Legacy of the Sword (12 page)

Through slitted eyes he watched her. The single braid was tumbled, as if she had spent no time on it for days. Strands of bright hair straggled into her face and he saw how furrows of concern had dug their way into the smooth flesh of her brow. Her cool, pale eyes were fastened on his face.

Gods…those are Electra’s eyes.
He swallowed and knew again the stripped feeling in his throat. “Aislinn, I swear—do you
lie
to me—”

“No!” She leaned forward on the stool, reaching out to clasp his hand. “Oh Donal, no. I do not. Sef has—told me what I did, and what you did after—to find out why I did it. He—he said you found something.” Shakily, she touched her temple. “Is there—something in my head?”

“Some
one
,” he said wearily. “I do not doubt it is your
jehana
’s doing, or perhaps even Tynstar’s through the link to Electra.”

She paled. “Then—if that is true, it is not that I do these things willingly. Donal—do you truly think I could mean to slay you?”

“I could not say, Aislinn.” Vacancy threatened to steal his senses from him. “I think—I think if they have meddled with your mind…you are capable of doing anything.”

“Is there no way of
gainsaying
it?” she demanded in horror.

He laughed. It rasped in his throat painfully, and he hardly knew the sound. “Oh, aye—there is always a way. But I think you would not like it…and I doubt you would agree.”

She stared down at the hand she held, dark against her own, though the illness had lent pallor to his flesh. “I will do what you wish, Donal,” she said quietly. “How else am I to prove I am innocent of this connivance?”

“And if you are not?” He had to ask it. “If you are not, and seek this way of advancing Tynstar’s bid to throw down Carillon, you would do better to try another method.” He shut his hand upon hers almost painfully. “I am not the one to do it—I am still too young, and lack the experience one must have—but there are those who could do it for me.” He watched her eyes and saw how she stared back. She was clearly frightened, and there was no hint of satisfaction in her manner, as there might be if she sought the test out of some perverse plan to gain his confidence. “Even unknowing, do you agree to this?”

“Aye,” she whispered finally. “I will—do what you wish.”

He lifted her hand. “Then I hold you to it. You will be tested. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “But—may I know who will have the doing of it?”

“Aye,” he said carelessly, releasing her hand. “I will ask my
su’fali
to do it.”

Aislinn’s head jerked up.
“Finn?”

“Who better?” He looked directly at her. “He is clan-leader of the Cheysuli. And he has had some experience with Ihlini trap-links before.” Donal did not smile.

“But—” She broke off.

“I think,” said Donal, “we will know the truth at last.”

“I swear it,” she whispered. “I did not
know.
”

Waves of pain radiated upward from his belly. Donal felt
the cramping of his muscles and knew again the total helplessness as he curled up against the fire. Even Taj and Lorn, seeking to lend him strength, could not reach him. The pain was absolute.

“My lord?” It was Sef, bending over the bed. “My lord—is there
nothing
I can do?”

“Watch,” Donal said huskily. “Watch Aislinn for me.”

He heard her indrawn breath of dismay. But he had no strength to regret his cruelty. He dared not trust her now.

*   *   *

He recovered. Sef brought him hot broths at first to soothe the emptiness and ache in his belly, then brought stew when Donal could keep it down and finally, after ten days, brought meat, bread, cheese and wine. Donal ate a little of each food, drank down half a cup of wine, then set it all aside.

“Enough. I will burst. More will have to wait.” He looked at Aislinn, sitting silently on the stool across the room, and saw she intended to offer no speech. “Well, lady—I think we shall be on our way to Mujhara in the morning.”

The light from the lantern was gentle on her face. It set up brilliant highlights in her hair and painted her face quite fair, gold instead of silver, though—save for her bright hair—she had the fairness of her mother. She had changed from plain brown gown and cloak to equally plain moss-green, save for the copper stitching at collar and cuffs. An overtunic of darker green hid much of her femininity, though no man would name her boy. Her features were too delicate.

