Legacy of the Sword (39 page)

But when he looked back he saw Carillon standing over the bodies of his wife and the Ihlini.

As if he mourns them both—

S
ef’s odd eyes were stretched wide in shock. “The demon is
dead?”

Donal sat on the edge of his cot and worried at his boot, trying to strip it off without causing more pain to the injured leg. Sef stood stock still in front of his master, not helping.

“Aye.” Donal caught heel and toe and pulled, gritting his teeth. “At last, we are free of Tynstar’s plotting…it may be this war will end sooner than we hoped.” His foot moved in the boot. He tugged harder, grunting with effort. “Sef—help me with this. Stop gaping at me like a fish.”

Sef’s usually efficient hands caught the boot clumsily and pulled it off. “But
you
did not slay him—?”

“No. The Mujhar did.” Donal, frowning, felt at his bandaged leg. “But it was Electra who slew herself. Had she not tried to slay Carillon, she would not now be dead.” He wiggled his toes experimentally. “So we are rid of them both.”

“And now?” Sef asked. “What happens to all the other Ihlini—the ones who still fight here?”

“The race is still powerful,” Donal told him. “All of them claim some measure of the dark arts. But without Tynstar to lead them, I think perhaps we will have less trouble with them all. Carillon cut the head from the serpent—it may be all the little snakelets will wriggle about in confusion, with no knowledge of how to strike.” He stretched out carefully and lay back on his cot.
“Ru’shalla-tu.”

Sef, moving to the table to pour a cup of wine, twisted his head to stare over his shoulder. “What do you say?”

“May it be so.
Old Tongue saying.” Donal scrubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. “Gods, but when I recall the sight of Tynstar’s head falling from his body—” For a moment, he shut his eyes and summoned the vision again. “And all the blackened blood—”

Sef spun around, nearly spilling the wine. “Blackened blood! Tynstar’s blood was
black
?”

“Black and thick and heavy.” Donal levered himself up on one arm and accepted the cup of wine. “Electra’s too—” He grimaced. “It is enough to give one nightmares.” Abruptly, he looked at Sef with his pale face and staring eyes. “Gods, I am sorry. I should not have spoken so plainly.”

Sef shrugged. “No. No, better I know the truth…” He shrugged again, as if to ward off the gooseflesh of fright. “But—what will happen now? Here—to us?”

Donal sipped. “We continue to battle. The Mujhar and his portion of the army will try to stop Osric before he reaches Mujhara—here, we must put a stop to the Solindish-Ihlini uprising.”

“Then—we will stay here until this war is done—and
then
return to Homana?”

Donal nodded as he swallowed down the wine. “Aye. Carillon has left me a task. I am to lead these men while
he
confronts the Atvian.”

“Then—Osric doesn’t know the demon has been slain.” Sef frowned. “Does he?”

“No. Perhaps it will aid Carillon’s campaign—he will go against Osric knowing the sorcerer is dead, while Osric anticipates Tynstar’s help.” Donal smiled. “A surprise for the Atvian—one that should help our cause.”

Sef’s voice was tentative. “Then—
these
are politics?”

Donal laughed. “More like strategies. But often enough they appear to be one and the same.”

It was gloomy inside the tent. Night had fallen; candles illuminated the saffron interior of the pavilion and turned it pale ocher and dull gold. Evan had absented himself to spend time with one of his women; most of the encampment celebrated Tynstar’s downfall. Donal had passed on the news calmly enough, then retired to rest his throbbing leg.

“I will rest, Sef. If you wish to go out and celebrate with the other boys, please yourself.”

“My thanks.” Sef had grown a little since joining Donal’s service, but he was still thin, still almost delicate. The sleeves of his tunic and shirt were too short now; bony wrists protruded.

Inwardly, Donal smiled.
More clothing, yet again.
“You may go, Sef. I will not need you again until the morning.”

The boy grinned crookedly. “I will drink the cider, my lord—I will drink a toast to the victory over Tynstar!”

“Go.” Donal waved a hand, and the boy ran out of the tent.

He sipped his wine. He stared into the shadows and thought of how he had come to be the victim of circumstance. Nearly twenty-four years before, a child had been born to a warrior and his woman. Their freedom, like the child’s, did not exist. The gods had seen fit to give them all another fate.

Taj perched upon the chairback. He pipped softly, preening his feathers into perfection, hardly aware of Donal’s presence. On the floor, next to the cot, lay Lorn, curled upon rough matting, nose covered by the tip of his ruddy tail. He twitched, and Donal knew he dreamed.

He sighed. He stretched out to set the cup of wine upon the table, and then he lay back, head pillowed on arms thrust beneath his neck. He shut his eyes, and slept.

*   *   *

He dreamed. He saw a palace and a dais and a woman upon the dais. She was beautiful. She was deadly. She had the power to twist his soul.

Beside her stood a man. Cloaked in black with a silver sword hanging at one hip. In his outstretched hand glowed a violet rune. It danced. Subtly. Seductively. Promising many things.

From behind them came a girl. Half-woman, half-child, trapped between youth and adulthood. Like her mother, she was lovely, but her beauty was unfulfilled. Like her father, she was strong, but without a will the strength was blunted.

