Legacy of the Sword (9 page)

Aislinn looked at him steadily. “And when we are wed? Do you think
I
could live in such a place?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. You will live in Homana-Mujhar, as you have always done. But you must know there will be times—perhaps
many
times—when I will go to the Keep. There are—kinfolk there.”

Aislinn nodded. “I understand. My father has said I cannot expect you to forget the blood in your veins.” She shook her head a little. “I do not understand it—what it is to be Cheysuli—but he has said I must give you your freedom when I can. That you tame a Cheysuli by keeping your hand light.” She smiled at the imagery.

Donal did not. Inwardly, he grimaced. And yet he blessed Carillon for preparing the girl for his absences, no matter what images were used.

But she will have to know sometime. I cannot keep her in ignorance forever.

He looked past her at the shoreline. “Aislinn—we are here. You have come home again to Homana.”

Her reddish brows slid up. “Is not the island part of Homana, then?”

“The Crystal Isle is—different.” He thought to let it go at that, but could not when he saw her frown. “It was a Cheysuli place long before Homana was settled by the Firstborn.”

She flicked one hand in a quick, dismissive gesture. “Your history is different from mine.”

“Aye,” he agreed ironically.
More different than you can imagine.

“What do we do now?” she asked as the boat thudded home at the dock.

“We see to it your trunks are offloaded, and then we shall find an inn that meets with your royal standards.” He took her elbow to steady her. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to start out for Homana-Mujhar.”

He had thought, originally, to stay the night on the Crystal Isle, but after his bout with Electra he felt he had to leave, to
take Aislinn back to the mainland quickly. The girl had been terrified her mother would use magic on her, to force her to stay against her will. And so Donal had taken her off the island along with Sef and his
lir
, since Aislinn would have none of her mother’s Solindish women with her. And now they faced the journey ahead without a proper escort for the Princess of Homana.

Well, Sef will lend
some
measure of respectability to the journey. I hope.

Donal watched silently as Aislinn’s trunks were offloaded and placed on the dock at Hondarth. Sef, as had already become his habit, stood near him. The boy had been unusually silent since he had followed Donal out of Electra’s palace, but then Donal knew he himself had not been the best of company. The confrontation with Electra had left a foul taste in his mouth, particularly since she had nearly accomplished what she had intended.

She almost made me doubt her daughter. She nearly made me wonder how much of Aislinn’s soul is still her own. But I thank the gods the girl has her own mind, because it has saved her from her mother’s machinations.

He glanced at Sef. The boy was still pale, still secret in his silences, watching as the captain piled up all the chests. The odd mismatched eyes seem fastened on the distances, as if the island had touched him somehow, and he was still lost within its spell.

Well, perhaps he is. Perhaps he begins to understand what it is to be Cheysuli—what the weight of history is. Does he wish to serve me, he will
have
to understand it.

The dock was busy with men. Donal turned to one of them, hired him with a nod, and gestured toward the growing pile of chests. “Hire men and horses to take these to Homana-Mujhar, in Mujhara.” Briefly he showed the ruby signet ring with its black rampant lion. The man’s eyes widened. “Lose none of these things, for the Mujhar’s daughter prizes her belongings…and the Mujhar prizes his daughter’s contentment.”

The man bobbed his head in a nervous bow, accepting the plump purse Donal gave him, but his eyes slid to Aislinn as she walked unsteadily down the plank. She was wrapped in the heavy brown traveling cloak but, with her bright hair,
unconscious dignity and a subtlety of manner that somehow emphasized her rank, her identity was hardly secret.

“See it is done,” Donal said clearly. “The Mujhar will reward you well.”

The man looked at him again; at the yellow eyes and golden earring. The cloak hid Donal’s leathers and the rest of his gold, but there was no need to show it. His race was stamped in his face; a Cheysuli, even one born to his clan instead of a throne, wears royalty like his flesh.

The man bobbed another bow, then quickly went about his business.

Aislinn, having come to stand next to Donal, watched the man closely. “They serve you through fear,” she said clearly, as if making a discovery. “Not loyalty. Not even knowing you are the Prince.” She looked into Donal’s face. “They serve because they are afraid
not
to.”

“Some,” he agreed, preferring not to lie. “It is a thing most Cheysuli face. As for me—it does not matter.”

Her coppery brows drew down. “But I saw how it grated with you: his fear. I saw how you wished it was otherwise.”

“I do,” he admitted. “The man who
desires
to see fear in the faces of his servants is no proper man at all.”

“And you are?” She showed white teeth, small and even, in a teasing, winsome smile. “What
proper
man takes on the shapes of
animals
?”

He was relieved to see the humor and animation in her face. So, in keeping with her bantering, he opened his mouth to retort that she should know, better than most, what it meant to be Cheysuli. She had grown up with enough of them around her at her father’s palace.

But then he recalled that it was to
him
she had directed her questions, and how reluctant he had been to answer. She had been a child, a girl; he had been older, already blessed with his
lir
, and therefore considered a warrior. Then, he had felt, he had little time for a cousin with questions when there were other more important concerns.

Now he knew he had erred, even as he teased. He would have to spend time with her; he would have to educate her, so she could understand. Particularly if she were to comprehend the sometimes confusing customs of the Cheysuli, which often conflicted with the Homanan ones she knew so well.

Uneasily, he wondered if he could explain them all properly.

“We cannot stay here. We must find an inn, sup, then get a good night’s rest so we may start back for Mujhara in the morning.” Donal glanced at Sef. “You know Hondarth better than I. Suggest an inn suitable for the Princess of Homana, then go and fetch my horse while I escort the lady.”

