Legacy of the Sword (36 page)

“Enough.” The word issued hoarsely from Carillon. He stood nearly erect as they surrounded him, allowing the pain no opportunity to swallow him whole. One handed rested on
Rowan’s shoulder as if in placation; Donal saw how the sinews stood up against the flesh of Carillon’s hand and knew he clutched the shoulder for support. “Tynstar is—gone. Let us go as well: down from this hill to our pavilions. Tomorrow, I do not doubt, we will be tested by the Solindish.”

“He sought to slay us,” Donal said. “Who is to say he will not do it again?”

Carillon’s eyes were couched in brackets of strain. “That was not an attempt to slay us. That was his manner of leave-taking. No doubt he
might
have tried to slay us, but the sword prevented that.” A fleeting grimace crossed his face as he glanced back at the shining sword. “Hale’s blade begins to serve its master.”

Donal shivered once. “No. That sword is
yours.
”

Sef, standing between Donal and Evan, wrenched his head around to stare. “
That’s
the magic sword?”

Donal looked at him sharply. “What are you saying, Sef?”

The boy shrugged self-consciously. “I—I’ve heard it’s got magic in it. There’s a story around Homana-Mujhar that it’ll be
your
sword, and when it is—”

“Enough!” Donal cut him off with the sharp Cheysuli gesture. “There are better things to do with your time than listen to stories. Go on, Sef—go back to camp. Is there nothing for you to do?”

Color moved through the boy’s face. For a moment his vitality dimmed, then came rushing back. He flicked a glance at the Mujhar with his odd, uncanny eyes, then looked directly at Donal. “But they say the sword was made for
you.
”

Donal’s bones tingled. His head ached. He glared at Sef through eyes that burned from smoke and flame. He pointed at the sword. “Then go and fetch it, Sef, and see what nonsense you mouth.”

Sef shrank back. “No!
I
can’t touch it!”

“Do not be foolish, Sef.” Donal, still somewhat disoriented, felt his patience slipping. “What is to keep you from touching the sword?”

“It—it might stop me.” He shrugged. “Somehow. It
might.
You don’t know it
wouldn’t.
” Furtively he looked at the sword. “It’s a magic sword, my lord. It isn’t meant for a boy like
me.
”

“Donal.” Carillon’s voice, with the snap of command in
it. “Fetch the sword yourself. I have no more time to waste on Tynstar and his tricks.”

The Mujhar turned away. With Rowan’s aid he made his way down from the crest of the scorched hill and walked through his gathered army, speaking quietly to frightened men. Finn and Evan were silhouetted against the horizon, lighted only by the moonlight. Lorn waited as well, and Taj, still drifting in the heavens.

Donal turned from Sef to fetch the sword. The blade was half-buried in charred earth. He reached down, clasped the hilt and tugged.

At once he felt again the thrumming of life in bones and muscles; the promise of power and strength.
Gods
…is this
what has kept Carillon strong all these years as his body decayed? A sword
—?

He pulled it free of the earth. The blade was perfectly clean, unblemished by ash or dirt. The runes seemed to writhe upon the steel.

In the silvered darkness, Sef’s pale face was almost translucent. “Hale’s sword,” he said, “is not meant for such as me.”

“This sword,” Donal said deliberately, “is meant for any man who can wield it.”

“Oh?” Finn’s voice held a familiar undertone of irony. “Is that why it warded us against Tynstar?”

Evan shook his head. “In Ellas, magic is limited to such things as simple tricks and potions, or to the harpers of Lodhi. You have seen Lachlan’s power. But—I have never seen
anything
like this.”

Donal looked down at the sword. In his hand, the grip was warm. The ruby blazed bright red. “Nor have I.” He could deny the sword no longer. And so he turned and left the hill.

*   *   *

The pavilion held two cots, two stools, one chair, a tiny three-legged table. Tripod braziers stood in two of the corners. The fabric was pale saffron. The candlelight, thrown against the sides, painted the interior burnt gold, pale cream and ivory. It reminded Donal of the Womb with all its marble
lir.

