Legacy of the Sword (32 page)

Donal drew in a deep breath, knowing somehow he had to offer comfort to the man. “You took her for the alliance between Homana and Solinde. You have spent these past fifteen years teaching me the rudiments of kingcraft—I think I understand at least a little of it. You wed her because you had to.”

“Had to?” Carillon’s twisted smile was bittersweet. “Oh, aye—I had to. For the alliance…but something else as well.” He stared into the goblet. “Aye…there was sorcery and witchcraft, but much more to the woman than that. She was—unlike any other I had ever known. Even now. And—I think I even loved her…for a little while.” Slowly, he lifted the recaptured goblet and drank down what remained of the pale, sweet wine. “Do what you must,” he said at last. “but be gentle with her, Donal.”

Looking at him, Donal felt a chill of apprehension run down the length of his spine.
Gods…grant me health, grant me the kindness of
never
putting such choices before me.

*   *   *

He waited until it was very late and most of the servants were abed. Then, telling his
lir
to remain in his chamber, he went down the corridor to Aislinn’s suite of apartments, and pushed open the heavy door.

He had half expected it to be locked. But perhaps Aislinn, knowing her actions had driven him into the city streets and then to Sorcha in the Keep, thought he would not return to her. And so his way was unimpeded as he entered the darkened chamber.

One candle burned in the far corner. Donal had never understood the Homanan penchant for leaving candles lit when sleep was sought; if there were demons sent to catch a man, a candle would not stop them. And if it were meant to ward off mortal enemies, the light destroyed night vision and left the victim more vulnerable than ever.

But he did not blow it out. He wanted Aislinn to know him when she saw him.

Noiselessly he walked to her draperied bed. He could see
nothing through the sheen of silk and gauze. But he could hear her breathing.

Gods…does Carillon know what he asks
? But he knew the Mujhar did.

Quickly Donal shed boots and leathers. Naked, he stripped aside the draperies, prepared to slip into the bed—

—and found Aislinn waiting for him, kneeling amid the folds of the coverlet.

In the shadows of the curtained bed, her eyes were blackened hollows. Dim candlelight threaded its way through the draperies and burnished bronze her red-gold hair. She wore a thin silken nightshift; nothing else, except her pride.

“You knew,” he said.

“I knew. No one told me, but—I knew.” She drew in an uneven breath. “All my life I have been brought up to know my task in this world is to bear children for my lord. All my life I have known my firstborn son would become Mujhar in his father’s place, as
you
will when mine is dead. Well…there will be no son if I do not lie with you.”

She was frightened even as she smiled a wry little smile, stating the obvious; that much he could tell. But frightened of
herself
, not of him. “It is not
you
, Aislinn,” he told her. “It is what that witch has done to you.”

She swallowed visibly. “I know it. But—knowing it does not undo what she has done.”

Gently, he asked, “You know what
I
must do?”

Aislinn briefly shut her eyes. “
Gods
, Donal—I would trade almost anything to make this bedding pleasurable for us both! Do you think I
wish
to spew such vileness from my mouth?” Her fingers were locked into the neckline of her nightshift, twisting at the fabric. “For as long as I can remember, you were the man I wanted. Even as children, I knew I could go to you for anything. And now—
now
, when I can have you—I drive you instead to
her.
”

Her.
Aislinn knew very well what competition Sorcha offered. And yet he did not, for the moment, see jealousy in her face. Only dashed hopes and forlorn self-hatred, because Aislinn blamed herself.

He nearly put out his hands to reach for her, to touch her hair, to stroke her shoulders, but he stopped himself. “Aislinn,” he said gently, “if there were another way I would seek it. I have no taste for this.”

She nodded. And then her eyes beseeched him. “Do you think—it is possible whatever my mother did to me has faded? Perhaps—perhaps it was meant only for the wedding night.”

“Perhaps.” He knew better—she grasped at straws—but said nothing of it. “Aislinn—come and sit beside me.” He himself sat down on the edge of the bed, knowing the posture was unthreatening. And after a moment, she did as he had bidden.

