Legacy of the Sword (54 page)

So I may lull him into carelessness?
On the throne, Donal smiled.

Alaric was nothing like his brother. His height was average, no better; hair and eyes were dark brown. He dressed well but conservatively, in black breeches and velvet doublet, showing no ornamentation other than a silver ring set with black stone on one hand and a narrow chain of office—also silver—around his shoulders. He was accompanied by five Atvian nobles, all dressed more richly than himself, but none
of them claimed the same intensity or the air of absolute command Alaric held even in silence.

Donal considered the formal greetings he had learned. He discarded them all at once. He disliked Alaric instantly; he disliked diplomacy even more.

He waited.

Alaric stood before the dais. He inclined his head a trifle. “My lord—I have come to offer fealty—and to tender an alliance.”

“Why?” Donal asked.

A minute frown twitched the arched eyebrows. But Alaric’s face retained its bland, cool expression. “Plainly, my lord, you have overcome my realm. My brother is slain and I am Lord of Atvia in his place…but I do recognize the virtue in admitting our defeat. You have—quite effectively proved your competence as a king.”

Donal regarded him appraisingly. “Have I? Enough to keep you from our borders forever? Or only until you rally an army again?”

A muscle jumped in Alaric’s shaven face. “A king does not offer fealty to another unless he intends to honor it, my lord.”

“Usually.” Donal relaxed in the Lion. “Not
always
, but—” He waved a hand. “Enough of this. You offer fealty, which you
owe
me, and an alliance, which undoubtedly
you
need more than I do.”

Alaric’s mouth was tight. “Aye, my lord—like you, I do not doubt it.”

Donal studied him. He knew instinctively Alaric was more than a competent warrior. He was also a strategist. A diplomat. He would give up much to gain more.
But what does he want? And what will he give up in order to get it?
He gestured idly. “Once before you came here. To Carillon, after he slew Thorne, your
jehan.
Then, you said Atvia would offer fealty to no foreign king.”

Alaric inclined his head. “I was a boy then. I am a man now—and king in my brother’s place—and I must do what is best for my realm.”

“Your fealty I will have—you can hardly refuse me now—but the alliance I must consider. What do you offer me?”

Alaric gestured eloquently. “My brother died without heirs. He had two sons, but both are dead of fever. I myself am
unmarried, without legitimate heirs. What I offer Homana is quite simple: myself. And a binding peace between our realms when children are born of this match.”

Donal frowned. “You wish to wed a Homanan woman?”

“No. I wish to wed your sister.”

Donal’s hands spasmed against the clawed armrests of the throne. “You wish to wed with
Bronwyn?”

“Aye, my lord. If that is her name.” Alaric did not smile.

Gods…he cannot
mean
it
! But he knew Alaric did. When he could, he asked a single question. “Why?”

Alaric’s smile was very slight. “My lord, I have said—to settle a peace between our lands.”

“What
else
? We can make a peace without wedding my
rujholla
to you.”

“Perhaps.” Alaric’s tone was negligent. “Perhaps not. But consider it in this light, if you will: a princess of Homana—though she be Cheysuli—is wed to the Lord of Atvia. From that union, provided the gods see fit to bless it, will come children. Sons, of course. And the eldest to rule in my place when I am dead.” Alaric gestured idly. “He would be your nephew, my lord Mujhar—and never an enemy. How better to insure peace between our realms?”

“How better for you to make yourself a claimant for the Lion!” Donal’s fist smacked down on the throne. “Do not play me for a fool, Atvian—I am no courtier with silken tongue and oiled palms, but—
by the gods!
—neither am I blind. You desire peace between our realms? Then keep your armies from my borders!”

Alaric’s dark brown eyes glittered, but only a little. He kept himself under control. “But of course, my lord—I had intended to. And yet—it seemed such a perfect way to link our realms. As for
me
desiring to claim the Lion Throne, I say no. Of course not. Do you not have a legitimate heir?”

Donal smiled thinly. “Aye, my lord, I do.”

“Then the continuance of your House is certainly insured.” Alaric smiled. “I offer this alliance because I desire to insure the continuation of
my
House. And nothing more.”

“Nothing more?”

“Perhaps support against Shea of Erinn.”

