Legacy of the Sword (42 page)

“Aislinn,” he said gently, “you recall how it was last time. Are you prepared for that again?”

“I think—I think there will be no need.” Color flared in her face. “I think you will find me a willing wife instead of a lunatic girl.”

He looked at her. It was true there was greater awareness in her eyes. Save for a natural embarrassment and proper modesty, she appeared to lack the fear she had shown before.

Perhaps—now that Tynstar and Electra are dead—she is free of the link entirely.

After a moment, he shook his head. “Aislinn—I am sorry. But tonight there is no time. I must go on to the Keep, and then I will join the army. There is a death I must mete out.”

“Osric’s?”

He nodded.

“I thought it might be that. Well then, I will not keep you. It is not my place to reprove you for avenging my father’s death.” She turned, reaching for his candle. “Will you sup with me? You look weary. After that, I will not gainsay you.”

Somberly, she led him from the vault.

*   *   *

He ate. He drank. He told her what he could of the battles in Solinde. She listened attentively, and he found she had gained a new maturity in the months since he had left her. The shape of her face seemed different. Excess flesh had faded so that he saw the line of her bones clearly, as he had seen them in Electra. No more the young woman who only hinted at adulthood; conceiving the child and then losing it had done much to banish her girlhood.

They were alone. They dined in her chambers; the servants she had dismissed, saying she and Donal would tend to themselves in privacy. His lir were in his apartments in another wing.

Now, as she set her goblet down, she regarded him more closely. “You look so weary, Donal.”

He leaned against one elbow. “I came directly from Solinde. It is taxing to hold
lir
-shape so long without proper rest, but—I felt the circumstances warranted the sacrifice.” He sipped from his cup of wine. “That is partly why I am out of sorts. If I was cruel to you in the vault, I am sorry for it.”

“You are unhappy.” She poured more wine for him. “I see it clearly. The heirship has been a long one, and now that it has ended and the throne is truly yours, you find you do not like it.”

“I never wanted it,” he said wearily. “I told you that, once. But—Carillon needed an heir, and I have a drop or two of royal blood.”

“More than a drop,” she retorted. “For all you flaunt your Cheysuli blood, there is Homanan in you as well. And, as for heirs—we should make some of our own.” Her long-lidded eyes flicked a slanting glance at him. “Do you not agree?”

He smiled. “I agree. And when I am done with this war, I shall do my best to sire some.”

“Will the war take so long?” Reddish brows knitted together over her lambent gaze.

Donal scratched an eyelid thoughtfully. “Osric has entrenched himself in the plains just north of the fenlands. Mujhara is not precisely
threatened
…but it might be if we do not continue to hold him. While our strength is split, there is little we can do. Carillon meant to stop him permanently—now it is up to me.”

She reached across the table and caught his hand before he could withdraw. “Donal—stay with me this night. Delay a day or two.”

Her flesh was warm against his. “I have said why I cannot. And you agreed you would not gainsay me.”

“I lied.” Her single braid had loosened so that her bright hair tumbled around her face. Deftly she undid the lacing until the hair fell free of its confinement. The robe slid off her shoulders; through the thin fabric of her nightshift he could see the lines of her breasts.

“Aislinn,” he said, “enough.”

“No.” She rose, pressing her hands against the table. She shook back her hair and smiled. “I am free, Donal. No more Ihlini magic. I can be what you wish me to be.”

He was not indifferent to her. But in his weariness, in his single-mindedness, he thought he could refuse her. “Aislinn, please be
patient.
We will have our time.”

Slowly, she rounded the table and stood behind his back. Her hands settled on his neck. “That time is
now.”

“Aislinn—”

“Do you think I play a game?” She bent forward and pressed herself against his rigid back. Her hair hung down to fall across his shoulders. “This is not a game. This is my
retribution.”
Abruptly she caught two handfuls of his hair.
“Do you know what it was like?”
she demanded. “Can you
conceive
of what it was like? Can you
consider
what it is to know such utter helplessness as what you gave to me?”

