Legacy of the Sword (24 page)

“Even
now
?” Donal demanded. “You and Carillon came back nearly twenty years ago. Time has passed. Things change. People get older and less inclined to violence.” He shrugged. “Perhaps there are some bigots left, but surely not enough to do Homana harm.”

Finn eyed him. “I am fifty.
Old
, to your way of thinking,
harani.
And would you consider
me
a nonviolent man?”

Fifty. Donal had not counted up the years lately. To him, Finn was ageless. And certainly never incapable of violence. “No,” he said distinctly, and Finn smiled his ironic smile.

Carillon rubbed wearily at his brow. “Gods—will it
never
end? What will happen when I am dead?”

“When you are dead it will be Donal’s problem.” Finn stretched out one foot and touched the toe of the boot to
Storr’s left ear. “There is another problem for us to settle before that one comes upon us.”

“Such as: who tried to murder my son,” Alix said flatly. “Oh, aye, let us turn our attention to
that.
”

Donal shook his head. “I saw nothing clearly. Only light, fire—a shape. Someone hooded and cloaked.”

“Think back,” Finn advised. “Call up the memory. Think what you saw before you fell.”

“Fire,” Donal repeated, recalling that too clearly. “Flames from the torch. It was thrust at me—I threw up my arm to block it.” He suited action to words. “I was thrown off balance—I stepped back…and fell.” He shuddered, recalling the sensation of weightlessness. “I did not even hear the wall open.”

“Think again,” Finn said patiently. “You saw a hooded, cloaked figure. Tall? Short? Heavy? Slender?” The toe caressed Storr’s ear, flipping it up and down. “Think of everything you saw—even the bits and pieces. If there is an assassin in this place, he will likely try again.”

Donal was conscious of their waiting faces, reflecting expectations. He frowned in concentration, summoning up the memory in vivid recollection. “Much shorter than I—even you,
su’fali.
Slender. The cloak was not a large one. And I remember hands.” He sat up so rigidly he nearly overturned the table. “Hands! The hands upon the torch!” He stared blindly at Finn, seeing only the hands upon the torch. “Slim, pale, delicate hands, clutching a torch that seemed too heavy, too awkward for a man—” He stopped short. Stunned, he turned to Carillon. “My lord—it was a
woman—
”

Color drained out of Carillon’s face and left it a bearded deathmask. “By the gods—
say it was not Electra—
”

Finn shook his head. “Electra is not here. Believe it—I would know it. The trap-link has bound us forever.”

Donal still stared at Carillon. “But—what if it were
Aislinn—
”

“Oh, Donal,
no
!” Alix cried as Carillon thrust himself out of his chair.

“Have you gone mad?” the Mujhar asked hoarsely. “Do you think
Aislinn
could seek to push you into the Womb of the Earth?”

“No more than
Bronwyn
could,” Alix said.

Donal’s hand, reaching for the goblet, knocked it over
abruptly. He heard the dull chime of silver rim against dark hardwood; the sibilant splatter of wine against carpeted floor. But he did nothing to pick up the overturned goblet. Instead, he looked at his mother in something akin to shock.

“How can we say that?” he asked. “How can we say for
certain
Bronwyn would never do it?”

Alix thrust herself up from her stool. “Have you gone
mad
?” Unconsciously, she echoed Carillon. “She is your
sister—
”

“And Tynstar’s daughter, do not forget.” That from Finn, still seated in the casement. “Alix—
before
you seek Carillon’s knife to throw at me—make yourself think clearly a moment.” He swung his foot again idly. “She is Tynstar’s daughter. Ihlini as well as Cheysuli, no matter what you have done to hide it from her and everybody else. Who can say what Bronwyn is capable of if the Ihlini in her seeks to dominate?”

“No,” Alix said tautly. “Not Bronwyn, how could she? She is at the Keep.”

“Not
Aislinn
,” Carillon said. “Look to another culprit.”

“Aislinn tried to slay me in Hondarth,” Donal reminded him deliberately, and saw the shock in his mother’s face. “Aye—I did not tell you. It was Electra’s ensorcelment. But who is to say she has not tried it yet again?”

