Legacy of the Sword (2 page)

Lorn?
he asked.

Here
, the wolf replied glumly, nearly under the stallion’s belly.
Could you not have gone another way?

When I can find a way out of this mess, I will.
He grimaced as another rider, passing too close in the throng, jostled his horse. Knees collided painfully. The man, swearing softly beneath his breath as he rubbed one gray-clad knee, glanced up as if to apologize.

But he did not. Instead he stared hard for a long moment, then drew back in his saddle and spat into the street.
“Shapechanger!”
he hissed from between his teeth, “go back to your forest bolt-hole! We want
none
of your kind here in Hondarth!”

Donal, utterly astonished by the reaction, was speechless, so stunned was he by the virulence in words and tone.

“I said,
go back!
” the man repeated. His face was reddened by his anger. A pock-marked face, not young, not old, but filled with violence. “The Mujhar may give you freedom to stalk the streets of Mujhara in whatever beast-form you wear, but here it is different! Get you gone from this city, shapechanger!”

No.
It was Lorn, standing close beside the stallion.
What good would slaying him do, save to lend credence to the reasons for his hatred?

Donal looked down and saw how his right hand rested on the gold hilt of his long-knife. Carefully, so carefully, he unclenched his teeth, took his hand away from his knife and ignored the roiling of his belly.

He managed, somehow, to speak quietly to the Homanan who confronted him. “Shaine’s
qu’mahlin
is ended. We Cheysuli are no longer hunted. I have the freedom to come and go as I choose.”

“Not
here
!” The man, dressed in good gray wool but wearing no power or rank markings, shook his dark brown head. “
I
say you had better go.”

“Who are you to say so?” Donal demanded icily. “Have you usurped the Mujhar’s place in Homana to dictate
my
comings and goings?”

“I dictate where I will, when it concerns you shapechangers.” The Homanan leaned forward in his saddle. One hand gripped the chestnut’s reins to hold Donal’s horse in place. “Do you hear me? Leave this place. Hondarth is not for such as you.”

Their knees still touched. Through the contact, slight though it was, Donal sensed the man’s tension; sensed what drove the other to such a rash action.

He is afraid. He does not do this out of a sense of justice gone awry, or any personal vendetta—he is simply
afraid.

Frightened, men will do anything.
It was Taj, circling in seeming idleness above the crowded square.
Lir, be gentle with him.

After what he has said to me?

Has it damaged you?

Looking into brown, malignant eyes, Donal knew the other would not back down. He could not. Homanan pride was not Cheysuli pride, but it was still a powerful force. Before so many people—before so many Homanans and facing a dreaded Cheysuli—the man would never give in.

But if I back down, I will lose more than just my pride. It will make it that much more difficult for
any
warrior who comes into Hondarth.

And so he did not back down. He leaned closer to the man, which caused the Homanan to flinch back, and spoke barely above a whisper. “You are truly a fool to think you can chase
me
back into the forests. I come and go as I please. If you think to dissuade me, you will have myself and my
lir
to contend with.” A brief gesture indicated the hackled wolf and Taj’s attentive flight. “What say you to me
now?
”

The Homanan looked down at Lorn, whose ruddy muzzle wrinkled to expose sharp teeth. He looked up at Taj as the falcon slowly, so slowly, circled, descending to the street.

Lastly he looked at the Cheysuli warrior who faced him: a young man of twenty-three, tall even in his saddle; black-haired, dark-skinned,
yellow
-eyed; possessed of a sense of grace, confidence and strength that was almost feral in its nature. He had the look of intense pride and preparedness that differentiated Cheysuli warriors from other men. The look of a predator.

“I am unarmed,” the Homanan said at last.

Donal did not smile. “Next time you choose to offer insult to a Cheysuli, I suggest you do so
armed.
If I was forced to slay you, I would prefer to do it fairly.”

The Homanan released the stallion’s rein. He clutched at his own so violently the horse’s mouth gaped open, baring massive teeth in silent protest. Back, back…iron-shod
hooves scraped against stone and scarred the cobbles. The man paid no heed to the people he nearly trampled or the collapse of a flimsy fruit stall as his mount’s rump knocked down the props. He completely ignored the shouts of the angry merchant.

