Legacy of the Sword (14 page)

Shortly after a second shout, Rowan stepped out of a doorway. His black hair was tousled and damp, and his clothing was a little awry, as if he had only just put them on following a bath. “Aye, my lord?”

“My sword is in my chambers,” Carillon said briefly. “Do me the favor of bringing it to the practice chamber.”

Rowan’s yellow eyes reflected startled speculation. “Aye, my lord. At once.”

“Carillon, what do you mean to do?” Donal at last fell into step with the Mujhar.

“I mean to find out what order of skill you claim.”

“
Sword
skill?” Donal, hastening his steps yet again, shook his head. “Carillon, you
know—
”

“—know what? That you, as a Cheysuli, claim yourself above the use of a sword? Inviolate to its threat?”

“No, of course not.” Donal bit his tongue to repress his exasperation. “I can be wounded as easily as a Homanan—it is only…Carillon, will you
slow down—
?”

“Only what?” The Mujhar did not slacken his pace. “Is it
only
that you would simply
prefer
to keep yourself to bow and knife?”

“I am good enough with both!” Donal, pride stung, stopped dead in his tracks. Carillon also paused.

“Aye,” he agreed, “you are. But the future Mujhar of Homana must also wield a sword.” He stretched out his hand as Rowan came striding down the corridor with a scabbard clenched in his hand. “
This
sword,” Carillon said, accepting it from Rowan.

Donal scraped one hand down through his hair and over his face. “Carillon.” His voice was nearly throttled in his attempt to remain calm. “Do you forget I am
Cheysuli
?”

“I think that is impossible.” Carillon’s voice, raspy now, sounded harsh in the shadowed corridor. “You take such pains to remind me whenever the chance arises.” Methodically, he held the scabbard in his left hand and placed his right on the heavy golden hilt. At the edge of his hand, set into prongs in the pommel of the hilt, glowed the dead-black stone that had once been brilliant crimson. A blood-red ruby, called the Mujhar’s Eye, and perverted by Tynstar’s sorcery.

Donal looked at Rowan. He saw nothing in the general’s face save a perfect blankness.
Cheysuli blankness. He uses his race to thwart even me.

At last he looked at Carillon. “You wish me to spar against you.”

“Aye. As we have done in the past.”

Donal nodded his head in the direction of the sword. “You have not used
that
against me before.”

“Then perhaps it is time I did. It
is
your grandsire’s sword.”

“He
made
it,” Donal retorted. “He never used it himself. The Cheysuli never do.”

“Hale was all Cheysuli,” Carillon agreed. “But you claim a full quarter of Homanan blood, and
that
much entitles you to learn the proper use of a sword.”

Again, Donal glanced at Rowan. And again, he saw the blank expression.
Carillon’s man to the core. For all he is Cheysuli, he seems more Homanan than Carillon himself!

Pointedly, Donal looked at Rowan’s left side. At the sword sheathed there. A Homanan sword, but wielded by a Cheysuli.

Color came into Rowan’s dark face. Cheysuli-born, Homanan-bred; adversity had taught him to stay alive, during Shaine’s
qu’mahlin
, by ignoring the truth of his origins. And now, though free to embrace the customs of his race, he did not. Cheysuli on the outside, Homanan on the inside; Carillon’s right-hand man.

In place of my
su’fali,
a
proper
liege man.

But Donal did not blame Rowan. Not entirely. Finn’s dismissal from Carillon’s service had been initiated by someone else entirely, and aided—albeit unintentionally—by Carillon himself.

There was, suddenly, tension in Rowan’s face. And Donal was ashamed.
It is not his fault. He was raised by the unblessed. Lacking a
lir,
he lacks also a heart and soul. But he does the best he can.

“Come,” Carillon challenged, “show me what you know.”

Donal looked at the royal sword of Homana, knowing it was Cheysuli. And then he looked at Rowan.

Silently, Rowan pulled his forth. He offered the hilt to Donal.

