Legacy of the Sword (19 page)

He guided her down onto the pallet of pelts they shared. Sorcha’s tawny hair spread against the fur of a ruddy fox; he pulled a doeskin mantle over her and pushed a folded bearskin beneath her back for support. “Should I fetch my
jehana
?”

“Not yet,” she answered breathlessly. “Soon. But I want to share you with no one for at least a little while.” Her eyes were green. Half Homanan, Sorcha showed no Cheysuli blood. But she had been born and raised in the clan, and her customs were all Cheysuli. “Aislinn is here,” she said.

There was bitterness in her tone, and an underlying hostility. Never had he heard either from her before. He would have questioned her about it, but he saw how her face stretched taut with effort. Her hand clung to his as he knelt beside the pallet.

“Aislinn is here,” she repeated, and this time he heard fear.

“Aye. Aislinn is here.” He had never lied to her before; he would not begin now. No more than he would with Aislinn.

“Does she know about me?”

“She knows.”

Sorcha smiled a little. “Proud, defiant warrior, close-mouthed as can be…letting no one see what goes on inside your head
or
your heart. But I know you, Donal.” The tension in her face eased as the contraction receded. “I can imagine how difficult it was to find the words.”

“Now is not the time to speak of Aislinn.” He stroked her hand with his thumb.

“Tell me what you told her.”

“Sorcha—”

“Tell me what you
said.
”

He brushed hair out of his face. The urgency in her tone worried him. “Gods, Sorcha—this is nonsense…there are better times to speak of this—”

“
No
better time.” Her fingers were locked on his hand. “I have borne you two sons and now perhaps another. I would bear you more willingly; I would do anything you asked me to.” She swallowed visibly. “But I will not give you up. I will not let you be swallowed up by that witch’s
Homanan
daughter.”

“Sorcha—
you
are half Homanan,” he reminded her mildly.

Sweat glistened at her temples. “And I would open my veins if I thought it would purge me of my Homanan blood. I would cut off a hand if I thought it would relieve me of the taint. But it would not—
it would not
—and all I can do is look at my son and thank the gods he has so little Homanan in
him.” She sucked in a breath against the pain. “Gods, Donal—I hate the Homanan in me! I would trade
anything
to claim myself all Cheysuli—”

“But you cannot.” He had never heard her speak so vehemently, so bitterly or with a spirit so filled with prejudice. It seemed as if the pains bared her soul.
“Meijha
, do you forget there is Homanan in me as well?”

“Gods!” she cried. “It is not the same with you.
You
are the chosen—
you
are the one we have waited for—you are the one with the proper blood who will take the Lion from Homana and give it back to the Cheysuli—” She shut her mouth on a cry of pain and bit deeply into her lip. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his hand. “Oh Donal, do you see? You will leave us all behind. You will turn your back on your clan. They will make you into a toy for the Homanans—” Sorcha writhed against the pallet. “
Never
forget you are Cheysuli.
Never
forget you are a warrior.
Never forget who sired you
…and
do not
allow the witch’s daughter to turn you against your heritage with her Homanan ways—”

“
Enough
!” He said it more sharply than he intended. “Sorcha, you are doing yourself harm with this.”

“You do
yourself
harm.” Her eyes were tightly closed against the pain. “You—do yourself harm…by leaving the clan behind….”

“I cannot rule Homana from the Keep,” he said flatly. “The Homanans would never accept it.”

“Do you see?” she asked in despair. “Already they begin their theft of you.”

“I am not
leaving
,” he said. “I will come here as often as I may. Sorcha—I am not Mujhar
yet—
”

“But you will wed the Mujhar’s daughter, and he will make you
his
son instead of Duncan’s—”

“Never.”
His hand clamped down on hers. “Not that. Never. Do you think I am so weak?”

“Not weak,” she gasped. “Divided. Homanan and Cheysuli, because they make you so. But I beg you, Donal, do one thing for me—?”

He gave up, but only because she needed her strength for other things. “Aye.”

“Make the Lion
Cheysuli
again…and your sons and daughters as well—”

In horror, he watched her knees come up, tenting the soft
doeskin coverlet. The mound of her belly rolled as she cried out. What he had meant to say to her was instantly forgotten; he summoned Taj through the
lir
-link and sent him to bring his mother.

