He had spent the long night with Sorcha, trying to ease his grief in her words and her womanhood. She had soothed him as only she could, and yet he had found himself longing for another woman entirely. The one Sorcha could not be.
They had spoken of his father; of what Duncan had once been, and who, but not what Tynstar had made him. For Donal, the memory of the night before was too vivid. Too real. He needed time to understand it and put it in its place. If he could ever find a place for what he had experienced.
In the morning he had left Sorcha, his children, his lir. He came alone to his mother’s pavilion and sat upon the ragged bear pelt she had kept long past its usefulness, saying Duncan had given it to her and she would never be rid of it. He had sat on it as a child, and now he sat on it again; a man grown, but knowing himself helpless as the child he had once been.
A slim hand slid inside the doorflap and pulled it aside. Donal heard the sibilant scrape of fabric against fabric. He watched in silence, waiting, as Bronwyn slipped into the pavilion. Her black hair was mussed, pulled loose from its single braid. Some hung into her face, veiling much of it from Donal. She was smiling a little, as if she knew a secret. Her amber eyes were alight with inner knowledge. But she was different. Very different. Aside from the fact she wore the leathers of a warrior in place of traditional skirts, he thought she looked more alive than he had ever seen her.
She saw him and stopped short. “Donal!”
He waited.
The flap, half-closed, was caught on Bronwyn’s shoulder. But she did not slide it free or step away. She stood in the shadows of the entrance and stared at her silent brother.
“Are you healed?” she asked. “Your arm?”
“Healed,” Donal said. “Bronwyn. Where have you been?”
She looked away from him, staring at the pelted floor. Color came and went in her face. And then she seemed to make up her mind to face him down. She lifted her head again. “I wanted to see if I could do it. And I can. I have the Old Blood, too.”
He stared at her blankly. He was full of his mother’s death and the ruination of his father; he could not comprehend anything Bronwyn said. “Old Blood?” He thought only of Tynstar’s blood.
“Aye,” she said firmly. “Jehana said perhaps someday I might be able to learn as she had learned. And so I made up my mind to do it.”
“Do what?” His response was sluggish. The aftereffects of Alix’s throwing him out of the trap-link had not entirely dissipated. He still felt weak. Disoriented.
“Take lir-shape,” Bronwyn answered “I went away to try.”
Awareness returned at once. “Lir-shape! You?”
Color surged into Bronwyn’s face. “Aye! Do you think I am not worthy because I am a woman?”
Donal thrust himself to his feet. “Do not mouth such foolishness when our jehana is dead!”
He had not meant it to come out so badly; so cruelly. But all he could think of was his mother dying to save them all while Bronwyn played her games.
But perhaps they were not games. Not if she could shapechange. And he could not discount the possibility; Alix had claimed the gift. If her daughter did as well, perhaps the Old Blood might yet counteract the Ihlini in her.
“Dead.” Bronwyn gaped at him. “Our jehana—?”
“Last night.” He saw the twitch of shock in her face; the beginnings of comprehension. “It was an Ihlini trap-link.”
Bronwyn flinched visibly. “Ihlini! But—how?”
He could not tell her how. That meant he must also tell her of his father; he could not do it. It was too private. Too personal. The pain was his alone.
“Donal—”
“Tynstar laid a trap. He wanted Finn and me as well…all he got was our jehana.”
“Tynstar—” Bronwyn’s amber eyes were full of tears. “Tynstar slew our jehana—?”
“She has been given passage to the gods.” With Duncan, but Donal did not say it.
Disjointedly, Bronwyn fell down upon her knees. She stared blankly at the unlighted firecairn. Donal, still looking for some indication of guilt, some telltale sign she dissembled, saw only grief and bewilderment. “Why would he want our jehana? What would he want with her? Why would he slay our jehana—?”
He knew she would not hear him. And so he did not try. He simply went to his sister, knelt down, and pulled her against his chest so she would not have to grieve alone.
“Rujho,” Bronwyn begged, “why would he slay our jehana?”
“Retribution,” he answered unevenly. “The Ihlini require no reason.”
