Legacy of the Sword (50 page)

“Good.” Evan had shaved; put on fresh clothing worthy of his rank. The stolen boots had been replaced with finer footwear. “You are unharmed?”

“As you see me.” But Donal thought Evan did not see him clearly. There was a drawn tautness at the corners of his eyes and mouth, as if he spoke automatically with little thought for what he said. “Evan—what is it?”

Evan stepped aside and gestured limply for Donal to enter. His hand scraped against the fabric as he let the flap down again. “A messenger came early this morning, just at dawn, while you were still in Osric’s encampment.”

The pavilion was empty. The bedclothes on Rowan’s cot were rumpled. One cup of wine, half-filled, stood on the table next to a pile of maps. A fly buzzed around the rim.

Donal sat down on a stool, hunching a little; he lay the blade across his thighs and fingered the hilt with its rampant lion. “This message was for me?”

“No. For me.” Evan frowned a little. He looked almost bewildered. “My brother is—High King.”

Donal looked at him sharply. “Rhodri—?”

“Dead of a sudden fever.” Evan combed a hand through
his dark brown hair. “It took him too quickly—the leeches could do nothing.”

Donal stood up again. He understood the puzzled grief in Evan’s eyes better, now that he lacked Finn. He reached out and clasped Evan’s arm briefly. “I am sorry. Do you ride for Ellas immediately?”

After a moment Evan shook his head. “I would have. At once, of course—I should go home and pay my respects. But—Lachlan has said no. He gives me leave to remain here.” He shrugged a little. “He says—he says all of Ellas knows how I honored my father, and that now I must honor the wishes of her new High King.” His eyes were full of grief and lethargy; his anchor had been taken from him. “He says I must stay with you.”

Donal stared at his friend. His own emotions were detached, as if Finn’s death had drained him of the capacity for grief, but he understood what Evan felt.
He has only just discovered how much his
jehan
meant to him, for all he has spoken casually of their relationship.
Donal sat down again. “Why would Lachlan wish you to stay here? I am more than glad of your company, but perhaps you would do better to go home.”

Evan’s mouth hooked down on one side. “He heard of Carillon’s death. Out of sorrow and a wish to keep Homana whole, he is sending five thousand men.” Evan smiled. “The Royal Ellasian Guard…which was, I know, dispatched once before to Homana, when Carillon needed aid. Out of respect for Carillon’s memory, Lachlan wishes to make certain Homana does not fall. But—I think there is more, though he did not say it. I think he fears for Ellas as well. Does Osric take Homana, there is a good chance he will turn his eyes to Ellas one of these years. Why not gainsay that now by sending aid to Homana? He could not do so before—my father preferred to stay out of Homana’s troubles—but now he is High King. He may do what he wishes.”

Donal sighed, staring pensively at the sword. “Whatever Lachlan’s reasons—his gesture is more than welcome.”

Evan nodded. “Rhodri was a worthy king. Ellas loved him. But Ellas also loves Lachlan, the scapegrace, priest and prince who wandered as a harper for three years, riding with an exiled Homanan lord as he sought to win back his realm. He will be a valuable ally, Donal.”

Thinking deeply, Donal scratched at his forehead beneath the thick black hair that hung nearly into his eyes. “Five thousand men may be more than enough to swing this battle to a conclusion. Unless, of course, Osric’s death is enough. It may be that Lachlan’s gift is not necessary. But regardless, I must leave Rowan in charge of the Homanan troops, while you lead the Ellasians.” He frowned. “It would give me time to go up across the Bluetooth.”

“Still you will go?”

“I will. And I will bring Sorcha and the children home—home to Homana-Mujhar.”

Evan sucked in a whistling breath. “Not wise, Donal. Aislinn is already jealous—installing your light woman and bastards beneath the same roof may not be for the best.”

“I do not care.” Donal looked up from the sword. “I am not totally blind to Aislinn’s reasons for what she has done. But there are other factors I must consider. She is Electra’s daughter. It means I can never view her without suspicion—has she not given me enough reason for that?—because it may be that she has a measure of her
jehana’
s power. For all I know, the Solindish blood in her holds stronger than the Homanan.”

“She bears a child, Donal. Possibly a son, and heir to Homana.”