Alix came at once and met her son just inside the doorflap. “You,” she said, “must go.”

“Go?”

“Go. Anywhere. But go away from
here.
” Her hands were on one arm, tugging him toward the entrance. “Do as I say.”

He did not move, being too big for her to push this way and that anymore. “Sorcha is in pain. I would rather stay with her.”

“Loyalty does you credit, Donal—” Alix stopped tugging, as if she realized the futility in the effort, and merely pointed toward the entrance, “—but this is no place for a man about to become a
jehan.
”

“I have been one twice before,” he reminded her. “I let you shoo me away then—perhaps I should have refused.”

“Donal—just
go.
I have no time for you right now.” Alix—still slim in a rose-red gown—turned away from him and pulled aside the curtain. Silver clasps in her dark braids glittered, and then she was gone behind the divider. He heard her speak to Sorcha, but could not decipher the words.

Yet another outcry from Sorcha; Donal walked out of the tent into the light of a brilliant day and petitioned the gods for the safe delivery of woman and child.

And came face to face with Aislinn.

She had shed her cloak, gowned in dark green, and in the sunlight her red-gold hair was burnished bronze. Her face was very pale. “Finn would not tell me where you were,” she told him quietly. “He tried to keep me with him. But—Bronwyn told me the truth. I thought I should come and meet my rival.”

She was all vulnerability, suddenly fragile in the light; pale lily on a slender stalk with a trembling, delicate bloom. But she was also pride; a little bruised, a trifle shaken, but pride nonetheless. As much as claimed by any Cheysuli.

Donal drew in a deep breath that left him oddly light-headed. “Aislinn—the gods know I have done you dishonor by keeping Sorcha a secret, but now is not the time.”

From the pavilion there came the muted cry of a woman in
labor, and Aislinn’s gray eyes widened. “The
baby
—! You told me the child was due—” She broke off, covering her mouth with one hand, and her eyes filled up with tears. But almost as quickly she blinked them away. “No,” she said. “My mother told me tears are not the way to win a man’s regard.
Strength
, she said, and
determination
…and the magic of every woman born—”

“Aislinn!” He caught her arms and shook her. “By the gods, girl, I am not a prize to be
won.
As for what
Electra
has told you—”

“Then how can I turn your affections to me?” she interrupted. “Can I leash you, like a hound? Can I hood you, like a hawk? Can I bridle you, like a horse?” Her body was rigid under his hands. “Or do I give you over to freedom, and know I have lost you forever?”

He heard Sorcha’s warning sounding in his head: —
do not allow the witch’s daughter to turn you against your heritage—

“No,” he said aloud. “I am Cheysuli first.”

“And Homanan last?” Aislinn asked bitterly. “Is this the heir my Homanan father chose?”

His hands closed more tightly upon her arms. Too tightly; Aislinn cried out, and he loosed her only with great effort. “You push me too far,” he warned through gritted teeth. “
Both
of you—pushing and pushing and pushing, pulling me this way and that—dividing my loyalties. What would you have me do?—divide myself in two? Give each of you half of me? What good would that
do
for you? Salve your wounded pride?”

“Give up—” Aislinn stopped dead. The color drained out of her face.

“Give up Sorcha? Is that what you meant to say?” Donal shook his head, knowing only he wanted to go away from it all. “I would sooner give up myself.” He laughed a little, albeit with a bitter tone. “For all that, it might be easier.”

Aislinn stared at the ground as if she wished it would swallow her up. The sun was blazing off the red-gold of her hair. “I had no right to ask it. I know it. You have told me how it is with—
meijhas
and
cheysulas.
But—I will not lie to you. I want you for myself.” Her head came up and she challenged him with a stare. “She has had you longer, but I will have you yet.”

Wearily, Donal pushed a strand of hair from Aislinn’s
face. “You sing the same song. Were it not for me, you might be friends.” And then he recalled Sorcha’s prejudice, and knew it could never be.

There came another cry from the pavilion, but this one did not belong to Sorcha. As it rose up to a wail of outraged astonishment, Donal knew the travail was done.

So did Aislinn. White-faced, she turned from him and walked regally away.

But he knew she wanted to run.

*   *   *

Alix did not send him away when he entered the pavilion. She did not seem to notice him at all, being too occupied with tending Sorcha and the baby. Softly he approached the partially open divider and stopped short.

