Her young mouth twisted bitterly. “Oh, aye, I heard all the stories. How could I not in Homana-Mujhar? We have all heard the lays from the harpers—how it was the Queen of Homana sought to slay her wedded husband.” Aislinn looked away from him, staring instead at the mainland as the ship sailed closer. “I heard them all,” she muttered, “but she is my mother, and I wanted to see her. Oh, how I longed to see her!”
“Because she was the stuff of legend?” He could not let it pass.
Aislinn’s chin rose defensively. “That, too. She was Electra of Solinde, Bellam’s daughter, ensorceled by Tynstar himself.” Her fair skin was flushed with shame. “And I wondered: did I have any of the Solindish witch in me? I could not help but wonder.”
“No.” Donal shifted against the rail. “Aislinn—you must know I do not blame you. I cannot say I know Electra well—like you, I know her through the legends—but I do know that what you said was what she had put into your mind. She is a witch, with powers we cannot fully comprehend.”
“And you are Cheysuli.” Aislinn’s gray gaze, though red-rimmed from her anguish, was very steady. She had more of Electra in her features than Carillon, but he saw a shadow of her father in her pride and confidence. “Can your magic not overcome hers?”
“She can use none on me,” he agreed, “because of my Cheysuli blood. But she is free to use what she will on you. You are Homanan—”
“—and Solindish.” She said it very clearly. “Do you wonder, now, if I am the enemy also? If what she said about me is true, then perhaps I am nothing but a tool to be used against my father…or even you.”
“There is no truth in Electra’s mouth.” Donal tugged her braid again, and then the hand slipped under the rope of hair to press against the cloak and her back beneath the wool. “We must make a marriage, you and I, for the sake of your jehan’s realm. But if you have even the smallest bit of Carillon in you, I need have no fear of Electra’s influence.”
Aislinn stared fixedly at the shoreline. “You said you did not desire the throne.” Her voice trembled just a little. “You said—and clearly—you did not desire me.”
He was not a man of stone, to hear the pain in her voice and not respond. But he could not lie to her, not even to salve her pride.
“The truth,” he said gently. “No. I do not desire you. I think of you as a rujholla, not a cheysula.”
“I am not your sister.” Her spine was rigid beneath his hand. “And I do not think of you as a brother.”
She never had; he knew that. He had known it from the beginning. Before she was old enough to know what betrothal meant, she had decided to marry him.
Aislinn turned and faced him. “We were young together, briefly; you grew up too fast. You already had your lir—you were a warrior, not a boy, and too soon you wearied of playing with little girls. Me. Your sister. Meghan.” She shrugged. “You left us all behind. But now—now—I am trying to catch up.”
He knew what she wanted. Some confirmation there could be love between them. And he knew he could not offer it.
I will hurt her. One day…I will have to.
“Aislinn—let it come of its own time if the gods desire it. You are young. There is time.”
“I am young,” Aislinn agreed, “but I am old enough. The priests will see to that.”
Donal touched her braid again. “Aye, so they will. I am sorry, Aislinn. But I will not give you falsehood or false dreams.”
She turned abruptly and faced him. “Do you not care for me at all?”
He wanted to retreat, but did not. He owed her more, no matter how horrible he felt. And he felt. More deeply than he had believed possible. He was fond of Aislinn, very fond; she had always been a winsome girl, and he had always enjoyed her company. But it was girl to man, not man to woman; he had another woman for that.
“Aislinn,” he said at last, “what you know of a man and woman has been twisted by your jehana. You would do well to speak to mine, to know the truth of things.”
Aislinn set her jaw. It was delicately feminine, but he did not forget what man had helped to form it. “Alix is your mother,” Aislinn declared. “She will think only of you, and not at all of me.”
“She is not blind to my faults,” Donal told her wryly. “She knows me very well.”
“But would she admit them openly to me?”
He laughed. “Do you think there are so many?”
“Sometimes.” She pushed strands of hair out of her face. “They say you are much like Finn. And what I have heard of him—”
“From Electra?” Donal wanted to spit. “Gods, Aislinn, there is nothing but hatred between them.”