But before he left the square he spat once more into the street.

Donal sat rigidly in his saddle and stared at the spittle marring a single cobble. He was aware of an aching emptiness in his belly. Slowly that emptiness filled with the pain of shock and outraged pride.

He is not worth slaying.
But Lorn’s tone within the pattern sounded suspiciously wistful.

Taj, still circling, climbed back into the sky.
You will see more of that. Did you think to be free of such things?

“Free?” Donal demanded aloud. “Carillon
ended
Shaine’s
qu’mahlin!
”

Neither
lir
answered at once.

Donal shivered. He was cold. He felt ill. He wanted to spit much as the Homanan had spat, wishing only to rid himself of the sour taste of shock.

“Ended,” he repeated. “
Everyone
in Homana knows Carillon ended the purge.”

Lorn’s tone was grim.
There are fools in the world, and madmen; people driven by ignorant prejudice and fear.

Donal looked out on the square and slowly shook his head. Around him swarmed Homanans whom he had, till now, trusted readily enough, having little reason not to. But now, looking at them as they went about their business, he wondered how many hated him for his race without really understanding what he was.

Why?
he asked his
lir. Why do they spit at
me?

You are the closest target.
Taj told him.
Not because of rank and title.

Homanan
rank and title
, Donal pointed out.
Can they not respect
that
at least? It is their own, after all.

If you tell them who and what you are
, Lorn agreed.
Perhaps. But he saw only a Cheysuli.

Donal laughed a little, but there was nothing humorous in it.
Ironic, is it not? That man had no idea I was the Prince of Homana—he saw a shapechanger, and spat. Knowing, maybe he would have shut his mouth, out of respect for the title. But
others
, other
Homanans—knowing what Carillon has made me—resent me for that title.

A woman, passing, muttered of beasts and demons and made a ward-sign against the god of the netherworld. The sign was directed at Donal, as if she thought
he
was a servant of Asar-Suti.

“By the gods, the world has gone mad!” Donal stared after the woman as she faded into the crowded square. “Do they think I am
Ihlini
?”

No
, Taj said.
They know you are Cheysuli.

Let us get out of this place at once.
But even as Donal said it, he felt and heard the smack of some substance against one shoulder.

And smelled its odor, also.

He turned in the saddle at once, shocked by the blatant attack. But he saw no single specific culprit, only a square choked with people. Some watched him. Others did not.

Donal reached back and jerked his cloak over one shoulder to see what had struck his back, though he thought he knew. He grimaced when he saw the residue of fresh horse droppings. In disgust he shook the cloak free of manure, then let the folds fall back.

We are leaving this square
, he told his
lir. Though I would prefer to leave this city
entirely.

Donal turned his horse into the first street he saw and followed its winding course. It narrowed considerably, twisting down toward the sea among whitewashed buildings topped with thatched gray roofs. He smelled salt and fish and oil, and the tang of the sea beyond. Gulls cried raucously, white against the slate-gray sky, singing their lonely song. The clop of his horse’s hooves echoed in the narrow canyon of the road.

Do you mean to stop?
Taj inquired.

When I find an inn—ah, there is one ahead. See the sign? The Red Horse Inn.

It was a small place, whitewashed like the others, its thatched roof worn in spots. The wooden sign, in the form of a crimson horse, faded, dangled from its bracket on a single strip of leather.

Here?
Lorn asked dubiously.

It will do as well as another, provided I may enter.
Donal felt the anger and sickness rise again, frustrated that even
Carillon—with all that he had accomplished—had not been able to entirely end the
qu’mahlin.
But even as he spoke, Donal realized what the wolf meant; the Red Horse Inn appeared to lack refinement of any sort. Its two horn windows were puttied with grime and smoke, and the thatching stank of fish oil, no doubt from the lanterns inside. Even the white-washing was grayed with soot and dirt.