Donal sat back again, conforming his back to the crimson cushion. “What quarrel have you with Shea?”

“He has usurped my brother’s title: Lord of the Idrian
Isles. It was my father’s. It was
his
father’s. Shea claimed it when Osric died.” Alaric shrugged. “I want it back.”

Donal frowned. “With Homanan help? Why should I offer that? Homana has no quarrel with Erinn.”

“No. Nor do I wish to begin one.” Alaric spread his hands. “Mere word of this marriage would send Shea back behind the walls of Kilore and keep him from my shores until I can regroup my demoralized army—demoralized because of my brother’s death. I would not ask men of you, my lord, merely the
appearance
of support. It would be more than enough.”

Donal frowned at the toes of his soft leather boots. “I cannot see a single sound reason for agreeing to this. It gets Homana nothing. You say it gets us peace, but that we should have anyway. We have defeated you.”

Alaric shrugged. “And eventually the Atvian throne. Your nephew will be my heir. There will be Cheysuli princes in Atvia.”

Donal shrugged. “I am not so certain that would serve anything—” Abruptly, he stopped speaking. His belly turned in upon itself.
By the gods—it is the prophecy…even from the mouth of the enemy!
He stared at Alaric in shock.
Four warring realms—

He pushed himself back in the throne before he could display his shock to the Atvian. The pattern lay before him as clearly as if Evan had thrown it himself.
If I wed Bronwyn to him, her son will have the throne. Cheysuli in Atvia. Adding one more realm to the prophecy. By the gods, it
will
come true!

Bronwyn in Atvia. No, he could not see it. She would never agree. The Cheysuli did not barter women or use them for sealing alliances.

And yet, things change. So many things
had
to change. His own mother had told him how Finn had stolen her from the Homanans because for years the Cheysuli had needed to steal Homanan women, to strengthen the clan again. It was alien to him, but no less alien than the thought of wedding his sister to Alaric.

If I do it—if I
do
it—Bronwyn would never forgive me—

Alaric still watched silently, all politeness, waiting for an answer. He was like a cat ready to spring, elegant in his readiness; Donal did not like him. He did not like him at all.

Give my
rujholla
to this
ku’reshtin
of Atvia?

And yet, if he did not and it was part of the prophecy—

I will not decide this
now.
There is no need to decide this
now— He steadied his breathing with effort. And then, as he prepared to give Alaric a diplomatic reason to delay the expected answer, he realized with blinding clarity the marriage could never take place. Even if the prophecy demanded it.

Slowly, Donal sat back. “You are guests of Homana,” he said evenly.
“Cheysuli i’halla shansu.”
But he knew he did not mean it.

Alaric frowned as Donal moved to rise. “My lord—your answer? May I know when you will give it?”

Donal stood. “I give it now,” he said. “My
rujholla
may never marry.”

*   *   *

Bronwyn, whom he tracked down in Aislinn’s solar, looked on in silence as he banished everyone from the chamber save herself. She stood before an open casement with light falling on her shoulders. She wore a simple indigo gown embroidered with interlocking leaves in silver thread. He looked at her silently, wondering when she had grown up. She had done it without his knowledge; he clearly recalled her girlish laughter at his wedding; her tomboyish way at the Keep. Now she was a woman. Only sixteen and still young, but there was a new maturity in her eyes and grace to her movements.

He gestured her to sit down upon a stool even as he himself did. “A man is here,” he said. “He has come to Homana-Mujhar because he wishes to wed the Mujhar’s
rujholla.”

Color blossomed in her cheeks. “Wed me?”

“Aye. He offers you the chance to be a queen.”

“Queen
!” Bronwyn was clearly shocked. “Who would wish
me
to be his queen?”

“Alaric of Atvia.”

Bronwyn shot to her feet.
“Alaric of Atvia
!”

Donal rose slowly. He heard the horror in her tone.
At least I may save her that.
“Bronwyn—Bronwyn, you do not have to wed him. I promise you that. Do not think I will send you away.”

She shut her eyes. A breath of relief hissed out of her mouth. “Thank the gods—
thank the gods
—I thought it might
be a political thing—” She shuddered. “There are dangers in being
rujholla
to the Mujhar.”

