Legacy of the Sword (44 page)

By the gods—does he think he can hold the Crystal Isle? This is a
Cheysuli
place!

The mist still clouded the island, closing down over the ship. It settled into his furred leathers. He looked past the dock to the beaches and saw the fine white sand; the forests that lay beyond.

Strahan stood nearby. He was wrapped in a crimson, fur-lined cloak as fine as any Donal had known in Homana-Mujhar. “When last we were here you brought me as a servant, thinking to elevate a homeless orphan from the degradation of the streets.” He laughed. “All my talk of demons—all my talk of fear! Enough to lull you to my purpose.” He gestured. “I have made the island mine. I have Atvians and Ihlini to
serve me. Fitting, is it not, after you so eloquently told me how the Firstborn came from here?” His odd eyes were fixed on Donal’s face. “How does it feel, warrior, to know I have made this an Ihlini place?”

Donal, clinging grimly to the rail with manacled hands, did not choose to answer. What he saw and what he knew conflicted in his mind, for before him stood a slender, delicate boy who had yet to reach proper manhood, and yet claimed all the burgeoning power of the Ihlini.

Tynstar spent more than three centuries learning his arts. Strahan is a boy—those centuries stretch ahead. What will he be in a hundred
, two
hundred years from now?

The Atvian guards took him from the deck and led him off the ship. Donal stood silently on the dock, watching how Strahan ordered the unloading. He tried to get some glimmer, some indication from the gods that they watched what Strahan did, but there was nothing. The wind was empty of omniscience.

Strahan turned to him and laughed. “Where are your old gods
now
, shapechanger? How could this have happened?” Silver glinted in his ears. No more was he the urchin but a well-dressed young man instead, clothed in fine woolens and glittering ornamentation.

It was useless to remonstrate, to offer Strahan worthless threats and promises. If Lorn recovered, there was a chance Donal could escape. If Taj at last heard his seeking pattern, the falcon could carry warning to Finn and the others as well. But there was no certainty of either.

“Your wolf, Donal.”

He swung around, taking an involuntary step forward. He saw a crate, a wooden crate, rolled end over end down the plank, from the ship to the dock below. He heard a muted yelp.

Pain blazed through his mind.
What has Strahan done? Lorn—what has he done to you?

Guards held him back. He was helpless to aid the wolf. All he could do was mouth incoherent appeals, but he voiced none of them to Strahan.

The boy gestured. “Release him. I want him to understand what it is to confront a dying
lir.”

Donal jerked free of the loosening hands and stumbled across to the chest. He fell to his knees, seeking to work stiff
fingers through the single narrow opening admitting air to the wolf. He touched a crusted nose.

Lorn! You must not fail!

The wolf’s pattern was very weak.
No water—no food—little air—

You cannot die…Lorn, I
beg
you—

You have another
, Lorn answered weakly.
You will not be
lirless.
You will not face the death-ritual.

Donal tried to thrust his fingers more deeply but the wood compressed his flesh.
Lorn—I will not let you die—

It is better so. I grow weaker. Were I an unblessed wolf of the pack, the others would slay me to protect themselves.
The crusted nose pressed briefly against his bruised fingers. Lir—
there is also another reason.

There is
no
reason worthy of giving in!
Donal said angrily.
Have you gone mad? I
need
you!

As I weaken, so do you
, Lorn told him.
Do not deny it—I can feel it in the link. Do you lose strength because of me, the Ihlini will have his victory.

Donal could not deny it. In the days since Strahan had taken them both he had known a steady lessening of his strength; a gnawing weakness in his spirit. While Lorn was so ill from his injuries and captivity, Donal was affected as well.

Lir—
I will not
allow
you to die.

“Come,” Strahan said. “It is time you saw your quarters.”

Hands on his arms dragged Donal from the chest. Donal lashed out in fury with manacled hands and booted feet, seeking to slay what he could reach, but the guards were well-prepared. He struck out again, then froze as he heard a low wail of pain from Lorn.

Lir
—?

He turned. He saw the sword in Strahan’s hands. The tip of the blade protruded into the crate through the narrow opening. “Do as I say,” Strahan ordered. “Accompany my servants.”

