Legacy of the Sword (4 page)

“Even to feeding my wolf?” Donal did not smile.

Sef blanched. He stared blindly at Lorn a moment, but then he nodded jerkily.

Donal laughed. “No, no—Lorn feeds himself. I merely tease you, Sef.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Then you
will
take me with you?”

Donal glanced back toward the Crystal Isle. What Carillon had sent him to do offered no place for a boy, but perhaps after. Having a boy to tend his horse and other small chores would undoubtedly be of help.

And there is always room for serving-boys in Homana-Mujhar.
He turned back to Sef and nodded. “I will take you. But there are things you must know about the service you undertake.”

Sef nodded immediately. “I will do whatever you say.”

Donal sighed. “To begin, I will not countenance pointless chatter among other boys you may meet. I understand what pride is, and what youth is, and how both will often lead a boy—a
young man
—into circumstances beyond his control, but this case is very special. I am not one for unnecessary elaborations, and I dislike ceremony, but there will be times for both. You will know them, too. But you must not give in to the temptation to speak of things you should not to other boys.”

Sef frowned intently. “
Other
boys? Do you have so many servants?”

Donal smiled. “I have no servants—at least, not as
I
think of them. But there are pages and body-servants where we will go, when I finish my business here, and I must have your promise to keep yourself silent about my affairs.”

Sef’s dirt-streaked face grew paler. “Is it—because you’re Cheysuli?”

“No. And I do not speak of
secret
things, merely things that are very private. And sometimes quite important.” He
studied Sef’s face and then brought his right hand up into the muted sunlight. “See this? Tell me what it is.”

Sef frowned. “A ring.”

“Surely you are more observant than
that.
”

The frown deepened. “A gold ring. It has a red stone in it, and a black animal in the stone. A—lion.” Sef nodded. “A black lion—”

“—rampant, upon a scarlet Mujharan field,” Donal finished. “Do you know what that is?”

Sef started to shake his head. And then he stopped. “Once, I saw a soldier. He wore a red tunic over his ringmail, and on the tunic was a lion. A black lion, rearing up.” He pointed. “Like that one.”

Donal smiled. “That soldier was Carillon’s man, as they all are. So am I. But—I am not a soldier. Not as you know soldiers.”

“A warrior.” Sef dipped his black head down. “I know about the Cheysuli.”

“Not enough. But you will learn.” Donal smiled and reached down to catch Sef’s chin. He tipped up his head. “My name is Donal, Sef, and I am the Prince of Homana.”

Sef blanched white. Then he turned red. And finally, before Donal could catch him, he fell downward to smack his bony knees against the salt-crusted cobbles. “
My lord
!” he whispered. “My lord—
the Prince of Homana
!”

Donal suppressed a laugh. It would not do to embarrass the boy simply because he was so in awe of royal rank. “I do not stand on ceremony. Serve me as well as you would serve any man, and I will be well-pleased.”

“My lord—”

Donal reached down and caught a handful of thin tunic, then pulled Sef up from the cobbles. “Do not be so—
overwhelmed.
I am flesh and bone, as you are.” He grinned. “If you are to serve me, you must learn I am not some petty lordling who seeks elevation in the eyes and service of others. You may come with me as my friend, but not my servant. I left enough of those back at Homana-Mujhar.” His voice was gentle. “Do you understand me?”

“Aye,” Sef whispered. “Oh…my lord…
aye
!”

Donal released the ragged tunic.
I will have to buy him better clothing, perhaps in Carillon’s colors—well
, that
will have to wait. But some manner of fitting clothing will not.
“You shall have to
earn
your passage, Sef.” Donal looked down at the boy solemnly. “Are you willing to work for that passage?”

“Aye, my lord!”

“Good.” Donal squeezed a narrow shoulder. “All I require of you is your company. Come along.”

“My lord!”

Donal turned back. “Aye?”

“My lord—” Sef broke off, pulling again at his ill-fitting, muddied clothing. “My lord—I wish only to say—” He broke off yet again, obviously embarrassed, vivid color flooding his cheeks.