Sef thought it over. “The White Hart,” he said at last. “It is not far.” He pointed “Up that way and around the corner there. It’s a fine inn. I can’t say I’ve seen its
best
parts—” he smiled a little “—but I’m sure it’ll suit the princess. I’ll bring your horse. And should I speak to the hostler about buying another for the princess?”

Donal smiled. Sef had taken his service to heart, seeking to do everything Donal would have a grown man do. “And for yourself? Or do you intend to walk?” He laughed as Sef’s face reddened. “Fetch back my horse and you may speak to the hostler. Perhaps he has two good mounts for sale.”

Sef nodded, bowing clumsily in Aislinn’s direction, and scrambled up the dock-ramp to the quay beyond. He vanished in an instant.

Aislinn frowned. “I have not known you to keep boys before. Especially ones like
that.
”

“I took Sef on because he is earnest and willing…and because he needs a home.” Donal bent to run his fingers through Lorn’s thick coat. “He is a good boy. Give him a chance, and I think you will see how helpful he can be.” He slanted her an arch glance. “Is it not part of a princess’s responsibilities to succor where succor is needed?”

Color flared in her face. “Of course. And—I will do so.” She snugged the furred cloak more tightly around her body and turned her back on him, heading for the dock-ramp.

Donal laughed to himself and followed.

*   *   *

Seabirds screeched, swooping over the waterfront. Fisherfolk lined the shore, hauling in their catches. The pervasive smell of fish hung over everything; Aislinn wrinkled her nose with its four golden freckles and set a hand over her mouth. “How much farther?”

Donal reached out and caught her elbow, steadying her at once. “Sef said it was around this corner.”

“Have we not
already
gone around that corner?”

“Well, perhaps he meant another. Come, it cannot be so far.”

The sun fell below the horizon and set the white-washed buildings ablaze in the sunset, pink and orange and purple. Lanterns were lighted and set into brackets or onto window ledges, so that the twisting streets were full of light and shadows. Aislinn’s hair was suddenly turned dark by the setting sun, haloed by gold-tipped, brilliant curls.

Behind them lay the ocean, gilded glassy bronze by the sunset. White gulls turned black in silhouette; their cries resounded in the canyons of myriad streets. The uneven and broken cobbles grew treacherous underfoot, hidden in light and darkness, until Donal took Aislinn’s arm and helped her over the worst parts.

“Maybe he meant
this
corner,” Aislinn said, as they rounded yet another.

Lir
, Taj said, flying overhead. Then, more urgently,
Lir!

Five men came into the street. From out of the shadows they flowed, bristling with weapons. Three behind and two in front. Donal cursed beneath his breath.

Aislinn hesitated, then glanced up at him. He tightened his grasp on her arm, hoping to go on without the need for conflict, but the men moved closer together. All exits were blocked, unless he flew over their heads. But that would leave Aislinn alone.

One man grinned, displaying teeth blackened by a resinous gum he chewed even as he spoke. “Shapechanger,” he said, “we been watching you. You with your pretty girl.” The grin did not change. He bared his teeth. “Shapechanger, why do you come out of your forest? Why do you foul our streets?”

Donal glanced back quickly, totaling up the odds. With Taj and Lorn, he was hardly threatened, but there was Aislinn to think about.

The man stepped closer, and so did the others. “Shapechanger,” he said, “Homanan girls are not for you.”

“Nor are they for you.” Silently, Donal told Taj to continue circling out of range. Lorn moved away from his leg to widen their circle of safety.

“Donal!” Aislinn cried. “Tell them who you are!”

“No.” He knew she would not understand. But men such as these, now bent on a little questionable pleasure, might see the implications rife in holding the Mujhar’s daughter. Fortunes could be made.

“Donal—!”

Black-teeth laughed. “Who are you, then? What does she want you to say?”

“Move away, Aislinn,” Donal said. “It is me they want, not you.”

“Is it?” Black-teeth asked. “What does a man do when faced with a woman who consorts with the enemy?”

“Donal—
stop
them—!”

One of the men scooped up a stone and hurled it at Donal. He heard it whistle in the air and twisted, trying to duck away, but even as that stone missed another one did not. It struck a glancing blow across his cheek, smacking against the bone. And then all of the men were throwing.

He heard Aislinn cry out. But mostly he heard the cruel hatred in their voices as the men taunted him.

“Shapechanger!”
they cried. “Demon—!”

Taj
, he asked,
where are you?

About to impale the leader—

Lorn—?

Can you not hear the man screaming?

He could. One of the men reeled away, clutching at his right leg. Lorn released him and leaped for an arm, closing on his wrist. The man screamed again, crying out for help, but the others were too busy.

Black-teeth fell away, clawing at his back. Taj still rode his shoulders with his talons sunk into flesh. Donal, left with three men, drew his knife to face them.

No more rocks did they throw. In their hands were knives. No longer did he face Homanans merely out to trouble a Cheysuli, but men intent upon his death.

He was angry. Dangerously angry. He felt the anger well up inside, trying to fill his belly. Not once had he faced a man merely trying to steal his purse; not once had he faced a man simply wishing to fight, as men will sometimes do. Not once had he faced any man attempting to take his life. And now that he did, it frightened him.

But the fright he could overcome, or turn to for strength. It was the anger that troubled him most; the anger that came from knowing they saw him for his race and marked him for death because of it.

When a man dies, he should die for a
reason—
not this senseless prejudice—

And with an inward snap of rage and intolerance, he summoned the magic.

H
e knew what the Homanans saw. What Aislinn saw. A blurring voice. A coalescing nothingness. Where once had stood a man, albeit a Cheysuli man, now there was an absence of anything.

It was enough, Carillon had said once, to make a man vomit. The Mujhar had seen such happen before, when Finn had taken
lir
-shape. Apparently it was true, for one of the men cried out and soiled himself even as Donal changed.