Legacy of the Sword (35 page)

“I know the truth of the histories,” Tynstar said. “And I will willingly share them with you.”

“I will not listen,” Donal told him flatly. “Do you think I would heed
your
words?”

“Take them to the Keep with you and question your
shar tahl,”
Tynstar challenged. “See then who lies. See then who speaks the truth.” He put up a silencing hand. “Have you never wondered why the Firstborn left Homana to the Cheysuli? Have you never wondered precisely
how
an entire race died out?”

“You are an unlikely tutor,” Carillon told him. “I think you had better go—or do what you came to do, so we may end this travesty.”

“I come, I go—I do as I wish.” Tynstar did not smile. “Heed me well, all of you—I give you insight into a truth you have never encountered.” Again, the hand was raised. He looked directly at Donal. “Cheysuli warrior, you are—with a little Homanan blood. Because the shapechangers serve the prophecy of the Firstborn, who gave it to them before the race died out. Do you know why?”

“A legacy,” Donal answered. “We are the children of the Firstborn—”

“—who were the children of the gods.” The flame burned more brightly around Tynstar, as if it answered some secret bidding. “But are you so proud, so insular, so
arrogant
, as to believe they sired no others?”

A blurt of sound escaped Donal. He felt Lorn go rigid beside him.

“What are you trying to
say
—” But Finn was interrupted.

“They sired a second race,” the sorcerer said. “They sired the Ihlini…who bred with the Cheysuli.”

“
No
!” burst simultaneously from Finn and Donal.

A rasp. Metal sliding. It hissed, almost like the serpent cloaking Tynstar. Carillon drew forth his Cheysuli sword.

Tynstar laughed. “That cannot slay me, Carillon. Have you not tried with it before? Have you not seen the blackened stone?”

“Aye,” Carillon agreed evenly, “and would you care to
see it again?” Before the image in the flames could answer, Carillon turned and thrust the sword into Donal’s reluctant hands. “Show him.
Show him the blackened stone
!”

Donal held the edged blade in one hand, clasping it beneath the hilt. He could feel the runes against his palm. Slowly he raised the sword, thrusting outward with a stiffened arm as if to ward off evil. Against the flame the sword was a silhouette, lacking all colors save the blackness of the night. As if Tynstar had leached it of life.

But then the ruby turned brilliant crimson and set the hill afire.

The fog evaporated at once. The ruby blazed, and as its magic burned away the Ihlini mist Donal felt the thrumming of power in his hand. He thought at first he might drop the sword, so startled was he by the growing strength, but he found he could not. From him the sword took life; from the sword he took strength. A perfect exchange of power.

Tynstar’s smooth face exhibited mild surprise, but very little concern. “So—Hale’s sword at last finds its master. I feared it might happen one day. I thought perhaps I might gainsay him in time when I slew him in the forest, but obviously not.”

“You
slew him!” Finn took a single step forward. “It was
Shaine’s men
who slew my
jehan—”

“Was it?” Tynstar smiled. “Do not be such a fool. I sought Hale because I knew his was the seed that could destroy the Ihlini race. Think you I could let him live?” A dismissive wave of a graceful, negligent hand. “Lindir I intended to slay as well, before she could bear the child—but she escaped me and fled to Homana-Mujhar. So I slew Hale after I slew his
lir
—I meant to take the sword. But he had given it to Shaine.” For a moment his beautiful, bearded face altered into something less sanguine, much more malevolent. “I should have known it would be Alix’s child for whom it was meant. I felt it in her, before she lay with Duncan. I should have slain her too, as I took Duncan’s hawk. It would have gainsaid the prophecy and saved me the trouble of meeting you here.”

Donal lowered the sword. The ruby had dimmed a little, as if knowing much of its job was done; only Tynstar remained, surrounded by his cocoon of living flame. The fog and the
serpent were gone. “You slew her anyway And my
jehan.
When you sent him to trap us.”

“That was not my idea,” Tynstar said. “It was my—
apprentice’s
suggestion.” He smiled. “Was it not a good one? Nearly successful, as well.”

