Legacy of the Sword (21 page)

On the table near the bed rested a flagon of rich red Ellasian wine and four silver goblets. Donal filled two goblets, then motioned to Sef.

The boy, hanging back by the half-open door, stared. “
Me
, my lord?”

“There is no one else in the room.” Donal smiled. “I poured the wine for you. Will you join me in a toast?”

Slowly, Sef moved forward. He accepted the goblet from Donal’s hand and peered into the wine-filled depths. Light from candles and fire set the goblet’s contents aflame and bathed Sef’s pale face with a rosy glow. The hammered silver
cast sparks of light into his eerie eyes. “My lord,” he said, “a toast?”

Donal raised his goblet. “To my daughter. To Isolde of the Cheysuli.”

Sef’s breath fogged the silver of the goblet as he peered nervously at Donal. “But—shouldn’t this be shared with someone other than
me
?”

Donal shrugged. “Perhaps, were I the sort to care about such things. But, I can hardly ask the Mujhar to bless the birth of my bastard daughter.” Donal did not smile. “
You
are here with me, and I would have you share my toast.”

Sef stared at him over the rim of his silver goblet. Then, grinning suddenly, he drank deeply.

Watching the boy, Donal was glad of his companionship. He felt flat, empty, as if he yearned for a fulfillment he could not quite comprehend. He only knew he felt cheated of time with his
meijha
, his son and his daughter, and all in the name of Homana.

Sorcha has the right of it. Fearing me for a shapechanger, the Homanans will do what they can to strip my Cheysuli habits from me and put Homanan in their place.

Instinctively he looked for Taj and Lorn, knowing no Homanan in all the world could strip him of
those
habits. Because if he were, there would be no Prince of Homana. There would be no Donal at all.

Lorn lay curled upon the tester bed, half hidden behind gauzy draperies. Like Donal, the wolf did not ignore luxury when it was offered. Taj had settled upon his perch in a corner of the chamber, setting beak to wing to smooth the shining feathers.

“My lord?” It was Sef, upper lip painted with wine until a tongue reached up to carry the smear away. “You said once I could ask you any question.”

“Aye.” Donal sat down on the nearest stool. “Why? Have you one?”

Sef’s face was very solemn in the muted wash of candlelight. “Aye, my lord. I wondered why you do not like your sister.”

Donal nearly dropped his goblet. “Sef! What makes you ask such a thing?”

“You said I could.”

Donal, still shocked, stared at the boy whose set jaw
indicated a burgeoning stubbornness. “But—
that
question,” Donal said, when he could make sense out of his words again. “What would make you ask it? Of
course
I like my
rujholla.
”

Sef averted his eyes and stared down into his goblet, as if his brief courage had failed him. “My lord—when we were at the Keep today…I—” He shrugged with discomfiture. “I just—thought perhaps you didn’t like her. I mean—you seemed troubled by something.” The eyes flicked up to meet Donal’s again. “Was it because of what Bronwyn drew in the dust?”

Donal tossed down the remaining wine in his goblet and set it down on the rug with a thump. The boy’s words troubled him deeply, but not because Sef had noticed his reaction at the Keep. Because he had reacted at all.

“A game,” he said. “She said it was a game between the two of you.”

“She told me it was—
magic.
” Sef hunched thin shoulders. “I—I didn’t want to draw the signs, but she said if I was to prove I was grown—” Color came and went in the fair face. “She said I was to draw the same signs
she
drew, because we could make the magic stronger. But—I was
afraid.
” Sef’s fingers clutched the goblet more tightly. “I remembered what you said about Cheysuli meaning no one any harm, but—I was afraid. She said I had to. And then she—laughed.” Abruptly he drank more wine. It slopped against his face and washed over the rim of the goblet, trickling down the front of his livery. This time he did not lick the spillage from his upper lip. “My lord—Bronwyn frightens me….”

And me.
But Donal did not say so.

He bent and caught up his goblet, then rose and went to the table to fill the cup again. He did not look at the boy, did not consider the contradiction between the boy’s words and his earlier actions, being too lost within his thoughts, and when he heard the voice at first he thought it was Sef’s.

And then he realized it was Rowan, standing in the open doorway. “The Mujhar desires your presence in the Great Hall at once.”