One day, she may rival her
jehana’s
beauty, though it be a different sort. Brighter, warmer, less cold and seductive as Electra’s—well, if I must take her as my
cheysula,
better a pretty one than a plain.
Then he smiled inwardly, knowing the irony in his statement.
Already you think of making her the
cheysula
Carillon wants, when she may be plotting against your life. Fool.

No
, said Taj.
Practical.

Realistic.
That from Lorn.

Donal sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was still in his clothing, he discovered; Sef, undoubtedly, had lacked the strength to strip him of the sweat-soaked leathers, and it was not Aislinn’s place to do it. He was rank with his own stench, and ordered Sef to fetch up a half-cask for bathing at once.

Aislinn, still sitting silently on the stool, colored, clenching her hands in her lap. “You will send me out, of course.”

“Have you not had your own room?”

“You are
in
it,” she said softly. “When you fell, the most we could do was drag you into my bed. Sef would allow no one near you, not even the innkeeper’s wife. And so
we
tended you.” She shrugged. “We have been together here with you…Sef, you see, would not allow me to be alone.”

He frowned. “Not at all?”

Her gaze lifted to meet his. “But you said he must watch me,” she said simply. “I have begun to think of him as my jailer—or, perhaps, your third
lir
.” She did not smile. “He is—obdurate. You chose him well, Donal. I do not doubt he will serve you as well as General Rowan serves my father.”

“And so you have been here with me for all this time?” He shook his head. “Perhaps it was best, but I am sorry if it caused you inconvenience. Sef is—unaccustomed to royalty.” He sat very straight, then arched his spine to crack all the knots. His midsection was extremely tender, within and without, and his muscles felt like rags. Even the
lir
-bands on his bare arms fit a little loosely—he had lost flesh as well as ten days.

He clasped each band, squeezing it against his arm. Beneath his fingers curved the shapes of wolf and falcon, honoring Taj and Lorn in traditional Cheysuli fashion. When a Cheysuli boy became a man, acknowledged so by the bonding of his
lir
, he put on the traditional armbands and earring to mark warrior status. Donal, gaining his
lir
younger than most, had worn his gold for fifteen years.

“You seem much improved.” Aislinn ventured.

“Aye. Weary and sore, but both shall pass soon enough.” He rolled his head from side to side, loosing the tautness of his tendons. “You need not be
frightened
of me, Aislinn. I do not take retribution on the woman I must wed.”

“Must wed,” she echoed, and he saw how tightly set was her jaw. “That is it, is it not? You
must
wed me. My father has taken the choice from you.”

“You knew that.” Carefully he rose, steadying himself by pressing his calves against the bedframe. He felt old, at least as old as Carillon— “Gods!” he blurted. “Have you done
that
to me?”

“What?” she demanded crossly. “Do you accuse me yet again?”

“Am I old?” He tried to take a step forward and found it weak, wobbly, lacking all grace or strength. Before him rose the specter of premature aging, and what it had done to Carillon.
“Have you made me like the Mujhar?”

Aislinn made a rude, banishing gesture. “You can only
hope
to be like my father…no man can match him, Donal. Do not try.”

He lifted one hand and saw firm, sun-bronzed flesh, taut and still youthful, though the palms were callused and tough. He made a fist, and saw how quickly the muscles responded.
Not old, then…just—weakened. But that will pass.

The hand flopped back down at his side. “Aislinn—”

She rose. The stool scraped against the pegged wood of the uneven floor. “I want to know who she is.”

For a moment he could only stare. “Who do you mean?”

“Sorcha.” She was pale and very stiff in her movements. And every inch the princess. Donal, who had intended to ask her what had caused her change in manner, suddenly understood it very clearly.

“Ah.” He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. “Sorcha.”

“Who is she?”