“It
would
be a political thing,” Donal pointed out. “Alaric offers alliance to Homana. It would also be a dynastic thing, binding the realms together.”

She understood him perfectly. “It—seems to be sound reasoning—to bind the realms together.” Her tone was very flat.

“Bronwyn, you need fear nothing. There can be no royal marriage. There can be no marriage at all.”

“Not with Alaric.” Relief put life back into her tone. “But someday—”

“No.” He said it plainly, wishing to have it done with. “Bronwyn, you will never be able to marry.”

She stared. “Have you gone mad? Of
course
I will marry! What would keep me from it?”

“I would.” He said it flatly. “I have no other choice.”

She laughed. The tone was incredulous and perplexed. “You
have
gone mad. Donal…
what are you saying?”

He reached out and caught her shoulders. “That because of the blood in you, I can never let you wed. You can never bear any children.”

She went stiff in his hands. He felt the convulsive shiver that shook her limbs. She tore herself from his grasp. “You are mad—you are
mad
—how can you say such things? How can you tell me this?” Slowly she shook her head. “Do you think my children would threaten the throne? By the gods, Donal—I am your
rujholla!
Our
jehana
bore us both! Our
jehan—”

“—sired only me.” He saw the spasm in her face. “Gods, Bronwyn, I wish I could spare you this. I wish it were not true. But—when you say I fear your children may threaten the throne—you may have the right of it. I cannot shut my eyes to the possibility.”

Her eyes were fixed on his face. “You said—you said we do not share a
jehan—”

“No. Another man sired you.”

“Who?”
she demanded. “Gods,
rujho
, I beg you who I am—”

He felt the tightness his throat. “You are
Tynstar’s daughter.”

Silence. Bronwyn stared. He could not look away.

“Oh—” she said. “Oh—oh—
no—”

“Aye,” he told her gently, and reached out to steady her. Slowly he guided her to the stool and made her sit down again. “Bronwyn, you are still my
rujholla
, still our
jehana
’s daughter. Almost half Cheysuli, and bloodkin to the clan. It changes nothing. It changes nothing.”

“It changes
everything.”
The words were dead in her mouth.

“No, Bronwyn, it does not. Do you think I will send you away? There is too much blood between us—”

“—too much
spilled
blood between us.” She looked up blankly to meet his gaze. “Why was I never told?”

“There was no reason for it. You were raised Cheysuli—it was hoped you would never show Tynstar’s power. And—unless you have purposely hidden it—you never have.”

Trembling, she touched the vicinity of her heart. “I have ever felt Cheysuli…Cheysuli and Homanan.”

“You are both. You are. But—there is also Ihlini in you.”

“How—?”

Donal sat down again. “You have heard how Tynstar had our
jehana
taken to Valgaard. I was just a boy. He wanted me as well, but I managed to escape.” He looked down at her shaking hands as she clutched them in her lap. “He kept our
jehana
captive. And while she was there—”

“—he raped her?” Bronwyn shuddered. “Gods, oh gods—it makes me feel so
dirty—”

“No!” He reached out and caught her hands. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“But I do not
feel
Ihlini!” she cried. “How do you know it is true?”

He put out his arms as she slid off the stool to kneel on the floor. He soothed her head against his shoulder, as if she were Isolde requiring special comfort. One arm slid around her shoulders. He held her close, knowing he could never share her grief.

A woman told she cannot bear a child
— He shut his eyes. He whispered inanities.

Bronwyn clutched at his leather jerkin. “I begin to see—all the times I sensed a barrier between us…something keeping us apart. That was it, was it not? The knowledge I was Tynstar’s daughter?”

“Oh
rujholla
, I would do anything to lift this grief from you.”

“Jehana
never said.
Never
did she say—”

“She told no one. Only a few of us knew, and none of us ever spoke of it to others.”

“Why did you let me live?” The question was hardly a sound.

“Bronwyn! Oh,
gods
, Bronwyn—do you think we would
ever
desire to have you slain? What do you think we are?”

“You are Cheysuli. And—I am the enemy.”

“No enemy.
No enemy
!” And yet he recalled all the times he had watched her, wondering, and felt the guilt in his soul.
Not an
intentional
enemy.