Legacy of the Sword (28 page)

“Then—she is Carillon’s niece—” Evan frowned. “Perhaps I looked too high. Still, she is a pretty thing…no, I think not. Why antagonize Cheysuli or Mujhar?” He tapped his silver cup against his teeth. “What of
her
?”

Again, Donal looked. And again, he shook his head. “No.”

Evan’s brows shot up beneath his dark brown hair. “No? Why say you no? Is
she
close to the Mujhar?”

“Closer to
me
, Ellasian. Bronwyn is my sister.”

Evan swore in disgust. “Are there
no
women here who are not kin to royalty?”

“Very few.” Donal grinned and pushed his cup into Evan’s hands. “I think I will do as you suggest and dance with Aislinn…before you look to
her.
”

B
efore Donal could reach Aislinn, Carillon intercepted him. “Donal—come with me. There are men you should meet.”

Politics, of course.
“I mean to dance with Aislinn.” He thought perhaps an appeal to Carillon’s parental prejudice would delay the need for such discussions.

Carillon smiled, seeing through the tactic at once. “Aislinn can wait a few moments. These are men you will need to know.” The Mujhar’s hand was on Donal’s arm as he turned him away from the dance floor. “I know, this is your wedding celebration—but you will soon learn that such occasions offer opportunities other times do not.”

Reluctantly, Donal went with him to the knot of noblemen. Two of them he knew, having seen them year in and year out in Homana-Mujhar while they danced attendance on Carillon. Three others were strangers to him, but their accents were Solindish.

Carillon conducted the introductions smoothly with light-handed authority. The nuances told Donal the Mujhar meant to emphasize that this Cheysuli was now the Prince of Homana; did the Solindish seek to discount him, they discounted the man who would one day rule their realm.

But it was the Homanans Donal watched more closely. He expected hostility from the Solindish; it came as no shock when he perceived it, however veiled. But the two Homanans, watching him silently, seemed tense, expectant.

Gods—it is worse than I thought it might be. Surely Carillon
can see it. These men and others like them will never accept me as Mujhar.

Carillon’s hand was on Donal’s shoulder. “Of course we all realize the alliance between our two realms precludes any more war—” his smile was eloquently bland “—so I doubt Donal will ever see it. No doubt he will value the ongoing peace as highly as I do.” Carillon inclined his head at the Solindish nobles. “It will be a mark of Donal’s tenure as Mujhar that his reign will know only peace, and will no longer need petty squabbling.” The hand tightened. “It would please me well to know I am succeeded by a man who can hold the peace so truly.”

“Peace is indeed something all of us desire,” murmured one vermillion-clad Solindishman.

“Of course, I do not doubt the people of Solinde will be somewhat alarmed by the ascension of a Cheysuli in place of their own Solindish House—” Carillon’s smile, once more, held the faintest touch of irony “—but perhaps by the time it comes to that, they will be reconciled to Donal.”

There was a quick exchange of glances among the Solindishmen
and
the Homanans, Donal noted.

“Perhaps it is time I sent for Duke Royce to come home from Lestra,” Carillon mused. “He has been regent of Solinde for more than fifteen years—he is no longer young. I think Solinde might benefit from another, younger man.” He did not smile as he looked at the Solindishmen. “How better to accustom a realm to its future Mujhar than to send that man there now?”

Gods—is he serious?
But Donal dared not show his surprise at Carillon’s intentions.

One of the Homanans stared. “You send him there
now?
”

It was not, Donal knew, the reaction Carillon wanted. At least, not from the Homanans.

The Mujhar shrugged. “First he and my daughter shall spend some time together as befits those newly married. At Joyenne, I think, before they go to Lestra.” Carillon’s hand tightened yet again on Donal’s shoulder, as if he meant to pull him closer in a brief hug of parental approval.

And then the woman screamed.

Donal spun even as Carillon did. He saw a mass of colors, staring eyes and open mouths, all clustered within the hall, all
running into another in a collage of shock and stillness. And then he saw the man with the sword in his hand.

