Legacy of the Sword (13 page)

And then, as he saw Carillon come out the open door to wait at the top of the marble steps, he knew he had chosen correctly.

Donal turned to speak to Aislinn, then shut his mouth at once. He saw how she stared at her father; he saw the shock and disbelief reflected in her eyes. Before him the color drained out of her face, even from her lips, and he saw how her gloved hands shook upon the reins.

“Aislinn—?”

“He is—grown so
old
—” she whispered. “When I left, he did not look so—so
used up.
” Aislinn turned a beseeching face to Donal. “What has happened to him?”

Donal frowned. “You have heard the story, Aislinn: how Tynstar used his sorcery to try and slay your
jehan
, and in doing so aged him twenty years. That is what you see.”

“He is
worse
—” She spoke barely above a whisper. “
Look
at him, Donal!”

Accordingly, he looked more closely at the Mujhar, and saw precisely what Aislinn meant.

She sees more because she has not seen him in two years, while I—having seen him so often for those two years—do not mark the little changes. But Aislinn has the right of it—Carillon
has
aged. Tynstar’s sorcery holds true.

In truth, the Mujhar was but forty years of age, yet outwardly—because of sorcery leveled against him fifteen years before—he bore the look of a sixty-year-old man. His once-tawny hair had dulled to a steely-gray. His face, though partially hidden by a thick silvering beard, was care-worn, weathered to the consistency of aged leather. The blue eyes, deep-set, were crowded around by clustered creases. And though a very tall and exceptionally strong man—
once
—age had begun to sap the vitality from his body. The warrior’s posture had softened. Pain had leeched him of any pretense of youth.

That, and Tynstar’s retribution.
Donal felt a flutter of foreboding.
If he grows so old this quickly, what does it mean for me?

He saw how stiffly the shoulders were set, how they hunched forward just a little, as if they pained Carillon constantly. Perhaps they did. Perhaps his shoulders had caught up at last to his knees and hands as the disease ate up his joints.

Gods, but I hope I never know the pain he knows
, Donal thought fervently. He ignored the twinge of guilt that told him he was selfish to think of himself when Carillon stood before him.
Spare me what Carillon knows. I think I lack the courage it takes to face what he has lost.

He looked briefly at the hands that hung at Carillon’s sides. The reddened fingers were twisted away from his thumbs, almost as if someone had broken all the bones. And the knuckles were ridged with swollen buttons of flesh. How he managed to hold a sword Donal could not say. But he did.

Carillon is what keeps Homana strong…Carillon and the Cheysuli. Does he fail any time soon, it is all left to me—and I
do not want it!

“Aislinn!” Carillon called. “By the gods, girl, it has been too long!” He put out his twisted hands, and Aislinn—forgetting her royal status and the need for proprieties—jumped down from the saddle before the stable lads could catch the reins.

Donal bent over and caught Aislinn’s mare before she could follow the girl up the marble steps. He reined her back, then handed the leather over to the first boy who arrived to take the horse.

Aislinn gathered her skirts and ran up the black-veined steps, laughing as she climbed. Carillon caught her at the top of them, lifting her into the air in a joyous, loving hug. Donal, watching, saw yet again how close was the bond they shared.

It is almost as if she spent no time with Electra. She nearly makes me think she is nothing but a girl not quite become a woman—but I dare not trust her. Not until Finn has tested her.

The Mujhar did not appear an aged, aging man as he hugged his only child. The twisted hands pressed into the fabric of her blue cloak, tangling in the wool. His face, seen over Aislinn’s right shoulder, was younger than ever before. But the image faded as he set her upon her feet, and Donal saw again how Carillon had grown older in two years.

“Donal, climb down from that horse and come in!” Carillon called, one arm still circling his daughter’s shoulders. “And tell me why it is that the baggage train arrived ahead of you.”

“Dismount,” Donal said in an aside to Sef. “This is the
Mujhar you face, but be not overcome by him. He is not a god, just a man.”

Sef’s expression was dubious. But he shook free of his stirrups and slithered down from the saddle, scraping his belly against the leather. Another stable lad took his horse; yet a third caught Donal’s reins with a low-voiced “Welcome back, my lord.”

“My thanks, Corrick.” Donal gestured to Sef. “Come with me.”

“Now?”
Sef demanded. “But—you go with the Mujhar!”

