Legacy of the Sword

DAW titles by Jennifer Roberson

THE SWORD-DANCER SAGA

SWORD-DANCER

SWORD-SINGER

SWORD-MAKER

SWORD-BREAKER

SWORD-BORN

SWORD-SWORN

SWORD-BOUND

CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULI

SHAPECHANGERS

THE SONG OF HOMANA

LEGACY OF THE SWORD

TRACK OF THE WHITE WOLF

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

DAUGHTER OF THE LION

FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

THE GOLDEN KEY

(with Melanie Rawn and Kate Elliott)

ANTHOLOGIES

(as editor)

RETURN TO AVALON

HIGHWAYMEN: ROBBERS AND ROGUES

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This book is for C.J. Cherryh
who is, quite simply,
the best.

Table of Contents

Part I

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Part II

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

H
ondarth did not resemble a city so much as a flock of sheep pouring down over lilac heather toward the glass-gray ocean beyond. From atop the soft, slope-shouldered hills surrounding the scalloped bay, gray-thatched cottages appeared to huddle together in familial affection.

Once, Hondarth had been no more than a small fishing village; now it was a thriving city whose welfare derived from all manner of foreign trade as well as seasonal catches. Ships docked daily and trade caravans were dispatched to various parts of Homana. And with the ships came an influx of foreign sailors and merchants; Hondarth had become almost cosmopolitan.

The price of growth
, Donal thought.
But I wonder, was Mujhara ever this—haphazard?

He smiled. The thought of the Mujhar’s royal city—with the palace of Homana-Mujhar a pendent jewel in a magnificent crown—as ever being
haphazard
was ludicrous. Had not the Cheysuli originally built the city the Homanans claimed for themselves?

Still smiling, Donal guided his chestnut stallion through the foot traffic thronging the winding street.
Few cities know the majesty and uniformity of Mujhara. But I think I prefer Hondarth, if I must know a city at all.

And he did know cities. He knew Mujhara very well indeed, for all he preferred to live away from it. He had, of late, little choice in his living arrangements.

Donal sighed.
I think Carillon will see to it my wings are
clipped, my talons filed…or perhaps he will pen me in a kennel, like his hunting dogs.

And who would complain about a kennel as fine as Homana-Mujhar?

The question was unspoken, yet clearly understood by Donal. He had heard similar comments from others, many times before. Yet this one came not from any human companion but from the wolf padding at the stallion’s side.

Padding, not slinking; not as if the wolf avoided unwanted contact. He did not stalk, did not hunt, did not run from man or horse. He paced the stallion like a well-tamed hound accompanying a beloved master, but the wolf was no dog. Nor was he particularly tame.

He was not a delicate animal, but spare, with no flesh beyond that which supported his natural strength and quickness. The brassy sunlight of a foggy coastal late afternoon tipped his ruddy pelt with the faintest trace of bronze. His eyes were partially lidded, showing half-moons of brown and black.

I would complain about the kennel regardless of its aspect
, Donal declared.
So would
you,
Lorn.

An echo of laughter crossed the link that bound man to animal.
So I would
, the wolf agreed.
But then Homana-Mujhar will be kennel to me as well as to you, once you have taken the throne.

That is not the point
, Donal protested.
The point is, Carillon begins to make more demands on my time. He takes me away from the Keep. Council meetings, policy sessions…all those boring petition hearings—

But the wolf cut him off.
Does he have a choice?

Donal opened his mouth to answer aloud, prepared to contest the question. But chose to say nothing, aware of the familiar twinge of guilt that always accompanied less than charitable thoughts about the Mujhar of Homana. He shifted in the saddle, resettled the reins, made certain the green woolen cloak hung evenly over his shoulders…ritualized motions intended to camouflage the guilt; but they emphasized it instead.

And then, as always, he surrendered the battle to the wolf.

There are times I think he has a choice in
everything, lir, Donal said with a sigh.
I see him make decisions that are utterly incomprehensible to me. And yet, there are times I
almost understand him…Almost…
Donal smiled a little, wryly.
But most of the time I think I lack the wit and sense to understand
any
of Carillon’s motives.

As good a reason as any for your attendance at council meetings, policy sessions, boring petition hearings….

Donal scowled down at the wolf. Lorn sounded insufferably smug. But arguing with his
lir
accomplished nothing—Lorn, like Carillon, always won the argument.

Just like Taj.
Donal looked into the sky for the soaring golden falcon.
As always, I am outnumbered.

You lack both wit and sense, and need the loan of ours.
Taj’s tone was different within the threads of the link. The resonances of
lir
-speech were something no Cheysuli could easily explain because even the Old Tongue lacked the explicitness required. Donal, like every other warrior, simply
knew
the language of the link in all its infinite intangibilities. But only he could converse with Taj and Lorn.

I am put in my place.
Donal conceded the battle much as he always did—with practiced humility and customary resignation; the concession was nothing new.

*   *   *

The tiny street gave out into Market Square as did dozens of others; Donal found himself funneled into the square almost against his will, suddenly surrounded by a cacophony of shouts and sing-song invitations from fishmongers and streethawkers. Languages abounded, so tangled the syllables were indecipherable. But then most he could not decipher anyway, being limited to Homanan and the Old Tongue of the Cheysuli.

The smell struck him like a blow. Accustomed to the rich earth odors of the Keep and the more subtle aromas of Mujhara, Donal could not help but frown. Oil. The faintest tang of fruit from clustered stalls. A hint of flowers, musk and other unknown scents wafting from a perfume-merchant’s stall. But mostly fish. Everywhere fish—in everything; he could not separate even the familiar smell of his leathers, gold and wool from the pervasive odor of fish.

The stallion’s gait slowed to a walk, impeded by people, pushcarts, stalls, booths, livestock and, occasionally, other horses. Most people were on foot; Donal began to wish
he
were, if only so he could melt into the crowd instead of riding head and shoulders above them all.