Legacy of the Sword (20 page)

“In the clans, people do not care.
You
are half Homanan; have you felt different from any other?”

“Aye,” she said softly. “I spent seventeen years with the Homanans and twenty-four among the Cheysuli. But still I feel mostly Homanan; I do not doubt Sorcha does as well.”

“But she was
born
to the clan—”

“It does not matter.” She lifted the fragile blossom. “This flower is violet. It bloomed this color. It will never be able to claim itself another color, no matter how hard it tries.” She smiled and let the blossom fall to the ground, where it settled into the trembling carpet of snow-white blooms. “Once it might have been purple. But never will it be white.”

Donal stopped walking. He turned to face his mother. “Then—if I am that violet flower, I will never fit in with the white Homanans.”

“No,” she said. “But why wish to fit in when one must rule?”

He turned her to face the way they had come. “Let us go back. I want to see my son as well as my newborn daughter.”

*   *   *

“
Jehan
?”

The soft voice intruded into his thoughts. Donal turned, shielding the newborn body in his arms, and saw his son standing in the doorflap with Meghan at his side. Ian’s black hair was curly as was common in Cheysuli childhood, and his yellow eyes were bright as he gazed at his father. But his expression was decidedly reticent.

Donal put out a hand. “Come, Ian…come see your new
rujholla.
”

The boy moved quickly across the floor pelts, dropping down to kneel at Donal’s side. His curiosity was manifest, but he did not touch the baby until Donal pulled back the linen wrappings and showed him the crumpled face.

He glanced at Sorcha as she drifted slowly back into sleep. “Your turn,
meijha
—I named the last one.”

Sorcha smiled drowsily. “Isolde, then. I like the sound. Ian and Isolde.”

Donal smiled at his rapt three-year-old son. “She is Isolde, Ian. And she will require your protection. See how small she is?”

Meghan, who had brought Ian soon after Donal had returned to his pavilion, moved forward and craned her neck to peer over Donal’s shoulder. “Black hair,” she said, “and brown eyes, which will lighten soon enough. A Cheysuli, then, with little Homanan about her.”

Sorcha’s smile widened, and Donal saw triumph in her eyes even as she closed them.

He glanced up at Finn’s daughter. There was no bitterness in
Meghan
’s tone, only discovery and matter-of-factness; it seemed neither to trouble nor please Meghan that she was the image of her Homanan mother: tawny-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned; Carillon’s dead sister to the bone. And she claimed all of Tourmaline’s elegance and grace, even at fifteen years. Yet she lived among the clans with a
jehan
who was clan-leader, and she felt no lack that she bore Homanan blood in her veins. No lack at all. If anything, she was more Cheysuli than most because Finn saw to it she was.

No Homanan marriage for Meghan. Finn will wed her to a warrior.
Donal smiled ruefully.
But then I am sure she will have more than enough to choose from.

He glanced up at Alix regretfully. “Will you take Isolde? Much as I would prefer to stay, I promised Carillon I would
have Aislinn back by nightfall. And—there are things to be settled between us.” When Alix had taken the baby, Donal bent forward and kissed the drowsing Sorcha softly on the mouth. “Sleep you well,
meijha.
You have earned a sound rest.”

He rose, scooping Ian up into his arms. “And a hug for you, small warrior. You will be busy from now on.” He glanced at Meghan. “My thanks for seeing to him. Soon enough you will have your own children to tend.”

She laughed, blue eyes dancing in her lovely face. “Not
so
soon, I hope. I wish for a little freedom, first.”

“Do we go?” Ian asked as Donal carried him from the pavilion.

“No, small one, only I am going. You must stay here.” He saw Lorn get up from his place in the sun by the doorflap and shake his heavy coat, yawning widely.

A cub and a bitch
, Lorn observed.
How symmetrical.

Donal snorted.
A
boy
and a
girl, lir.
There is nothing wolflike about either of them.

Unless the boy bonds with one of my kind.

Do you say he will?
Donal hoped suddenly for greater illumination into the bonding process, wondering suddenly if all the
lir
knew which of them was meant for each Cheysuli born.