T
he practice chamber had no aesthetics about it. It was a plain chamber of unadorned dark-blue stone, even to the floor, which had been worn into a perfectly smooth indigo-slate sheet from years of swordplay and footwork. Each wall bore only weapons racks: swords, long-knives, spears, halberds, axes, bows and other accouterments of war. Wooden benches lined the sides for students who chose to or were ordered to watch. Wall sconces with fat candles in them lit the room with a pearly glow. Donal had been in the chamber many times in fifteen years, but he far preferred the training sessions with Finn and others in the Keep.

Carillon stood in the precise center of the smooth, dark floor. He was still fully dressed, not bothering to shed even his doublet of mulberry velvet. His boots were low-cut, of soft gray leather, lacking the heavy soles of thigh-high riding boots. And in his twisted hands was gripped the gold-hilted sword with its baleful, blackened eye.

Idly, Donal slapped the flat of Rowan’s blade against his leather-clad leg. He stripped out of his cloak and dumped it onto the nearest wooden bench. Sighing, he turned to face Carillon. “My lord, this will be a travesty.”

“Will it?” Carillon smiled. “Then I am pleased you so willingly admit you lack what skill any soldier should possess.” He gestured sharply. “Rowan—the door. It may be the Prince of Homana will not desire anyone to see this—
travesty.
”

Briefly Rowan dipped his still-damp head in an acknowledging
nod, then pulled the door tightly shut. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching both men in an attitude of nonchalance, yet intently aware of each.

Donal yet held the sword in one hand negligently. The hilt was unfamiliar, being made for Rowan’s hand, but then the hilt of any sword was unfamiliar to him. He had spent hours with an arms-master, being drilled until he thought he would go mad, but he had always been an indifferent student. He knew, did the time come when he would have to fight, it would be with knife or Cheysuli warbow.

Or
lir-
shape. This is foolishness.

“Come forth,” Carillon invited, “And tell me how it was you were poisoned.”

Donal’s short laugh was a bark. “I can tell you that without resorting to
this
, Carillon. And I think the answer is easy enough to come by. It was your
cheysula
, my Lord Mujhar. The Queen of Homana herself.”

“Come forth.” Carillon’s tone brooked no refusal. “
I
, at least, can speak while I spar. Can you?”

He baits me…by the gods, he
baits
me!
Donal moved forward, clad more comfortably than Carillon in snug Cheysuli leggings and sleeveless jerkin dyed a warm, soft yellow. Though he hated swordplay, he could not help but move into a defensive posture as Carillon settled the rune-kissed blade more comfortably.

Carillon grunted. “Electra, was it? I would have guessed the Ihlini.”

“Oh, Tynstar may have encouraged it.” Donal shifted Rowan’s sword until it rested more comfortably in his hands. “But Electra had the doing of this, I am quite sure. But—not alone. She had help.”

“Who? Have I traitor on the island?”

“Traitors, rather…though I think it is too harsh a word. I believe she was unknowing.” Donal touched his blade gently to Carillon’s in brief salute. “It was Aislinn, my lord.”

“Aislinn
—!” The Cheysuli blade lowered slightly before Carillon caught himself. “What is this idiocy?”

Donal shook his head. “No idiocy, my lord—it is the truth. Ask the girl; better yet, ask Sef. He saw what she tried to do.”

“Come
at
me!” Carillon rasped. “Tell me this over the sword-song!”

Donal stepped in. He parried Carillon’s opening maneuver, parried again, and ducked a vicious two-handed swipe that whistled near his ear. He hissed in startled surprise, then danced aside yet again as the sword swooped back to catch him on its return.

“Say again,” Carillon ordered. “Say
again
it was my daughter!”

“It
was.
” Donal skipped aside, blessing his Cheysuli quickness. Sparring this might be, but Carillon did not spar as most men did. He was strong enough to stop a powerful blow even as he loosed it to the full extent of the maneuver, and so he sparred with little held back.
Except he is no longer as strong as he once was…gods!—he could take my head with another swipe like that!

