He looked into her face and saw nothing of guile, only the expression she normally wore. And that mask he could not lift. “Bronwyn—” But he broke it off when Finn came out of the tent. With him was Aislinn; Donal’s brows slid up in surprise. He had not thought she would seek him on purpose.
Before Finn could protest, Donal set Ian into his arms. “We must go, or the sun will set before we reach Mujhara.” He grinned as Ian locked an arm around Finn’s neck and snuggled closer. Without thinking about it, Finn settled the boy more comfortably; he had had practice enough with Meghan.
Donal bent and kissed Ian briefly on the forehead. “Care for your new rujholla. I will come back to you when I may.” He turned and helped a silently staring Aislinn mount her horse. Then he retrieved the reins of his own mount and swung up into the saddle. Even as he settled, Lorn was at the horse’s side and Taj was in the air.
Finn reached out and caught one rein. “How does Carillon fare?”
Donal saw the true concern in his uncle’s face. For all they hardly saw one another now their paths had parted, Donal knew there remained a link that would always bind Finn and Carillon. Prince and liege man had spent five years in exile together; two more when the prince had become Mujhar. It was treachery that had parted them, and a broken oath that held.
Donal glanced briefly at Aislinn. But he saw no use in lying; she herself had marked her father’s deterioration. “He ages,” he said quietly. “Each day—more so than most men, I think. It is the disease…” He paused. “Is there nothing to be done?”
The sun shone off the heavy gold bands clasping Finn’s bare arms as he rubbed idly at the chestnut’s muzzle. He said nothing for a moment, but when he looked up into the sunlight Donal saw how he too had aged.
Gods, they shared so much…and now they share so little.
“Tynstar did not give Carillon anything he would not have suffered anyway, one day,” Finn said tonelessly. “He merely brought it on prematurely. We cannot undo what the gods see fit to bestow upon a man.”
“He is the Mujhar!” Donal lashed out. “Can the gods not see how much Homana needs him?”
Finn sighed. “No doubt there are reasons for it, Donal. The gods do nothing without them.” Abruptly he slapped the stallion’s shoulder. “Go back, then. See Aislinn safely to her jehan. Do not tarry here longer if Carillon is waiting.”
He serves him still…he would not admit it, but he does. In his heart, if nowhere else. He shifted in the saddle. “Aye, su’fali. Have you a message for him?”
Finn lifted a hand to block out the blinding sunlight. “Aye,” he said. “Tell him I will come to Homana-Mujhar.”
“You will?” Donal stared. “You have not been there in seventeen years!”
Finn smiled. “I think it unlikely I would miss my harani’s wedding. I will come to Homana-Mujhar.”
Donal laughed, and then he reached down to clasp his uncle’s arm as it hugged Ian closely. “My thanks, su’fali…it has been too long. I think even the servants miss you.”
“No. They miss the stories they told about me…no doubt they want fresh fodder.” Finn slapped the stallion on his broad chestnut rump. “Go. Do not let the Mujhar fret about his daughter.”
“No,” Donal agreed. But I will fret about mine, and with no one the wiser for it. He motioned for Sef to mount his horse. “Tarry no longer, Sef. I do not wish to lose the sun before we reach Mujhara.”
The boy caught his reins from the tree and climbed up into his saddle. He looked intently down at Bronwyn. “Perhaps I will see you again.”
She still clasped her arms behind her back. Her amber eyes were slitted against the sunlight; they almost looked yellow. “Aye. Come back. Or I will come to Homana-Mujhar.”
Sef eyed Donal. “If my lord allows me to.”
“You will come to Homana-Mujhar, Bronwyn,” Aislinn put in. “You and Meghan. When I am Queen, I will have to have women by me—I would have both of you.”
Finn frowned at once. “Meghan does not belong at court. Her place is in the Keep.”
“Jehan,” the girl protested softly. “If Aislinn needs me there, of course I will go.”
His tone was implacable. “This Keep is your home, Meghan. Homana-Mujhar would stifle you.”
“Could I not learn it for myself?” She put a slim hand on his bare arm, and Donal saw how already she claimed a woman’s gentle guile. “The Keep will always be my home, just as it is yours. But did you not spend years out of it?”