Lorn paused and lifted one hind leg to scratch, doglike, at his belly.
No. Such things are left to the gods.

Taj’s shadow passed overhead.
Perhaps he will gain a falcon.

Or a hawk.
Donal nodded.
I
would like him to have a hawk. How better to honor his grandsire?

As you do yours?
Lorn asked.

Donal, heading toward Finn’s green pavilion, glanced sharply at the wolf.
How do I honor Hale?

The sword.
Taj said.
One day, it will be yours, as it was ever intended.

Donal did not respond. Instead, as he approached with Meghan, he watched how Sef and Bronwyn sat together in front of Finn’s pavilion, speaking animatedly. His sister’s purple-wrapped braid hung over one shoulder, coiling against her skirts. Unlike Meghan or Aislinn, Bronwyn lacked conscious knowledge of her femininity. She moved and acted
more boy than girl, though Donal knew she would outgrow it.

Now, as she laughed and chattered with Sef, he saw how she would lack the pure beauty Meghan and Aislinn already began to claim, but her light would be undiminished. She was his mother come again.

And who else
? his conscience asked.
Is her jehan in her as well?

He stopped by them both, still holding his son, and looked down upon them as they glanced up in laggard surprise. He saw how Sef had peeled back his right sleeve to show off the feathered band; how Bronwyn had drawn pictures in the dust with a broken stick. Runes, not pictures, he noted on closer inspection. But none were Cheysuli.

Bronwyn sprang to her feet and obscured the runes at once, hands thrust behind her back as if she meant to hide the stick. Purple skirts were filmed with dust, tangled on her boot-tops, but she ignored her dishevelment. “I heard the baby has come!”

Troubled, Donal nodded. “The baby has come. A girl. Sorcha has named her Isolde.”

“May I see her?” Her face was alight with expectation.

“No.” He almost cursed his shortness. “Not—now. She is sleeping. So is Sorcha. They need time alone.” He saw how her bright face fell. “Later,
rujholla.
” And she
was
his sister, for all she was Tynstar’s daughter; he hated to disappoint her. She had had no say in what man sired her.

But he dared not give her the chance to prove herself Ihlini.

Slowly the color spilled out of her face. “What is wrong? Is it something I have done? You are so short—”

“No.” Again, he said it more sharply than he intended. Against his will, he looked once more at the runes she had drawn in the dust and then tried to obscure. Odd, alien runes, with the look of sorcery.

“
Rujho—
?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You have done nothing wrong. Bronwyn—what are those?” He would ignore the runes no longer.

She looked down in surprise at the drawings in the dust, then shot a glance at Sef. It was mostly veiled beneath lids and lashes, but he saw the silent signal.

As if she means to protect him…
“Bronwyn!” The tone was a command, and he knew she would not ignore it.

“A secret game,” she answered promptly. “We took an oath not to tell.” Deliberately, she erased the rest of the runes with the toe of one booted foot.

He looked into her face and saw nothing of guile, only the expression she normally wore. And that mask he could not lift. “Bronwyn—” But he broke it off when Finn came out of the tent. With him was Aislinn; Donal’s brows slid up in surprise. He had not thought she would seek him on purpose.

Before Finn could protest, Donal set Ian into his arms. “We must go, or the sun will set before we reach Mujhara.” He grinned as Ian locked an arm around Finn’s neck and snuggled closer. Without thinking about it, Finn settled the boy more comfortably; he had had practice enough with Meghan.

Donal bent and kissed Ian briefly on the forehead. “Care for your new
rujholla.
I will come back to you when I may.” He turned and helped a silently staring Aislinn mount her horse. Then he retrieved the reins of his own mount and swung up into the saddle. Even as he settled, Lorn was at the horse’s side and Taj was in the air.

Finn reached out and caught one rein. “How does Carillon fare?”

Donal saw the true concern in his uncle’s face. For all they hardly saw one another now their paths had parted, Donal knew there remained a link that would always bind Finn and Carillon. Prince and liege man had spent five years in exile together; two more when the prince had become Mujhar. It was treachery that had parted them, and a broken oath that held.

