Legacy of the Sword (15 page)

“Aislinn—did
that
?” Carillon’s eyes were on the sun-bronzed knuckles.

“Aye, she did. But I doubt it was her decision—I am sure she was ensorceled.”

“How?” Carillon snapped.

“By Electra, my lord—who else?”

The creased lids with their silvered lashes flickered just a little. “Aislinn is her daughter. Do you tell me Electra would stoop to such perversion?”

Donal did not smile. “You know her better than I. Tell
me
, my lord, if Tynstar’s
meijha
would.”

The breath was expelled suddenly; an explosion of disbelief and horrified acknowledgment. The sword tip wavered against Donal’s abdomen. “She would,” he whispered. “By the gods, she
would.
And
I
sent Aislinn there—”

“My lord.” Donal did not move; not even in the face of Carillon’s emotions did he dare give the sword tip a chance. “My lord—what else could you have done? She was of an age where she needed to see her
jehana…
even one such as Electra.”

“Oh no…I could have refused. I
should
have. And now you tell me Aislinn tried to slay you?”

Donal was moved to offer any sort of reassurance, though
the transgression was serious enough. He could not bear to see a man who was so strong be overcome by the plotting of his treacherous wife. “My lord—at least
she failed.
”

Carillon was not amused by the purposeful mildness of the statement. “
This
time. But if it is true she was ensorceled, who is to say she will not try again?”

Donal drew in a careful breath. Deliberately he kept his tone light, seemingly offhand. “There is a way. I could determine if the ensorcelment is still in effect.”

“How?”

“Let me take her to the Keep. Let my
su’fali
go into her mind.”

Carillon’s brows drew down. “Why Finn? Why not you? I know you have the power.”

“I have tried,” Donal said gently. “There is a barrier there, the residue of someone else’s presence.”

“A trap-link?” Carillon demanded at once. “Do you say Tynstar has touched my daughter through Electra?”

“That—that is better left to Finn to determine.”

“Then we shall let him,” Carillon rasped, “but only on one condition.”

Donal stared. “You speak of
conditions
when this may be your daughter’s sanity?”

“When I am forced to. And you force me, Donal.” Carillon was unsmiling. “I set you a task. A simple task, for a Cheysuli.” Suddenly, the smile was there. “Finn could do it. He
has
done it. That Duncan could have, I do not doubt. And now it is your turn.” He laughed. “Are you not their blood and bone?”

Donal regarded him suspiciously. “What would you have me do?”

“Take the sword from me.” Carillon laughed again. “Win back your grandsire’s sword!”

“From
you
?” Donal shook his head. “Carillon, I could not. More than one realm knows what a renowned fighter you are. The harpers sing lays about you—
I
recall Lachlan’s
Song of Homana
even if you do not! I would be a fool to try.”

“A fool
not
to.” Carillon beckoned with two of his twisted fingers. “Come, Donal…take this Cheysuli sword from the hand of a Homanan.”

Donal swore beneath his breath. And then, invoking what skills he had learned from Finn and other warriors, he moved
in against the blade. He ignored the bite of steel, concentrating instead on the surprise in Carillon’s eyes, and lifted a flexed forearm against the flat of the blade in a quick, chopping motion. And then, even as Carillon subtly shifted position to try another attack, Donal hooked a leg around his ankles and jerked him to the ground.

“My lord—!” It was Rowan, moving from his place by the door, until Donal stopped him with an outthrust hand.

“Do you want the same?” he asked. “This is between Carillon and me.”

“Donal—you do not know—”

“I know well enough!” Donal retorted. “He goaded me into this…let him reap what seed he sows.”

Slowly, Carillon hitched himself up on one elbow, wincing and swearing. He glared up at Donal. After a moment he stopped cursing and nodded absently. “Perhaps it is not so necessary for you to learn a sword after all. You are dangerous enough with
nothing.
”

Donal felt a pang of guilt and concern as he looked down upon the Mujhar. He saw again how twisted were the callused hands. “Carillon, I did not mean—”

“I care naught for what you meant, or
did not
mean!” Carillon’s shout was undiminished even by his undignified sprawl upon the stones. “Never apologize for downing your enemy. I might have slain you with that sword; instead, you disarmed me.” He smiled. “As I ordered.”

