Legacy of the Sword (53 page)

He shut his eyes. “You know what I have done.”

“I know what you have done.”

“And will you curse me for it? I know the others will. The Homanans—” He broke off. “Gods—they have every right. I nearly slew the Queen. And if I am exceedingly fortunate, this will not begin a war.”

“Aye,” Evan agreed. Then, gently, “How could you think it of her, Donal? Aislinn is not the enemy.”

“Not the enemy, no; the victim. Sorcha’s victim, as much as Sorcha was victim herself.” He buried his head in his hands, pressing his forehead. “Oh, gods—how can I believe it? Sorcha—gone…and making Aislinn look so guilty!”

“She must have been very unhappy. To love you so much and yet hate you so much—”

“Hate
me
?” Donal’s head snapped up. “It was
Aislinn
she hated, and the Homanans.”

“And you. For leaving her, even briefly.” Evan shook his head. “I never knew her. I cannot explain much about her, except to say that there are women—and men—whose affection becomes obsession.”

“She said I would turn away from the clans. Turn away from our customs. Seek instead the Homanan way of living.”

“And you did.” Evan put up a silencing hand. “No,
I
know you did not—but it probably appeared so to her. You were gone for months on end. You wed Aislinn, then went away to war. Returned long enough to get a child on your Homanan wife, then got captured by the Ihlini. Sorcha met with Aislinn, as Rowan said, and undoubtedly the discussion
was—
heated.
Aislinn has a powerful pride. No doubt Sorcha thought she had lost you for good, and to the
Homanans.
And so she went away, intending to take her own life, but intending also to make it look as if Aislinn had driven her to it.”

“And succeeded.” He dug fingers into his hair. “Evan—” He broke it off. Meghan had come into the hall.

“Donal?” Her call echoed in the timbers. “Donal?”

She comes with news of Aislinn
— Donal shut his eyes. “Aye?” he said. “Meghan—I am here.”

She picked up her skirts and hastened toward the dais. “Donal—you have a son!”

He stared at her as she arrived before them both, a little breathless; gods knew how long she had been looking for him. “A son?”

Tawny hair tumbled over her shoulders. “A healthy son, Donal. She has given you an heir.”

He felt the guilt rise up to stab him in the belly. “Aislinn?” he asked hoarsely.

Meghan raked a hand through her shining hair. “She is—very weak. Donal…you had best go to her.”

He felt cold, cold and empty, sucked dry of all but the knowledge of his guilt. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet. “Aye…I will go.”

*   *   *

When at last he looked upon his wife, he saw a child in the bed; a child whose glorious hair spread across the pillows in rich red disarray. Her fair skin was whiter still with the waxy look of the ill. Gold-tipped lashes lay against the dark circles beneath her eyes. The bedclothes were pulled up under her chin, but one arm lay across the coverlet, blue-veined against the fairness of her flesh.

Oh gods, what have I done to her? How could you let me do it?
But he knew, even as he asked it, the question was unfair. He had only himself to blame.

Donal sat down on the edge of her bed. He was alone with her, having dismissed her women, and now all he wanted was to see her looking at him from her great gray, shining eyes.

Electra’s eyes—
Abruptly he shook his head.
No, her
own.
I am done laying Electra’s machinations at the feet of her innocent daughter.

He smoothed the strands of fine hair back from her brow. He traced the winged line of her eyebrows and the cool silk
of her eyelids. “Aislinn,” he said. “She was all I ever wanted. A Cheysuli warrior may take as many women as he chooses, providing the women are willing, but for me—for me it was always Sorcha. Ever since we were young.” He looked down on her pale, still face. “You yourself are so young—you cannot know what it is to love someone from childhood—” He broke it off.
By all the gods!—I wrong her again, as I have wronged her all along. I pride myself on knowing I have loved Sorcha all these years—and all the while I was no younger than Aislinn is now when I knew what Sorcha meant to me. She bore me a child when she was not so much younger than Aislinn is now. Gods—I have been such a selfish brute—

He clasped her hand in his. Then, slowly, he slid off the bed and knelt beside it, setting his forehead against the silk of the counterpane.

He sent the call winging deep into the earth, praying the magic would answer him though he had already used it wrongly. He could not afford another mistake. Not with her life at stake.

Donal drifted. He felt the wispy, tensile strength of the magic in the earth. He abased himself before it, admitting freely his guilt. He did not hide what he had done. He opened himself up to the omniscience of the earth and let it see what manner of man he was.

And at last, when he thought it would not answer, the power flowed up from the earth to bathe Aislinn in its magic.

*   *   *

When Aislinn roused, moving beneath the bedclothes like a fretful child, he released her fingers and rose. He put out his hand and caught the nearest bedpost to steady himself; he was dizzy, disoriented. The healing should not have been done alone. He had nearly lost himself within the overwhelming power of the magic, and he still trembled from the knowledge. But he felt the risk worth it; after what he done
to
her, it was time he did something
for
her.

But Aislinn stared up at him in astonishment. “No,” she whispered, clearly terrified. “Oh, gods…
no—”

“It heals,” he said hoarsely. “All it does is heal. I promise you that—”

“Promise
me
? You will slay me!” Her eyes were blackened by fear. “As you sought to slay me
before—”

“No.” He said it as clearly as he could, but his mouth did not work properly. He felt his knees buckle and clung desperately to the bedpost, sliding slowly to the floor. “I sought—sought only to know the truth….I would
not
have slain you—I swear—”

Aislinn stared at him like a doe cornered by the huntsman. Red-gold hair tumbled over her shoulders; her mouth trembled. “I loved you,” she said. “I loved you all my life. But—you already had
her.”
Color crept into her waxen cheeks. “It was you I wanted, Donal—ever since I was a child. And—I wanted to bear children for you, as many as I could—but even
that
she had already given you!” One shaking hand was touched to her mouth as if she sought to halt her words, but she let them spill out with a ragged dignity. “There was no gift left I could give you that
she
had not already given—
no gift at all…
oh
aye
, I wanted her gone—I
wanted her gone from here
! But I
swear
I did not send her. Donal, I did
not
!”