“So do you.” Donal gestured him up the stairs, and after a monumental hesitation, Sef climbed.

“You are somewhat late,” Carillon said quietly when they reached the top of the steps. “Some manner of delay?”

“Some manner,” Donal agreed blandly.

“He was ill,” Aislinn declared. “Someone—
poisoned
him.”

Carillon made no movement, no sound of dismay. His face tightened a little, but otherwise Donal observed nothing that indicated concern. “Well then, you had best come in. As you do not appear in imminent danger of dropping dead at my very feet, I must assume you are completely recovered.”

Donal smiled a little. “Aye, my lord, I am.” But he had never been good at lying.

Carillon did not seem to notice. “Well enough. Let us leave off standing out of doors. It may be spring, but it is cold enough to qualify as fall.” He turned and escorted his daughter into the palace as Donal, Sef and the
lir
followed.

It is not so cold
, Donal thought, concerned.
Not so cold as to trouble a man.
But he said nothing to the Mujhar. He merely followed him into the palace.

“I will have you fed first,” Carillon said, “and then
you
, Aislinn, must rest. I doubt not you are weary.”

“I have not seen you in two years,” she protested, “yet you send me to bed like an errant child.”

“You
are
an errant child. Have you not kept yourself from me for longer than I wished?”

Her right arm was at his waist as they paused in the entry hall. He had not thickened or put on weight with advancing age, but he was considerably larger than she. “I must speak with you, father. It is important—”

“Another time.” Carillon’s tone left no room for argument, even from a beloved daughter. “If you do not wish to
look like
me
before your time, you must get the rest you require.”

Aislinn, shocked, pulled back from his side. “Do not
say
that! You are
not old!
”

Sadly, Carillon bent and kissed her on the crown of her head. “Ah, but you give yourself away with so valiant a protest. Aislinn, Aislinn, I have seen the silver plate. Give me truth, not falsehood; I value that over flattery.”

With tears in her eyes, she nodded. “Aye,” she whispered. “Oh gods, I have missed you! It was not the same without you!”

Carillon hugged her again as she leaned against his chest. Over her head, he met Donal’s eyes. “Aye, I
do
know the truth. There is much we must speak about.”

Mutely, Donal nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “My lord, I would have you meet Sef. It is my hope you will allow him to remain in Homana-Mujhar. Let him be trained as a page, if you wish, or perhaps—when he is old enough—as one of your Mujharan guards. I think there is good blood in him, albeit unknown.”

Carillon looked at the boy. Sef was pale but he drew himself up to stand very straight, as if he already bore sword and wore the lion in the name of his Mujhar.

“Do you wish it?” Carillon asked. “I will harbor no boys who do not willingly accept the service.”

“M-my lord!” Sef dropped awkwardly to his knees. “My lord—how could a boy wish
not
to serve his king?”

The Mujhar laughed. “Well, you will be serving your prince, not your king—I think you will do better with Donal. But I suggest, first, you put flesh on your bones and better clothing on that flesh. You are too small.”

Donal marked how Carillon asked nothing about the boy’s background, or how he came to be riding with the Prince of Homana. He did not embarrass the boy, nor did he embarrass Donal with unnecessary questions. He simply accepted Sef.

Sef, still kneeling, nodded. Black hair flipped down into his face, hiding the blue eye. But, for the first time, Donal saw Sef deliberately push the hair back.

As if he has accepted what he is. Well, Carillon inspires all manner of devotion.
He smiled. “Enough, Sef—few things are accomplished on stone-bruised knees.”

Sef did not move. “My lord,” he appealed to Carillon, “is it true you nearly defeated the Ihlini demon?”

“Tynstar?” Slowly, Carillon shook his head. “If that is what the stories say about me, they are wrong. No, Sef—Tynstar nearly defeated
me.
”

“But—” Quickly, Sef glanced at Donal. He was asking permission to speak, and Donal gave it with a nod. “My lord Mujhar—I thought
no one
escaped an Ihlini. At least—not
Tynstar.
”

Carillon tousled Sef’s wind-ruffled hair. “Even Tynstar is not infallible. More powerful than any I have known, it is true, because of the power he has borrowed from Asar-Suti, but he is still a man. And when faced with a Cheysuli—” He smiled grimly. “Let us say: Tynstar is a formidable foe, but not an impossible one.”