Donal bent down. “Here—take my hand—”

“Tend your wound, Cheysuli,” Carillon said crossly. “You are bleeding, and I am old enough to know how to find my feet.” He found them, pushing himself up from the floor, but he could not entirely hide a sharp grimace of pain.

Donal put a hand to his abdomen and felt the slice in the leather as well as the blood seeping through. The wound did not appear to be deep, but it hurt. Still, he shrugged. “It is nothing. Of no account. Honor enough, in itself.” He grinned, relieved to see Carillon standing before him, apparently all of a piece. “It is a scar gotten from Homana’s Mujhar, and a token of accomplishment. I am still alive. How many others can claim that after a confrontation with you?”

Carillon eyed him suspiciously. “You have a facile tongue. You must have got it from Alix.”

Donal smiled innocently. “My
jehana
taught me only reverence for royalty, my lord Mujhar.”

Carillon muttered something beneath his breath and gestured to the Cheysuli sword lying on the ground. “You may at least return my weapon to me. I may have need of more practice—for our
next
meeting.”

Donal, laughing, bent and grasped the sword by its blade. He ceremoniously offered it hilt-first to Carillon, making a solemn production out of the gesture. The Mujhar reached out to take it with a muttered oath. His mouth twisted in a grimace of acknowledgment, but before his fingers closed on the hilt, he froze.

“The
ruby
!” The shocked outcry came from Rowan.

Instantly Donal glanced down at the stone set so deeply in the prongs of the pommel. And then he lost his smile.

Like the stare of an unblinking serpent, the Mujhar’s Eye glared back at him. But no longer was it the tainted black of Ihlini sorcery. It glowed a rich blood-red.

He felt a frisson of fear and shock. “It was
black
—it has
always
been black—”

“No,” Carillon said hoarsely. “Before I plunged it into the purple flames of Tynstar’s sorcery, it was red as the blood in my veins. Do you see?
That
is a Cheysuli ruby, Donal, set there by your grandsire’s hand. Whole and unblemished, as it was meant to be, until tainted by Ihlini sorcery.”

As Carillon closed his hand on the hilt, Donal released the blade at once. And the ruby turned black again.

“No
—” Donal blurted.

“Aye.” Carillon’s voice was hoarse, uneven. “By the gods—I understand it.” His eyes, rising to meet Donal’s, were filled with sudden comprehension. “I know now what Finn meant when he explained it to me.”

“Explained
what
?”

Carillon gestured. “How a Cheysuli sword knows the hand of its master. How it will serve well any man who wields it, because it must, but comes to life only in the hands of the warrior it was meant for. Do you not know your own legends?”

Donal stared in horrified fascination at the black stone in the golden hilt with its rampant Homanan lion. “I—have heard. But
never
have I seen the story proven—”

“Then look upon it, Donal. This sword was made for you.”

Slowly, Donal shook his head from side to side. “Oh, I think not…I think not. I am Cheysuli, and we do not deal with swords.”

“A Cheysuli made it…as once your race made the finest swords in the world, though none of the warriors would use them.” Carillon nodded. “Finn taught me much of the Cheysuli, Donal, and—once, for a very little while—I was Cheysuli myself.” He shrugged at Donal’s twitch of startled disbelief. “You do not yet understand, but you will. There will come a time—” He shook his head quickly. “Never mind. What we speak of now is how this sword was made for you.”

“No.” It came a burst of involuntary sound, but he knew no other answer. “Not—mine. It is
yours.
”

Carillon turned the sword in the candlelight, so the flames ran down the blade and set the runes afire. “Do you see? I know you read Cheysuli Old Tongue. Decipher these runes for me.”

Donal looked at them. He saw the figures wrought in the shining steel. He saw them clearly enough to read them, and then he drew back once more. “I will not.”

“Donal—”

“I
cannot
!” he shouted. “Are you blind? You tell me my grandsire made this sword for me while knowing what would happen, and I
dare
not acknowledge what it means.”

“The runes, Donal. I can have them read by another. I would rather
you
read them to me.”

He took yet another step back. “Do you not see? If that sword were truly made for me, it means I
must
succeed you.
And I am not certain I can!”

“Why can you not?” Carillon, stricken, stared at him over the shining sword. “Do you say I have chosen the wrong man?”