“Aye,” Finn said harshly. “And you have heard what such folly brought me.” His eyes were on Aislinn, but his tone indicated it was not the girl he saw. “The witch may no longer be there…but her memory survives.”
Donal’s personal chambers were, perhaps, a bit ostentatious for a Cheysuli warrior better accustomed to the Keep—and preferring it—but he could not deny that the luxuries conferred a comfort he occasionally appreciated. Thick woven carpets of rich muted tones softened the hard stone floor; woolen tapestries of every hue hid the blank rock walls. A single fat white beeswax candle set in each of four shadowed casement ledges turned the stained glass into jewel-toned panoramas of Homanan history.
The chamber was warm as well; Donal’s body-servant had lighted a fire that tinged the air with the smell of oak and ash. Donal did not doubt Torvald had also set warming pans beneath the bedclothes of his draped tester bed, but he had no intention of seeking his rest so soon. The sun had barely gone down. Aislinn had been delivered. It was early yet, and a task was left to do.
On the table near the bed rested a flagon of rich red Ellasian wine and four silver goblets. Donal filled two goblets, then motioned to Sef.
The boy, hanging back by the half-open door, stared. “Me, my lord?”
“There is no one else in the room.” Donal smiled. “I poured the wine for you. Will you join me in a toast?”
Slowly, Sef moved forward. He accepted the goblet from Donal’s hand and peered into the wine-filled depths. Light from candles and fire set the goblet’s contents aflame and bathed Sef’s pale face with a rosy glow. The hammered silver cast sparks of light into his eerie eyes. “My lord,” he said, “a toast?”
Donal raised his goblet. “To my daughter. To Isolde of the Cheysuli.”
Sef’s breath fogged the silver of the goblet as he peered nervously at Donal. “But—shouldn’t this be shared with someone other than me?”
Donal shrugged. “Perhaps, were I the sort to care about such things. But, I can hardly ask the Mujhar to bless the birth of my bastard daughter.” Donal did not smile. “You are here with me, and I would have you share my toast.”
Sef stared at him over the rim of his silver goblet. Then, grinning suddenly, he drank deeply.
Watching the boy, Donal was glad of his companionship. He felt flat, empty, as if he yearned for a fulfillment he could not quite comprehend. He only knew he felt cheated of time with his meijha, his son and his daughter, and all in the name of Homana.
Sorcha has the right of it. Fearing me for a shapechanger, the Homanans will do what they can to strip my Cheysuli habits from me and put Homanan in their place.
Instinctively he looked for Taj and Lorn, knowing no Homanan in all the world could strip him of those habits. Because if he were, there would be no Prince of Homana. There would be no Donal at all.
Lorn lay curled upon the tester bed, half hidden behind gauzy draperies. Like Donal, the wolf did not ignore luxury when it was offered. Taj had settled upon his perch in a corner of the chamber, setting beak to wing to smooth the shining feathers.
“My lord?” It was Sef, upper lip painted with wine until a tongue reached up to carry the smear away. “You said once I could ask you any question.”
“Aye.” Donal sat down on the nearest stool. “Why? Have you one?”
Sef’s face was very solemn in the muted wash of candlelight. “Aye, my lord. I wondered why you do not like your sister.”
Donal nearly dropped his goblet. “Sef! What makes you a
sk such a thing?”
“You said I could.”
Donal, still shocked, stared at the boy whose set jaw indicated a burgeoning stubbornness. “But—that question,” Donal said, when he could make sense out of his words again. “What would make you ask it? Of course I like my rujholla.”
Sef averted his eyes and stared down into his goblet, as if his brief courage had failed him. “My lord—when we were at the Keep today…I—” He shrugged with discomfiture. “I just—thought perhaps you didn’t like her. I mean—you seemed troubled by something.” The eyes flicked up to meet Donal’s again. “Was it because of what Bronwyn drew in the dust?”
Donal tossed down the remaining wine in his goblet and set it down on the rug with a thump. The boy’s words troubled him deeply, but not because Sef had noticed his reaction at the Keep. Because he had reacted at all.
“A game,” he said. “She said it was a game between the two of you.”