Donal drew in an unsteady breath, recalling how his mother and father had died. “I do not believe your
lesson.”

Tynstar’s shrug was slight. “I know your prophecy very well, Donal. I helped
make
it, merely by being born three centuries ago. I understand what a
tahlmorra
is much better than you or any other Cheysuli, for I have known the gods much longer than any of you.”

“Dare you speak of
gods
when you worship that filth of the netherworld?” Carillon demanded.

“I worship nothing,” Tynstar retorted. “I
serve
, even as you pretend to serve. The Seker does not require the nonsense of obeisance and ritualistic loyalty. He
knows
what lies in a man’s true soul.” He touched the brooch at his left shoulder. “Aye, I am an integral part of the same prophecy that orders Donal’s life—but I serve it not. I seek only to break its power, before the Ihlini are destroyed.” For a moment, there was a touch of humanity in his eyes. “Can you not see? I do this for the
salvation of my race.”

No one answered. Donal stood with Finn, Evan and Carillon as the
lir
locked themselves in silence, and looked at the Ihlini. The sword was heavy in his hand.

“Salvation.” After a moment, Donal shook his head. “I do not believe you. Were the Ihlini truly children of the Firstborn, we would not be mortal enemies.”

“Ask the
lir
why they will never attack an Ihlini,” Tynstar suggested.

Donal could not answer. Neither did Taj or Lorn.

Tynstar smiled. “You are idealistic, Donal—or perhaps merely young. Comprehension will come with age. You see, we Ihlini desired more gifts than those the Firstborn gave us. More—power. We turned to the only source that would heed us when the Firstborn would not—”

“—Asar-Suti,” Carillon finished.

“The god of the netherworld, who made and dwells in darkness.” That from Finn.

“Aye,” Tynstar agreed. “A generous lord, in fact. He did not stint what powers he gave those who wished to serve
him.” His eyes were on the sword still clasped limply in Donal’s hand. “But the Firstborn sought to destroy us when they learned of our oath to serve the Seker. Knowing they would die before this destruction could be accomplished, they fashioned a prophecy instead, and left the destruction to the Cheysuli—”

“No,”
Donal said.

Tynstar did not allow the interruption to interfere. “They instilled within you all a perfect and blind obedience that even now binds your soul. They gave each warrior a fate and called it a
tahlmorra
, to make certain the task would be fulfilled. They turned you into
soldiers for the gods
, as dedicated to preserving and fulfilling the prophecy as we are to its downfall. Because that fulfillment, once achieved, means the annihilation of my race.” Tynstar’s voice was harsh. “An Ihlini
qu’mahlin
, Donal—instituted by the Cheysuli.”

Donal shook his head. “The prophecy says
nothing
of annihilation. It speaks of a Mujhar of all blood uniting four warring realms and two magic races. Is
that
so horrible a fate?”

Tynstar’s teeth showed briefly. “It means the mingling of Cheysuli blood and Ihlini, Donal. It means the swallowing of our races and a merging of the power. No more independence. No more—apartness. The Ihlini and Cheysuli will die out, drowned in each other’s blood.”

Gods…tell me he is wrong
…Donal felt as if he had been walking in darkness all of his life. Blind. Deaf. Mute. Yet now he could see and hear and speak. Tynstar had given him sight and hearing: Tynstar had loosed his tongue.

But he did not speak. He lifted the sword and hurled it at the image as if the blade were a spear.

The ruby blazed a trail of incarnadine fire as it arced downward toward the column of flame that housed Tynstar’s image. The sword fell, slicing through the fire like a scythe; a ringed hand flashed up and slapped the blade aside. The sword fell, point first, and stuck into the ground. There it stood, sheathed in flame, like a headpiece to a grave.

“No—” Finn caught Donal’s arm as he started forward blindly.

“Wait you—” Carillon whispered.

The ruby flickered. Tynstar, smiling, reached down to
touch the stone with a single finger. Again, it flickered. Then it turned to black.