Donal glanced briefly at Aislinn. But he saw no use in lying; she herself had marked her father’s deterioration. “He ages,” he said quietly. “Each day—more so than most men, I think. It is the disease…” He paused. “Is there nothing to be done?”

The sun shone off the heavy gold bands clasping Finn’s bare arms as he rubbed idly at the chestnut’s muzzle. He said nothing for a moment, but when he looked up into the sunlight Donal saw how he too had aged.

Gods, they shared so much…and now they share so little.

“Tynstar did not give Carillon anything he would not have suffered anyway, one day,” Finn said tonelessly. “He merely brought it on prematurely. We cannot undo what the gods see fit to bestow upon a man.”

“He is the
Mujhar
!” Donal lashed out. “Can the gods not see how much Homana needs him?”

Finn sighed. “No doubt there are reasons for it, Donal. The gods do nothing without them.” Abruptly he slapped the stallion’s shoulder. “Go back, then. See Aislinn safely to her
jehan.
Do not tarry here longer if Carillon is waiting.”

He serves him still…he would not admit it, but he does. In his heart, if nowhere else.
He shifted in the saddle. “Aye,
su’fali.
Have you a message for him?”

Finn lifted a hand to block out the blinding sunlight. “Aye,” he said. “Tell him I will come to Homana-Mujhar.”

“
You
will?” Donal stared. “You have not been there in seventeen years!”

Finn smiled. “I think it unlikely I would miss my
harani’s
wedding. I will come to Homana-Mujhar.”

Donal laughed, and then he reached down to clasp his uncle’s arm as it hugged Ian closely. “My thanks,
su’fali
…it has been too long. I think even the servants miss you.”

“No. They miss the
stories
they told about me…no doubt they want fresh fodder.” Finn slapped the stallion on his broad chestnut rump. “Go. Do not let the Mujhar fret about his daughter.”

“No,” Donal agreed.
But I will fret about mine, and with no one the wiser for it.
He motioned for Sef to mount his horse. “Tarry no longer, Sef. I do not wish to lose the sun before we reach Mujhara.”

The boy caught his reins from the tree and climbed up into his saddle. He looked intently down at Bronwyn. “Perhaps I will see you again.”

She still clasped her arms behind her back. Her amber eyes were slitted against the sunlight; they almost looked yellow. “Aye. Come back. Or I will come to Homana-Mujhar.”

Sef eyed Donal. “If my lord allows me to.”

“You will come to Homana-Mujhar, Bronwyn,” Aislinn put in. “You and Meghan. When I am Queen, I will have to have women by me—I would have both of you.”

Finn frowned at once. “Meghan does not belong at court. Her place is in the Keep.”

“
Jehan
,” the girl protested softly. “If Aislinn needs me there, of course I will go.”

His tone was implacable. “This Keep is your home, Meghan. Homana-Mujhar would stifle you.”

“Could I not learn it for myself?” She put a slim hand on his bare arm, and Donal saw how already she claimed a woman’s gentle guile. “The Keep will always be my home, just as it is yours. But did you not spend years out of it?”

“Aye,” Finn said harshly. “And you have heard what such folly brought me.” His eyes were on Aislinn, but his tone indicated it was not the girl he saw. “The witch may no longer be there…but her memory survives.”

D
onal’s personal chambers were, perhaps, a bit ostentatious for a Cheysuli warrior better accustomed to the Keep—and preferring it—but he could not deny that the luxuries conferred a comfort he occasionally appreciated. Thick woven carpets of rich muted tones softened the hard stone floor; woolen tapestries of every hue hid the blank rock walls. A single fat white beeswax candle set in each of four shadowed casement ledges turned the stained glass into jewel-toned panoramas of Homanan history.

The chamber was warm as well; Donal’s body-servant had lighted a fire that tinged the air with the smell of oak and ash. Donal did not doubt Torvald had also set warming pans beneath the bedclothes of his draped tester bed, but he had no intention of seeking his rest so soon. The sun had barely gone down. Aislinn had been delivered. It was early yet, and a task was left to do.