how Finn had stolen her from the Homanans because for years the Cheysuli had needed to steal Homanan women, to strengthen the clan again. It was alien to him, but no less alien than the thought of wedding his sister to Alaric.

  If I do it—if I do it—Bronwyn would never forgive me—

  Alaric still watched silently, all politeness, waiting for an answer. He was like a cat ready to spring, elegant in his readiness; Donal did not like him. He did not like him at all.

  Give my rujholla to this ku’reshtin of Atvia?

  And yet, if he did not and it was part of the prophecy—

  I will not decide this now. There is no need to decide this now— He steadied his breathing with effort. And then, as he prepared to give Alaric a diplomatic reason to delay the expected answer, he realized with blinding clarity the marriage could never take place. Even if the prophecy demanded it.

  Slowly, Donal sat back. “You are guests of Homana,” he said evenly. “Cheysuli i’halla shansu.” But he knew he did not mean it.

  Alaric frowned as Donal moved to rise. “My lord—your answer? May I know when you will give it?”

  Donal stood. “I give it now,” he said. “My rujholla may never marry.”

  * * *

  Bronwyn, whom he tracked down in Aislinn’s solar, looked on in silence as he banished everyone from the chamber save herself. She stood before an open casement with light falling on her shoulders. She wore a simple indigo gown embroidered with interlocking leaves in silver thread. He looked at her silently, wondering when she had grown up. She had done it without his knowledge; he clearly recalled her girlish laughter at his wedding; her tomboyish way at the Keep. Now she was a woman. Only sixteen and still young, but there was a new maturity in her eyes and grace to her movements.

  He gestured her to sit down upon a stool even as he himself did. “A man is here,” he said. “He has come to Homana-Mujhar because he wishes to wed the Mujhar’s rujholla.”

  Color blossomed in her cheeks. “Wed me?”

  “Aye. He offers you the chance to be a queen.”

  “Queen!” Bronwyn was clearly shocked. “Who would wish me to be his queen?”

  “Alaric of Atvia.”

  Bronwyn shot to her feet. “Alaric of Atvi
a!”

  Donal rose slowly. He heard the horror in her tone. At least I may save her that. “Bronwyn—Bronwyn, you do not have to wed him. I promise you that. Do not think I will send you away.”

  She shut her eyes. A breath of relief hissed out of her mouth. “Thank the gods—thank the gods—I thought it might be a political thing—” She shuddered. “There are dangers in being rujholla to the Mujhar.”

  “It would be a political thing,” Donal pointed out. “Alaric offers alliance to Homana. It would also be a dynastic thing, binding the realms together.”

  She understood him perfectly. “It—seems to be sound reasoning—to bind the realms together.” Her tone was very flat.

  “Bronwyn, you need fear nothing. There can be no royal marriage. There can be no marriage at all.”

  “Not with Alaric.” Relief put life back into her tone. “But someday—”

  “No.” He said it plainly, wishing to have it done with. “Bronwyn, you will never be able to marry.”

  She stared. “Have you gone mad? Of course I will marry! What would keep me from it?”

  “I would.” He said it flatly. “I have no other choice.”

  She laughed. The tone was incredulous and perplexed. “You have gone mad. Donal…what are you saying?”

  He reached out and caught her shoulders. “That because of the blood in you, I can never let you wed. You can never bear any children.”

  She went stiff in his hands. He felt the convulsive shiver that shook her limbs. She tore herself from his grasp. “You are mad—you are mad—how can you say such things? How can you tell me this?” Slowly she shook her head. “Do you think my children would threaten the throne? By the gods, Donal—I am your rujholla! Our jehana bore us both! Our jehan—”