He caught her hands and rose, stepping free of the stool beside the table. “Aislinn—this is nonsense—”

“Is it?” Her wrists were trapped in his hands. “
I
say it is retribution.”

He shook his head, baffled. “Aislinn—are you mad—?”

“You will stay the night with me.” He saw the intensity in her clear gray eyes. “I want you to know what it is like.
I want you to feel the helplessness
, as I did, knowing I could
do nothing!”

He wavered. A shudder coursed through his body. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Aislinn—what have you done?”

“Sought power where I can get it.” Her long eyes were wide and watchful. “You have drunk much wine, my lord. You are weary. You require rest. But when a husband is stubborn, a wife must make shift where she can.”

“By the gods—
you are your
jehana
’s daughter—”

“I am what I must be.” Her image wavered before him. She retreated. He followed, trying to catch a hand so he could hold her still.

She said nothing as he fell against the bed. He struggled to push himself upright, clinging to the carved tester and heavy tapestries. His clawing hand pulled down the silken folds.

“You
will
know what it is like,” she said in a hard, brittle voice. “I want you to
feel
what it is like. I want—”

But he did not hear what else she wanted.

*   *   *

He dreamed of Sorcha. And sought release in her supple body.

*   *   *

Donal sat bolt upright in the bed, shocked into full wakefulness so quickly his heart lurched within his chest and his head pounded. He thought he might be ill.

He stared at the woman blindly. He swallowed twice, tasting a flat foulness on his tongue. “Aislinn,
what have you done?”

She turned from her belly to her back. Languorously, she stretched, then pulled silken sheets up demurely to cover her nakedness. “I took your will away.”

He rubbed at his face with one hand, trying to vanquish the tingling numbness. His body told him he had lain with a woman last night; his mind recalled nothing of it. “I did not intend to spend the night—I was going to the Keep, and then on to the army.”

“I know.” Aislinn’s smile reminded him of Electra’s. “What was it like, my lord, to know yourself so helpless?”

He swore violently and got out of the bed, but clutched one of the testers for support. “Witch. No better than your
jehana—”

“We will not speak of her.” Aislinn hitched herself upright in bed and wrapped herself more tightly in the sheets.
“I did not
bewitch
you, Donal…I merely drugged your wine.”

Dizzy, he sat back down on the edge of the bed. “But—why did you not simply
slay
me? The gods know you have tried before. Unless you have a different plan, now that Electra and Tynstar are dead.”

“Plan?” Aislinn frowned. “What do you say? Why would I try to slay you? What do you mean—I have done it before?”

He glared at her sourly. “In Hondarth, Aislinn. Do you not recall? That is a fine example.”

Color rushed into her face and one hand flew to cover her mouth. “But
that
was my mother’s doing!”

“And last night was yours.” He rubbed at his head again, suppressing a groan of pain.

She shifted closer to him, kneeling at his side. “I did not mean for you to feel ill. But you drank more wine than usual—you swallowed more of the drug than I intended.” Her hand, reaching out to his shoulder, fell away. “By the gods, Donal!—what do you expect me to do? Last time you took my will from me with your magic and forced me to lie with you. I only wanted you to know what it was like! Can you blame me? And—and—it is true we need an heir. We cannot put off such need.”

“We can.” —
And now we will.

“We
cannot
! Do you think I am blind to the requirements of a queen?” Her eyes were blazing at him. “You seek your light woman, my lord—what
else
am I to do when I am in need of a son?”

“Aislinn—”

“I want a baby,” she said with a desperate dignity. “to replace the one I lost.”

He opened his mouth to answer harshly, then shut it again. He had never thought what it was to be a woman, waiting only to bear sons to inherit a throne. And in Aislinn’s case it was imperative she bear them soon; sooner, now Carillon was dead.

He slumped on the bed and stared at her; at her pale eyes and paler face. She had much of her mother’s beauty and all of her father’s pride.

Slowly, he rose from the bed and dressed. He said nothing until he was done, and then he walked to the door. “Perhaps a woman must do a thing she dislikes for a reason that
demands it—but I cannot
forgive
you for it. No more than you have forgiven me.”