“Dead,” she whispered. “Dead? But—I wanted to tell her about it. I wanted to say what I did. I wanted her to know how her blood is in me, too. The Old Blood…as much as in her son.” Bronwyn pressed her face against his shoulder. “I wanted to have importance…I wanted to be someone who counted…I wanted to be different…”
Oh Bronwyn, he mourned, you are more different than you can know.
Her tangled hair was soft beneath his chin. He smoothed the knots against her scalp as if she were a child, and in his heart he knew she was, regardless of her age. As much as he himself was, in his bitter grief.
“I wanted her to know,” Bronwyn sobbed, “and now she never will.”
“Shansu,” he said, “shansu. Be certain that she knows.”
After a moment, Bronwyn drew away from him. “Donal—what happens to me, now? What becomes of me?”
One last time he pushed a lock of hair out of her face. “You may stay here, if it suits. The Keep is your home. Finn and Meghan are here; so is Sorcha and the children, and all your clan-mates. But—if you prefer—you may come to Homana-Mujhar. Aislinn could use the company. There is a wedding she must prepare for—in less time than I care to acknowledge.” He felt the twist of reluctance in his belly. Fifteen days. But he knew better than to ask Carillon for a delay, even in light of the circumstances. Homana was at stake.
“Wedding,” Bronwyn echoed. “I do not feel much like a wedding. Even a royal one. Not without my jehana—” But she shut her mouth on anything more, as if she could not dare to say what she felt.
Slowly he stood, pulling her up as well. “I am sorry, but I must go back—”
“Now?” She stared at him. “After what has happened?”
Donal sighed, wanting refuge from the bewildered pain in her voice. He did not blame her; he wanted to stay as well. “Much as I would prefer to remain, Carillon would have my head. There are responsibilities—” But he did not explain them to her. In her grief, she would never understand. “Rujholla…do not forget our su’fali. You may find comfort in comforting him.”
After a moment, Bronwyn nodded. “Tell Aislinn I will come. But—not just yet. I think I could not bear it.”
He bent and kissed her forehead, hoping to offer solace. But what he found was doubt. Oh gods…what if I am wrong? What if the Old Blood in her is tainted by the other?
And yet he knew he might be doing his sister a grave injustice. He had no proof it had been Bronwyn in the Womb. None at all. The possibility seemed remote, now that he knew where Bronwyn had been.
And Aislinn? Where was she?
He said nothing more to Bronwyn. He left her to grieve in private, according to Cheysuli tradition.
* * *
The guests had gathered. The vows had been said. The acclamation was made. In the space of an hour Donal went from unnamed Prince of Homana to the actual thing itself; there was an instantaneous change. He could feel it in the air. A tension. A vibrating urgency. No more was it a someday thing; Homana would have a Cheysuli Mujhar.
When the feasting was done and the hall was prepared for celebratory dancing, Donal discovered he was now the prey of many courtiers. In his years as informal heir, the men who inhabited Carillon’s court had mostly tried to ignore him. No doubt they had thought—or, more likely, hoped—the Mujhar might elevate a bastard son to legitimacy and send Donal back to the Keep. But the Mujhar had not; Donal was not certain there
were any bastard sons, though there had been rumors of one or two. And so now the circle was halfway complete; the shapechanger was Prince of Homana.
They oppressed him, the noblemen of Homana. They stifled him with their insincere sudden change of regard, expressing condolences for his mother’s death as an opening gambit. He stood his ground for as long as he could, using the Homanan courtesy traditions Alix had taught him as well as what diplomacy he had learned in his years within the palace walls. But courtesy and diplomacy ran out; he retreated. And at last, tiring of his evasiveness, they left him alone.
They do not know me, though all have known me for years. They realize they must deal with me one day, and would rather gain sway with me now, so they may lay the groundwork to make me a puppet-prince, and a Mujhar—when it comes to that—in their pockets.
He knew also that the freedom he had just won would never last; soon enough they would learn his moods and his habits, and would play him like a harp.
Donal stood well back from the dancing and laughing and drinking. He leaned against the tapestried wall and watched in silence, considering his newly won rank. And against his will he touched the golden circlet on his brow.
