Legacy of the Sword (6 page)

Knowing he could do nothing more, Donal gave up the effort and passed through the magnificent door. It thudded shut behind him.

Taj rode his right shoulder. Lorn paced beside his left leg. He was warded about with
lir
, and still he felt apprehensive. This was Electra he faced.

Witch. Tynstar’s
meijha.
More than merely a woman.
But he went on, pacing the length of the cavernous hall.

Electra awaited him. He saw her standing at the end of the hallway on a marble dais. And he nearly stopped in his tracks.

He had heard, as they all had, that Electra’s fabled beauty was mostly illusory, that Tynstar had given it to her along with the gift of youth and immortality; so long as she was not slain outright, she—like Tynstar—would never die. He had heard that the beauty would fade, since she was separated from Tynstar. But Donal knew how much power rumors had—as well as how little truth—and now as he saw the woman again for the first time in fifteen years, he could not say if she was human or immortal; ensorceled or genuine.

By the gods…separation from Tynstar has
not
dulled her beauty; has
not
dispersed the magic!

Her pale gray eyes, watched him approach the dais. Long-lidded, somnolent eyes; eyes that spoke of bedding. Her hair was still a fine white-blonde, lacking none of its shine or texture. Loose, it flowed over her shoulders like a mantle, held back from her face by a simple fillet of golden, interlocked swans. Her skin lacked none of the delicate bloom of youth, and her allure was every bit as powerful as it had been the day she trapped Carillon in her spell.

Donal looked at her. No longer a boy, he saw Electra as a man sees a woman: appraising, judgmental and forever wondering what she would be like if she ever shared his bed. He could not look at her without sexual fantasy; it was not that he desired her, simply that Electra seemed to magically inspire it.

I have been blind
, he realized.
No more can I say to Carillon I cannot comprehend what made him keep her by him, even when he recognized her intent.
He swallowed heavily.
I
have been such a fool.
…But he would never admit it to her—or to Carillon.

Electra wore a simple gown of silvered gray velvet, but over it she had draped a wine-purple mantle of sheer, pearly silk. Unmoving, she watched him. Watching her watching him, Donal made up his mind to best her.

“You come at last.” Her voice was low and soft, full of the cadences of Solinde. “I had thought Carillon’s little wolfling would keep himself to his forests.”

Donal managed to maintain an impassive face as he halted before the dais. A word within the link to Taj sent the falcon fluttering to perch upon the back of the nearest chair. Lorn stood at Donal’s left knee, ruddy pelt rising on his shoulders.

As if he too senses the power in the woman.

Electra was not a tall woman, though her tremendous self-possession made her seem so. The dais made her taller yet, but even marble could not compete with Donal’s Cheysuli height.

It was an odd moment. She stood before him, impossibly beautiful and immortally young. Too young. He came to speak of her daughter, when she appeared hardly old enough to bear one.

He smiled.
I have you, Electra, and you do not even know it.

She watched him. The clear, gray-pale eyes did not move from his face, as if she judged him solely by his own eyes. Well, he knew what she saw: a clear, eerily perfect yellow; eyes bestial and uncanny, full of a strange inborn wisdom and wildness, and a fanatic dedication to the prophecy of the Firstborn.

We are enemies. We need say nothing to one another; it is there. It was there from the day I was born, as if she knew what I would come to mean to her and the Ihlini lord she serves.

“I have come to fetch home your daughter, lady,” he said quietly. “It is time for us to wed.”

Electra’s head moved only a little on her slender neck. Her voice was quiet and contained. “I do not give my permission for this travesty to go forth. No.”

“The choice is not yours—”

“So you may say.” Slender, supple hands smoothed the silk of her mantle, drawing his eyes to their subtle seductiveness. “Think you I will allow my daughter to wed a Cheysuli shapechanger? No.” She smiled slowly. “I forbid it.”

He set his teeth. “Forbid what you will, Electra, it will do you little good. If you seek to rail at me like a jackdaw because of your fate, I suggest you look at the cause of your disposal. It is because of
you
Carillon has made me heir to Homana and your daughter’s intended husband.
You
, lady. Because you conspired against him.”

Long-nailed fingers twisted the wine-red fabric of her mantle. Her eyes held a malignant fascination. “Your prophecy says a Cheysuli must hold the Lion Throne of Homana before it can be fulfilled. Undoubtedly all of the shapechangers think that man will be you, since Carillon has let everyone know—no
matter how unofficially—that he intends to proclaim you his heir. ‘Prince of Homana,’ are you not styled, even before the proper time?” Electra smiled. “But that is not the prophecy Tynstar chooses to serve…
nor is it mine
! We will put no Cheysuli on the Lion Throne but an Ihlini-born man, and we will see to Carillon’s death.”

“You have tried,” he said with a calmness he did not feel. “You have tried to slay him before, and it has failed. Is Tynstar so inept? Is he a powerless sorcerer? Or has the Seker turned his face from his servant, so that Tynstar lacks a lord?” He waited, but she made no answer. Even in her anger, she was utterly magnificent. He felt the tightening of his loins, and it made him angry with himself as well as with the woman. “Electra, I ask you one thing: have you said this to your daughter? Do you tell
her
what you intend to do? He is, after all, her father.”

“Aislinn is not your concern.”

“Aislinn will be my
cheysula.
”

“Use no shapechanger words to me!” she snapped. “Carillon may have sent me here, but this is
my
hall!
My
palace!
I
rule here!”

“What do you rule?” he demanded. “A few pitiful acres of land, served only by those who serve the Mujhar, except for your loyal women. An impressive realm, Electra.” He shook his head. “It is a pity you hold no court. Instead, you have only the memories of what you once had the ordering of.” He smiled ironically. “The grandeur of Bellam’s palaces in Solinde and the magnificence of Homana-Mujhar. But all of that is gone, Electra—banished by your treachery and deceit. Curse not me or mine when you must first curse yourself.”

