Legacy of the Sword (52 page)

Ian’s fingers tightened on the sword belt. “Will she come back?” he whispered.
“Jehana?”

“No,” Donal told him.
“Jehana
will never come back.”

Silently, his son’s face crumpled, and he began to cry.

I
n the bright, cool light of mid-morning three weeks later, Donal rode through the gates of Homana-Mujhar. Isolde he held in one arm, guiding the stallion with the other; Ian sat perched behind him on the broad, smooth rump, clutching his father’s sword belt.

Donal was weary unto death. He had refused Tarn’s offer of an escort with a woman to care for the children; in some strange, possessive way he felt it better
he
should tend to the children his
meijha
had borne him. And so he had ridden alone with his children and his
lir
and knew somehow it was best.

He halted the stallion by the marble steps leading to the archivolted entrance. Lads came flying from the stables, all vying for the horse. They challenged one another for the loudest greeting, but fell silent soon enough when Donal did not answer.

He swung one leg across the stallion’s neck, turning in the saddle so he would not dislodge his son. Isolde was pressed against his chest. He steadied himself against the saddle, then offered an arm to Ian. The boy slid off as well, clutching his father’s hand.

For a moment, Donal shut his eyes. He drew again on what little strength he had left. Then he ordered the horse put away and turned to climb the steps.

“Jehan
—” It was Ian, moving closer to Donal’s side. “This is Homana-Mujhar?”

“Aye.” The tone was flat, lifeless; he was too weary to
summon another. “Come up, Ian—there will be time later for you to gape.”

He hardly saw the servants who bowed or curtseyed. He saw only endless corridors and marble pillars. And then he saw his sister.

She ran: Both hands clutched at her skirts, pulling them nearly up to her knees as she hastened down the corridor. “Donal—is it
true
?” She stopped short in front of him, breathless. “He said Sorcha was
dead
…he said he came from across the Bluetooth—”

Black hair tangled on her shoulders. Donal thought she looked genuinely shocked. Well, she would be; she and Sorcha had been close. But looking at her, he remembered Strahan. He remembered how closely their blood was linked.

Even as Aislinn’s is linked.
He placed his hand on Ian’s head. Then he summoned one of the women servants forward. “Take the children. See they are fed and given rest. They are weary. It has been a brutal journey.”

To his
lir
he said,
Go to my chambers and wait.

“Donal
—” Bronwyn began, but he waved her into silence as the woman curtseyed and took Isolde from his arms.

“Go with her, Ian. See how your
rujholla
goes with her?” Without the weight in his arms, he felt empty. Isolde began to cry. “Ian, do as I have said. And see to your
rujholla.”
he gave Ian a gentle push in the direction of the woman, then turned to face his sister. “Where is Aislinn?”

Bronwyn reached out and caught the velvet of his doublet. “Donal—is it true?”

“Where is Aislinn?”

She stared up at him in perplexed disbelief. “Can you not answer my question? The warrior came down from the north bearing horrible news about how Sorcha had taken her life—can you not even tell me?”

“She is dead.” It hissed between his teeth.
“Tell me where Aislinn is
!” He set her aside deliberately and started down the corridor.

“Donal—
wait
—” Bronwyn hastened after him. Her passing cast moving shadows against the walls. “Donal—she is
resting—”

“Is she in her chambers?”

Bronwyn caught his arm and tried to hold him back. “Aye, of course—she wearies quickly now the birth is only a month
away—
rujho
—wait…you are hardly back, and I heard how Strahan kept you prisoner. Donal—
wait—”

Again, he forcibly set her aside.

“Donal,” Bronwyn called, “what are you going to
do
—?”

He did not know. He thought Aislinn might give him the answer.

He said nothing as he entered her chambers. He made no sound. He shut the door. Aislinn looked up and saw him, and terror was in her eyes.

“Donal!
Donal
—” She pushed herself more upright in the bed, scrabbling in satin pillows. “Donal—
wait you—”

Still he said nothing. He crossed the room to the bed and stood there, staring down upon her. She looked so young, so
defenseless—

—and so perfectly willing to drive Sorcha to her death.

“D-Donal—!”

“Should I trouble myself to listen to your lies?”

She shook. Her lips were colorless. “I knew—
I knew
—when the messenger came, I knew what you would think—”

“You
sent
her there. You banished her from her home.” He saw how her taut belly pushed against the linens of her nightshift. “Did you think it would mean nothing to her to lose her
home
as well as me?”

“Donal—I did not
send
her! She went of her own accord.”

“Do you say you did not meet with her?”

“We met. We
met
—I called her to the palace. But I never sent her away. I merely
warned
her—”

“Warned her about
what
?”

“That I would never give you up.” Tears ran freely down Aislinn’s face. “Oh gods, all I did was say I would fight her for you. I
never
sent her away. Donal—I
swear—”

He bent over her and pressed her shoulders against the pillows. “—swear nothing! Let me see for myself instead.”

Her mouth shaped his name in a cry of terror, but by then he was in her mind.

He felt the shock of the contact reverberate through her body. Her head pressed back against the satin, but her eyes were not closed. They stared at the timbers of the roof beams; blind, senseless eyes, filled with emptiness.

Faintly, very faintly, he heard the protests from his distant
lir
, who knew very well what he did. And he deliberately ignored them.

—barriers—

Weak. Hardly enough to justify the name. There was no defense as there had been before; no effort to gainsay his entrance. He pushed against her barriers and felt them go down, collapsing, like a castle made of sand.

—fear—

That he could deal with easily. For the first time in his life he did not try to soothe her. He did not try to banish the fear from her mind. Instead, he intensified it, letting her see what he could do.