Carillon had put it there during the ceremony. It represented his princely status; it represented the future of Homana. A simple circlet of plain, unworked gold, lacking significant weight. But it was enough to bind him eternally to his tahlmorra.
Donal smiled. But if they expected me to be a Homanan prince, no doubt my leathers shocked them. Good.
As a concession to Homana, he wore the royal colors. His jerkin was crimson suede, his leggings were black; black boots were stitched in scarlet. A belt of filigreed gold set with rubies the size of his thumbnail clasped his waist. But for that and his lir-gold and newly gained circlet, he was a conservative Cheysuli. Other warriors were not so subdued.
He leaned against the wall. But this time he watched Aislinn as she left her women to dance. He watched as she swayed to and fro with a glittering young Homanan nobleman, touching fingertips and dancing flirtatiously.
She moved with a grace almost foreign to her. Aislinn had, growing up, been a coltish girl, even when attempting regal dignity. Since her sojourn on the Crystal Isle with Electra, she had learned a new and supple grace that was almost sheer seductiveness. There was nothing coltish about her now.
The bright, rich hair swung at her hips as she moved. Unbound, as was proper for a maiden, it flowed loosely over her shoulders, cloaking the pale blue gown. At ears and throat and waist glowed sapphires set in silver.
Electra’s wedding jewels from Carillon long ago. It is no wonder he nearly made Aislinn take them off. But even a Mujhar cannot take back what is given freely, and so she has a legacy from her jehana.
He looked more closely at her as she danced with the nobleman. In the weeks since Finn had healed his burned and broken arm, Aislinn had been busy with wedding preparations. They had hardly seen one another. Seeing her now, he thought the preparations were well-made; she was lovely. She was almost a woman, with girlhood nearly banished completely.
What is mine is also Tynstar’s.
He heard the words clearly, as if spoken into his ears. He snapped upright, free of the wall, and sought Electra in the throng.
But all he saw was Aislinn spinning slowly in the dance.
He stared. Her hair, a rich red-gold, seemed to fade before his eyes. He saw how it blurred, running into a duller color, until the red was replaced with silver-gray. And then the silver turned to white.
But not the white of age. The pure white-blond of youth; Electra’s ensorceled youth.
Aislinn’s eyes caught his. She stared at him as she stepped lightly through the pattern. He did not know what she thought; he was aware only of her eyes. Electra’s eyes, pale as water and full of subtle promises. But the dreams she promised were nightmares.
The heavy girdle spun out from her twisting skirts. He saw how the silver tangled; heard how it chimed, the dull clink of interlocked links. A rattle of stones as the sapphires clattered. And then the laughter was in his head.
What is undone shall remain undone…what is mine is also Tynstar’s.
Donal flinched as a winecup was pressed into his hand. “Drink deep,” Finn advised. “It will be a long night before you can bed your bride.”
Shaken to the core, he looked up again at Aislinn. Gods—is Electra somewhere here?
“I must kiss you for luck!” It was Bronwyn, coming up to clasp his arms. “Bend down, Donal—you are too tall for me!”
He saw how the blue-enameled torque and earrings glittered against her skin. She had none of the dark coloring of the Cheysuli, showing the Homanan in her instead.
Or the Ihlini? He bent slowly, still lost in what he had heard inside his head. “You are certain this will work?”
“Everyone says it will. It must be done, you know.” She kissed him soundly on one cheek, then laughed up at him. “Every woman who wants a cheysul must kiss the most recent bridegroom.”
“Every woman—?” He recoiled in exaggerated horror.
“Every single one.” She twisted her head to seek someone in the crowd. “There—Meghan will undoubtedly be next.”
“Meghan! Meghan is too young to think of marriage—and so, for that matter, are you.”
Bronwyn laughed. “I am only a year younger than Aislinn. Perhaps by the time I am sixteen, I will have found a cheysul.” Her amber eyes glinted. “After all, I am dancing with men, not boys. I have danced with Gryffth, and Rowan himself has already asked me twice.”
“Rowan is being polite.” Donal unthreaded his arm from hers. “Then go dance, rujholla. Do not keep your partners waiting.”