“Do not hang back like a fearful child!” Carillon shouted. “
At
me, Donal! I am the
enemy!
”

The royal blade blurred silver in the air, so that the runes bled into the steel and became invisible. Donal saw only the displacement of air and heard the swoop of slicing steel. He moved in instinctively, answering Carillon’s challenge, and tried to turn the blow aside. But his blade was battered aside almost at once, then twisted out of his hands. His wrists and forearms cried out their abuse as he fought to hold on, but the hilt slipped from his hands. The sword fell against the floor.

Carillon took a single step forward. The tip of his blade rested lightly against Donal’s abdomen, scraping softly on the gold and topaz of his buckle. “It is your
life
, boy,” the Mujhar rasped. “It is not
me
you face, but the enemy. Perhaps a Solindish soldier, or an Atvian spearman. Neither will allow you time to retrieve a fallen weapon.”

“Do you expect me to believe such a transparent ploy as that?” Donal snapped. “Or do you say we go to war
tomorrow?
”

The tip pressed more threateningly. “Not tomorrow. Perhaps the day after.” Carillon’s jaw was set like stone. “I have been receiving regular messages from couriers out of Solinde these past four weeks. Royce, in Lestra, believes there will be a full-scale rebellion before a sixth-month is past.”

“Rebellion.” Donal felt the clenching of his belly. “You
have feared it, I know…and you have not let me forget what might happen did Tynstar ever rally the Solindish again. But
why
would they follow him after so many years of peace?”

“Peace?” Carillon laughed. “
You
might call it that, having no knowledge of what war is. But Solinde is far from peaceful. Royce has put down insurgents time and time again, and there is talk Tynstar
does
move, even now, to unite the Solindish rebels.”

“If he does—”

“If he does, we will go to war again. Not today, perhaps not even tomorrow—but very soon.” Carillon regarded his heir. “Now, as you know so much, tell me about Osric of Atvia.”

“
Osric!
The Atvian king?” Donal frowned. “He is at home, is he not, quarreling with Shea of Erinn over an island title?”

“Aye,” Carillon agreed. “But what if Osric, deciding to avenge his father’s death at Homanan hands—as well as tiring of paying me twice-yearly tribute—quits quarreling with Shea of Erinn and chooses to march on Homana?”

“End the tribute,” Donal suggested. “It would give him one less reason to consider such a march.”

Carillon’s smile held little amusement. “I instigated the tribute in retribution for coming against me the last time. Thorne paid for it with his life, leaving his son to succeed him; therefore the son must also pay for the father’s folly. Do I
end
the tribute, Osric will judge me weak. It would be an indication that Homana’s aging Mujhar, at last, is losing strength, opening an avenue of attack for Osric. No, no—policy dictates I continue to ask tribute of Atvia. There is no other choice.”

Donal had no desire to entangle himself in the intricacies of kingcraft, even verbally. “We were not speaking of the potential for war, my lord, but of your daughter’s complicity in Electra’s attack on me. Should we not finish
that
topic before we begin another?”

“Gods, but you drive me mad!” Carillon said through gritted teeth. “
Look
at me, Donal! What do you see? An old man growing older, and more quickly than anyone might have thought.” Briefly, he shrugged, and a faint wince of pain cut across his face. “It was your father who told me Tynstar gave
me nothing I would not experience anyway; that the disease would devour my body eventually
regardless
of what I did…and it does.
Oh, aye
—it does. Who is to say I will live to see the new year?”

“
You
are the one speaking idiocy
now
!” Donal was taken aback by Carillon’s intensity. “Aye, you grow older, but even now you wield a sword. Even
now
you defeat a Cheysuli!”

“Aye, I do. And no warrior I have ever heard of gives in to an enemy so easily.” The tip pressed close yet again. “You speak of Aislinn’s complicity? Then you had best speak a little more clearly.
Now.
”

Donal sighed. “I cannot say for certain, Carillon. There is no doubt she was—involved. It was her hand that held the knife.” He put up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Healed now, and easily enough—it was not so much of a cut—but I
got
the cut because Aislinn tried to put a knife in my back. And
would
have, had my
lir
not warned me. And even then, she cut me. It was Sef who held her back.”