She laughed an odd little laugh. “I feel like a fool. Like an untried girl, nervous before her lord.”

“Are you not?”

She sighed. “I am. Donal—” She stopped short, glancing sideways at his nudity, her eyes dark with passion and fear. Tentatively, she put up a hand and touched the
lir
-gold on his arm. “Do you never take it off?”

“Rarely. It is a part of me.” He let her touch the gold, knowing the motion took more than a little courage.

Her fingers explored the armband. “I see Taj and Lorn in the patterns,” Aislinn said. “The craftsmanship is superb—I have seen many fine gifts offered to my father, but none, I think, so fine as Cheysuli
lir
-gold. The knife he wears—”

“Finn’s, once. They exchanged knives when they swore the oath of liege man and Mujhar.”

“And broke it.” Aislinn shook her head a little. “What I know of Finn and what I am
told
are two different things. All those stories…and yet, he is different from what is said. It seems odd, to know a man, and yet realize others know him differently from the years before I was born.”

Donal thought of his father. He had been told countless stories by Alix, Finn, Carillon and others about Duncan. So many of those stories dated from before his birth, even before his mother and father had married, Cheysuli-fashion. For many years he had treasured the tales, storing them away in the sacred trunk of memory, cherishing all the contents. And now Tynstar had smashed that trunk, destroying the memories.

“I remember when you were born.” He did, though not well. But perhaps it was time they began to fashion their own memories for the future. “There was rejoicing throughout Homana, that the Queen had been delivered of a healthy child.” He did not say how that rejoicing had been tempered with disappointment; Homana had needed a son.

Her fingers had left the gold to touch his arm. Now she withdrew them. “The
Queen.”
Aislinn’s mouth twisted. “When men speak of the Queen, they link her name with Tynstar. Not with Carillon, who wed her and
made
her Queen of Homana.
No.
With that vile, wretched Ihlini!” Bitterness balled her hands into fists. “I wish—I wish he were dead! I wish someone would slay him!”

“Someone will, someday.” No longer did she seem intimidated by his nudity. “Aislinn—”

She did not let him finish, turning instead to face him squarely. Hesitantly, she reached out both hands to touch his shoulders, closing fingers on the muscles. “I want it. I want
you
—I have
always
wanted you.”

Donal did what he had desired since he first pulled back the draperies. He set his hands into her hair and threaded persuasive fingers, tugging her closer to him. For him, at that moment, Sorcha receded; his present was only Aislinn.

“Gods…” She breathed it against his mouth. “No one said I would feel like
this—
”

“Who could?” he asked. “Electra? You see what she has done.”

“My mother is a fool—” Aislinn was in his arms, twisting shoulders free of her garment to press her bare flesh against his. “My mother—”

He felt her body abruptly go rigid beneath his hands. “Aislinn—?” But even as he said her name, he knew what was happening.

“No!” she cried. “No,
no
—” The shudder wracked her body. Donal saw her head arch back, back, until her throat was bared to him and her hair spilled down against the tangled sheets. The sound she made was one of terror mixed with madness.

“No more!” he hissed. “By all the gods of the Firstborn, I will
not
let Electra win—!”

A physical link was not necessary, but he sought it anyway. Aislinn, utterly limp in his arms, he lay on her back against the bed. He knelt over her, sinking hands through her hair to cup each delicate temple. He felt the pulse-beat beneath the flesh, against the palm of his hands.

“Not this time,” he said grimly. “Not
this
time, Solindish witch—”

But what Electra had done was not easily broken. Donal
met resistance as he sought a way through the barriers to Aislinn’s subconscious. Something battered back at him, trying to throw him away. Instantly he threw up his own shields and advanced, gritting his teeth against the intensity of Electra’s spell.

“Aislinn…
fight
her…fight
Electra
—not me!”

But Aislinn was too lost within the ensorcelment. She fought him mentally and physically, sweating and crying in her efforts.

He would lose. And by losing, lose Aislinn entirely. He could not see any way to win without risking Aislinn’s welfare.

