Legacy of the Sword (5 page)

Surely the gods would never give such gifts to us was there any chance we would use them for evil! Why must so many believe we would?

They do not understand.
Taj floated lightly, pale gold in the silver mist.
They are unblessed, and blind to the magic.

Why do the gods not make them
see?

Blindness often serves a purpose
, Lorn explained.
Sight
recovered
is often better than original vision.

Donal looked directly at Sef. “Shapechanger,” he said clearly. “Aye, it is true—I shift my shape at will. I become a wolf or falcon. But does it make me
so
different from you? I do not doubt there are things
you
do that I cannot. Should I castigate you for it?”

Sef shivered again. “It isn’t the same. It isn’t the
same. You
become an animal, while I—” he shook his head violently, denying the image, “—while
I
remain a boy. A normal,
human
boy.”

“Unblessed,” Donal agreed, for a moment callous in his pride.

Sef looked at him then, staring fixedly at Donal’s face. His disconcerting gaze traveled from yellow eyes to golden earring, and he swallowed visibly. “The—the Firstborn,” he began, “where are they, now?”

“The Firstborn no longer exist. And most of their gifts are lost.”

Sef frowned. “Where did they go? What happened?”

The taffrail creaked as Donal shifted his weight. “It is too
long a story. One night, I promise, I will tell you it all—but, for now,
this
will have to content you.” He looked directly at the boy and saw how attentive he was. “I am told the Firstborn became too inbred, that the gifts began to fade. And so before they died out they gave what they could to their children, the Cheysuli, and left them a prophecy.” For a moment he was touched by the gravity of what his race undertook; how important the service was. “It is the Firstborn we seek to regain by strengthening the blood. Someday, when the proper mixture is attained, we will have a Firstborn among us again, and all the magic will be reborn.” He smiled. “So the prophecy tells us:
one day a man of all blood shall unite, in peace, two magical races and four warring realms.
” Fluidly, he made the gesture of
tahlmorra
—right hand palm-up, fingers spread—to indicate the shortened form of the Old Tongue phrase meaning, in Homanan,
the fate of a man rests always within the hands of the gods.

“You said—they
lost
their gifts—?”

“Most of them. The Firstborn were far more powerful than the Cheysuli. They had no single
lir.
They conversed with every
lir
, and took whatever shape they wished. But now, each warrior is limited to one.”

“
You
have two!” Sef looked around for Taj and Lorn. “Are you a Firstborn, then?”

Donal laughed. “No, no, I am a Cheysuli halfling, or—perhaps more precisely—a three-quarterling.” He grinned. “But my half Homanan
jehana
bears the blood of the Firstborn—as well as some of the gifts—and by getting a child by my Cheysuli
jehan
she triggered that part of herself that has the Firstborn magic. I have two
lir
because of her, and I may converse with any, but nothing more than that. I am limited to those two shapes.”

Sef turned to stare at the island. “Then—this is your birthplace.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Donal looked at the island again. “It is the birthplace of the Cheysuli.”

“That is why you go?” Sef’s odd eyes were wide as he looked up at Donal. “To see where your people were born?”

“No, though undoubtedly every Cheysuli should.” Donal sighed and his mouth hooked down into a resigned grimace. “No, I go there on business for the Mujhar.” He felt the curl
of unhappiness tighten his belly. “What I am about is securing the throne of Homana.”

“Securing it—?” Sef frowned. “But—the Mujhar holds it. It’s his.”

“There are those who seek to throw down Carillon’s House to set up another,” Donal told him grimly. “Even now, in Solinde…we know they plan a war.”

Sef stared. “
Why
? Who would do such a thing?”

Donal very nearly did not answer. But Sef was avid in his interest, and he would learn the truth one way or another, once he was in Homana-Mujhar. “You know of the Ihlini, do you not?”

Sef paled and made the gesture warding off evil. “Solindish demons!”