Donal laughed. “I have no intention of
slaying
her, Evan! Nor do I wish to beat her. I intend only to put Sorcha and the children where I know they will be safe.”

Evan shook his head. “Do not put her so close to Aislinn. Donal—this is merely jealousy. Once Aislinn has borne her own, she will not resent Sorcha’s children so much.”

Donal shook his head. “For a man who has neither children nor
cheysula
, you know much about both.”

“I have five sisters,” Evan retorted, “and—at last count—fourteen nieces and nephews. Perhaps more, by now—my sisters breed like coneys. I speak from experience, Donal.”

Donal sighed. “Well, nonetheless, I will go to the Northern Keep and tend to my
meijha
and children.
Then
I will see to Aislinn.”

*   *   *

Rowan gave him a new sheath and belt for the sword, since Carillon’s was missing, presumably somewhere in the Atvian encampment—unless Strahan still had it. But the new one
suited Donal’s taste. It was plain dark leather oiled to a smooth sheen, worked with Cheysuli runes from top to bottom.

Donal slid the blade home until the hilt clicked against the lip. He looked at Rowan. “Your workmanship?”

Rowan’s angular face was solemn. “Aye. My blood showing in me at last. I have the Cheysuli skill.”

Donal looked at him in surprise. “Then you are finally admitting openly to your heritage.”

Splotches of color formed in Rowan’s face, flushing the sunbronzing darker still so that the yellow of his eyes was emphasized. “I have not had to deny it for many years,” he said with a quiet dignity. “Not since I acknowledged the truth to Carillon.”

He will judge everything in his life by Carillon.
Donal sighed and tried to summon what little he knew of tact. “I know you have never had a
lir
, but you
are
Cheysuli. You might have sought a clan instead of the Homanans when you were old enough to know the truth.”

Rowan shook his head. “I did not seek the Homanans, Donal. I was
raised
Homanan. Oh, aye…I knew what I was
inside
, but how could I fight Homanan habits that grew to be second nature? A child becomes what he is made…and I was made Homanan.”

Donal frowned down at the rune-worked blade. “We are so different. The races. So—apart. We are different men. And I think you cannot be both.”

“You can.” Rowan smiled a little. “One day, you may see it. One day you may
have
to. You yourself are less Cheysuli than
I
am, if we are to speak of blood—and yet you are the one who claims the races are different.” He shook his head. “You do realize, of course, that even though Homana has a Cheysuli Mujhar once more—that the Cheysuli race will not last forever. We will be swallowed up by the truth of the prophecy.”

Donal looked at him sharply. The words, oddly, echoed what Tynstar had said; what Strahan had emphasized. And Donal did not like it. Somehow, it
threatened
him. “We have lost nothing in thousands of years. We still claim the
lir
and all that bond entails. The earth magic that heals, the power to compel—”

“Aye.” Rowan interrupted calmly. “But have you never thought that when the goal of the prophecy is attained and the
Firstborn live again, there will be little room left for the Cheysuli?”

“There will
always
be Cheysuli in Homana.” Donal’s tone obliterated room for speculation. “Homanan-raised you may have been, but not Homanan-
born.
Did you not set the runes into the leather of this scabbard?”

“Some things a man never forgets.” Rowan looked at the devices he had tooled. “I remember—when I was very small—how my
jehan
used to write out the runes with a chunk of coal on a bleached deerskin. It fascinated me. I would sit for hours before the pavilion and watch his hand draw the runes—making magic. And the birthlines, when the
shar tahl
showed me mine.” He smiled reminiscently. “I remembered all the runes. So I pieced together the prophecy and the runes, and put it all into the leather.”

Donal watched the changes in Rowan’s face. In that instant he felt closer to the man than ever before. In that instant, Rowan was Cheysuli, and Donal could understand him. “What else do you remember?”

The smile fell away. “I remember the day the Mujhar’s men came across my family. How they slew them all, even my small
rujholla.
I remember it all very well, though for years I denied it.”

“Because your new kin never said you were Cheysuli.”

“They never knew.” Rowan shrugged. “They were Ellasian, come to Homana for a new life. They found a small boy wandering dazedly in the forest, unable to speak out of fear for what he had seen, and they took him as their own. They were—good people.”

“But they were not Cheysuli.”