Rowan’s smooth Cheysuli face, as always, expressed controlled calm neutrality. But Donal heard a faint note of tension in his tone.

He frowned. “I have just now gotten back from the Keep. Is it truly so important?” He made a gesture that included the remaining goblets. “Can you not join us in a drink to toast my daughter’s birth?”

The candles sent a wash of light and shadows across Rowan’s dark face. He wore a plain doublet of dark blue velvet, freighted with silver at the collar; it glinted in the candlelight. “Electra,” he said, “is free.”

Sef gasped, shocked, then drew back awkwardly into the shadows, as if he knew it was not his place to interrupt prince and general. He clutched the goblet but did not drink.

A blurted denial died on Donal’s tongue. He had only to look at Rowan’s face to know the truth. “How?” he asked instead.

“We do not, as yet, have all the information we need. A messenger came—” Rowan shrugged. “The news was simply that the Queen had disappeared.”

“From the
Crystal Isle
?” Donal shook his head. “There were Cheysuli with her!”

“They are dead,” Rowan said. “Simply—dead. It appears they were poisoned. As for the Homanan guards…once the Cheysuli were dead, Electra was free to use her magic.”

Unsteadily, Donal set his goblet down on the table. “Cheysuli—murdered?”

He could not conceive of how it had been accomplished. Cheysuli warriors with attentive
lir
did not succumb to poison, not when they guarded a known witch. Not when they guarded the woman Tynstar called his own.

“Poison,” he said intently, recalling his bout with the same. “Could she have grown it, or had it grown?”

“All food was brought in from Hondarth.
All
food,” Rowan said. “The Cheysuli inspected it.”

“Tynstar,” Donal said instantly.

The faintest flicker of consternation creased Rowan’s brow. “Every precaution was taken.” His voice, once untroubled, now was underscored with frustration. “She was guarded by Cheysuli for that very purpose.
No
Ihlini could have gotten past the warriors.”

Donal, frowning, chewed at his bottom lip. “I would not put it beyond Electra’s abilities to concoct the poison herself, with Tynstar’s help. They are linked. How else could Electra have entered Aislinn’s mind?”

Rowan shook his head. The firelight picked out the faintest flecks of silver in his thick black hair. “All in all, it is less important to know how it was accomplished than to discover where she is. Where
she
is Tynstar will also be…and he is the one we must slay.”

“Then—it is war.” Donal felt the breath leave his chest. “By the gods—
it is—
”

“Did you think it would never come?” Rowan said grimly. “Did you believe the Mujhar spoke of the possibility out of boredom, having nothing else to do?”

Donal heard the faint undertone of scorn. Aye, he was due that from Rowan. Too often the general had watched Carillon’s heir seek escape from princely duties. Too often that heir had turned his back on Homana-Mujhar to spend his time at the Keep.

The gods know Rowan has sacrificed enough for his lord. He would expect me to do the same.

But for the moment, he put off the guilt and lost himself in consideration. “You wish to know where Tynstar is?” He frowned, staring blindly toward the hearth. “He is in Solinde. He will rouse the nobles in the name of Bellam, their fallen king,
and
in the name of Electra. He needs her. To the people, she is the rightful Queen of Solinde. And he will promise sorcerous aid from the god of the netherworld. The Solindish, having turned to such things before, will turn to it again.”

The dark flesh drawn so taut over Rowan’s prominent cheekbones softened just a little. He did not smile, but a weight seemed to lift from his velvet-clad shoulders. “You have more awareness than I expected—I thought Carillon would have to explain it all to you.”

Donal shook his head intently. “I have learned more over the years than you may know, for all I was a poor student. But I see it more clearly now.” He thought again of Electra, free; Electra, aiding Tynstar.
Oh gods, how do we stop the carnage that will come of this alliance?
He blew out a breath and looked at Rowan. “We will have to go to Solinde.”

There was a glint of appreciation in Rowan’s eyes. “We move an army into Solinde. Our borders are patrolled, but we will need to send aid, and soon. We cannot afford to let Tynstar breach our borders.”

“When?”

“That is for Carillon to say. But I think you will know soon enough, if you go to see him as he wishes.”

“Of course.” Donal looked for the boy. “Sef—the time is your own. I will send for you if I need you.”