“I know.” He held himself up against the post. “I know it, Aislinn—”

“What have you done to me?” Tears spilled down her face.
“What have you done to me?”

“Healing,” he mumbled, “only healing. I want you strong again.”

She recoiled utterly. “Why? So you may send me away as my father sent my mother?”

Donal felt his last reserve crumble. All the savage grief he had tried to suppress surged up into his chest until he nearly choked on it. He took handfuls of the silken counterpane, clenched it tightly in white-knuckled fists and wept. “I have no one.” Sobs hissed through a throat nearly sealed by grief. “
I have no one left at all
—” he closed his eyes “—except for you.”

Aislinn said nothing at all.

“Tahlmorra,”
he said thickly. “All of it—” And he put his face down against the bed and knelt before her, a supplicant to the gods.

Aislinn’s breath was audible.
“Do you expect forgiveness?”

He heard the savagery in her tone. “No,” he said, but the word was muffled against the bed.

“Then what
do
you want from me?”

He lifted his head and saw her face. The deathbed pallor
was replaced by an angry flush high in her cheeks. Her emotion-darkened eyes glittered balefully.

“I want you to live,” he told her plainly. “I ask for nothing from you save that.”

“Why? So you may hurt me again?” Her hand shook as she touched her breast. “So you may hurt my heart again?”

Her broken, vulnerable tone broke the final barriers against emotion. “What promises can I make you?” he asked in desperation. “What words would you have me say? After all I have done to you, do you expect me to change with a wave of a hand?” He felt bitterness in his mouth. “Would you wish to have me beg? I will do it.”

“Beg
me
?” She stared.

He shut his eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

She swallowed heavily. “Once—I wanted your love. But that was too much to ask…you had given it to her.” Tears ran down her face. One shaking hand tried to hide the quivering of her mouth. “I only—I only wanted a chance—a
chance
to know what it was—”

He could not answer her. He could only shut his eyes and put his head down on the bed again.

“You do not love me.” The intonation was precise, as if she wished to make it clear.

He looked at her sharply, fearing she sickened again. But he saw high color in her face and a startled recognition in her eyes. “You do not love me,” she repeated, with wonder in her voice, “but you
need
me.
You
need
me.”

The breath slipped out of his throat. “I need you,” he admitted. “By all the gods,
I do.”

Aislinn stared at him a long moment, all manner of emotion in her face. He saw anger and pain and grief and regret, but he also saw something else. Something akin to
possessiveness.

“Well,” she said with intense, peculiar triumph, “perhaps that will be enough.”

E
van raised his goblet. “To Niall, the Prince of Homana. Four weeks old and thriving.”

Donal smiled. He brought up his goblet to clash against Evan’s, then drank down a swallow of wine.

They sat over their cups in Donal’s private solar. Sunlight spilled through the casements. Evan sat slumped deeply in a chair; Donal stretched out on a snow bear pelt with Lorn collapsed against his side. Taj perched on a chairback.

Evan put up his feet on a three-legged stool. “What will you do about Strahan?”

Donal scowled into his cup of wine. “What
can
I do? He is Ihlini—he has what freedom he can steal.”

“Could you not set a trap for him?”

“He has gone underground. There is no word of him. He could be in Valgaard by now, high in the Molon Mountains. He could be in Solinde, sheltered by those who still serve the Ihlini. He could be almost anywhere, Evan—there is nothing I can do. Except wait.”
And the gods know I will do that, no matter how long it takes.

Evan sighed and swirled his wine. “I know, I know—but it seems so futile to do nothing. You know he will do what he can to throw you down from the throne.”

“He is a boy,” Donal said. “I discount neither his power nor his heritage—but he
is
a boy. I think it likely he will wait until he grows older, old enough to inspire trust in other men. Oh, he will lead the Ihlini on the strength of his blood
alone—but how many others will follow? I think he will play at patience.”

“Donal?” It was Aislinn, standing in the open doorway. “A messenger has just come with word from Alaric of Atvia. It seems he is in Mujhara, intending to see you.”

Donal pressed himself upright. “Alaric is
here
?”

Evan nodded. “I said he would come, did I not? He will offer fealty, does he have any sense at all.”

Aislinn, hair braided and threaded with silver cord, pulled her pale green mantle more closely about her shoulders. “Shall we have his baggage moved into the palace?”

Donal, frowning, nodded. “Aye. It would transgress all decency did we leave him at an inn. Aye, send servants for his baggage. Gods!—I need a bath!”

Evan laughed. “Let him see you as you are.”

Donal, draining the rest of his wine, cast Evan a sour glance. “I intend to—but I also intend to show him what courtesy I can muster…can I muster
any.”
He turned to leave the room. “Aislinn—have Torvald set out fresh clothing.”

“Aye,” she said. “Cheysuli or Homanan?”

He stopped in the doorway. She faced him squarely, exhibiting no fear. What had passed between them after the healing had fashioned her into another woman.

One I do not know.
“Which would
you
say is more fitting to receive a man who was once an enemy?”

Aislinn smiled. “The shapechanger, my lord. How can you consider anything else?”

Donal received Alaric in the Great Hall, ensconced in the Lion Throne. He had put on blue-dyed Cheysuli leathers and a torque of gold around his throat to match his heavy belt. To Alaric, he did not doubt, he would resemble nothing more than a crude barbarian. Which was precisely what he desired.