Legacy of the Sword (11 page)

For a moment, Donal shut his eyes. He needed time to regain his senses completely. But there was none. He took his hands away from Aislinn’s head, and smiled wearily at the boy. “I fare well enough. But I should have warned you—”

“Was that—
magic
?” Sef’s eyes were widening. “Did you cast a spell here in
this room?
”

“It was not a spell. We do not cast
spells.
We—borrow power from the earth. That is all.” Donal looked at Aislinn. “I had the need to know if sorcery had been worked, and so I used my own.”

“Had it?” Sef whispered.

Donal did not hear him. He watched Aislinn, frowning slightly as he saw how she began to rouse. Color was returning to her face.

“My lord? Was it?”

Donal glanced back. “What?—oh, aye. It was. But I could not discover the whole of it, or who had the doing of it. Electra, most likely—or Tynstar, through Electra herself.” He suppressed a shudder. “But now, I think it is time we all got some rest. The princess particularly.” He glanced back at her. She seemed almost to sag into the bed, though she continued to sit; Donal set a hand onto her shoulder. “Aislinn, I know you were merely the gamepiece. But no matter how small the piece, it can overtake even the highest.”

He rose.
How in the names of all the gods am I to tell Carillon what Electra has done to his daughter?

And then, as he turned to go, he felt a wave of heat wash up to engulf his body. And he fell.

T
he Mujhar himself poured two cups of steaming spiced wine. He had dismissed the servant, even Rowan, which was an indication in itself that the conversation was to be expressly private. Warily, Donal accepted the cup and waited.

Carillon turned. “Tell me how Sorcha and Ian fare.”

In bed, bathed in sweat and filled with pain, Donal stirred. He groaned, inwardly ashamed of his weakness, yet knowing there was nothing he could do. The sorcery had drawn him in. All he could do was lose himself in memories he would rather forget.

“Ian has a fever,” he told Carillon. “A childhood thing, they tell me—but he is better. Sorcha is well.” He paused. “My
jehana
says the child will be born in four weeks. I would like to be with her when the pain comes upon her.”

Carillon sipped idly at his wine. But his eyes, half hidden beneath creased eyelids, were bright and shrewd. “Provided you are returned, I have no quarrel with that.”

“Returned!” Donal lowered his cooling cup. “Where is it I am to go?”

“To the Crystal Isle.”

“The Crystal Isle?” Donal could not see any reason he should go there. It was nothing more than a convenient place for Carillon to keep his exiled wife imprisoned. “Why would you send
me
there?” He grinned. “Or have I displeased you of late?”

Carillon did not return the smile. “You please me well
enough…for a prince who has more interest in Cheysuli things than Homanan.”

“I am Cheysuli—”

“—and Homanan!” Carillon finished. “Do you forget your mother is my cousin? There is Homanan blood in those veins of yours, and it is time you acknowledged it.” Carillon set down his wine and paced to the firepit. His age- and illness-wracked hands went out to bathe in the heat, and Donal saw the edges of the leather bracers he wore on either wrist. For decoration, most thought, to hide the old Atvian shackle scars. But Donal knew better. Carillon needed them to guard his waning strength.

“I do acknowledge it.” Donal damped down his impatience and frustration. “But I have
lir
and responsibilities to my clan. To my
su’fali,
who is clan-leader. To my
jehana,
to my son, and certainly to my
meijha.”
He paused.
“
Would you wish me to turn my back on my heritage and
tahlmorra?”

“Part of that heritage places you first in the line of succession,” Carillon said flatly, still warming himself at the fire. “So does your gods-dictated destiny. I would have you remember
all
the responsibilities you have, for there are those to Homana as well. Not merely the Keep and your clan.”

Donal twisted in the bed. Every portion of his flesh ached until he wanted to cry out with the pain. Fire had settled into the pit of his belly, burning relentlessly, and against his will he began to double up. Fists dug into the flesh of his belly, trying to knead the pain away, but it did not go.