There was no help for it, he knew; the time had come for truth. Evasion was no longer an option. “Sorcha is my
meijha
,” he answered evenly. “In the Homanan tongue it means
light woman.
”

Aislinn’s gray eyes widened. “Your
whore—
?”

“No.”
He cut her off at once. “We have no whores in the clans. We have
meijhas
, who hold as much honor as
cheysulas.
”

Color stood high in Aislinn’s fair face. “You see? There are many Cheysuli customs I do
not
know.” An accusation; he did not run from the guilt. “Then it is
so
: because we are betrothed—and because my father would never allow it, having no other male heir—you cannot wed your
meijha.
You must wed me instead.” Aislinn stood rigidly before him: a small, almost fragile young woman, yet suddenly towering in her pride. “Do I have the right of it?”

“Aye.” That only; more would be redundant.

“And—Ian?”

“Ian is my son.”

Aislinn paled. He realized, belatedly, Aislinn would probably feel a woman with a child posed more of a threat than simply a woman alone. “A
bastard—
”

“My
son.
” He pushed himself out of the cot. “Aislinn—I know you only echo what words you have heard before…but I will allow neither my
meijha
nor my children to be abused.”

“Children!”
She gazed at him in shock. “There are
more?
”

There was no easy way. And so he told her as simply as he could. “Sorcha is due to bear another child within the month. It is why I wish to leave this place and hasten back—”

“—to the Keep.” She nodded jerkily. “That is why, is it not? Not that you wish to fulfill my father’s wishes.”

“Aye,” he told her gently. “I want to go home to my family.”

She stared up at him, clearly stunned as well as hurt. He saw how her mouth trembled, though she fought to keep it steady. “Then—there is no hope for me. I am bound to a loveless marriage…and all because of the
throne—
”

“Aye,” he said softly. “You have begun to feel its weight—the weight we must share.”

“Then I do not
want
it.” Aislinn’s hands rose to cover her mouth. She looked directly at him. “I will have this betrothal broken.” The words were muffled, but he understood them.

For just an instant, he felt a surge of hope well up from deep inside.
Does
Aislinn
ask it, Carillon will have to break the betrothal. And I will be free.

But the hope, as quickly, died away, and in its place was futility. “Aislinn,” he said helplessly. “I doubt he will agree.”

“He will,” she said. “He will do as I ask.” She drew in a trembling breath and tried for a steady smile. “He agrees to whatever I want.”

Donal admired her brave attempt at confidence, even though it failed. But inwardly, he knew the truth.
He will not agree to this, my determined Homanan princess. Not when realm and prophecy depend so much upon it.

But he had no heart to tell her.

“G
ods!”
Sef breathed. “Is
this
where you live?”

Donal looked at the boy. His mouth hung open inelegantly as he stared about the inner bailey of Homana-Mujhar; though it was far smaller than the outer bailey, the inner one was, nonetheless, impressive. Massive rose-colored walls jutted up from the earth, thick as the span of a man’s outstretched arms. The outer wall was thicker yet, hedged with ramparts and towers. The clean, unadorned lines of the walls and baileys lent Homana-Mujhar an austere sort of elegance. But Donal thought the legends told about the palace formed at least half of its fabled reputation.

And we Cheysuli built it.
Inwardly, he laughed. Outwardly, he smiled at Sef. “This is where the Mujhar lives, and the princess. I—
visit
here often, but the Keep is my home.” Donal gestured eastward. “It lies half a day’s ride from here. If you wish, I will take you there some time.”

But Sef appeared not to hear him. He twisted his shaggy head on a thin neck, staring around at the walls and towers and the liveried guardsmen passing along the walkways. In the midday sun the ringmail and silver of their steel glittered brightly.

The iron-shod hooves of the three horses clopped and scraped across slate-gray cobbles. Donal led Sef and Aislinn past the garrison toward the archivolted entrance of the palace. Though he preferred a side door in order to avoid an excess of royal reception, for Aislinn he would enter through the front.