Sorcha’s eyes were closed; Donal thought she slept. Lines of strain were graven in her face. She looked older and very weary, but there was peace and contentment in the slackness of her mouth.

“A girl, Donal,” Alix said calmly. “You have a daughter now.”

He could not move. He stood frozen in place, staring down at the bundled baby with her pink, outraged face as she lay snug at Sorcha’s side, and knew a vast humility.

“I do not imagine you recall being in a similar position, once,” Alix said wryly. “I do not recall it so much myself. But it was Raissa who helped me bear you, as I have aided Sorcha.”

“Granddame,” he said, and felt guilty that he had nearly forgotten the woman who had died so long before.

Slowly he knelt down beside the pallet and put a tentative finger to the perfect softness of the baby’s black-fuzzed head. No Homanan girl, this; she had her father’s color.

“Let them sleep. Later, you may hold the girl.” Alix rose, shaking out her rose-red skirts. Donal saw the faint shine of silver threads in Alix’s dark brown hair and realized his mother, like Finn and Carillon, also aged. But less dramatically. Her skin was still smooth, still stretched taut over classic Cheysuli bones, and when she smiled it lit her amber eyes. “It makes one aware of one’s own transience, man or woman, and how seemingly unimportant are such things as dynastic marriages when a son or daughter is born,” she said gently. “Does it not?”

He rose also. “You heard Aislinn and me outside the tent.”

“Bits and pieces. I was too preoccupied to understand it all.” Alix glanced back at Sorcha and the child. “They will do well enough without us. I think we can leave them for a while.”

This time when she urged him toward the doorflap, he did not resist. He went with her willingly.

He walked with her to the perimeter of the Keep, along the moss-grown wall. Unmortared, it afforded all manner of vegetation the opportunity to plant roots into cracks and crannies, digging between the stones. Ivy, deep red and deeper green, mantled the wall against the sunlight. Twining flowers climbed up the runners and formed delicate ornamentation; jewels within the folds of the velvet gown. He smelled wet moss and old stone; the perfume of the place he knew as home. Not Homana-Mujhar. Not the rose-red walls and marbled halls, hung about with brilliant banners. No, not for him.

Even though it would be.

“Aislinn has loved you for some time, since she was old enough to understand what can be between a man and a woman,” Alix said gently. “Surely you knew she did.”

“I thought she might outgrow it.”

“Why should she? Do you not wish for love in this marriage?” At his frown, his mother laughed. “Oh, I know—the Cheysuli do not speak of love, seeking to keep such things impossibly private. But you will have to learn to deal with it, Donal, as your
jehan
and
su’fali
did.” When he said nothing, having no answer for her, Alix caught his right hand and stopped him beside the wall. She turned the hand over until the palm was face-up and the strong brown fingers lay open. “With this hand you will hold Homana,” she said evenly. “You are the hope of the Cheysuli, Donal, and a link in the prophecy. Deny this marriage and you deny your heritage.”

He expelled a brief, heavy breath in an expression of irony. “Sorcha said
differently.
Sorcha said the marriage would force me to turn my back on my heritage.”

Alix squeezed his hand and then let it go. “Sorcha is—bitter.”

“She never was before.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Is it because the child was coming?”

“Partly.” Alix touched him and urged him into motion once again. “I do not doubt she was frightened as well as in pain—the birth was exceedingly easy, but she could not have predicted that. As for bitterness….” Alix stopped to pull a flower from the earth; delicate, fragile blossom of palest violet. “For all these years she has known you would one day marry Aislinn, not her, but it was easy to set that knowledge aside. Now she cannot. Now she must face it, and she does not want to do it.”

“She hates Aislinn. That, I think, I can readily understand; I do know what jealousy is. But—
jehana
, she hates the Homanans as well.” Again he shook his head. “How do I deal with
that
, when I am meant to be Mujhar?”

Alix cupped the blossom in her hands. “A violet flower among the white is easily plucked, Donal. Easily crushed and broken. There is no protection from the others when your coloring is different.” She lifted her head and looked at him instead of the flower. “I do not speak of blond hair and green eyes. I speak of blood, and the knowledge of what one is. Prejudiced, aye, because she is more Cheysuli than Homanan—and yet no one will give her that.”