“Donal,”
someone said,
“Donal, you must come.”

He frowned. None of the mouths had moved. The rune still danced in the sorcerer’s hand.

“Donal—
rouse
yourself—”

A hand on his shoulder, and he was suddenly awake.
Awake
—the dream was banished. He blinked dazedly at Evan and saw how the sleepy eyes were filled with grave concern.

He bent at once and picked up his boot, pulled it on with effort. Evan waited, solemn-faced and silent. There was no frivolity in his face; no hint of celebration.

Donal rose, suppressing a grimace of pain. “Is it better told or shown?”

“Shown,” Evan said. “Words would not describe it.”

Lir
, Donal summoned, and they went with him out of the tent.

Evan led him through the encampment to a hollow in the hills ringing the huddled tents. Not far. But away from the bonfires and clustered soldiers who still celebrated Carillon’s victory over Tynstar.

The night was cool. The light had changed; it was nearing dawn. He had slept longer than he intended.

He saw three men standing at the edges of the hollow. Two Homanan sentries. The other a Cheysuli.

Finn turned as Donal came up with Evan. His face, like the others, was solemn, etched with tension. But there was something more in the eyes. Something that spoke of a hope destroyed.

He put out a hand and halted Donal. “There is grief in it for you.”

Both sentries held flaming torches. Light hissed and flared, shedding faulty illumination. In the hollow, Donal saw shapes huddled on the ground, sprawled awkwardly in the macabre dance of death. Outflung arms, legs; limp, questioning hands. Faces, stricken with amazement and terror. Open eyes, staring into the heavens.

Boys, all of them.

One of the sentries stirred. “My lord—the others would not have them at the fires. They said it was for men to do, without the company of boys. And so they came here to celebrate on their own.”

Donal counted the bodies. Fourteen that he could differentiate from others. Fourteen boys who had run messages between the captains and tended their noble lords.

As Sef had.

His head snapped around as he stared at Finn. “Is he here?”

Mutely, Finn gestured to one of the sprawled bodies. It was mostly hidden by another.

Donal went to the body and knelt. The flickering torchlight showed him shadowed, ghostly faces; slack, childish mouths. He gently moved the body off Sef’s legs, then beckoned one of the sentries over.

The torch was unmerciful. Sef’s head was twisted slightly, so that his face was turned away. But his neck was bared, and the cut in his throat showed plainly. From ear to ear it stretched. The ground was sodden with his blood.

Red blood
, Donal thought.
None of the blackened Ihlini ichor
— “Fourteen boys,” he said aloud. “Surely
one
of them must have heard the Solindish coming.”

“This was Ihlini-done,” Finn told him grimly.

Donal snapped his head around. “Are you certain? This smells of raiders to me.”

“It is meant to. But see you this?” Finn held something out.

Donal, frowning, took it from his uncle’s hand. It was a stone, a round, dull gray stone with a vein of black running through it.

“An Ihlini ward-stone,” Finn explained. “Apart from the other four, it is worthless. But it tells us who was here.”

“Dropped?” Donal rolled the stone in his hand. “Used to make them helpless—silencing their cries…” He looked again at Sef. Near one bent knee lay a flaccid wineskin. Donal smelled the tang. Wine, not cider; boys had tried to mimic men.

Carefully, Donal closed the staring odd-colored eyes. He recalled Carillon performing the same service for Electra. And then such grief welled up as to nearly unman him before the others. “Gods—” he choked “—why did it have to be
boys
—?”

“Because they knew what it would do.” Briefly, Finn touched Donal’s rigid shoulder. “I know what he was to you. I am sorry for what has happened.”

“To
me
—?” Donal stared up at his uncle. “What of you? What if he
was
your son—or kin or some other kind? What
then, su’fali
?”

The scar jumped once. “It changes nothing,” Finn said evenly. “The boy is dead.”

“Dead,” Donal echoed. Gently, he touched Sef’s right
wrist. He felt the feathered band. He recalled how it was meant to be a charm against sorcery.

Cheysuli
sorcery.

Deftly, Donal untied the knot in the leather lace on the underside of the cool, limp wrist. He took the band and tucked it into his belt-purse.

Not strong enough
, he told the murdered boy.
Was
I
not charm enough against the sorcery you feared
?

But then, looking again at the fourteen bodies, he knew he had not been.

Donal rose stiffly. He could not look at Finn. “We need a burial detail.”

The other sentry inclined his head. “My lord—I will see to it.” With the torch smoking in his wake, the Homanan went away.

D
onal stared gloomily out at the drowning world from the open flaps of his saffron pavilion. It was late evening, just past supper. It was cold. Summer was gone; fall had settled in. In Solinde, it rained during the fall. He was bored, restless and weary, and heartily wishing Carillon had left someone else to lead the army.

He had led it, now, for two months. Occasional word came from Carillon that Osric of Atvia still pressed them on the plains between Hondarth and Mujhara. Worse, it seemed unlikely there would be any immediate resolution. Osric, Carillon claimed, was a master strategist. The two armies were utterly deadlocked.