Donal clapped both hands over his face. “No, oh no, not the wrong man—the
right
man!” His voice was muffled behind his palms. “But how am I to follow you? After all that
you
have done?” Donal stripped the black hair back from his face. “Gods, Carillon, you are a legend by which all men measure themselves. And you are
living!
Can you imagine how they will measure
me
when you are gone?”

Carillon’s aging face lost its color. “It is that, then. You fear you cannot live up to your predecessor.”

“
Aye.
” Donal sighed and let his hands drop down to slap against his thighs. “Gods—who could? You are
Carillon.
”

“I do not want that!” Carillon cried. “Gods, Donal, be yourself! Do not think about what others would have you be.”

“How not? There is nothing else I
can
do.” Donal caught his breath. The sparring session had sapped even more of his strength. The chamber wavered a little. He shoved a forearm against his brow to wipe the sweat away. “Surely you must see it, Carillon. Surely you must hear it. How they worship you even as they curse the heir you chose.”

“
Curse
you—”

“Aye.” Donal’s throat was dry. His voice scraped through the hoarseness. “There are times I almost hate myself. I play the polished plate and reflect the things they see. Cheysuli. Arrogant. Believing myself better than any Homanan. And yet even as they mutter to one another how I will be
given
the Lion instead of earning it, I wonder if I am worthy of your trust.” He looked into the older man’s face. “Gods, Carillon—there are times I want nothing more than to turn my back on
you
, so I can keep a piece of myself.”

“No,” Carillon said hollowly. “Do not think of it. Without you, there is nothing.”

Donal raised both hands briefly and let them slap down at his sides. “The
shar tahls
say it is my
tahlmorra
to accept the Lion from you. But—I would sooner accept
nothing
from my
jehan.
”

Carillon flinched visibly. Donal saw it and realized he had hurt the man, though he had not intended to. He would not hurt Carillon for the world, not intentionally. And yet there were times he felt his very presence hurt him, because he knew himself living testimony to Carillon’s failure to produce a legitimate son of his own flesh and blood.

“I care nothing for what others may think of you,” Carillon said. “They are fools. Homanan I may be, but I am not blind. I spent too many years with Finn to disbelieve in
tahlmorra
and a man’s place within the tapestry of the gods.” One corner of his mouth twitched in an effort to steady his voice. “There was a time Duncan himself told me how he longed to turn his back on his
tahlmorra
so he could share his life with his son. But his dedication was such that he could not ignore what lay before him, and so he met Tynstar and
died. But—you should not judge yourself by others, Donal. Never.”

Insecurity suddenly overcame him. “I know I can never be what they would have me be. I am not you.”

“Be
Donal
,” Carillon said. “By the gods, you will be the first Cheysuli Mujhar in four hundred years!”

“Aye,” Donal agreed. “I will have your throne one day. That is more than enough. I
will not
take your sword.”

“But it is yours.
Yours
, Donal. You must accept it now.” Carillon held it out.

Donal took a single step away. “No. Not yet.”

“Do you deny your grandsire’s wishes?”

“Aye.” Donal stared at the runes. The runes that beckoned him; the runes he had to deny.
And do I deny the power?

Carillon drew in a raspy breath. “Then—if not now…will you accept it at your acclamation?” The Mujhar smiled a little. “Shaine gave me this sword upon
my
acclamation as Prince of Homana. Surely you could accept it then.”

“No.” Yet another step away. “Carillon—I have no wish to strip you of your power. One day there will be no choice, but for now there
is.
And I have made it.”

Carillon’s eyes, staring down at the blackened ruby, were bleak in his care-worn face. It was the face of a man who sees his own ending, when he has only just gotten past his beginning. It was the face of a man who recognizes his
tahlmorra
and all the futility and insignificance of his presence within the palm of the gods. The face of a man who, when confronted with his chosen successor, knows that successor was already chosen long before.

The Mujhar looked at Rowan. “It is
Donal
,” he said clearly. “It is Donal, after all.” He laughed, but the sound was the sound of bittersweet discovery. “For all Finn and Duncan told me how important
I
was to the prophecy, it does not come down to me at all.” Slowly, he shook his head. “To Donal. I am only the
caretaker
of this realm…until another’s time has come.”