Legacy of the Sword (38 page)

Evan frowned. “My lord—if you were to shift your warhost from Solinde to Homana, would you lose this realm entirely?”

“With Tynstar here?—of course.” Carillon looked at Donal. “Tell me what we should do.”

Donal stared down at the earthen floor of the infirmary
tent. “We fight on two fronts, my lord. We split the army in half.”

“Our only chance, and a desperate one.” Carillon turned back to Rowan. “Speak to the other officers and the clan-leaders as well. We will leave half the army here—I want the Cheysuli here to fight the Ihlini—while the rest of us go to Osric. Rowan, you will come with me to Mujhara.” He cast Donal a level glance. “And you. But you will remain in Mujhara only a week or two, and then return here to command the army.”

“Carillon—
no
—” That from Rowan, even as Donal thought to echo the identical words. “He is unschooled in warfare
and
the leading of men. Leave
me
here instead.”

“You I take with me.” The tone was inflexible.

“Rowan has the right of it.” Donal pushed himself up from the cot and rose, suppressing a grimace of pain. “What do I know of leading men into battle?”

“These are veterans.” Carillon’s voice was harsh. “These men do not require you to hold their hands. They will teach you what there is to know—it is time you learned how to conduct yourself as a soldier must in order to survive—and to keep others alive as well.”

“Then why send me to Mujhara?” Donal demanded. “Why not leave me here?”

“Because Aislinn is in Mujhara.” Carillon’s face was completely expressionless. “It is difficult to conceive a child when man and wife are so many leagues apart.”

“By the gods
—” Donal said raggedly. “She has only just recovered! There is no
decency
to this—”

“There is no time for such things as
decency
in war,” Carillon said baldly. “I have an heir; you do not. It is necessary for you to make one.” He turned back to Rowan again. “Make certain my half of the army is prepared to leave in the morning.”

“Ay, my lord Mujhar.” Rowan stepped aside as Carillon brushed past him.

“He is gone mad,” Donal said hoarsely. “By the gods—I think he
has—”

Rowan raised his brows. “What madness is there in trying to hold Homana—and in serving the prophecy?”

“Like
this
—?”

“If this is what it takes.” Rowan did not smile. “Be ready to ride in the morning.”

*   *   *

The borderlands of Solinde did not have the varied beauty of Homana. The land was flat, and low, scrubby trees barely broke the straight line of the horizon; to Donal it looked as though it stretched forever.

A barren, dismal place…fitting for the Ihlini.

He and Carillon rode out ahead of the army bound for Homana. Not far. Just barely out of eyesight. Rowan had protested the lack of escort regardless, but Carillon had overruled him.

The Mujhar rode in silence. Donal, watching him with subtle, sidelong glances, saw how the morning sun glinted off the silver of his hair. He wore few ornaments to mark his rank: his ring and a collar brooch of gold and emerald. His clothing was exceedingly simple: ringmail over a boiled leather hauberk. Black breeches. Thighboots. Bracers banded with slender ribs of steel.

Gods, what a man he is—what a warrior still…would that I could have known him before Tynstar stole his youth—

And what will they say of you?
Taj asked, wheeling idly in the air.

Of me?
Inwardly, Donal grimaced.
That I could never be Carillon’s equal.

Is that truly what you desire?
Lorn asked from beside the stallion.
Did he not make his own way in the world—just as you yourself will?

Aye.
Donal sighed.
What they say, I will know in time. And perhaps they will have the right of it after all.

On the crest of a rise, Carillon halted his horse. Still he sat in silence, staring eastward toward Homana. Donal, waiting beside him, heard the buzz of a bee in the air.

“I thank you for coming with me to this place,” Carillon said at last. “You might have refused.”

“Refused
you
—?”

Carillon rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Aye. You may refuse me, Donal. I have not stripped you of your freedom
entirely
—it only seems that way.”

The chestnut stallion stomped to discourage a bothersome fly. Dust rose. Donal smelled the pungent tang of freshly crushed plains grass. Absently, he tapped his mount with a
heel and reprimanded him gently, urging him into stillness. “It is—difficult to refuse you.”

“Because that is what I wanted.” Still Carillon stared eastward. “But I am done telling you what you must be, what you must say, how you must behave. I am done locking the shackles around your wrists.” At last, he looked at Donal. “I have brought you here so I may ask your forgiveness.”