You
are
the Prince of Homana.
That from Taj, ever vigilant of such things as princely dignity and decorum.

Donal smiled.
And the Prince of Homana is hungry. Perhaps the food will be good.
He swung off his mount and tied it to a ring in the wall provided for that purpose.
Bide here with the horse. Let us not threaten anyone else with your presence.

You
are going in.
Lorn’s brown eyes glinted for just a moment.

Donal slapped the horse on his rump and shot the wolf a scowl.
There is nothing threatening about me.

Are you not Cheysuli?
asked Taj smugly as he settled on the saddle.

The door to the inn was snatched open just as Donal put out his hand to lift the latch. A body was hurled through the opening. Donal, directly in its path, cursed and staggered back, grasping at arms and legs as he struggled to keep himself and the other upright. He hissed a Cheysuli invective under his breath and pushed the body back onto its feet. It resolved itself into a boy, not a man, and Donal saw how the boy stared at him in alarm.

The innkeeper stood in the doorway, legs spread and arms folded across his chest. His bearded jaw thrust out belligerently. “I’ll not have such rabble in my good inn!” he growled distinctly. “Take your demon ways elsewhere, brat!”

The boy cowered. Donal put one hand on a narrow shoulder to prevent another stumble. But his attention was more firmly focused on the innkeeper. “Why do you call him a demon?” he asked. “He is only a boy.”

The man looked Donal up and down, brown eyes narrowing. Donal waited for the epithets to include himself, half-braced against another clot of manure—or worse—but instead of insults he got a shrewd assessment. He saw how the innkeeper judged him by the gold showing at his ear and the
color of his eyes. His
lir
-bands were hidden beneath a heavy cloak, but his race—as always—was apparent enough.

Inwardly Donal laughed derisively.
Homanans! If they are not judging us demons because of the shapechange, they judge us by our gold instead. Do they not know we revere our gold for what it represents, and not the wealth at all?

The Homanans judge your gold because of what it can buy them.
Taj settled his wings tidily.
The freedom of the Cheysuli.

The innkeeper turned his face and spat against the ground. “Demon,” he said briefly.

“The boy, or me?” Donal asked with exaggerated mildness, prepared for either answer. And prepared to make his own.

“Him. Look at his eyes. He’s demon-spawn, for truth.”

“No!” the boy cried. “I’m
not!
”

“Look at his eyes!” the man roared. “Tell me what you see!”

The boy turned his face away, shielding it behind one arm. His black hair was dirty and tangled, falling into his eyes as if he meant it to hide them. He showed nothing to Donal but a shoulder hunched as if to ward off a blow.

“Do you wish to come in?” the innkeeper demanded irritably.

Donal looked at him in genuine surprise. “You throw
him
out because you believe him to be a demon—because of his eyes—and yet you ask
me
in?”

The man grunted. “Has not the Mujhar declared you free of taint? Your coin is as good as any other’s.” He paused. “You do have coin?” His eyes strayed again to the earring.

Donal smiled in relief, glad to know at least one man in Hondarth judged him more from avarice than prejudice. “I have coin.”

The other nodded. “Then come in. Tell me what you want.”

“Beef and wine. Falian white, if you have it.” Donal paused. “I will be in in a moment.”

“I have it.” The man cast a lingering glance at the boy, spat again, then pulled the door shut as he went into his inn.

Donal turned to the boy. “Explain.”

The boy was very slender and black-haired, dressed in dark, muddied clothing that showed he had grown while the clothes had not. His hair hung into his face. “My eyes,” he
said at last. “You heard the man. Because of my eyes.” He glanced quickly up at Donal, then away. And then, as if defying the expected reaction, he shoved the tangled hair out of his face and bared his face completely. “See?”

“Ah,” Donal said, “I see. And I understand. Merely happenstance, but ignorant people do not understand that. They choose to lay blame even when there is no blame to lay.”

The boy stared up at him out of eyes utterly unremarkable—save one was brown and the other a clear, bright blue.

“Then—you don’t think me a demon and a changeling?”

“No more than am I myself.” Donal smiled and spread his hands.