“She told me it was—magic.” Sef hunched thin shoulders. “I—I didn’t want to draw the signs, but she said if I was to prove I was grown—” Color came and went in the fair face. “She said I was to draw the same signs she drew, because we could make the magic stronger. But—I was afraid.” Sef’s fingers clutched the goblet more tightly. “I remembered what you said about Cheysuli meaning no one any harm, but—I was afraid. She said I had to. And then she—laughed.” Abruptly he drank more wine. It slopped against his face and washed over the rim of the goblet, trickling down the front of his livery. This time he did not lick the spillage from his upper lip. “My lord—Bronwyn frightens me….”
And me. But Donal did not say so.
He bent and caught up his goblet, then rose and went to the table to fill the cup again. He did not look at the boy, did not consider the contradiction between the boy’s words and his earlier actions, being too lost within his thoughts, and when he heard the voice at first he thought it was Sef’s.
And then he realized it was Rowan, standing in the open doorway. “The Mujhar desires your presence in the Great Hall at once.”
Rowan’s smooth Cheysuli face, as always, expressed controlled calm neutrality. But Donal heard a faint note of tension in his tone.
He frowned. “I have just now gotten back from the Keep. Is it truly so important?” He made a gesture that included the remaining goblets. “Can you not join us in a drink to toast my daughter’s birth?”
The candles sent a wash of light and shadows across Rowan’s dark face. He wore a plain doublet of dark blue velvet, freighted with silver at the collar; it glinted in the candlelight. “Electra,” he said, “is free.”
Sef gasped, shocked, then drew back awkwardly into the shadows, as if he knew it was not his place to interrupt prince and general. He clutched the goblet but did not drink.
A blurted denial died on Donal’s tongue. He had only to look at Rowan’s face to know the truth. “How?” he asked instead.
“We do not, as yet, have all the information we need. A messenger came—” Rowan shrugged. “The news was simply that the Queen had disappeared.”
“From the Crystal Isle?” Donal shook his head. “There were Cheysuli with her!”
“They are dead,” Rowan said. “Simply—dead. It appears they were poisoned. As for the Homanan guards…once the Cheysuli were dead, Electra was free to use her magic.”
Unsteadily, Donal set his goblet down on the table. “Cheysuli—murdered?”
He could not conceive of how it had been accomplished. Cheysuli warriors with attentive lir did not succumb to poison, not when they guarded a known witch. Not when they guarded the woman Tynstar called his own.
“Poison,” he said intently, recalling his bout with the same. “Could she have grown it, or had it grown?”
“All food was brought in from Hondarth. All food,” Rowan said. “The Cheysuli inspected it.”
“Tynstar,” Donal said instantly.
The faintest flicker of consternation creased Rowan’s brow. “Every precaution was taken.” His voice, once untroubled, now was underscored with frustration. “She was guarded by Cheysuli for that very purpose. No Ihlini could have gotten past the warriors.”
Donal, frowning, chewed at his bottom lip. “I would not put it beyond Electra’s abilities to concoct the poison herself, with Tynstar’s help. They are linked. How else could Electra have entered Aislinn’s mind?”
Rowan shook his head. The firelight picked out the faintest flecks of silver in his thick black hair. “All in all, it is less important to know how it was accomplished than to discover where she is. Where she is Tynstar will also be…and he is the one we must slay.”
“Then—it is war.” Donal felt the breath leave his chest. “By the gods—it is—”
“Did you think it would never come?” Rowan said grimly. “Did you believe the Mujhar spoke of the possibility out of boredom, having nothing else to do?”
Donal heard the faint undertone of scorn. Aye, he was due that from Rowan. Too often the general had watched Carillon’s heir seek escape from princely duties. Too often that heir had turned his back on Homana-Mujhar to spend his time at the Keep.
The gods know Rowan has sacrificed enough for his lord. He would expect me to do the same.
But for the moment, he put off the guilt and lost himself in consideration. “You wish to know where Tynstar is?” He frowned, staring blindly toward the hearth. “He is in Solinde. He will rouse the nobles in the name of Bellam, their fallen king, and in the name of Electra. He needs her. To the people, she is the rightful Queen of Solinde. And he will promise sorcerous aid from the god of the netherworld. The Solindish, having turned to such things before, will turn to it again.”