“Aye,” Donal agreed evenly. “Tynstar and his minions would prefer to make the throne their own and destroy the prophecy. He wishes to have dominion over Homana—and all the other realms, I would wager—in order to serve Asar-Suti.” He paused. “Asar-Suti is your demon, Sef, and more—he is the god of the netherworld.
The Seker
, he is called, by those who serve him:
the one who made and dwells in darkness
.” He saw fear tauten Sef’s face. “In the name of his demon-god, Tynstar wishes to recapture Solinde from Carillon and make the realm his own, as tribute to Asar-Suti. And, of course, his ambition does not stop there—also he wants Homana. He plots for it now, at this moment—but we know this, so we are not unprepared; we are not a complacent regency in Solinde. And so long as Carillon holds the throne—and his blood after him—the thing will not be done. The Lion Throne is ours.”

Sef’s hands were tight-wrapped around the rail. “
You’ll
hold the throne one day, won’t you? You’re the Prince of Homana!”

He glanced down at the attentive boy. “Now, do you see why I must teach you how to hold your tongue? Honesty is all well and good, but in Royal Houses, too much honesty may be construed as grounds for beginning a war. You must be careful in what you say as well as to whom you say it.”

Sef nodded slowly. “My lord—I have promised to serve you well. I give you my loyalty.”

Donal smiled and clasped one thin shoulder briefly. “And that is all I require, for now.”

His hand remained a moment longer on Sef’s shoulder. The boy needed good food in him to fill out the hollows in his pasty-white face and to put some flesh on his bones, but his attitude was good. For a bastard boy living from hand to mouth it was very good indeed.

Donal chewed briefly at his bottom lip.
Being little more than an urchin, he may not prove equal to the task. He may not mix well with the other boys. But then I cannot judge men by how they conform to others—how boring that life would be—and I will not do it with Sef. I will give him what chance I can.
He smiled, and then he laughed.
Perhaps I have found someone to serve me as well as Rowan serves Carillon.

*   *   *

The prison-palace on the Crystal Isle stood atop a gentle hill of ash-colored bracken and lilac heather. The forest grew up around the pedestal of the hill, hiding much of the palace, but through the trees gleamed the whitewashed walls, attended by a pervasive silver mist. Stretching from the white sand beaches through the wind-stirred forest was a path of crushed sea shells, rose and lilac, pale blue and gold, creamy ivory.

Donal stood very still upon the beach, looking inland toward the forest. He did not look at the palace—it was not so ancient as the island and Homanan-made at that—but at the things the gods had made instead. Then he closed his eyes and gave himself over to sensation.

The wind curled gently around his body, caressing him with subtle fingers. It seemed to promise him things. He knew without doubting that the isle was full of dreams and magic and, if he sought it, a perfect peace and solitude. Carillon might have banished his treacherous wife to the island, but the place was a sacred place. Donal had thought perhaps the incarceration profaned the Crystal Isle.

But he sensed no unhappiness, no dissatisfaction in the wind. Perhaps the island was used for mundane Homanan concerns, but at heart it was still Cheysuli, still part and parcel of the Firstborn. It merely waited. One day, someone would return it to its proper state.

Donal feared to tread the crushed shells of the pathway at first, admiring its delicate beauty, but he saw no other way to
the palace on its green-and-lilac hill. He took nothing with him save his
lir
and Sef. And, he hoped, his courage.

The isle was full of noise. Soft noise; gentle noise, a peaceful susurration. He and Sef and Lorn trod across crushed shell. They passed through trees that sighed and creaked, whispering in the wind. They heard the silences of the depths, as if even the animals muted themselves to honor the sanctity of the place.

Sef tripped over his own feet and went sprawling, scattering pearly shells so that they spilled out of the boundaries of the pathway, disturbing the curving symmetry. Aghast, he hunched on hands and knees, staring at what he had done.

Donal reached down and caught one arm, pulling him to his feet. He saw embarrassment and shame in the boy’s face, but also something more. “There is nothing to fear, Sef,” he promised quietly. “There are no demons here.”

“I—I
feel
something…I
feel
it—” He broke off, standing rigidly before Donal. His eyes were wide and fixed. His head cocked a trifle, as if he listened. As if he
heard.

“Sef—”

The boy shuddered. The tremor ran through his slender body like an ague; Donal felt it strongly in his own hand as it rested upon Sef’s arm. His thin face was chalky gray. He mouthed words Donal could neither hear nor decipher.