The witch set her trap very well indeed…if she does not catch me in it, she may well catch her daughter—

And then he realized there
was
a way to win. It was not fair. He risked Aislinn even as Electra risked her, but if he did not try, she was lost without a fight of any sort. Donal thought she was worth more than that. And so he sought the essence of the shapechange.

He would not change before the girl—did not
dare
to, when that was Electra’s key—but he could use a measure of the concentration
lir
-shape required. It was honed sharp as any blade, but offering danger to Aislinn as well as himself. It was a matter of balance again. In such circumstances as these, he could tip over the edge so easily.

Donal summoned up the strength. And without warning the helpless girl, he tore through her mental barriers and forced his will upon hers.

He had told Carillon it was tantamount to rape. Donal knew only that as he forced his will upon the girl, he forced more than mental persuasion.

And yet, even as he fought to win Aislinn back from her mother and the Ihlini, Donal became dimly aware of a part of himself that
understood
the need for compulsion. A part of him knew physical release as well as mental was required, since he sought consummation as a result of forcing her will, and not just persuasion. With a man, there was no question it was merely a mental rape. The compulsion was never sexual. But with a woman, with
Aislinn
, whom he desired anyway, the compulsion was linked with intensifying need.

Perversion? He thought not. But—would he think it
was
while lost in the power of such overwhelming desire?

Man, not wolf…man, not falcon…
And yet he knew,
as he slid closer to the edge, it would not be difficult to shift into either form. It was possible he might mimic the being his father had been, neither one nor the other; a
thing
caught between.

He felt a wild rage building up inside of him. Not at Aislinn. But at Electra. At Tynstar. For using an innocent, vulnerable girl as bait to trap a Cheysuli. For setting up the obscene circumstances that required such violence.

For turning him into an animal, even in human form.

Will they never stop? Will they never give up their abuse of human beings
?

Distantly, he heard Aislinn crying out. So near the edge,
too
near the edge; he silenced her with the only gag he had left: his mouth.

Aislinn, I swear…I never wanted it this way….
And until the night of their wedding, Donal had not believed he wanted it at all.

Now he knew he had wanted it longer than he cared to acknowledge. He recalled clearly the young woman who had met him on the Crystal Isle: haughty, defiant princess; later, vulnerable, frightened girl. An assassin as well, but it was yet another facet of her being. She was neither the complaisant, spiritless woman so many Homanans were, nor the cold, powerful sorceress Electra had made of herself. Aislinn was merely—Aislinn. And in their mutual battle against her mother, each sought release whatever way they could find it.

Sul’harai.
He did not know the Homanan word for the concept. He only knew that with Sorcha, the experience was familiar. The simultaneous sharing of the magic in their union. Not one-sided. That was easy enough for a woman; easier for a man. Simultaneous. And now, he found he wanted it as much with Aislinn.

“I
will
win, Electra—” And with the strength of the
lir
-bond, Donal smashed all of Aislinn’s barriers and left nothing in his wake, emptying her resistance like a seedbag spilling grain.

And as she lay empty before him physically and emotionally, he replaced the abhorrence Electra had put there with a terrible need for him.

Not rape…
not
rape, if she wants me as I want her—

But he realized, as she roused to his hands and his mouth, the compromise was a curse as well as a blessing. Because if
the time came Aislinn ever turned to him out of
genuine
affection, he would never know it.

*   *   *

At dawn, Donal stood at the edge of the oubliette. One torch roared against the silences of the vault. Light rushed across the creamy, gold-veined marble, and the
lir
leaped out at him.

He teetered. Closed his eyes.
Oh gods, what have I done—what have I done to the girl—?

The torch roared. Everything else was silence.

Except for his screaming conscience.

Remorse? That, and worse. Yet he welcomed the guilt, the anger, the horror; the sickness that turned his belly. It meant he was a man after all, not a beast; not a
thing
who took and was pleased by the taking, not caring
how
it was taken or who was hurt. When she awakened Aislinn would recall only a part of what had happened, because the compulsion worked that way, but
he
would know it all. He would remember everything.