“From others. You know what the servants say in Homana-Mujhar.”
He overrode her at once. “Most of those stories are false. They are made-up things, tales to entertain those who enjoy such petty nonsense.” He shook his head. “Do you think your jehan would keep by him a liege man who had done all the things the tales say Finn did?”
“He is your uncle,” Aislinn retorted. “I think you will not admit he has faults.”
Donal smiled wryly. “Oh, aye, my su’fali has faults. Many of them—but not so many as all these people so willingly ascribe to him.” He sighed, frowning a little. “But—Carillon says I am more like my jehan….” He said the last part wistfully, revealing more of his feelings than he realized; knowing only he longed to be as much like his father as he could.
Aislinn looked at him sharply. He was aware of the intensity of her appraisal. After a moment she looked away again. “You—never speak of your father. You never did. At least—not often.”
“No.” Donal turned away to lean against the taffrail, belt buckle scraping against wood. “No. For a long time, I could not. Now, although I can, I find I prefer to keep him private.”
“Because that way he is yours, and you do not have to share him.” Aislinn stood next to him. Her nearness—and unexpected understanding—was disconcerting. He would have preferred another woman standing at his side, blonde instead of red-haired, but she was not there. Aislinn was. “I never knew Duncan,” she said quietly. “I was too young when he died.” She cast him a sidelong glance, then looked more directly at him, as if she threw him a challenge. “He did die, did he not?”
“He died. As a lirless Cheysuli dies.” His tone was more clipped than he intended. But it was difficult to speak of his father’s fate when he resented his loss so much. He recalled too clearly how Carillon had given him the news, saying Tynstar had slain Duncan’s lir. Dead lir: dead Cheysuli. As simple as that.
Except it was not. He knew—as every Cheysuli knew—that death was the end result of lirlessness, but no one knew how it happened. How the life was ended at last.
Your father is dead, Carillon had said. Tynstar slew his lir.
Very little else had been necessary, though Carillon had said the words anyway. Even at eight years of age, Donal understood precisely what lirlessness meant.
“What was he like?” Aislinn asked.
“He was clan-leader of the Cheysuli. A warrior. He served the prophecy.” He thought it was enough; at least, for her.
“That says what he was. Not who.”
Donal pushed the breath through the constriction in his throat. “He was—more. More than most. One man may claim he is the best hunter, another may claim the best shot, another the premier tracker. But—my jehan was all of those things. Clan-leader at my age, because he was the wisest of those young warriors who survived Shaine’s qu’mahlin. More dedicated; he knew what faced the Cheysuli and he brought them through it. He brought Carillon to the knowledge of what he was; of what he had to be. Gods…he gave up his own freedom in service to the prophecy, knowing he would die. Knowing Tynstar would win their personal battle.”
“He knew!” Clearly, Aislinn was shocked. “How can a man foresee his own death, and then go to it?”
Donal put out his right hand and made the Cheysuli gesture: palm up, fingers spread, encompassing i
nfinity. “Tahlmorra,” he said. “My jehan had a clearer vision than most, and he did not turn away. He knew what he had to do. He knew what the price would be.”
“Tynstar slew him.” She stared fixedly toward the shoreline. “There are so many legends about that sorcerer.”
“Tynstar slew his lir.” He shrugged. “One and the same, in the end.”
Aislinn looked at him sharply. “Then—he did what a lirless Cheysuli does? He simply walked away?”
He was somewhat surprised she knew that much. It was not often spoken of, even in the clans. Cheysuli simply knew. But he had not expected Aislinn to know.
“The death-ritual.” Donal’s hands closed tightly on the rail. “It is customary. But personal for each warrior.”
Aislinn shivered. “I could never do it.”
“You will never have to.”
After a moment, she reached out and touched his arm, as if to comfort him. “So—you came to live at Homana-Mujhar in the wake of your father’s death.”
“No. I came to spend time there at Carillon’s behest, not to live there. The Keep is my home.”
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.
Legacy of the Sword Page 6