Donal smiled at him encouragingly. “Before me, you may say what you wish. If you speak out of turn, I will say so, but I will never strike you. Say what you will, Sef.”

The boy sucked in a deep breath. “I wished only to thank you for coming to my aid, and to say that usually I
win
the fights.”

Donal smothered a laugh. “Of course.”

“They were five to my one,” Sef pointed out earnestly.

“I counted them. You are right.” Donal nodded gravely.

Sef studied Donal a moment. Then, anxiously, “You said I may
say
what I wish. Do you mean I may ask it as well?”

“You may always ask. I may not always answer.”

The boy smiled tentatively. “Then—I’d ask you what you’d do against five men, if
you
were ever attacked.”

“I?” Donal laughed. “Well, it would be a different situation. You see, I have two
lir.
”

“
They
would fight, too?” Sef stared at Lorn in amazement, then turned his bi-colored gaze to the sky to pick Taj out from the crying gulls.

“They will always fight, to aid me. That is what
lir
are for.”

That, and other things
, Lorn reminded him dryly.

“Then five men couldn’t stop you?”

Donal understood what Sef inquired, even if the boy did not. “I do not doubt you fought well, Sef, and that bad fortune put you on the losing side. You need not make excuses. As for me, you must recall I am Cheysuli. We are taught to fight from birth.” His smile faded into a grim line. “There is reason enough for that. Even now, I begin to think.”

“Cheysuli,” Sef echoed. He stood very still. “Will you tell me what it’s like?”

“As much as I can. But it is never easily done.” Donal nodded his head in Taj’s direction, then gestured toward the wolf. “
There
is the secret of the Cheysuli, Sef. In Taj and Lorn. Understand what it is to have a
lir
, and you will know what it is to be blessed by the gods.”

Sef glanced at him skeptically. “
Gods
? I don’t think there are any.”

“Ah, but there are. I am no
shar tahl
, dedicating my life to the prophecy and the service of the gods, but I can tell you what I know. Another time.” Donal smiled. “Come along.”

This time, Sef fell into step beside him.

I
n the morning the ship’s captain, paid generously beforehand in freshly minted gold coin, cast off readily enough for the Crystal Isle. Donal questioned him and learned all traffic to the island was closely watched by men serving the Mujhar; the man had agreed to transport Donal and Sef only after a close look at the royal signet ring. For once, Donal was glad Carillon made him wear it.

The captain was a garrulous man, perfectly content to while away the brief voyage by telling Donal all about the Queen of Homana’s confinement. He confided there were Cheysuli on the island with Electra so she could use none of her witch’s ways, and they kept Tynstar from rescuing her. He seemed little impressed with the knowledge that he transported the Prince of Homana himself, being rather more impressed with how he could use the knowledge to his own best advantage in fashioning an entertaining story full of gossip and anecdotes. Donal did not doubt a tale of his visit to the island, undoubtedly much embellished, would soon make the rounds of the taverns. He quickly grew tired of the one-sided conversation and withdrew with what politeness he could muster, turning his back on the man to stare across the glassy bay.

Behind them, Hondarth receded. The painted cottages merged into clustered masses of glowing white, luminescent in the mist against a velvety backdrop of heathered hills. Before them, the island grew more distinct as the ship sailed closer,
but Donal could see none of the distinguishing features. Just a shape floating on the water, wreathed in clouds of fog.

He became aware of Sef edging in close beside him. The mist shrouded them both and settled into their clothing, so that Sef—wrapped in a deep blue cloak Donal had purchased for him the day before, along with other new clothing—looked more fey than human. His black hair curled against his thin face—now clean—and his mismatched eyes stared out at the island fixedly.

“It should not frighten you,” Donal said quietly. “It is merely an island. A place.”

Sef looked at the eerie, silent blanket of sea-spray and morning fog. Even the crying of the gulls was muted in the mist. “But it’s an enchanted place. I’ve heard.”

“Do you know the old legends, then?”