“And if he dies?” Donal challenged. “How will you make me obey you then?”

“If he dies, so does your will.” Strahan smiled. “You will live a while longer because there is still the falcon, but when I am done with you the madness will be a
blessing.”

One of the Atvians thrust an arm into the air. “My lord—
look
!”

A fleet falcon swept through the air toward the ship. It circled neatly over them all and dipped toward the dock, screaming its agitation.

Taj!
Donal cried within the link.
Go! Seek Finn and the Cheysuli. Tell them it is Tynstar’s brat who holds me—the boy we thought was Sef—

“By the Seker, it is the falcon!” Strahan shouted. “I will slay
both
of them.”

“Taj,” Donal shouted. “Go!”

Strahan took two steps to Donal and set the tip of the sword against his spine. “I know you. I know your heritage. Alix’s son, are you not? And she with all the Old Blood. Seek you the shapechange? Do not. Or I will slay you here.”

“Slay me, and you lose your tame Mujhar.” Donal bared his teeth, feigning a smile.

“I plan to replace you one day,” Strahan pointed out. “It can be sooner rather than later.” He raised one hand. In the other, the sword wavered, tilted downward, too heavy for him to hold up. The tip bit into the wood of the dock.

Fingers stiffened, snapped apart. From the tips came a blinding stream of brilliant light. Deepest purple, tinged with sparks. An echo of the power Donal had seen in Tynstar.

He aims for Taj
— Donal turned on the Ihlini, striking out with shackles and chains. He struck through the flame streaming from Strahan’s fingers and felt it spark and burn against his skin, raising crimson weals. Then the fire abruptly died, for the boy lay gasping and blue-faced beneath Donal’s weight and throttling fingers.

Hands were on him, jerking him from the boy. Donal teetered at the dock’s edge as they thrust him roughly away. He saw that Taj still flew unmolested toward the mainland and released a sigh of relief.

Strahan got unsteadily to his feet. The sword lay on the dock, but he ignored it. “Punishment,” he promised hoarsely. “You will be sorry for that.”

He thrust both arms into the air as if he invoked a deity. Donal, recalling how Tynstar had tried to summon Asar-Suti, thought Strahan intended the same. He saw the air darken around the pale hands; smoke rolled out of the mist. It wreathed the hands in flame.

Strahan laughed. “Would you care to meet my
lir
?”

Donal’s flesh rose up on his bones. “The Ihlini
have
no
lir—”

“No? Well, perhaps she is not a
lir
precisely—but she is made of the same blood and bone.” Crimson sparks shot out of the smoke as it spun around his hands. “She comes from the netherworld, from the Gate of Asar-Suti. And such a lovely, lovely demon—” the flame and smoke exploded “—shall I fly her for you, Donal?”

Black smoke and flame took substance. Donal saw talons, wings, a wickedly curving beak. And a pair of golden eyes that watched him with a malicious intensity.

“Sakti—” Strahan hissed, “—
take
the falcon for me!”

Donal spun.
“Fly!
” he shouted at Taj.

The falcon dipped and dove, streaking from the hawk, but Sakti was relentless. She gained, caught up, struck out with raking talons.

“Taj…
fly!”

Taj flew, but the demon-hawk flew faster. Sakti rose, stooped, struck down with curving talons. One pierced the falcon’s breast.

“Taj!” Donal screamed.

The falcon fell out of the sky.

*   *   *

Taj—

—Taj—

Taj?

He drifted, He dreamed. He cried. He knew himself half mad.

*   *   *

Lir—

—lir—

Lir?

He slept. He wakened. He cried.

He could not help himself.

*   *   *

—“Wanderer,” Evan said, “you will embark upon a journey.” The dice and rune-sticks fell, rattling on the wood—

—“Jester and Charlatan: those who are not what they seem—”

—Youth—

—Imprisonment—

—Executioner—

—Why not have the Ellasian dice you your destiny?

—Who is to say he will be wrong?—

—wrong—

Wrong.

*   *   *

He slept.