Tynstar laughed. “Shall I make it
mine
? I have only to shut my hand around the hilt. I will take it into my hands and caress the shining blade—until the runes are wiped away. And then Hale’s sword will be nothing but a sword, intended for any man, even a common soldier.” He reached down, threatening languidly; one finger touched it, another; the palm slid down to rest against the grip.

“
No
!” Donal cried.

And then, as Tynstar sought to shut his hand upon the hilt, the ruby blazed up again.

The Ihlini cried out. He snatched back his hand instantly; Donal heard his breath hissing in startled comprehension.

But the hand stretched out again. It lifted. Paused. Considered. The silver ring winked in the sorcerous flames.

Tynstar scribed a rune in the air and split the darkness apart.

“M
y lord…
my lord—”

Hands caught at his shoulders, urging him to rise. Donal, mouth tasting of dirt and flame, realized it was Sef.

“My lord—
please
…are you hurt?”

He thought perhaps he was. His head was filled with a darkness rimmed by colored light. Sef’s voice was distant, fogged, distorted by the humming in Donal’s ears. Even the hands on his clothing did not seem real.

“My lord!”
Sef cried in desperation. “Please—get
up—”

Slowly, Donal rolled onto his side, then pressed himself upward. He sat on one hip, braced against a stiffened arm. Squinting against the brilliance in his head, he tried to see Sef’s face.

Abruptly, he recalled what had caused his present condition. He jerked around, drawing his legs beneath him as if preparing to leap. Splayed fingers pressed against the ground; the other hand half drew the long-knife at his belt.

But there was no enemy. Where Tynstar had been was only a charred patch of smoking ground, and the sword.

The sword. Still it stood upright, though tilted, sheathed in the earth from which it drew power. The moon, clean and unobscured once more, flooded the hilltop with silvered light. The rune-kissed blade shone with an eerie luminance. The ruby, cradled in its golden prongs, was a crimson beacon in the night.

“My lord?” Sef whispered.

Donal came out of his crouch. He rose slowly, aware of a
faint tingling numbness in his bones. But he did not approach the sword. He looked instead for the others.

Lorn stood but two or three paces away, legs spraddled as he shook his coat free of dirt and debris. Taj still spiraled in the air. Evan was sitting upright, spitting out dirt and muttering of Lodhi and sorcerers. Finn stood even as Donal rose. He went at once to Carillon and put down a hand to him just as Rowan arrived.

“Carillon—!” In his urgency, Rowan nearly shouldered Finn out of the way. “My lord?”

Finn did not give ground. His very silence transmitted itself to Rowan, who—bending down to aid Carillon—glanced up at him in irritated impatience.

Watching them both as Carillon sat up and brushed his clothing, Donal was struck by their eerie resemblance. In the moonlight the differences in their faces were set aside. All Cheysuli resembled one another, but some more than others.

They are alike in more than appearance
, Donal thought.
Both of them serve the Mujhar. Finn may have given up his rank as liege man to Carillon, but the loyalty is still there.

He saw the momentary flash of possessiveness in Rowan’s eyes. No, he had not taken Finn’s place when the oath had been broken; no man could. But he had made a new place at Carillon’s side, and Donal knew he was indispensable. Facing Finn, it would be difficult for Rowan to give way.

“Get me up from here!” Carillon said testily, and caught Rowan’s outstretched hand. Donal saw how Finn remained very still a moment, and then moved a single step away.

Relinquishing the service yet again
…Donal saw the pain graven deeply in Carillon’s face; the taut starkness of his expression and the incredibly tight set of his jaw. Like Donal’s; like everyone else’s, his face was smeared with traces of ash. Moisture glittered on Carillon’s brow, and Donal realized it was the sweat of unbearable pain.

And yet he bears it
…Donal moved to him at once. “My lord—Carillon…how do you fare?”

Briefly, Rowan’s teeth were bared in a feral, possessive snarl. “How does he fare?
Look
at him, Donal! How do
you
fare after what Tynstar did?”