But Bronwyn stood in place. “Why does Carillon think it was him the assassin wanted?”
Donal frowned. “It was, Bronwyn. Who else would such a man want?”
“You,” she said distinctly. “Oh Donal…I saw how the man looked at you. Not at the Mujhar.” Her amber eyes began to fill with tears. “It was you he wanted, rujho. I swear—I saw it in his face.”
“Bronwyn—” He glanced past her toward the door through which Finn and Carillon had gone. “Bronwyn—are you quite certain?”
“Aye.” Earrings flashed as she nodded her head. “I danced with him, rujho. He asked me questions about you. I thought nothing of it—most people do not know you. But then he left me. He left the hall. And when he came back, he had a sword.”
Donal frowned. “Were you not made suspicious by all the Solindishman’s questions?”
She stared up into his face. “But—Donal…he was a Homanan.”
He felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. The flesh rose up on his bones. “Bronwyn—are you certain?”
“Aye,” she said. “Oh Donal, I am afraid—”
No more than I am, rujholla. But he did not say it aloud. Instead, he looked for his new wife. “Where is Aislinn?”
Bronwyn gestured. “There—do you see her? Over in the corner.”
He saw her. He saw how she stood away from the crowd, as if she could not bear to be a part of it. Sapphires and silver glittered. In both hands she held a hammered goblet and raised it to her mouth. He saw her grimace of distaste once she had swallowed. But he could not say if it was the wine that caused it, or the failure of the assassin.
Aislinn…I think there are things between us to be settled.
Donal looked down at Bronwyn. “Stay here, with the others. I think it is time I took my cheysula from the crowd.”
“But—what of the bedding ceremony?”
He smiled grimly. “I think, tonight, it would be better Aislinn did without it.” But he did not say he intended more for Aislinn than a simple nuptial bedding.
He left his sister behind and smoothly worked his way through the crowd. The thought of dancing had fled his mind completely, though it was expected of the Prince and his princess. Somehow, the assassination attempt had ruined his taste for celebration.
As he reached her, Donal put out his hand and took the goblet out of hers. Aislinn stared at him in surprise. “Do you want it? Or do you need it?” Suspicion made him cruel.
“What?”
He looked into her face. He saw pale pink underlying the pallor of her cheeks; the hectic glitter in her gray eyes. Sensuous eyes; he knew, for all she was still young, she had learned something of a woman’s seductive ways from her incredibly seductive mother.
He reached out and caught one slender wrist. “You tremble, Aislinn. For me or for your jehan?”
“I thought he would slay my father—”
“He did not want Carillon. The assassin was after me.”
“You! Why would he want you?”
Her surprise was sincere. He could not doubt it. It was less than flattering, perhaps—in an odd sort of way—that she would think him so insignificant a target, but he was relieved. He did not think the emotion was feigned.
“There are some men who might desire me dead,” he told her evenly, still appraising her reactions. “Undoubtedly some women, as well; Electra, perhaps?” He saw how her color faded. “Carillon ages. He will not hold the Lion forever. How better to wrest the throne from the proper line than by slaying the man who will inherit from the Mujhar?”
“Oh gods,” she said. “Will it always be like this?”
That was not precisely the reaction he had expected, not if she were a part of the plot against him. “I hope not,” he answered fervently. “If this is what the rank entails—”
“You do not think you are up to it?” Her tone was very cool. In her silver and sapphires, she was more like her mother each moment.
“Well,” he said, “I think Carillon will rule for years yet. By the time he is ready to relinquish the Lion, I ought to be up to the task.” He smiled at her blandly. “You are hiding in the corner, Aislinn. Are you avoiding me?”
Color rushed into her face. Her wrist went stiff in his hand.
“Are you?” he asked in surprise.
“A—little. I have been told what to expect of the bedding ceremony.”
She sounded faintly disgusted as well as uncomfortable. He smiled. “Aye. They will do all they can to discomfit bride and groom. A Homanan custom, I am told; in the clans, a woman moves into a warrior’s pavilion, and that is that.”
“That is all?” Her gray eyes were huge. “At this moment, I would prefer this were a Cheysuli ceremony.”
“Then we shall make it one.” He closed her hand within his own. “Come with me. We will escape the predators.”