His thoughts were disjointed. —
coming at Carillon…a sword—at a wedding—
?
But
—no
man may bear a sword into the Mujhar’s presence…and all the guards are in the corridor—

His own hand flashed down to clasp his long-knife and came up filled with steel and gold. Next to him, Carillon too had armed himself. But the enemy’s sword, even as it sliced through the air in a blaze of shining steel, fell free of the assailant’s hand. And the man himself, so close to the Mujhar, dropped a moment later to join his weapon on the floor.

A knife, hilt-deep, stood up from the dead man’s back in the very center of his spine. Donal knew the blade at once: a royal Homanan knife, with rampant lion and ruby eye. And he knew what man had thrown it.

Carillon stood over the body. But he did not look at it. Instead, he looked at the warrior who had thrown the royal knife.

Finn’s bare arms were folded across his chest. “It does appear, my lord, you lack a proper liege man.”

“Aye,” Carillon agreed. His tone, though light, sounded hoarse in the silent hall. “Since I lost the one I had for so many years, I have been unable to find another.”

The question was implicit in his tone. Donal, staring at Finn, felt a strange wild hope build up in his breast.

Gods—did Finn return to Carillon…things would be as they were before
— Except he knew they would not. Time had altered them both.

Finn smiled faintly, darkly. “Aye,” he agreed. “It is difficult to find a man well-suited to the post. I have always understood a liege man to be—irreplaceable.”

“Unless replaced with the original warrior.” Carillon’s face was perfectly blank.

Donal looked not at Finn but at Rowan. The most loyal and dedicated of all Carillon’s generals wore, as Donal did, the colors of the realm. But Rowan’s garb, rather than Cheysuli leathers, was the silks and velvets of Homana.

Yet it was not the clothing Donal looked at, but the face. The sunbronzed Cheysuli face which had abruptly lost its color, gone ash-gray in shock. Rowan’s hand was on the hilt of his long-knife, as if he had intended to draw it in Carillon’s
defense. And yet—he did not look at Carillon. He looked instead at Finn.

He waits
, Donal realized abruptly.
He waits for Finn’s answer. Though he is no proper liege man, he is everything else to Carillon. He has served him so well for all these years. I do not doubt he felt he could take Finn’s place in some small measure—perhaps more—and now he realizes Finn might return to Carillon’s side.
Donal blew out a breath.
I would not wish to live like that, ever on the edge. Ever wondering.

But at last the wondering could stop.

Finn looked down at the dead man. The golden hilt glittered in the torchlight. “No,” he said finally, with the faintest note of regret underscoring his tone. “I think those times are done. I have a clan to lead. Warriors to train.” He looked up and met Carillon’s eyes. For a long moment they seemed to share an unspoken communication. Briefly, Finn looked at the twisted hands and the hunching of Carillon’s shoulders. “There
is
something I can offer you. If you will let me do it.”

“Aye,” Carillon agreed, “when I have cleared my hall of vermin.” He replaced his own knife—a wolf’s-head Cheysuli long-knife—then bent and pulled the bloodied knife from the assailant’s back. He gave the royal blade over to Finn, then motioned to the guards who had come in at the woman’s scream. Quickly and efficiently two of them gathered up the body, the sword, and took both from the hall. The other six waited for Carillon’s command.

He did not look at the Solindish noblemen who clustered near the center of the crowd. “Take them—” a wave of his hand indicted all six “—and escort them to their quarters. They will return home in the morning.”

“But—my lord Mujhar—!” The gray-haired lord in vermillion velvet spread his jeweled hands wide. “My lord—
we
had nothing to do with this—!”

“On the day of my daughter’s wedding, I have been attacked in my own hall,” Carillon said inflexibly. “Let there be no more diplomacy between us, Voile—our two realms will soon be at war. This assassination attempt might have won it for Solinde before the thing was begun, had it succeeded. But it failed, and you are uncovered—like a grub
beneath a rock—your plan has gone awry.” He signaled his guards to surround the Solindish nobles.