Donal started, frowning. “Forgiveness—? From me?”

“Aye,” Carillon said gently. “Duncan left me a chunk of naked metal and I did my best to shape it into a sword—even to tempering it to my liking, knowing what weight and balance I desired. But I am no arms-master, and I may have unwittingly set blemishes in the steel.” His mouth hooked down in a brief ironic twist. “Now I seek to blood the blade after keeping it sheathed for nearly sixteen years.”

“My lord—”

“I am sorry, Donal. I could offer you countless reasons and excuses for what I have become—and what I have done to you—but I am finished with that. I am finished with—much.” His brows twisted briefly; Donal heard the undertone of despair in the steady voice. “I am sorry. I am sorry. For you…for Aislinn…for the child that must come of this.” He looked at his ruined hands as they clasped the saddlebow. “Last night I said there was no time for decency in war. Perhaps I meant it then, but it is not true. War may be obscene, but it is also necessary. So is decency, if you are to retain a measure of humanity.” His faded blue eyes met and held Donal’s. “My wars are nearly over. It is you who will fight them for me, and eventually for yourself. I pray you do it with the decency I denied…and the humanity you will need.”

“Ru’shalla-tu,”
Donal said thickly.
I pray the gods it may be so.

Slowly Carillon smiled.
“Ja’hai
, Donal.
Cheysuli i’halla shansu.”

After a moment, Donal put out his arm. Their hands met and locked in the firm Cheysuli clasp. “Accepted,” he said. “May there be Cheysuli peace upon
you.”

Carillon at last broke the clasp. “We had best go back to the army. Rowan will be worried.”

“As well he should be,” agreed a sinuous voice. “Have I caught you two alone?”

Donal spun his horse even as Carillon mimicked him. Before them, unmounted, stood Tynstar. And with him was Electra.

She laughed. “We have taken them by surprise.”

Tynstar smiled. “I think we have made them mute.”

“No,” Carillon said. “Hardly that. But I
am
surprised you come to us here. The army is not so far.”

“What I mean to do will not take much time,” Tynstar said benignly, “and whenever has an army been able to gainsay
me
?”

Electra’s cool gray eyes watched Donal. He felt the power of her gaze. “You wanted Carillon, and now we have the wolfling as well. Will you give him to me, my love?”

Donal felt a frisson slip down his spine. Apprehension filled his belly.
Lir—

What is there to do?
Lorn asked wretchedly.

Taj circled in agitation.
It is law
, lir,
our law, given by the gods. We do not attack the Ihlini.

Because we are bloodkin?
For the first time, Donal wondered if Tynstar’s falsehood might hold some truth after all.
Is that why you keep the law?

Neither bird nor wolf answered.

Tynstar smiled sweetly. “If you want him, Electra, I will give him to you when I am done with Carillon.”

Donal straightened in his saddle. “If you think I will sit idly by while you attack Carillon, you are a fool indeed.”

“Not a fool,” Tynstar answered. “Merely—patient.” He raised a hand noncommittally. “For now, I do not desire your meddling.”

The Ihlini flicked a single finger. A blow knocked Donal off his horse and into nothingness. He floated, bodiless and mindless, knowing only fear and helplessness and a strange, wild grief. Then he landed against the ground and all such fleeting sensations were knocked utterly from his head, along with the breath from his lungs.

He struggled up on one elbow, trying to catch his banished breath, and saw the tableau take life before him. Taj flew in circles, shrieking in desperation; Lorn tipped back his head and howled in despair.

Donal’s leg throbbed. He sank his teeth into his lip, tried to
rise, and found himself fastened to the ground. He could not move at all.

“You sent Osric to Hondarth,” Carillon challenged.

“I take Homana how I can,” the sorcerer agreed. “Would you not do the same? You have learned what it is to be ruthless in order to get what you desire.”

Carillon glanced back at Donal. Indecision and concern showed briefly in his eyes. But the indecision faded; Donal saw him smile—

—and set spurs to the flanks of his stallion.

Carillon rode at Tynstar. The Ihlini, unmounted, was prey to a galloping horse. He was prey to the sword the Mujhar drew.

But he merely lifted a languid hand and split the air with flame.