The dark flesh drawn so taut over Rowan’s prominent cheekbones softened just a little. He did not smile, but a weight seemed to lift from his velvet-clad shoulders. “You have more awareness than I expected—I thought Carillon would have to explain it all to you.”
Donal shook his head intently. “I have learned more over the years than you may know, for all I was a poor student. But I see it more clearly now.” He thought again of Electra, free; Electra, aiding Tynstar. Oh gods, how do we stop the carnage that will come of this alliance? He blew out a breath and looked at Rowan. “We will have to go to Solinde.”
There was a glint of appreciation in Rowan’s eyes. “We move an army into Solinde. Our borders are patrolled, but we will need to send aid, and soon. We cannot afford to let Tynstar breach our borders.”
“When?”
“That is for Carillon to say. But I think you will know soon enough, if you go to see him as he wishes.”
“Of course.” Donal looked for the boy. “Sef—the time is your own. I will send for you if I need you.”
“Aye, my lord—my lord—!” The boy hastened forward as Donal turned to go. “My lord—if you go to war…will you take me with you?”
Donal looked down on the anxious boy. “War, I have heard, is not particularly pleasant. Perhaps you would do better staying here.”
“I’d rather go with you.” Sef’s tone was defiantly adamant, but his thin face was hollowed with fear.
I am his only security, Donal realized in surprise. He would rather go with me into danger than stay behind in safety.
He set one hand on Sef’s thin shoulder. “I will not leave you, Sef. Your service is with me.”
* * *
The Great Hall lay deep in shadow. The candleracks were crowded with pale, fat tapers, but all had been snuffed out. Donal smelled the faint odor of beeswax and smoking wicks; that, and the scent of dying coals. The firepit—a trench stretching the length of the massive hall—was heaped with ash and glowing coals. The center of the hall was illuminated only by the pit, and a single torch in a bracket near the throne.
For a moment, night-blinded by distorting shadows, Donal believed the place deserted. He stared down the length of the hall, frowning into the darkness, but then—as his eyes became accustomed to the glow from the firepit
coals—he saw Carillon at last.
He sat sunken into the ancient wooden throne carved in the shape of a lion. It crouched on curling paws with claws extended, gilded with golden paint. The headpiece was a snarling face, rearing up over Carillon’s head. The lion seemed almost to spring out of the darkness as if it sought prey.
The torch cast flickering light across the wood, glinting on the gold. Illumination painted Carillon’s bearded face and crept down to silver the knife at his belt. A Cheysuli long-knife with a wolf-shaped hilt, made and once owned by Finn.
Donal halted before the dais. He felt oppressed by the huge hall. The arching hammer-beamed timbers loomed over his head; the far wall, full of weapons, crests and leaded casements, menaced him as it never had before. He took a deep breath and tried to steady the banging of his heart.
“Rowan—told me.” His voice echoed in the vastness of the blackened hall.
Carillon did not stir. “Did he? Did he tell you what it means?”
After a moment, Donal nodded. “It means war has come at last.”
Slowly Carillon leaned forward. The torch behind the throne spilled light down his back, setting the crimson velvet of his doublet aglow like a dim beacon amid the shadows of the dais. “War was expected. I am not taken unaware by the news. But—the manner of it is somewhat unexpected.” He put his age-wracked hands to his weary face. His fingers massaged the flesh of his brow and pushed back a lock of hair from his eyes. “Electra, with Tynstar—after all these years…we face potential disaster.”
Donal stepped forward. “We face war, my lord. Forget those who are involved, and think only upon the strategies necessary.”
The hands dropped from the face. Carillon actually smiled. “Do you seek to teach me what war is about?” But before Donal could answer, he waved a twisted hand. “No, no, say nothing. The mood, for the moment, has passed. It is only that I recalled what she did to me so many years ago—how she nearly castrated me, without even touching a blade. Ah, no—her weapon was merely herself. Gods—but what a woman she was.” Stiffly, he pushed himself up from the throne. “I do not expect you to understand. But what you must comprehend is that paired, they are doubly dangerous. Tynstar will use her to gather all the Solindishmen he will need—the warhost will be massive. It will be an exceedingly difficult conflict.” He moved to the torch and took it down from its bracket. “Donal—do you do as I bid you?”
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