Carillon thrust a hand in Finn’s direction. “You said he
tested
her!”

“I tested her.” Finn slid out of the casement and stood before his Mujhar. “I swear—I tested her. There was an echo—a resonance—I thought I had rid her of it.”

Donal grimly picked up the fallen goblet and set it straight again. “And if you did not?”

“If I did not, and she
is
Tynstar’s weapon, there is yet another test,” Finn said simply. “Let her try again.”

Donal opened his mouth to protest vehemently, but his intention was overridden by a thin voice raised on the other side of the door. “My lord! My lord! A message for you from the Keep!”

“Sef,” Donal said, and went to tug open the heavy door.

Sef nearly fell into the room. His hair was blown back from his face and he breathed as if he had run all the way up three flights of spiraling stairs. “My lord—a message from the Keep. From your
meijha.
” He paused, caught his breath.
“She says your sister is missing. Bronwyn is not at the Keep.”

Donal heard the swift, indrawn breath from Alix standing behind him. “What else does Sorcha say?” he asked the boy.

“She says you had better come home to look for Bronwyn. She has been gone since yesterday.”

Oh—gods
…was all Donal could manage in the face of his mother’s fear.

But it was Finn who had the answer. “
Lir
-shape,” was all he said. “It will be faster than going by horse.”

“Wolf-shape, then,” from Alix. “You have no recourse to wings.”

Lir
, Donal called, and led the way out of the solar.

And behind them, as they left the old man with the boy, Carillon cursed his infirmities.

*   *   *

Five wolves and a falcon fled through sunlight into the shadows of the sunset. Silver Storr and ruddy Finn; ruddy Lorn and grayish Donal ran shoulder to shoulder with Alix, the pale silver wolf-bitch with black-tipped tail. And above them all flew a fleet golden falcon.

In
lir
-shape, Donal was aware of an edge to his apprehension. He was frightened for what they might find once they found her; he was worried that they would not find her at all. And if they did not, and she had come at last into a share of her father’s powers, only the gods could say what Bronwyn might do to them all.

But the edge began to creep out from under his fear and express a new emotion. Anger. Frustration. Impatience and helplessness. And they drove him to the edge of infinity.

What if I
stayed
in wolf-shape?
he wondered.
What happens if a warrior chooses to give up his human form for the other shape he claims?

Inwardly, he flinched away from the questions. All Cheysuli, male and female alike, were taught that
lir
-shape was only a temporary guise, borrowed from the earth.
In borrowing, the borrower must return that form which is borrowed.
Donal had always believed the statement redundant; borrowing something meant it
had
to be returned, or it was stealing. Even as a child, he had understood the concepts very well.

But now, so lost within the essence of the shape, he
wondered how it could be considered stealing when what he wore was an integral part of his
self.

A
lir
less Cheysuli is not a man, but a shadow. He dwells in darkness of mind and body. He is driven mad by the loss, and gives himself over to death.

There was a ritual, of course, because there had to be. Otherwise, the giving over of a life to the gods would be considered suicide, and that was taboo.

Vines and creepers slashed Donal’s face. A thorn tore at his muzzle, drawing beads of blood. Curving nails dug deeply into the damp, cool soil, gouging furrows and leaving tracks. But the tracks were spoor of the wolf, not the trail of a man.

He heard himself panting. But how could he be weary? In this shape he had almost endless endurance, because he knew how to pace himself.

Odors filled his nose. Moist earth, old wood, rotting bark, nearby stream…but mostly he smelled fear. On himself and on the others.

Can a warrior maintain
lir-
shape as long as he desires it?

As a child, he had asked his father. Duncan had told him a warrior probably could retain
lir
-shape for as long as he desired; perhaps
longer
than he desired.

The last had frightened him. Intuitively, he had understood. A man left too long in
lir
-shape might never turn back into a man.

But would that be so bad?

No. But what if he were ever to change his mind again, and found himself locked inside the body of a wolf or falcon forever?

No, he decided.
No.

Weary. So weary. His left foreleg ached. And then he recalled how it had been burned, broken, in human form; the healing could not give back that which had been lost. The magic was not absolute. He had not given the injured limb enough time to recover.