He sat in the chair. Beside him slumped Lorn, sleepy-eyed in the glow of fat white candles. Taj perched precariously on Donal’s chairback; he could feel the meticulous balance of
the falcon. In front of him stood the table, and set on the knife-scarred wood was the sword. No more did the ruby blaze, but neither was it black. It was the rich blood-red of a Cheysuli ruby, no more, no less—yet full of significance.

“In the clans, it is held a Cheysuli-made sword has a life of its own when matched with the proper master. I have heard of others made for foreign kings and princes because of all the legends…but this one—
this
one Hale made for Shaine. I know the story. It was Shaine who gave it to Carillon when he became Prince of Homana…it has been his weapon for years and years. It is a part of the tales they tell about him. And now he thrusts it upon me, says it is mine—”

Evan, sprawled inelegantly across the cot, shrugged. He held a cup of wine in his hand. “Perhaps it is. Does it matter so much?”

“Aye. Cheysuli do not use swords.”

Evan snorted. “Then what is the use of
making
them?”

“We do not, now. When the
qu’mahlin
was declared, no longer did we make weapons with which to arm the Homanans.” Faintly, he frowned. “If—
if
it is true Hale made that sword for me—
why
? I am Cheysuli.”

“And Homanan, are you not?”

Donal shifted in his chair, disturbing the falcon. Taj reprimanded him gently. “Aye,” he said grimly. “But none of me wants that sword.”

“And if Carillon leaves it to you?”

“I will not use it,” Donal declared. “Never will I fight with it. There is my knife, my bow—even
lir
-shape. Why would I want a sword?”

Evan smiled. “Just because you don’t
want
it, does not mean it wasn’t
meant
for you.”

Donal’s smile was wryly crooked. “You sound almost like a warrior discussing his
tahlmorra.
”

Evan drank for a moment, then shifted his posture to sit more upright. “Well, every man has a fate. Some men make theirs. I may not be Cheysuli, but I am a son of Lodhi—for all I may not seem so.”

“The All-Father,” Donal said wryly. “Is it true you Ellasians believe he sired
all
of you?”

“Well, He did not precisely lie with my lady mother, if
that
is what you mean.” Evan grinned and drank again. “But
aye, in a way, He did. You see, Lodhi lay with a single mortal woman, and from that union sprang Ellas.”

Donal, losing interest, looked again at the sword. He rubbed absently at his chin. “This sword is Carillon’s—” Abruptly, he rose. He snatched up the sword and went out of the pavilion, ignoring Sef’s startled question as the boy rose up from his mat outside the doorflap. Donal ignored everyone as he strode through the encampment; he was intent upon his mission.

Carillon’s crimson tent stood apart from the others. Tall wooden stave torches had been thrust into the earth around the pavilion to bathe it with light. Shadows flickered against the crimson fabric; Donal saw there were no guards.

No guards—
?

And then he heard the Mujhar’s startled cry of pain.

Donal ran. He felt the grip settle more comfortably into his palm. His fingers found ridges meant to cradle his bones; the remaining space beckoned his other hand. The metal was warm, alive; he could feel the power rising. It bled into his body and spread to fill the very marrow of his bones. He almost
wanted
to fight.

His free hand ripped aside the crimson doorflap. Automatically it dropped the fabric and went unerringly to the hilt, closing around the gold. He felt the blade rising, rising, incredibly light in his hands and yet substantially weighted as well. The balance was perfect. The sword was a part of his body, an extension of his hands, his arms, his mind—

—“
No!
” he shouted as he saw the man bending over Carillon’s body in the cot.

Candlelight flashed off the blade. The reflection struck full across the man’s face as he turned; Donal saw a haze of gold and black and bronze. And eyes. Yellow eyes, staring back at Donal.

The blow faltered. His arms sagged. Donal let the weight drop down, releasing his left hand so that the sword dangled limply from his right. “By the gods,
su’fali
…I might have had your head—”

“And regretted it later, no doubt.” Finn straightened. His hands were empty. But he stood at Carillon’s bedside, and the Mujhar was clearly unconscious.

“What are you doing?” Donal demanded in alarm. “What
is wrong with Carillon?” He moved closer to the cot, fingers clenching the sword hilt. “Gods—he is not
dead
—”

“No.” Finn glanced down at the Mujhar’s slack face. “No, not yet.”