“Do you say I neglect Homana?” he whispered through his pain.

“Aye, I do.” Carillon turned to face him squarely. “You neglect my daughter, who is to be your wife.”

Donal stared at him. The wine cup was forgotten in his hands. The frustration and rising anger melted away into shock. “Aislinn?” he said at last. “But—you sent her away to visit her
jehana.”

“Aye. And I would have you fetch her back to Homana-Mujhar, so I may have her with me again.”

Donal felt a wave of relief sweep through him. If Carillon only wanted her brought back for company, the fetching would not be so bad. “I will go, of course. But—surely you could
send Gryffth or Rowan, or someone else. I wish to be with Sorcha when the child is born.”

“I will give you leave for that, if you are back with Aislinn in time. I have said it.” Carillon’s voice was steady. “But I think it is time you thought also of wedding my daughter.”

Donal tried to smile. “I
have
thought of it. Many times. But Aislinn is still very young—”

“Not so young. Old enough to be wedded and bedded.” Carillon’s tone did not soften. “And was not Sorcha but sixteen when she bore your first child?”

“And it died!” Donal cried it aloud, thrashing against the bed. Hands were on him, pressing him against the mattress, but he did not know them. “The child died, and Sorcha nearly did! Even with Ian the time was hard. And now that she will bear
again—
”

“It does not matter.” Carillon’s voice was implacable. “It is past time you got yourself an heir.”

Donal gestured. “You are only forty. Hardly ancient, no matter what Tynstar’s Ihlini arts have done to you. I doubt you will die any time soon. Give Aislinn a few more years—”

“No.” Carillon said it softly. “I cannot. Look again upon me, Donal, and do not mouth such nonsense. Tynstar’s sorcery took away twenty years from me and—for all I feel but forty in my heart—I cannot hide the truth forever. Not from you or anyone else.” He stretched out his twisted hands. “You see these. Each day they worsen. So do my knees, my spine, my shoulders. A crippled man is not the Mujhar for Homana.”

“You would never abdicate!” It was unthinkable in the face of Carillon’s pride.

“Abdication is hardly the point,” the Mujhar said. “I doubt I have so many years left as you would prefer to believe. I prefer to have the throne secured…and so should you. It is, for all that, a Cheysuli thing.”

Donal scowled. “You play me as Lachlan might play his Lady. Pluck this string, that one, and the proper tune is heard. You call my Cheysuli heritage into conversation, and you
know
what I will do.”

“Then do it.” For a moment, Carillon smiled. “Aislinn is spoiled, as I have spoiled her, but she is also a warm and giving girl. I think you will find it no chore to wed my daughter.”

But Donal could not reconcile the loss of Cheysuli freedom with the Homanan title the Mujhar promised.

Aloud, he muttered: “I would rather wait. Not—long. A six-month. Perhaps a year.” Donal twisted. “Surely you can see your way clear to granting me the time. And Aislinn will need months of preparation…women do, and she is a princess—”

“Donal,” Carillon said gently.

“Aislinn is like a
rujholla
to me.”

“But she is not your sister, is she?”

He felt the sudden desperation well up in his soul. “But I would rather wed with Sorcha!” he shouted aloud. “I will not lie to you—it is Sorcha who should be
cheysula
instead of
meijha—
”

“That I do not doubt.” Carillon sounded more compassionate. “I question nothing of her honor or her worth, Donal, as I think you know. But Homana requires all manner of sacrifices, and this one is yours to make.”

“So, you would have me play the stud to Aislinn’s mare, merely to get a colt.” He said it clearly into the room at the White Hart Inn. “Yet even the Cheysuli, who have had more cause than most, cannot sanction their women to be treated as mere broodmares.”