“I do not want
forgiveness!”
She rose up on her knees before him. “If you cannot bring yourself to get sons on me I will do what I have to do.” Her voice shook with tears. “Go back to your light woman, Donal—go back to your shapechanger whore!”

It was all he could do not to cross the room and take her throat into his hands. But he did not. “You have delayed me long enough,” he told her curtly. “Now I must ride directly to the army, without stopping at the Keep.” He looked at her angry face and felt his own anger intensify. “You had best hope for a son from this travesty…you will get no more children from me.”

Her anger fell away. “But—Homana must have an
heir
!”

“I have a son already.”

Aislinn scrambled out of the bed. She stood before him, perfectly nude, but her fury was unimpaired. “You would not claim
her
child Prince of Homana!”

“If there is no other, what else could I do?”

Pale fists clenched. “The Homanan Council would
never
accept a bastard by your Cheysuli whore,” she said flatly. “Never.”

Donal smiled grimly. “I am Mujhar. In the end, they will do as I tell them.”

Aislinn glared back at him. But the quality of her anger had undergone a change. Her tears were dry. He saw a new awareness in her eyes. A cool guardedness in her appraisal.

She smiled Electra’s smile.

*   *   *

Donal took a horse from Homana-Mujhar, knowing if he went straight to the army in
lir
-shape he would be too weary to go directly into battle. He sent Taj on to the Keep to pass word to Sorcha that he would not be home after all. He did not relish the confrontation when at last they
did
meet. She would claim the Homanans turned him from his Cheysuli heritage, and in a way, he thought perhaps she was right.

As the fleet bird disappeared Donal felt a twinge of regret. Without Taj he felt half naked. A part of himself was missing, and would be, for a while. He had told Taj to fly ahead to the army when he had finished his business at the Keep. Still, he was more fortunate than other warriors. He would
lack the ability to assume falcon-shape while separated by such distance, but his link to Lorn remained intact.

Donal slowed the horse as the forest grew more dense. The track narrowed to little more than a footpath, but hoofprints marked the ground. Branches slapped at his head. Fighting the vines grew tedious.

Lorn, trotting ahead, glanced over one shoulder.
Catch me if you can.
With a flick of his tail he was gone.

The wolf was at home in the forests of Homana; the horse was not. But Donal gave it a try.

He bent low in the saddle, hugging with his legs while his heels urged the stallion faster. He rode high on the chestnut withers, shifting his weight unobtrusively. Hands gave the bit to the horse. Flying mane whipped against his face and he tasted the acrid salt of horsehair.

Lir—lir—lir—

Lorn’s agonized scream scythed through Donal’s mind as the path before the horse fell away into a pit. He felt weightless and a sudden blaze of fear.

Donal threw himself free of saddle and stirrups.

He caught a twisted, buried root in one hand. Gnarled and whiplike, the root dropped him three more feet before jerking him to a halt. He felt shoulder muscles tear.

He swung in perfect silence, eyes shut tightly against the pain as he reached out with his other hand. As he grasped the root he pulled himself upward, taking the weight from his injured shoulder. Sweat ran down his face as he tried to detach himself from the link with Lorn, for the wolf’s pain compounded his own. Taj was too far; there was no hope of flying out.

He swung himself gently against the earthen wall of the pit, clinging with both hands. Slowly he forced himself upward, hand-over-hand, boot toes digging into the crumbling sides. Inch by inch he rose, dragging himself upward to the rim. For a moment he hung suspended, gathering his strength, then lurched upward and clawed at the tangled roots that fringed the pit.

He grunted with effort; tasted the salt-copper tang of blood against his teeth; smelled the sweat of his effort and the stench of his growing fear. The link with Lorn vibrated with the intensity of the wolf’s pain. But he dragged himself over the edge of the pit and fell down against the ground.

He coughed. His breath whistled in his throat. His belly heaved as it tried to draw in breath.
Lorn!
he shouted silently, and received no answer through the link. Only pain. Pain and emptiness.

Donal struggled to his knees, nursing his aching shoulder. Dazedly he pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward the trees, trying to follow the thin threat of contact with his
lir.