Donal watched the guards take the Solindishmen away. In a flurry of low-voiced commands Carillon ordered the music and dancing begun again; the celebration would continue. Then he and Finn took their leave from the hall, and Donal slowly put his knife back into its sheath.

He turned, meaning to find a servant with wine, and nearly stumbled over Bronwyn who stood directly in his path. He caught her arms and steadied her, marking how pale she was.

Her hand went out to touch him. “Donal—how do you fare?”

“Well,” he told her. “Bronwyn—the thing is over now.”

Fingers locked on the blue enameled torque around her neck. “The sword came so
close—
”

“I am well,” he repeated. “Come, you had best go back to our guests.”

But Bronwyn stood in place. “Why does Carillon think it was
him
the assassin wanted?”

Donal frowned. “It
was
, Bronwyn. Who else would such a man want?”

“You,” she said distinctly. “Oh Donal…I saw how the man looked at you. Not at the Mujhar.” Her amber eyes began to fill with tears. “It was
you
he wanted,
rujho.
I swear—I saw it in his face.”

“Bronwyn—” He glanced past her toward the door through which Finn and Carillon had gone. “Bronwyn—are you quite certain?”

“Aye.” Earrings flashed as she nodded her head. “I danced with him,
rujho.
He asked me questions about you. I thought nothing of it—most people do not know you. But then he left me. He left the hall. And when he came back, he had a sword.”

Donal frowned. “Were you not made suspicious by all the Solindishman’s questions?”

She stared up into his face. “But—Donal…he was a Homanan.”

He felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. The flesh rose up on his bones. “Bronwyn—
are you certain?
”

“Aye,” she said. “Oh Donal, I am
afraid—
”

No more than I am, rujholla.
But he did not say it aloud. Instead, he looked for his new wife. “Where is Aislinn?”

Bronwyn gestured. “There—do you see her? Over in the corner.”

He saw her. He saw how she stood away from the crowd, as if she could not bear to be a part of it. Sapphires and silver glittered. In both hands she held a hammered goblet and raised it to her mouth. He saw her grimace of distaste once she had swallowed. But he could not say if it was the wine that caused it, or the failure of the assassin.

Aislinn…I think there are things between us to be settled.

Donal looked down at Bronwyn. “Stay here, with the others. I think it is time I took my
cheysula
from the crowd.”

“But—what of the bedding ceremony?”

He smiled grimly. “I think, tonight, it would be better Aislinn did without it.” But he did not say he intended more for Aislinn than a simple nuptial bedding.

He left his sister behind and smoothly worked his way through the crowd. The thought of dancing had fled his mind completely, though it was expected of the Prince and his princess. Somehow, the assassination attempt had ruined his taste for celebration.

As he reached her, Donal put out his hand and took the goblet out of hers. Aislinn stared at him in surprise. “Do you want it? Or do you
need
it?” Suspicion made him cruel.

“What?”

He looked into her face. He saw pale pink underlying the pallor of her cheeks; the hectic glitter in her gray eyes. Sensuous eyes; he knew, for all she was still young, she had learned something of a woman’s seductive ways from her incredibly seductive mother.

He reached out and caught one slender wrist. “You tremble, Aislinn. For me or for your
jehan
?”

“I thought he would slay my father—”

“He did not want Carillon. The assassin was after
me.
”

“
You!
Why would he want
you?
”

Her surprise was sincere. He could not doubt it. It was less than flattering, perhaps—in an odd sort of way—that she would think him so insignificant a target, but he was relieved. He did not think the emotion was feigned.

“There are some men who might desire me dead,” he told her evenly, still appraising her reactions. “Undoubtedly some women, as well; Electra, perhaps?” He saw how her color
faded. “Carillon ages. He will not hold the Lion forever. How better to wrest the throne from the proper line than by slaying the man who will inherit from the Mujhar?”