“I have cause,” Carillon retorted gently. “I have cause, I have reason, I have more than justification, though kings rarely have need of anything more than whim. Oh, aye, I have all the cause in the world.” He turned his back on the firepit. “I have a kingdom to rule as well as I possibly can. I have people to husband. Heirs to beget.” He smiled, but without humor. “but then we know I failed at that task, do we not? There is only Aislinn, only a daughter from my loins.” The smile fell away. “Do
you
not wed Aislinn, she will go to a foreign prince. And then we run the risk of losing Homana, into the hands of another realm. The Cheysuli, so odd and eerie in their magic, may become little more than game, once again. Hunted, branded demons…slain. It happened once, Donal. Can you tell me it will never happen again?”

Donal could not. He knew it would destroy the prophecy, destroy the
tahlmorra
of his people…destroy, perhaps, even Homana herself.

He thrashed, sweating, and doubled up yet again from the pain. With great effort, he gave the Mujhar his answer. “I
guarantee nothing, Carillon. I know it as well as you. Perhaps better, since I bear the tainted blood.” He did not smile. It was not a joke. In some circles, it was said Shaine’s
qu’mahlin
should still take precedence over Carillon’s peace.

But those were circles Donal did not patronize, being in no position to know them personally; did he know them, they would slay him.

“I do not do it
to
you.” Carillon’s tone was ragged. Gone was the strength of his rank, replaced with the need of the man. “I do it for Homana.”

Even as he forces me to do it for the Cheysuli.
After a moment, Donal nodded. “I will fetch her back.”

Carillon sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “I will give you this much—you may have eight weeks of freedom when you have brought Aislinn back. It is—not long, I know. But it is all I can spare.” Twisted fingers slipped up to comb through a silvered forelock. “I would have you fully acclaimed before the year is done.”

Donal, hearing the Homanan portion of his fate sealed, could only nod. Then he glanced up and saw the Mujhar’s ravaged face.

Carillon watched him with a hunger and sadness Donal could not comprehend. It sent a chill coursing down his spine. He stared back at the Mujhar, not knowing his own face reflected the very expression that had conjured Carillon’s pain. “I have lost you,” the Mujhar said quietly. “I
am bound as cruelly by my royal heritage as you are by your
tahlmorra,
and I have lost you because of it.”

“My lord?” Donal’s tone was soft.

Carillon sighed and waved a twisted hand. “It is nothing. Only memories of the man whose face you wear.” He smiled faintly. “Your father lives in you, Donal…you have all of Duncan’s pride and arrogance and convictions. I did not fully understand him and I do not understand you. I only know that by pressing for this marriage, I have lost what little of you I once had.”

“You have me still.” Donal spread his hands. “Do you see me?—I am not gone. I stand before you. I will ever be your man.”

“Perhaps.” Carillon did not smile. “It simply must be done.”

“I know it, my lord Mujhar.” Donal put out his right hand, gestured defeat.
“Tahlmorra,
Carillon.”

“By the gods—” he blurted, lunging upward against the hands that tried to hold him. Small hands, two sets, one toughened, one soft and delicate. Sef, he knew, and—Aislinn?

His eyes snapped open. He saw the dark wooden walls revolve until the movement dizzied him; he shut his eyes at once. A sour harshness preyed on his throat.

“Lie down again,” Aislinn said. “So much thrashing is not good for you—it brings more pain.”

He looked at her, and did not protest as she and Sef urged him down again. The bedclothes were soaked beneath him. He shivered. “It was
you—
”

“Not me,” she declared. “Oh, aye, it was I who cut your fingers, but I swear I knew nothing of the poison. That, I fear, was my mother.”

Weakness washed over him. “
Lir
,” he said raggedly.

Here, upon the roof-beam
, said Taj, though Donal could not summon the strength to look.

And I.
That from Lorn, sitting by the bed.

Donal’s hand moved out to touch the wolf’s muzzle. Lorn nuzzled him gently, then pressed his nose into Donal’s limp hand.

“Donal,” Aislinn whispered. “I am so sorry. I did not
know
…I swear it. Oh gods, do not
die.
What would become of me?”