Laughing, she whirled in a swirl of sky-blue skirts and hastened back to the throng of young women.
“She is nearly grown,” Finn said quietly. “She has the right of it—by next year she may be wed.”
A twinge of unease unsettled Donal’s belly. “It may be best we do not let her wed. We—do not know what powers she might claim in the coming years.”
Finn looked at him squarely. “If you stifle her, Donal—if you seek to keep her leashed, no matter how light the chain—you will surely twist her spirit. Right now, there is nothing of Tynstar in her.”
“And when there is?”
“If there is…we will deal with it then.”
“As we must deal with her ability to assume lir-shape?”
Finn looked sharply at Donal. “Bronwyn? Are you certain?”
“She says so. Did she not tell you?”
“No.” Finn frowned into his wine. “She—has kept very apart since Alix’s death. Oh—she spends time with Meghan, but not much with me. I have tried….” He stopped speaking. His dark face was stark, as if he deeply regretted his inability to deal with Alix’s daughter. “She spends more time with Storr than with me, but if she has learned how to take lir-shape, that is why.”
“Storr said nothing to you?”
“Storr said nothing to me when Alix learned to shapechange.” Finn’s tone was wry, but Donal saw the trace of remembered pain in his uncle’s eyes. “The lir protect those with the Old Blood. More so, I sometimes think, than they protect those without.”
Donal frowned. “Then could they protect her against herself?”
“If she began to show signs of Ihlini powers?” Finn shrugged a little. “Who can say? All we know is the lir are constrained against attacking the Ihlini, no matter what the odds.”
“Gods,” Donal said, “what my poor rujholla faces—”
“We do not know,” Finn said deliberately. “She may be free of the evil, even with the blood.”
Donal swirled wine within the confines of the goblet. “Aye, but—” He broke it off. A stranger approached, and he had no wish to share Bronwyn’s parentage with anyone but Finn.
“May I join you?” the stranger asked.
Finn turned to face him, then fell back a step. For a moment there was blatant shock
in his eyes. “Carillon did not tell me you were coming.”
“I was not certain I could.” The man—tall, very blond, with a silver circlet banding his head—smiled at Donal. “I think your nephew does not recall who I am. But why should he?—it was nearly sixteen years ago when last he saw me, and he was only a boy.”
Donal released a breath of laughter. “I remember you, Lachlan! How could I not? It was your Song of Homana so many of us sang the summer when you had gone.” He shook his head. “No more the humble harper, are you, with all your fine clothes and jewels.” An eloquent flip of his hand indicated the blue velvets and flashing diamonds. “No more hiding your identity, but the High Prince of Ellas in all your power and grace.”
“Eloquent, is he not?” Finn observed lightly. “I think he gets it from me.”
Lachlan’s smile was warm and nostalgic. “Does he get anything from you, Finn, it would surely be your gift for inspiring—trust.” The jibe was gentle, but the sting was clearly present. And then it faded. “I have just come from Carillon. Donal—I am sorry for Alix’s death. I admired and respected her greatly. But—as for Carillon.…” Briefly, he glanced over his shoulder. Near one of the trestle tables Carillon stood head and shoulders above the men who clustered around him; Homanans, mostly, but a few Solindish guests. “In his letters, Carillon said Tynstar had stolen away his youth, but I did not realize he meant as much as that.” Lachlan’s voice was even, but Donal heard the undertone of concern. “Is there nothing to be done?”
Finn shrugged. “He ages. All men age. Tynstar has merely given it to him sooner.”
Lachlan regarded Finn’s expressionless face closely. “And have you tried to reverse it with your magic?”
“It cannot be done,” Finn said flatly. “Ihlini powers and Cheysuli gifts are in direct opposition. We cannot undo what an Ihlini has done when it is of such magnitude as that.” Briefly, he looked at the Mujhar. His eyes belied his tone. “I think he has accepted it.”
“Perhaps I, with Lodhi’s aid—”
“No.” Finn’s voice was flat and inflexible. “It is a part of his tahlmorra.”
“Lodhi,” Lachlan muttered, “you and your destiny—!”
Legacy of the Sword Page 19
