Legacy of the Sword (16 page)

D
onal, mounted on his chestnut, watched sidelong as Carillon mounted his own gray stallion. Tall as he was, he seemed to have trouble reaching up to the stirrup. But he mounted. With less grace than Donal had witnessed before, perhaps, but Carillon got himself into the saddle.

The Mujhar let go a short breath of effort completed and squinted in the morning sunlight, glancing over at Donal. “You look somewhat done in. Did you resort to the wine jug last night?”

Donal, who had resorted to nothing but his own imaginings following the confrontation with Carillon in the practice chamber, shook his head a little. “No. I did not sleep.”

Carillon’s silvering brows rose. “Did not—or
could
not?”

Donal grunted. “One and the same, last night.”

The Mujhar nodded. “Neither did I.” He glanced across Donal’s mount to the smaller bay horse beyond, its rider nearly out of earshot. “So, you bring your new servant along.”

Donal drew rein as his horse fidgeted, stomping one hoof against the cobbles of the bailey. Automatically he looked for Lorn, concerned for his welfare, but the wolf waited at some distance from the horses. Taj perched upon the bailey wall.

“Now is as good a time as any for Sef to see what a Keep is,” Donal told Carillon. “But where is Aislinn?”

“Delaying for as long as she can,” Carillon said dryly. “She wants no part of this.”

“She said she was willing before.”

“Aye. Before.” Carillon was unsmiling. “
Before
she knew aught of Sorcha and the boy.”

Donal felt the clenching of his belly. “Then—she told you how she found out.”

“Aye. She was—less than happy about it.” Carillon looked directly at his heir. “We have never played games with each other, Donal—we knew one day it would come to this. Even when you and Sorcha grew close—you knew.”

Carillon, Donal knew, did not precisely accuse. But he was Aislinn’s father and, though he understood Cheysuli customs better than any Homanan, no doubt he felt the relationship between Donal and his Cheysuli
meijha
was an insult to his daughter.

Donal drew in a deep breath that was just the slightest bit unsteady. “I—know. As you say, there have been no games. And I mean no offense even now…surely you must see that.”

“I see it.” Carillon shifted in his saddle, as if his muscles pained him. “Donal—I care deeply for my daughter. I would not have her hurt. But neither do I wish to trespass on Cheysuli customs.” He stared down at his twisted hands as he clutched reins and saddlebow. “Aislinn said she wished to break off the betrothal. In the face of her tears and tattered pride, I had to refuse her, of course…I had no choice.”

“No doubt it is difficult for a
jehan
to deny his child anything he or she wants.” Donal made his answer as judicious as he could.

Carillon’s smile was slightly sardonic. “Aye. And, soon enough, I doubt not you will learn it for yourself. Ian is of an age to exert his needs and desires.”

“I am sorry, Carillon,” Donal said wretchedly. “I would spare her as much pain and heartache as I could, were there another way.”

“I know that. But—I think there will come a day when you find you must make a choice.” He gestured with a nod of his head toward the marble steps. “And here is my tardy daughter.” Carillon motioned for one of the stable lads to lead the dun-colored mare forward.

Aislinn’s shining hair was plaited tightly, then doubled up and bound with green woolen yarn. The knot of bright hair hung over one brown-cloaked shoulder. Her dark green skirts were kilted up for ease of riding, and her legs were booted to
the knees. With the grace of youth she mounted, unaffected in her movements, and gathered in her reins. Like most Homanan women, she disdained a sidesaddle and rode astride.

She glanced sidelong at Donal. He saw how red-rimmed the eloquent eyes were, as if she had cried the night through; her face was a little swollen and her mouth did not hold a steady line. But her pert nose with its four golden freckles was lifted toward the sky. “Do we go? Let us get this travesty over.”

Donal, despite the haughty words, sensed her unhappiness clearly. Aislinn was a young girl, badly frightened by what she faced, and resorted to what attitude she could in an effort to control her fear. He understood it. He had done it himself.