For the first time he had shaken her composure utterly. He could see it. She trembled with fury, and clutched at the silk of her mantle so that the fabric crumpled and rent. Rich color stood high in her face. “First you must
wed
her, shapechanger, to merge the proper blood. But what is not yet done shall
remain
undone…and the prophecy shall fail.”

Electra stretched out a hand toward him. He saw the merest crackle and flare of purple flame around one pointing finger, but the color died. The hand was nothing more than a hand. Before a Cheysuli, the arts Tynstar had taught her failed.

“Tynstar’s sorcery keeps you young now, Electra,” Donal
said gently. “But you should remember: you
are
a woman of fifty-five. One day, it will catch up to you.” He walked slowly toward the dais, mounted it even as she opened her mouth to revile him, and slowly walked around her. “One day he will be slain, and then what becomes of you? You will age, even as Carillon ages. Your bones will stiffen and your blood will flow sluggishly. One day you will not be able to rise, so feeble will you have become, and you will be bound to chair or bed. And then you shall have only endless empty hours in which to spin your impotent webs.” He stopped directly before her. “That is your
tahlmorra
, Electra…I wish you well of it.”

Electra said nothing. She merely smiled an unsettling smile.

“What of
me
?” asked a voice from a curtained opening. “What do you wish for
me
?”

D
onal spun around and saw the young woman gowned in snowy white. A girdle of gold and garnets spilled down the front of her skirts to clash and chime against the hem. Red-gold hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, in glorious disarray. Her lustrous white skin and long gray eyes were her mother’s; her pride was Carillon’s.

“Aislinn!” It was the only word he could muster. For two years he had not seen her, knowing her only through her letters to Carillon. And in those two years she had crossed the threshold between girlhood and womanhood. She was still young—too young, he thought, for marriage—but all her awkward days were over.

He smiled at her, prepared to tell her how much she had changed—and for the better. But his smile slowly began to fade as she moved into the hall.

Aislinn let the tapestry curtain fall from a long-fingered hand. The gems in the girdle flashed in the candlelight. Gold gleamed. A fortune clasped her slender waist and dangled against her skirts. And Donal, knowing that Carillon’s taste in gifts to his daughter ran to merlins, puppies and kittens, realized the girdle was undoubtedly a present from Electra.

He looked at Aislinn’s face. It was taut and forbidding, set in lines too harsh for a young woman of sixteen years, but if she had heard his final words to Electra he was not at all surprised she should view him with some hostility.

The girdle chimed as Aislinn moved. And Donal wondered
uneasily if Electra had somehow purchased her daughter’s loyalty.

Carillon should never have sent her…not for so long. Not for two years. The gods know he meant well by it, realizing the girl needed to see her jehana…but he should have had her brought back much sooner, regardless of all those letters begging to remain a little longer. Two years is too long. The gods know what the witch has done to Aislinn’s loyalties.

The girl halted before him, glancing briefly at the wolf. Donal thought she might greet her old friend, but she made no move to kneel down and scratch Lorn’s ears as she had in earlier days.

Aislinn’s pride was manifest. “Well? What say you, Donal?” Her tone was a reflection of her mother’s, cool and supremely controlled. “What of
me
?”

“By the gods, Aislinn!” he said in surprise. “I have no quarrel with
you.
It is your
jehana
who lacks manners!”

It was obviously not what she expected him to say. She lost all of her cool demeanor and stared at him in astonishment. “How
dare
you attack my mother!”

“Donal.” Electra’s voice sounded dangerously amused, and he looked at her warily. “Are you certain you
wish
to wed my daughter?”

He wanted to swear. He did not, but only because he shut his mouth on the beginning of the word. He glared at Electra. “Play no games with me, lady. Aislinn and I have been betrothed for fifteen years. We have been friends as long as that.”

Electra smiled: a cat before a mousehole. “Friends, aye—at one time. But are you so certain she is the woman you would wish to keep as your wife the rest of your life?”

No
, he said inwardly.
Not Aislinn…but what choice do I have?

He gritted his teeth and made up his mind not to lose the battle. Not to Electra. He knew she took no prisoners. “I imagine you have done what you could to turn Aislinn against this marriage in the two years you have hosted her.” He glanced at the girl and saw contempt for him in her eyes. Electra’s eyes, so cool and shrewd. Contempt, where once there had been childlike adoration. “Aye,” he said grimly, “I see you have. But I have more faith in Aislinn’s integrity.”

“Integrity has nothing to do with it,” Electra said gently. “Ask Aislinn what she thinks of bearing unnatural children.”

Shock riveted him. He stared at the woman in horror. “
Unnatural children—
”

“Ask Aislinn what she thinks of babies born with fangs and claws and tails, and the beast-mark on their faces,” Electra suggested softly. “Ask Aislinn what she thinks of playing mother—no,
jehana
—” she twisted the Old Tongue cruelly “—to a
thing
not wholly human nor wholly animal—but bestial instead.” The perfect mouth smiled. “Ask Aislinn, my lord Prince of Homana, what she thinks about sharing a bed with a man who cannot control his shape—
in
bed or out of it.”

He took a single lurching step away from the dais and the woman. “What
filth
have you told her—?”

“Filth?” Electra arched white-blond brows. “Only the truth, shapechanger. Or do you deny the gold on your arms, in your ear…the animals your kind call the
lir
?” An expressive gesture encompassed gold and wolf and bird.

He felt ill. He wanted to turn his back on the woman and flee the hall, but he could not do it. He would not do it. He would not allow her to win. “Lies,” he said flatly. “And Aislinn knows it. Do you forget?—she has known me since her birth.”