* * *
Arrangements had been made for them to share royal apartments on the floor above their separate personal chambers. No one attended them; even the corridor was deserted. Privacy was absolute. But Donal took care to lock the door anyway.
Aislinn stood at one of the narrow, glassless casements. He wondered what she saw, staring so fixedly out of the opening. Her back was to him, and he clearly saw the rigidness of tension in her spine.
She turned. The heavy girdle clashed. He heard the rattle of the sapphires in the thickness of her skirts.
The room was made of shadows. The draperied bed was a cavern full of promises. He could almost hear the whispered endearments, the sighs of lovers pleased.
Aislinn faced him in silence. The wash of light from a single candle touched her hair with gold. At her throat shone the silver torque with its weight of brilliant sapphire. “I am—a little afraid.”
He leaned against the door so that the carved wood pressed into his spine. He watched her, saying nothing. He could not, for the moment. He was taken too much by surprise. Somehow he had not expected the strong desire he was suddenly feeling.
For Aislinn? When there is Sorcha, who is everything to me?
Everything, perhaps. But for the moment there was also Aislinn.
Slowly, Aislinn moved away from the blackened casement. She went to a table. There was a flagon of wine and two gleaming goblets; a gift from the Atvian king. The bowls of the goblets were glass. The stems were wrought silver, flowing up around the bottom of each bowl in the shape of raven’s wings. In the decanter, the wine was red as blood.
Aislinn filled the goblets, then offered one to Donal. “Will you share the nuptial cup?”
He pressed himself off the door. He approached. He saw how her long nails curved around the wine-filled crystal. When he reached her, he put out his hands and closed them over hers.
“Shansu,” he said. “Do you think I would hurt you, Aislinn?”
“You would never hurt me,” she answered clearly. “I have seen the look in your eyes.” Unexpectedly, she smiled.
Donal, still clasping her hands and the goblet, lifted it toward her mouth. “I hope the vintage is good.”
The rim was at her lips. Luminance flowed across her face. “The cask was a gift from my mother.”
Abruptly, he jerked the goblet away. Wine splashed across them both, staining the pale blue silk of Aislinn’s gown in a vivid blood-red gout. He felt the splatter on his arms, against his face. The wine was tepid, warm as blood; he nearly gagged on the heavy scent.
The goblet fell. It struck the carpet and shattered.
“Do you risk yourself as well?” he demanded.
“Risk? What risk? It was a gift—”
“To you? Or meant for me?”
Color flowed out of her face. Wine droplets glittered against the smooth flesh of one perfect cheek, then rolled down to splash against the gown. “Do you forget, husband, that I was to drink as well?”
“No more than I forget you spent two years with that witch on the Crystal Isle,” he answered. “How am I to know she did not dose you with the poison bit by bit
each day, until you grew immune?”
“You fool!” she snapped. “Do you think I would wish for your death?”
“I accuse you of nothing.” He could not, yet; there was no proof of complicity.
“Finn tested me!” she cried. “You yourself were there. Am I not free of the taint of sorcery?”
“You have been tested.” That much he could give her.
“But you still distrust me.” The vivid hair curtained her face on either side. “Do you not? Do you think the assassin was also my doing? Do you really believe I desire to slay you when all I desire is you?”
He took three steps, reached out, caught her wrist. He looked at the slim, delicate hand. He could see it again before his eyes: the creamy, gold-veined vault with all its marble lir, and the hands that held the torch meant to thrust him to his death.
“Aislinn,” he said, “you frighten me. I know not what you will do.”
“You are a fool.” She said it without heat. “A fool, to be afraid, when I would never slay you. I would slay anyone who tried. I love you, Donal.”
He believed her. In that moment, he was certain she told the truth. And Finn had tested her.
Silently, he unfastened torque and girdle. He left both in a spill of silver and sapphire across the dark wood of the table. And then he took her to the bed.
Slowly he untied the lacings of her gown, baring her smooth, pale, delicate back. As he touched her, her flesh responded.
Naked, she lay against the bedclothes. She watched him with the eyes of a woman desiring a man. And so he divested himself of his clothing and slipped into bed beside her. Perhaps it will not be so ill-matched a union after all…
But as he put a hand upon her breast, Aislinn screamed.