Aislinn moaned.

—a stirring in her mind—

Donal smiled grimly.

—retreat—

Pursuit.

He allowed his awareness to seek out her own, impinging itself upon her will, until she turned and ran from him. In his arms, limp and twitching, she was helpless; in her mind, chased by his will, she was even more so.

Aislinn moaned. She spasmed once, and was still.

Beware the trap-link, even now
— He warded himself quickly with what skill he had, drawing in upon himself. He focused, focused, until he could slash through the web of deceit—

—and then he found there was none.

For a moment, he retreated. Then he touched her awareness again, probing it tentatively. He recalled how he had made contact with
something
before, something that had caused him to withdraw as quickly as he could. But this time, there was nothing. No shadow of a link. No trace of any meddling. Aislinn was simply
Aislinn.

—and nothing but innocence—

He touched her emotions then. Fear was uppermost. But he caught also the last fading traces of love and trust, as though she knew, even as he forced her, he would never hurt her.

But I have!

Donal withdrew at once. He fell out of her mind and into his own, aware he had stolen will and wits from her. It was worse, far worse than what Finn had done in his testing. This time it had been much more.

“Aislinn!” His hands still clasped her shoulders. She hung limply in his arms. But her eyes were open. And blank.
“Aislinn—
come back
—” He shook her.
Oh gods—what have I done to her—?

He heard, dimly, voices outside the door. Bronwyn, calling to ask him what was wrong. But he could not take time to answer.

He pulled Aislinn against his chest, pressing her against it as if she were a child. “Aislinn—
Aislinn
—oh gods, do you hear me? Aislinn—
I was wrong—”

Her belly moved. He felt it. It spasmed against his own. In horror, he realized he had brought on her labor too soon.

Carefully, so carefully, he lay her down against the bed. Still her eyes stared blankly at the roof beams. Donal felt bile rise up to fill his mouth, and turned to flee the room.

Bronwyn stood in the open doorway, one hand pressed against her mouth. Behind her stood several others; faces he knew but could not name.

He stopped. He stared at them. And then, as Aislinn cried out in pain, he pushed through them all and ran.

—and ran, until he burst through the hammered silver doors and nearly fell into the Great Hall.

It was empty. Sunlight slanted through the stained glass casements and cast their shapes upon the floor, all tales of Homanan lore. That, and Cheysuli history. But Donal hardly saw them.

Instead, he saw the Lion. It crouched upon the dais as if it stalked him, hunching in long grass. But there was no grass, only the cold heart of rose-red stone and the ivory, gold-veined marble dais. The Lion was brown and gilt and gold; its shape was static, trapped in aging wood. But Donal could almost see it beckon.

Slowly, he walked the length of the hall. He was surrounded by ornaments of the past, relics other men kept to remind themselves of what they once had been. Tapestries worked by their women to show their feats of strength and glory. Weapons hung up upon the stone, stained dark with forgotten blood. Banners, some faded to dreary monotones; keepsakes of ancient wars. But even without them, even without the banners, weapons and tapestries, and the glowing, brilliant casements, there was yet another monument to the men who had lived before.

And its name is Homana-Mujhar.

Donal stopped before the dais. In the dim, pink light of
mid-morning, he looked upon the Lion. And felt old. Old and
wrong.

He sat down. But not upon the throne. Instead, he turned his back on the silent Lion and settled upon the dais. He stared into the firepit, empty of coals or logs.

He thought of going to his chambers, but he could not face his
lir.
Even in their silence, Taj and Lorn would make him confront the truth. And so he faced the guilt alone.

His eyes burned. His throat was raw. His chest was heavy with the weight of what he had done. He waited for someone to come.

—to tell me she is dead—

But he was not expecting Evan.

He heard the footsteps. He did not look up. He stared blindly at the fabric of his breeches stretched over his doubled knees. He sat with elbows in his lap; hands dangled between his thighs, hair falling into his face.

Evan walked the length of the hall until he reached the dais. After a moment’s hesitation, he joined him on the smooth, cool marble. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” He hardly knew his own voice. “I think
I
have done enough.”

Evan sighed. For the briefest moment their shared silence was almost companionable, lacking the tension of knowledge. “I arrived a week ago. There was no need for me to stay—the war with Atvia is over.” He shifted his seat upon the stone. “When you slew Osric, you took the heart from them. Two days after you left, the Atvians sent an envoy to our camp, offering their surrender.”

“That is something.” Donal ran a hand through his hair and stripped it from his face. “Evan—”

“Alaric, I think, will also offer fealty,” Evan went on, “but—he is home in Atvia, fighting Shea of Erinn over a silly, pompous title: Lord of the Idrian Isles.” His tone was underscored with contempt. “Still, I think he will come. I think he will ask alliance.” Again, he shifted on the dais. “Rowan has gone on to Solinde. The rebellion there is nearly finished; he should be home in a month or two, with words of victory. I do not know why those fools still fight….They lack Tynstar now. Their cause is no better than it was before. They should give up.”

“They want freedom from Homana,” Donal said dully. “I
might be moved to give it to them—except Carillon was the one who won the realm, and I cannot let go of what he has held. Not if I wish to keep the Homanans satisfied.” He sighed. “If I could know Solinde would never again invade Homana—” He shook his head. “But I cannot. Not yet. Perhaps—someday.”

“Perhaps. After more wars.”

Donal thought of the battles he had seen. He thought of how he had slain Osric in retribution for Carillon’s death, and because Finn had asked it. He had been proud to know that he had accomplished the task his uncle had set him; now, seated on cool, hard marble with the Lion crouching behind him, he could think only of the young woman, Carillon’s daughter, whom he had effectively slain.