“Aye, my lord—
my lord
—!” The boy hastened forward as Donal turned to go. “My lord—if you go to war…will you take me with you?”

Donal looked down on the anxious boy. “War, I have heard, is not particularly pleasant. Perhaps you would do better staying here.”

“I’d rather go with you.” Sef’s tone was defiantly adamant, but his thin face was hollowed with fear.

I am his only security
, Donal realized in surprise.
He would rather go with me into danger than stay behind in safety.

He set one hand on Sef’s thin shoulder. “I will not leave you, Sef. Your service is with me.”

*   *   *

The Great Hall lay deep in shadow. The candleracks were crowded with pale, fat tapers, but all had been snuffed out. Donal smelled the faint odor of beeswax and smoking wicks; that, and the scent of dying coals. The firepit—a trench stretching the length of the massive hall—was heaped with ash and glowing coals. The center of the hall was illuminated only by the pit, and a single torch in a bracket near the throne.

For a moment, night-blinded by distorting shadows, Donal believed the place deserted. He stared down the length of the hall, frowning into the darkness, but then—as his eyes became accustomed to the glow from the firepit coals—he saw Carillon at last.

He sat sunken into the ancient wooden throne carved in the shape of a lion. It crouched on curling paws with claws extended, gilded with golden paint. The headpiece was a snarling face, rearing up over Carillon’s head. The lion seemed almost to spring out of the darkness as if it sought prey.

The torch cast flickering light across the wood, glinting on the gold. Illumination painted Carillon’s bearded face and crept down to silver the knife at his belt. A Cheysuli long-knife with a wolf-shaped hilt, made and once owned by Finn.

Donal halted before the dais. He felt oppressed by the huge hall. The arching hammer-beamed timbers loomed over his
head; the far wall, full of weapons, crests and leaded casements, menaced him as it never had before. He took a deep breath and tried to steady the banging of his heart.

“Rowan—told me.” His voice echoed in the vastness of the blackened hall.

Carillon did not stir. “Did he? Did he tell you what it means?”

After a moment, Donal nodded. “It means war has come at last.”

Slowly Carillon leaned forward. The torch behind the throne spilled light down his back, setting the crimson velvet of his doublet aglow like a dim beacon amid the shadows of the dais. “War was
expected.
I am not taken unaware by the news. But—the manner of it is somewhat
un
expected.” He put his age-wracked hands to his weary face. His fingers massaged the flesh of his brow and pushed back a lock of hair from his eyes. “Electra, with Tynstar—after all these years…we face potential disaster.”

Donal stepped forward. “We face
war
, my lord. Forget those who are involved, and think only upon the strategies necessary.”

The hands dropped from the face. Carillon actually smiled. “Do you seek to teach
me
what war is about?” But before Donal could answer, he waved a twisted hand. “No, no, say nothing. The mood, for the moment, has passed. It is only that I recalled what she did to me so many years ago—how she nearly castrated me, without even touching a blade. Ah, no—her weapon was merely herself. Gods—
but what a woman she was.
” Stiffly, he pushed himself up from the throne. “I do not expect you to understand. But what you
must
comprehend is that paired, they are doubly dangerous. Tynstar will use her to gather all the Solindishmen he will need—the warhost will be massive. It will be an exceedingly difficult conflict.” He moved to the torch and took it down from its bracket. “Donal—do you do as I bid you?”

Donal watched him step off the dais and walk purposefully toward the far end of the hall. “Usually,” he answered cautiously.

“Then do so now.” Carillon’s voice echoed. “Come with me to the Womb of the Earth.”

A grue ran down Donal’s spine. The hairs stood up on the
back of his neck. “I have—heard of it,” he said. “In the histories of my race.”

Carillon took the light with him, leaving Donal in the shadowed darkness of the throne. “Now you will see it, Donal. Now you will go where I have gone.”

“You!”
Donal turned to stare after the Mujhar. “You have been to the Womb of the Earth?”

“A Homanan.” Carillon’s tone was scored with caustic irony. “Aye, I have. I thought Finn might have told you.”

“There are secret things in every man’s life.” Donal belatedly followed in Carillon’s wake. “My
su’fali
does not tell me everything…nor, apparently, do you.” He stopped short as Carillon halted at the edge of the firepit.