“But—” Again Sef hesitated, and again Donal gave him permission to speak. “I heard, once, that Tynstar had slain a Cheysuli clan-leader.”

Donal felt the sudden wrenching movement in his belly.
That
he had not anticipated.

Carillon looked at him. Compassion was in his eyes. “Aye,” he answered Sef quietly. “Tynstar slew Duncan’s
lir
, and so Duncan sought the death-ritual as is Cheysuli tradition.”

Slowly, Sef worked it out. And when he had, his eyes turned at once to Donal. His face was a mask of horrified realization. “Then if Taj and Lorn are slain—”

“—so am
I
slain,” Donal finished. “Aye. It is—difficult for the unblessed to understand. But it is the price of the
lir
-bond, and we honor it.”

Aislinn’s eyes widened. “You would not do it if you were
Mujhar
!”

She meant it as a declaration. It sounded more like a question. Donal realized, in that moment, she had assumed once they were wed, the customs of the Cheysuli would not be so binding upon him. And he realized she believed he would turn his back on many of them once he was Mujhar.

“Aye,” he told her. “Warrior or Mujhar, I am constrained by the traditions of my people. And I intend to honor them.”

“You are Homanan as
well
as Cheysuli—”

“I am Cheysuli
first.
”

He saw shock, realization, and rebellion in her face. And a mute denial of his statement.

Carillon’s hands came down on her shoulders. “You are weary,” he said in an even tone. “Go to bed, Aislinn.”

“No,” she said, “first there is a thing we must discuss—”

“Go to bed,” he repeated. “There will be time for all these discussions.”

She flicked a commanding glance at Donal, as if she meant him to bring up the possibility of breaking the betrothal; he did not. He had no intention of it. Done with waiting, she picked up her skirts and ran.

Carillon turned to Sef. “I am sure you are hungry. I suggest you ask in the kitchens for food.” He gestured and one of the silent servants waiting nearby came at once. “Escort the boy to the kitchens and see he is fed until he cannot keep his eyes open. Until the prince or I call for him, he is free to learn his way about the palace.”

“Aye, my lord.” The young man, tunicked in Carillon’s livery, nodded and looked at Sef. He waited.

Sef, still kneeling, looked up at Donal. “My lord?”

Carillon laughed. “I see he knows his master.”

Donal gestured Sef up from the floor. “You may go.”

Silently, Sef stood up, bowed quickly, and went with the liveried servant.

“I am sorry for what the boy said.” Carillon’s tone was compassionate. “You need no reminding about your father’s fate.”

“One warrior’s
tahlmorra
is not necessarily easily accepted by his kin,” Donal responded evenly. “But—I hope the gods grant me a life as effective as his.”

“Effective?” Carillon did not smile. “A modest way of describing Duncan’s loyalty and dedication. And odd, from his son—”

“It does no good to dwell upon it,” Donal interrupted. He felt the clenching of his belly; the sudden cramping of his throat. He had said more of his father to Aislinn than he had said to anyone in a very long time. And it was no easier speaking of him to Carillon, who had known Duncan better than most. “Tynstar defeated my
jehan
, but not before he accomplished what he was meant to.”

“Siring
you
?” Carillon’s mouth twisted a little. “Aye, he sired you—and in doing so forged the next link in the prophecy.”

The link that excluded a Homanan Mujhar. Donal wondered
for the hundredth time whether Carillon himself resented the upstart Cheysuli prince as much as everyone else. So much had been given to him when he deserved none of it.

An accident of birth. No more.
And yet Donal knew it was not. The gods had decreed his fate.

Carillon appraised Donal. “For a poisoned man, you seem uncommonly fit. Is what Aislinn said true?”

“True. And I am fully recovered.” He was not; Donal knew it. He was weary from the ride, too weary. He needed food and rest. But his pride kept him from saying so to Carillon, who faced more poor health than any man Donal knew.

“Good. Come and show me.” Carillon turned abruptly and headed toward a corridor.

“
Show
you?” Donal went after him. “Show you
what?
”

Carillon’s stride was crisp and even. His back was rigid. There was no sign of advancing age in him, save for the twisted fingers. “Rowan!” The shout echoed along the corridor. Donal, hastening in the Mujhar’s footsteps, frowned into the candlelit passageway.