Concussion knocked Carillon from the saddle. Donal saw the Mujhar crash against the ground, sword dropping free of his hand.

Another gesture brought a bolt of lightning lancing out of the sky. It blasted the ground around Carillon’s sprawling body, splattering him with dirt.

“Slowly,” Electra said. “Let him know he dies.”

“Old man,” Tynstar said, “shall I release you from your pain?”

Slowly, Carillon pushed himself to his knees. Donal saw how his body trembled, how the chest heaved in complete exhaustion. Dust filmed his face; part of his beard was burned away.

He slumped. Slumping, his hands went to the ground. Fingers splayed. Elbows stiffened. He braced himself with every ounce of his waning strength.

Gods
— Donal begged,
do not let it end like this!

Failing, Carillon’s body curled forward, slumping—

—but did not fall. Instead, he jerked the knife from his belt and hurled it through the air.

“No
—!” Electra screamed.

The knife went home high in Tynstar’s chest.

Carillon laughed. “Whose death today, Ihlini? Mine—or is it
yours
?”

Tynstar’s right hand clawed at the hilt. A hissing exhalation poured from between his lips. “Seker—” he said, “Seker—I call upon the Seker—”

“What?” Carillon asked, still kneeling on the ground. “Do your powers begin to fade? Do you call upon your god?”

“Seker—” Tynstar hissed. “I call upon the Seker—”

“Before a Cheysuli warrior?” Carillon climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I think the petition will fail.”

Tynstar thrust his right hand upward into the air. The fingers shook. “Asar-Suti!” he shouted.
“I summon you to me!”

Carillon did not wait. He hurled himself forward and came down near the forgotten sword. He rolled rapidly and thrust his failing body upward, leveling the blade in a vicious, scything sweep.

Electra screamed. Tynstar’s upthrust hand dropped limply back at his side. He stood a moment longer, then buckled at the knees.

But his head struck the ground before his body did. The scream went on and on. It sliced through Donal’s head like a blade, and then it stopped. Abruptly.

Electra simply stared.

Donal slowly got up. He looked at the severed neck. The blow had been quite clean, no wasted effort.

Blood, thick and viscid, oozed slowly from the trunk. But the color was not red, but deepest black.

Carillon turned to Donal. “How do you fare?”

“He did not harm me, but—
Carillon, look to Electra—”

The Mujhar spun around. But Electra made no move to attack. Instead, she walked unsteadily toward the decapitated body and knelt beside it.

White-blond hair spilled down her breasts and trailed into the blood. Slowly, the blackness benighted the shining strands. It stained the pale lilac of her gown.

“Electra.” Carillon walked slowly toward his wife. “Electra—he is dead.”

She leaned forward. She moaned. She put her hands on the bloodied shoulders of the body. She slid them down across the torso in a morbid caress.

She jerked the knife from the chest—

—and came up, spinning, aiming for Carillon’s belly—

—in time to spit herself to the hilt of Carillon’s waiting sword.

“Such beauty…” he whispered in a ragged, helpless voice.

The knife dropped from her hand. Knees buckled. She fell, and Carillon caught her.

Carefully, he pulled the blade from her body. He set the sword upon the ground. Then he shut the lids of her gray-pale eyes and straightened her silken skirts. Her hands, still stained with Tynstar’s blood, he folded beneath her breasts. The glorious hair, half-white, half-blond, he smoothed away from her flawless face.

Carillon knelt. Donal saw the bloodstain spreading beneath Electra’s folded hands. Black. Black and thick and viscid.

With Tynstar dead—with Electra dead…is Aislinn free at last?

The Mujhar rose. He took up the sword again. He turned to face his heir. “You must go back. Return to the encampment. I must go on to vanquish Osric—I will send your regrets to my daughter.”

Donal stared. “But—I thought you wished me to go to her.”

“I was wrong.” He looked down at the body of his wife. “Once, she must have been a woman. A woman…not a witch.” Slowly he sheathed his sword. He clasped Donal’s shoulder, squeezing firmly, as if he were young again. “Go, my lord. Win back Solinde for me.”

Donal turned away. He mounted his chestnut stallion and eased his throbbing leg into the stirrup. Taj perched on the saddlebow; Lorn stood by his side. He turned westward, toward the camp that lay so many miles behind them.