“
Yet?
” Donal stopped beside the cot, but he did not look at Carillon. He stared instead at Finn. “You do not mean—”

“—I mean he has little time,” Finn said flatly. “Are you blind, Donal, to say you do not know it?”

“But—but he is so strong—” Donal gestured with his empty left hand. “He
rules
—”

“—stolen time,” Finn said, and his voice had roughened a little. “Tynstar took it from him—I have stolen it back. A little. Not enough. But—as with all things, it carries a price.” He looked down at Carillon. “Donal—are you prepared to be Mujhar?”

“
No!
” It burst out of him instantly. “No,
su’fali
—no.”

“Have you learned nothing from Carillon?”

At last, Donal looked down at the man who ruled Homana. He saw how the flames overlay the face and emphasized the slackness of the flesh, the banishment of the strength inherent in Carillon’s bones. The beard had silvered, thinning, so that the line of the jaw was visible. The hair, fallen back from his face, no longer hid the fragility of his temples; Donal saw clearly the hollows of age, the upstanding threading of veins, the prominent bones of the nose.

But it was not the face that shocked Donal. It was the leather that had been wrapped around Carillon’s naked torso. Stiff leather, laced together; it held his spine perfectly straight, almost too straight. Straps ran over both broad shoulders. The leather bracers, which Donal had always believed were mere cuffs providing some measure of support, were reinforced with metal.

“Years ago, when the disease began to twist his spine and shoulders, he had that made.” Finn’s tone was expressionless. “It allows him to resemble a man instead of a blighted tree. It allows him to hold the sword you have just returned.”

He is dying. I see it, now
— “Gods!” Donal whispered. “Oh,
su’fali
—say it is not true.”

“I will not lie to you.”

Donal felt pain knot up his belly, rising to fill chest and throat. “Is there
nothing
you can do?”

“I have done it.” The tone was minutely unsteady, yet tight, controlled. “I gave him
tetsu
root.”

Donal blanched.
“How much?”

Finn’s smile lacked humor. “Enough to do some good. And it has. He has been—better—since the wedding.”

Donal felt a chill.
“Su’fali—tetsu
root is deadly.”

“So is growing old.” Finn looked down at Carillon’s unconscious body. “It was his choice, Donal. I did not force him. I did not hide it in his wine. I simply told him about
tetsu
and what it could do for him. He said he would take the risk.”

“Risk? There is no risk!
Tetsu
always kills.” Donal gestured emptily again. “Have you known a man to set it aside once he has begun drinking it regularly?
I
have not. Every warrior who desires it has taken it once, then twice, and soon enough there is no stopping it, not until the root slays. By the gods,
su’fali
, you have given him over to death!”

“I have lessened some of his pain,” Finn declared. “For him, I could do no less.”

Donal stared at the Mujhar. All the grief welled up and made him feel helpless. Carillon was dying more quickly than was natural. Tynstar had seen to that. But Finn, in a final obscene service performed by a loyal liege man, had made it more immediate.

“How long?” he whispered.

“A month. Two. Perhaps a little longer.” Finn looked down at his friend. “What Tynstar did tonight destroyed many of Carillon’s defenses. His will has been such that he would not give in to disease or drug. But now—time is running out.”

Donal tried to swallow down the swelling in his throat. “Does—does he know it?”

“He knows it.”

Donal looked down. He would not cry before his uncle, who would have no tolerance for such things. Instead, he stared hard at the sword. In his hands the ruby glowed, catching the candlelight; the rampant lion seemed to move upon the hilt.

“Do not tell him I know,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Do not tell him I came.” Mutely, he held out the blade to Finn. “Say I sent a servant with the sword.”

Finn relieved him of the weapon.
“Ja’hai,”
he said.
“Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

“Not yet,” Donal said. “Oh, no…not yet. Not while Carillon breathes.”

“He will breathe a little longer,” Finn said, “but one day he will stop. And you will hold the throne.”

“‘Su’fali
—do not.”

“Do not what? Speak the truth?” Finn did not smile. “You will have to accept it, Donal. It is for this you were born.”

Donal looked at Carillon. And then he turned away.