Through the
lir
-link, he passed the message to Lorn. He must stop. Stop. It was dark now, but the moon, full, had risen, and they were nearly there. They could walk the rest of the way.

Donal stopped running. He panted, head hanging; he tucked his tail between his legs. Slowly, so slowly, the shapechange altered his body. He faced them as a man again.

Man-shaped, he leaned against the nearest tree. “—Sorry,” he said. “Too tired—can we rest?”

Alix put a hand upon his arm. A hand, not a paw. “We should have ridden at least half the way.”

Donal shook his head. “No. We needed to get home as quickly as possible.”

Finn’s smile was very faint. “Sorcha should not worry; you will always be Cheysuli.”

“Because I call the Keep home?” Donal laughed breathlessly. “Aye—I could not become a Mujharan if the prophecy commanded it.”

Alix glanced around. “We are almost there. Oh gods, let the girl simply be
lost
…”

“Unlikely.” But Finn’s tone was gentle. “She is
your
daughter, Alix…with all your stubbornness. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps
what
, Finn?” Alix scraped fallen hair away from her face. “Perhaps she decided to visit another Keep? No. She was helping Sorcha with the baby.”

Finn’s hand clasped her shoulder gently. “
Meijha
, do not fret so—”

Donal nearly smiled at Finn’s use of the inaccurate term. Alix had never been Finn’s
meijha
, but that had not stopped him from wishing she would someday change her mind.

“Do you not fret about Meghan from time to time?” Alix asked in irritation. “You are a
jehan
, Finn, as much as I am a
jehana.
Tell me you do not know what that entails.”

Looking at them, Donal saw two worried people. More worried than they intended him to know. For only a moment, he saw the possibilities through their eyes:
Bronwyn, Ihlini, attempting to use her burgeoning powers…or instinctively seeking her father.

“But she thinks
Duncan
is her
jehan.
” He said it aloud, distinctly; Alix and Finn looked at him in surprise.

“Aye, of course, but—”

Finn’s hand across Alix’s mouth cut her sentence off. He made a quieting gesture with his other hand and they instantly obeyed.

In silence, they waited. And in silence, they heard the other approach.

Because in the forest, at night, absolute silence betokens a
presence
coming.

Bronwyn
—? Donal wondered briefly.
She knows how to move as quietly as any—

But it was not Bronwyn. It was not a woman. It was a man. A man who had once been Cheysuli.

He was a shadow within shadows, a wraith among the trees. There was no sound, only silence; the silence born of the passing of a spirit on its way to the afterworld. Insubstantiality, Donal thought; yet it had substance. It was not a wraith, but a man. Not a shadow: a man who was once a warrior.

A warrior without a
lir.

Out of the shadows a man stepped into the luminescence of the moon, and they saw his face clearly: old/young; human/inhuman; of sorrow and bittersweet joy. And his face, in the moonlight, was Donal’s, but carved of older, harder wood.

“Forgive me,” he said; two words, but filled with an agony of need.

Donal felt his senses waver. For an instant, the ground seemed to move beneath his feet. He put out a hand to steady himself, and when his fingers touched the trunk of the nearest tree he found himself turning to press against it. Clinging to it.
Clinging
, as if he could not stand up.

And he knew, as he clung, he could not. He could only press his face against the bark and let it bite into his flesh.

Jehan? Jehan?
But he could not ask it aloud. He no longer had a voice. No tongue. No teeth. No mouth. He had lost the means to speak.

He shut his eyes. Tightly. So tightly he saw crimson and yellow and white. When he opened them again he blinked against the shock of sight once more, and realized the impossible remained.

It
is
my jehan
— And yet he knew it could not be.

It was Alix who moved first. Donal expected her to run to Duncan. To grab him, kiss him, hold him. To cry out his name and her love. But she did none of those things.

Instead, she turned her back.

Her face, Donal saw, was ravaged. “If I look—
if I look
—he will be gone…gone…
again.
If I look—he will be
gone.
”

Gone
…Donal echoed.
But how can he be
here?

The bark of the tree bit into his face. But he welcomed the pain; it kept him from losing possession of his senses.