“
Sef
—”

Sef jerked his arm free of Donal’s hand. For a moment, a fleeting moment only, his eyes turned inward as if he sought to shut out the world. He raised insignificant fists curled so tightly the bones of his knuckles shone through thinly stretched flesh. Briefly his teeth bared in an almost feral grimace.

“They
know
that I am here—” As suddenly he broke off. The eyes, filled by black pupils, looked upon Donal with recognition once again. “My lord—?”

Donal released a breath. The boy had looked so strange, as if he had been thrown into a private battle within himself. But now he appeared recovered, if a trifle shaken. “I intended to say it was only the wind and your own superstitions,” Donal told him. “But—this is the island of the gods, and who am I to say they do not speak to you?”

Especially if he is Cheysuli.
Donal felt the cool breeze run fingers through his hair, stripping it from his face. The wind
was stronger than before, as if it meant to speak to him of things beyond his ken.

“They know it,” Sef said hollowly. And then his mouth folded upon itself, pressing lip against lip, as if he had made up his mind to overcome an enemy. “It
doesn’t matter.
”

Donal felt the breath of the gods against the back of his neck. He shivered. Then he helped put Sef’s clothing into order once again. “I will not deny I feel something as well, but I doubt there is anger in it. I think we have nothing to fear. I am, if you will pardon my arrogance, a descendent of the Firstborn.”

“And I am not,” Sef said plainly. Then something flickered in his eyes and his manner altered. He looked intently at Donal a moment, then shrugged narrow shoulders. “I don’t know
what
I am.”

Donal smoothed the boy’s black hair into place, though the wind disarranged it almost at once. “The gods do. That is what counts.” He tapped Sef on the back. “Come along. Let us not keep the lady waiting.”

The interior of the expansive palace was pillared in white marble veined with silver and rose. Silken tapestries of rainbow colors decked the white walls and fine carpets replaced rushes which, even scented, grew old and rank too quickly. Donal did not know how much of the amenities had been ordered by Electra—or, more likely, by Carillon—but he was impressed. Homana-Mujhar, for all its grandeur, was somewhat austere at times. This place, he thought, would make a better home.

Except it is a prison.

Racks of scented beeswax candles illuminated the vastness of the entry hall. Servants passed by on business of their own, as did occasional guards attired in Carillon’s black-and-crimson livery. Donal saw a few Cheysuli warriors in customary leathers and gold, but for the most part his fellow warriors remained unobtrusive.

When the woman came forth to greet Donal, he saw she wore a foreign crest worked into the fabric of her gown: Electra’s white swan on a cobalt field. The woman was slender and dark with eyes nearly the color of the gown; he wondered if she had chosen it purposely. And he recalled that Carillon had also exiled the Queen’s Solindish women.

He wondered at the decision.
Would it not have been better
to send the women home? Here with Electra, they could all concoct some monstrous plot to overthrow the Mujhar.

How?
Taj asked as he lighted on a chairback.
Carillon has warded them well.

I do not trust her
, lir.

Nor does Carillon
, Lorn told him.
There is no escape for her. There are Cheysuli here.

The Solindish woman inclined her head as she paused before Donal. She spoke good Homanan, and was polite, but he was aware of an undertone of contempt. “You wish to see the Queen. Of course. This way.”

Donal measured his step to the woman’s. She paused before a brass door that had been meticulously hammered and beveled into thousands of intricate shapes. The woman tapped lightly, then stepped aside with a smooth, practiced gesture. “Through here. But the boy must wait without—there, on the bench. The Queen sees no one unless she so orders it, and I doubt she would wish to see
him.
”

Donal restrained the retort he longed to make, matching the woman’s efficient, officious manner as he inclined his head just enough to acknowledge her words. Then he turned to Sef. “Wait for me here.”

Sef’s thin face was pale and frightened as he slowly sat down on the narrow stone bench beside the door. He clasped his hands in his lap, hunching within his cloak, and waited wordlessly.

“Be not afraid,” Donal said gently. “No one will seek to harm you. You are the Prince’s man.”

Sef swallowed, nodded, but did not smile. He looked at his hands only, patently prepared to wait with what patience he thought was expected, and wanting none of it.