Dreamed.

Drifted.

*   *   *

—Your
shar tahl
has failed your clan. You know nothing of the histories—

—They sired also a second race—

—They sired the Ihlini—

—who bred with the Cheysuli—

“No!”

—who bred with the Cheysuli—

*   *   *

He wakened shouting
No.
But there was no one there to hear.

*   *   *

For a long time he forgot who he was or why Strahan held him. And then he remembered.

He remembered
why.

*   *   *

He was alone. He was locked within a room that held a comfortable bed, a bench, a table and high narrow casements that let in the mist and muted sun. The iron remained on his wrists, but he had the freedom of the chamber.

Freedom.

It almost made him laugh.

*   *   *

Lorn he could not reach. There was a barrier in the link. But not the utter emptiness that would signify Lorn’s death. The wolf lived, but Donal could not touch him.

*   *   *

He tried to follow the days by scratching runes into the bedpost with the buckle of his belt, but he knew he had lost track. The light was somehow wrong. The fog occluded the sun. He could not judge the season or the time.

But it was cold. One brazier was not enough.

*   *   *

He ate.

He drank.

He was left entirely alone.

*   *   *

The door crashed open. Donal spun around.

Strahan stood within the chamber—

—and so did Finn and Evan.

The boy laughed. “It pleases me to reunite you, now that I have you all.”

Donal’s breath rattled in his throat as he stared at Finn. “He—took—
you
?”

“Evan and I came to rescue you.” The tone was wry, reproving.

The Ellasian grinned. “You might at least give us your gratitude.”

“Why?”
Donal demanded. “How could you come
alone
—?”

“It seemed the best idea.” Finn and Evan seemed well enough. Unharmed, and certainly less than horrified by the presence of Tynstar’s son.

Donal glared at Evan. “What will High King Rhodri say when he learns his youngest son has fallen prisoner to Strahan?”

“Probably that I am a fool, and no loss,” Evan said lightly. “Perhaps I am, and it is not…but I thought to aid a friend.”

Donal thrust out his hands, displaying the heavy shackles.
“How?”
he demanded. “By wearing Ihlini iron?”

The scar twisted on Finn’s cheek as he laughed. “I see a lengthy confinement has not improved your temper.”

Donal stared at him. He felt his mouth dry up. “How long?” he asked. “How long have I been here?”

No one answered at once. And then Strahan laughed. “Have you lost count? Did you not see the season change? It worked—
it worked
—I made you forget
everything
, even the time of year!”

Donal recalled how he had made marks in the bedpost to keep track of time. One day, he had stopped. And then the time was lost, and
he
was lost, and now he could not recall how long he had been a prisoner of Strahan.

Gods…is this how the madness begins?

“It
worked
!” Strahan exulted. “Do you not recall all the times you begged me for your name? How you begged me for
a polished plate so you could see yourself? You believed yourself a hawk—a
hawk
, not a falcon. Mimicking your father?”

“Six months,” Donal whispered in horror.

“Winter has come and gone,” Finn said gently. “Donal—let it go.”

He looked at his hands. Hands only. The fingers were fingers, not talons. But he recalled it, a little; he recalled how he had feared the shapechange as he slept. As Strahan teased him with his power.
By the gods…I think we have
all
gone mad—

He stared at Finn and Evan. “You are fools.” His tone was inflectionless. “Fools, both of you…you have given Homana over to Tynstar’s son.”

“I think not,” Finn answered. “You see, the boy is just a boy—still learning about his power. He may be Tynstar’s son, but can he lead his race? He is young.
Young
—and youth has a way of tripping over hardships before the highest goal is won.” He turned to Strahan. “Did you think we
fell
into your hands when we made certain you would take us?”

Color shot into Strahan’s face. “What do you say to me?” he demanded.
“What do you say to me?”

“That it is time for us to go.”

“You
cannot!
I hold you! You are my prisoners!”

Finn’s hand was in his belt-pouch. “It is time for us to go.”

The boy stretched out his hand. At his fingertips danced a rune of brilliant purple. “I am Tynstar’s son.
I am the Ihlini!”