“Half of
you
is not,” Rowan retorted. “When I look at you, Donal, I see and hear a Cheysuli warrior, because that is what you desire to show to people. You have all the Cheysuli characteristics—including that prickly pride—and you certainly bear the stamp. But you also are Homanan, because of Alix. You should let it temper that pride. Do not become
so
Cheysuli you cannot understand the people you will rule.”

Donal’s fingers closed on the leather scabbard. “I—I would prefer to have nothing but Cheysuli blood in my veins.”

“But you do not. There is Homanan as well. Else you would not be part of the prophecy.” Rowan sighed and shook his head. “You are what they have made you, your mother
and your father. Duncan was all Cheysuli, and Alix—out of a wish to keep alive the husband she had lost—did what she could to make you Duncan come again. It is—not necessarily bad. I could think of worse warriors for you to emulate—including Finn.” Rowan flicked one hand in a silencing gesture as Donal moved to protest. “Finn was what the prophecy made him. He was what Carillon needed for many years. But—people change. They grow older, they mature. Carillon no longer needed him. And neither, now, do you.”

Donal shook his head in violent disagreement. “I need him badly, my
su’fali.
There is so much left for me to learn.”

“You will learn it. But first you must learn to acknowledge the Homanan in you as well as the Cheysuli.”

Donal lifted the hilt. “Do I not wear
this
now? What Cheysuli has ever borne a sword—except, perhaps, for you?”

“It is a beginning,” Rowan agreed.

“It is
more
than a beginning,” Donal muttered. “It is an alteration of tradition.”

“Perhaps it is necessary.” Rowan smiled. “You are the first Cheysuli Mujhar to hold the Lion Throne in four hundred years, Donal.
That
is alteration.”

Pensively, Donal nodded. Then he sighed and looked up at Rowan. “There is a thing I would have you do.”

The general shrugged. “What I can, I will.”

“Win this war. Win this gods-cursed war, so I can begin my reign in peace.”

*   *   *

Donal rode northward through Homana, bypassing Mujhara entirely, until he reached the Bluetooth River. On the southern bank he pulled in his horse, staring at the river. It had been sixteen years since he had last seen the Bluetooth, when Tynstar’s Ihlini servitors had taken him toward the Molon Pass for entry into Solinde. He had been Valgaard-bound, prisoners, he and Alix, but because of Taj and Lorn’s aid in accelerating his ability to take
lir
-shape, he had escaped. Alix had not. He had left his mother behind, crossing the huge river on his escape to Homana-Mujhar.

Then it had been much colder, for winter had only recently left the land. Now it was spring and the waters were quick, unclogged by ice and slush. He stared at the wooden ferry on the far side and wondered if he should wait for it, or cross Cheysuli-fashion.

Taj, perching in a nearby tree, fixed him with a bright dark eye.
Do you recall it
, lir?

I recall.

You sought the air then. Shall you do it again?

Donal turned to stare over his shoulder, searching for Lorn. A moment later the ruddy wolf broke free of the dense vegetation fringing the riverbank.

No—I will ride. I will have Sorcha and the children with me.

Lorn shook dust from his coat.
Then I must swim this river, unless you bribe the ferry-master to let me pass with you.

The ferry-master, when he banked his wooden vessel, accepted Donal’s gold eagerly. He slanted an apprehensive glance at the wolf, eyed Donal closely, then gestured them both aboard. Donal led the horse onto the thick wooden timbers and waited for Lorn to join him.

The man cast off and began the lengthy process of pulling the ferry back across the wide river. But it did not keep him from watching Donal, or from talking.

He hawked, spat over the side into the water, and jerked his head. “Na’ meanin’ to offend ye, but ’tis curious I am. Be ye a halfling, then?”

“Halfling?” Donal was startled by the rough northern dialect. The language seemed hardly Homanan.

“Halfling. Aye. Lookit yersel’. Yon color is Cheysuli, but ne’er I seen one dressit like ye. Leathers, they wear, and gold. Be ye only half, then?”

In shock, Donal realized the Homanan clothing Rowan had lent him after his escape from Strahan robbed him of identity. He had put off the torn and soiled leathers, replacing them with black soldiers’ breeches, linen shirt and rich brown velvet doublet, which hid the gold on his arms. His hair, left uncut for too long, hid his earring.

He eyed the ferry-master speculatively. “Were I to say I was all Cheysuli, what would you do?”