Her horse was close to his own. He leaned out of the saddle slightly and caught the back of her neck, squeezing gently. “You will do well enough.”

Her demeanor seemed less arrogant. “Will I?” she whispered. “Gods…I am so afraid—”

“Fear has its proper place—or so I am told.” He released her and reined his stallion around. “But I think there is little need for it in the Keep.”

“But—it is
Finn—
”

“He is the last warrior you should fear. That much I promise you.”

Aislinn’s hands, gloved in supple amber-dyed leather, tightened on her reins. The dun mare crowded Donal’s chestnut. “Then I hold you to your promise.”

“If you wish, I will go in with Finn. You have felt my touch before. There is little I can do, lacking the necessary experience, but I can monitor what
he
does.” Donal shrugged. “Would it lend you some reassurance?”

Her gray eyes, pale as water, studied him a long moment. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. He saw the twisting of her mouth. “Aye. I want you there as well.”

He pushed the mare’s mouth away from his knee before her metal bit could bang against him painfully. “Then I will be there.”

But her fear remained. He could see it.

“Let us go,” Carillon said. “Sooner done, is it done with.” He gathered his reins and spurred the gray stallion
about. But before he could go, Rowan called for him from the top of the marble steps.

“My lord—my lord—wait you.” The general ran down the steps rapidly. “Carillon—a courier has come. From Duke Royce in Lestra.” Rowan caught hold of one rein and held back the Mujhar’s horse. “I think, my lord, you had best hear what he has to say.”

At once, Carillon looked at Aislinn. His indecision was manifest. But even as she reined her horse closer to his, preparing to plead her case, he became more decisive. “Aislinn—you will be safe enough with Donal. You have heard what the general has said.”

“You promised to go
with
me!”

“And now I cannot.” His tone was gentle, but equally inflexible. “Were this testing not so necessary, I would say it could wait for another time. But it cannot, no more than can this courier.” He reached out and caught the crown of her head with one broad hand and cupped his twisted fingers around the dome of her skull. “I am truly sorry, Aislinn…but I know you will be safe with Donal.”

“You give me no choice,” she accused unhappily. “You give me no choice in
anything
!” Wrenching her mare around, she headed for the gates.

Carillon sighed heavily. “Be patient,” he told Donal. “She is young…and till now her lot as my daughter has been little more than a beautiful game. Now she knows its price.”

“I will bring her back before nightfall,” Donal promised. “As for what she will face—there is nothing for you to fear. It is Finn who will do the testing.”

Briefly, Carillon smiled. “After all these years, it comes again to Finn. And I think it will amuse him.” Slowly, he swung down out of the saddle and patted the horse’s shoulder. “Safe journey, Donal. And now you had best go after her before she gets so far ahead you lose her entirely.”

*   *   *

It was Sef, edging his horse close to Donal’s, who remarked about the vastness of the Keep. “There are pavilions
everywhere.
”

The oiled pavilions, dyed warm earth and forest tones and painted with myriad
lir
, spread through the forest like a scattering of seed upon the ground. The Cheysuli, when they
could, left the trees standing, setting up their pavilions in clustered copses of oak and elm and beech with vines and bracken still intact. Surrounding the permanent encampment, snaking across the ground, stood the curving gray-green granite wall.

“It seems so, now,” Donal agreed. “When I was a boy, there were not so many as this. But that was when we lived across the Bluetooth River, trying to stay free of Ihlini retribution and Bellam’s tyranny.” He glanced around the Keep as they rode through, reining around cookfires and running children. “This is a true Keep now, with the half-circle walls and painted pavilions. But for years—too many years—we lived as refugees and outlaws.” He glanced at Aislinn, locked up in her silence. “It was Carillon who allowed us the freedom to come home.”

Sef’s mismatched eyes were fixed on Donal. “It’s no wonder they sing songs and tell stories about him, then. Look at what he’s done.”

Donal felt a stab of sympathy for Carillon, even in his absence.
We have made him into a legend for us to idolize, and we have stripped him of his freedom. It must be more difficult for him to live up to the name, and he is the one who wears it.