Sef seemed hesitant. “Some. Not all. I’m—not from Hondarth.”

“Where
are
you from?”

The boy looked away again, staring at the deck. Then, slowly, he raised his head. “From many places. My mother earned bread by—by…” He broke off uncertainly. His face colored so that he looked younger than the thirteen years he claimed. His voice was nearly a whisper. “Because of—men. We—didn’t stay long in any single place.” He shrugged, as if he could dismiss it all. But Donal knew such things would never entirely fade, even with adulthood. “She died almost a year ago, and I had no place else to go. So—I stayed.”

Donal heard the underlying note of shame and loneliness in Sef’s tone. “Well, travel befits a man,” he said off-handedly, seeking to soothe the boy without insulting him with sympathy. In the clans, the Cheysuli rarely resorted to emphasizing unnecessary emotions. “You are of an age to learn the world, and Hondarth is as good a place as any to begin.”

Sef did not look at him. He looked instead at the Crystal Isle as they sailed closer yet. The fog thickened as they approached, wrapping itself around the ship until it clung to every line and spar, glistening in the brassy sunlight so muted by the mist. Droplets beaded the railing and their cloaks, running down the oiled wool to fall on the deck. Their faces were cooled by the isle’s constant wind, known to Cheysuli as the Breath of the Gods.

“Will you still keep me with you?” Sef asked very softly.

Donal looked at him sharply, frowning. “I have said I would. Why do you ask?”

Sef would not meet his eyes. “But—that was before you knew I was a—
bastard.
”

Donal made a quick dismissive gesture. “You forget, Sef—I am Cheysuli, not Homanan.” Inwardly he shut his ears to the voice that protested the easy denial of his Homanan blood. “In the clans, there is no such thing as bastardy. A child is born and his value is weighed in how he serves his clan and the prophecy, not in the question of his paternity.” Donal shook his head. “I care not if your
jehan
—your father—was thief or cobbler or soldier. So long as
you
earn your keep.”

“Then the Cheysuli are wiser than most.” The bitterness in Sef’s young voice made Donal want to put a hand on one narrow shoulder to gentle him, but he did not. The boy was obviously proud as well as uncertain of his new position, and Donal had more cause than most to understand the feeling.

He pointed toward the island. “Tell me what you know, Sef.”

Sef looked. “They say there are demons, my lord.”

Donal smiled. “Do they? Well, they are wrong. That is a Cheysuli place, and there are no Cheysuli demons. Only gods, and the people they have made.”

“What people?”

“Those of us now known as the Cheysuli. Once, we were something different. Something—better.” Like the boy, he stared across the glass-gray ocean toward the misted island. Finally it grew clearer, more distinct. It was thickly forested, cloaked in lilac heather. Through the trees glowed a faint expanse of silver-white. “The Firstborn, Sef. Those the gods made first, as their name implies. Later, much later, were the Cheysuli born.”

Sef frowned, concentrating, so that his black brows overshadowed his odd eyes. “You’re saying once there were
no
people?”

“The
shar tahls
—our priest-historians—teach us that once the land was empty of men. It was a decision of the gods to put men upon the Crystal Isle and give it over to them freely. It is these original men we call the Firstborn. But the Firstborn soon outgrew the Crystal Isle, as men will when there are women, and went to Homana: a more spacious land for
their growing numbers. They built a fine realm there, ruling it well, and the gods were pleased. As a mark of their favor, they sent the
lir
to them. And because of the earth magic, the Firstborn were able to bond with the
lir
, to learn what
lir-
shape is—”

“
Shapechangers
,” Sef interrupted involuntarily, shivering as he spoke.

Donal sighed. “The name is easily come by, but we do not use it ourselves.
Cheysuli
is the Old Tongue, meaning
children of the gods.
But men—Homanans—being unblessed, all too often resort to the word as an insult.” He thought again of the Homanan in the Market Square; the woman who had made the sign of the evil eye; the splatter of manure against his cloak. And all because he could shift his shape from man into animal.