“My father is a great man,” Aislinn said flatly. “There is no one like him in all the kingdoms of the world.
No one
will ever be able to match him.” Her gray-pale eyes were fastened with great deliberation upon Donal’s face.

“Aislinn,” he said gently, “I do not compete with your
jehan.
And I will not even when his throne has passed to me.” Trying to break the moment, he glanced around the Keep. “This is smaller now than it was when first we came here. But some of the clans have gone back across the Bluetooth to return to the Northern Keep.” Involuntarily, he shivered. “It was cold there—too close to the Wastes. I prefer this Keep. And now—here is Finn’s pavilion.”

“Another wolf,” Sef said. He pointed at the green pavilion with its gold-painted wolf on the side. “Lorn’s father?”

Donal grinned down at the ruddy wolf as Lorn snorted in surprise. “No. More like grandsire, perhaps, did
lir
age normally. But as they do not, it makes no difference.” He jumped off his chestnut stallion even as Taj settled on the
ridgepole of the pavilion. “Come down, Sef…there is nothing to harm you here.”

“You said that about the Crystal Isle.” Sef slid off his brown horse.

“And was there?” Donal looped his reins about a convenient tree branch and turned to help Aislinn down.

“There was,” Sef said, “but I didn’t let it.”

Ignoring the boy’s superstitions, Donal ducked under the reins and scratched at the pavilion doorflap. “
Su’fali
,” he called. “Are you in?”

“No. I am out, but very nearly in.” Finn came around the side of the pavilion with Storr padding at his side. The wolf’s muzzle had grayed and grizzled, showing as much of age as a
lir
could, for his lifespan paralleled Finn’s. Until his warrior died, Storr was free of normal aging.

Finn’s black brows ran up beneath his silver-flecked, raven hair. But for that and a few deep lines etched into the flesh at the corners of his yellow eyes, he hardly looked old enough to have a nephew of twenty-three. The dark flesh of his bare arms was still stretched taut over heavy muscles; his
lir
-bands gleamed in the sunlight. “You have been a stranger to your Keep, Donal. What brings you here now?”

“Aislinn,” he said briefly, and sensed her instant tension.

Finn glanced at her. “You are well come to the Keep, lady. Meghan will be pleased to know you are here. She is with Alix just now, but I can send Storr for her.”

“No.” Aislinn’s face was tight with apprehension. “I have not come to see Meghan. I have come because Donal made me promise, and my father insisted I
keep
it.”

“As one should, particularly a princess.” But Finn had lost his welcoming smile as he glanced again at Donal. “This is not a casual visit.”

“No,” Donal agreed. “Aislinn, as you know, has been with Electra on the Crystal Isle. She has been—tampered with.”

“A trap-link?” Finn’s hand shot out and clamped on Aislinn’s head before she could move. And by the time she
did
move, crying out and pulling away, Finn was done with his evaluation. “No. Something else. Bring her inside.” He turned and pulled the doorflap aside.

Aislinn hung back. She looked at Donal, and he saw the
terror in her face. Gently, he set one hand on her shoulder. After a moment, she slipped inside the pavilion.

Sef, like Aislinn, hung back. But for different reasons. “It isn’t my
place
,” he said. “He’ll work magic in there. I’ll do better out here.”

“Come in,” Donal insisted mildly. “What Finn will do is nothing I cannot do myself, and I do not doubt you will be witness to it sooner rather than late. It may as well be now.” He settled one browned hand around Sef’s arm and ushered him into the pavilion, leaving Lorn to trade greetings with Storr—as well as the grooming ritual—and Taj to converse with the other
lir.

Finn sat on a spotted silver fur taken from a snow leopard. As clan-leader he was entitled to a large pavilion, and he had accepted that right. Furs of every texture and color cushioned the hard-packed earthen floor, and fine-worked tapestries divided the pavilion into sections. One of those sections, Donal knew, belonged to Meghan, Finn’s half-Homanan daughter.