All he could think to do was clamp a hand over her mouth. But she lunged away from him before he could, scrambling to the farthest corner of the bed.
“Aislinn—” He got out of the bed at once, afraid he might frighten her further.
“Wolf.” She said it with cold precision. “Your blood is the blood of a wolf—your hands the claws of a wolf—your face the face of a wolf—do you think I will lie with you—?”
He stared at her in horror and his flesh crawled.
Aislinn twitched. He saw an alteration in her eyes. Briefly, a cessation of hostility, replaced with bewilderment. But as he opened his mouth to say her name, she twitched again and the words spilled out of her mouth.
“Beast, not man…not a human man…she has told me—she has told me…she has said it would be like—”
“Aislinn, no—”
“She said you will take me as a wolf because you can take me no other way.” A shudder wracked her body. “Donal? Donal? What is wrong? Donal?” One trembling hand covered her mouth. “What is wrong?”
“Aislinn—” slowly he moved one step closer to the bed “—she has filled your head with lies—”
Aislinn’s eyes were black. “Wolf—wolf—no man…no man…demon instead—to take me as a wolf—”
“Aislinn, I promise you—”
“Donal—” She twitched. “Do you think I will breed with you?”
He felt the trembling begin in himself. Facing her, he could not help it. She crouched, beastlike, against the tester of the bed, knees thrust up beneath her chin and one hand twisted into her brilliant hair. But her other hand came up sharply and made the gesture against Cheysuli evil.
“Beasssst,” she hissed “I will bear you no demon children!”
Before such fear and hatred, he was totally unmanned. All thoughts of bedding her, no matter how tender, fell utterly out of his mind. Staring at her, all he could see was Electra. Electra on the dais of the palace on the Crystal Isle, facing him defiantly:
“No marriage is binding if it is not consummated.”
“Aislinn,” he said, “oh Aislinn, do you see what she has done?”
Tears were running down her face. “Donal—? What is wrong? What has she done to me—?”
“She has twisted you—” But he stopped. Aislinn was beyond comprehension.
Sickened, Donal put on his leathers again. And then he turned back to her. “Aislinn—”
“I will not lie with a wolf.”
Clumsily, Donal unlocked the door and went out. In the darkened corridor he stood, sickened and bereft, wanting only to lick the pain of injured pride. He thought at once of Sorcha, longing for the comfort of her arms. But he could not go to the Keep. Not on his wedding night.
A sound. He looked up sharply and saw movement in the shadows. He heard the sibilance of silk against the stone. His hand went at once to his knife. He half-drew it, then saw the shadows take on the form of a man and woman embracing. The sound became a feminine giggle.
After a moment, the couple moved closer yet, into the spill of torchlight. The man glanced up as he heard the slide and click of knife going back in its sheath. “What—is it Donal? Have we disturbed the bride and groom?” Closer yet, and the man’s identity was revealed.
“Evan.” Donal found he could say nothing more.
The Ellasian came onward, one arm slung around the woman. Donal did not know her, save to know she was Homanan. Evan apparently had given up his attraction to women who were kin to royalty and had found a willing girl of noble birth. “Do you tarry out here while your bride awaits? Or has she sent you away while she divests herself of her clothing.” Evan kissed the girl quickly, then grinned archly at Donal. And then the grin faded.
Evan kissed the girl again, more soundly, then patted her silken skirts. “Go back,” he said, with only a hint of regret in his tone. “I have business with the prince.”
Her protest died. She slewed her dark eyes in Donal’s direction, then gathered up her skirts and hastened back along the corridor.
Evan faced Donal squarely. “There is no need to speak. I have only to look at your face.” His sleepy blue eyes held nothing of humor in them. “I know a remedy, my lord, if you will accompany me.”
Donal stirred at last. “There is no remedy for this.”
“Ah, but there is. I promise you, there is.” Evan smiled. “Will you show me the taverns of Mujhara?”
“All of them, Ellasian?”
Evan merely shrugged. “As many as you can…and before the break of dawn.”
Slowly, Donal smiled. “Let us set this city afire.”
The Cheysuli were not brawlers ordinarily. They were warriors, bred in adversity and trained to slay quickly and effortlessly in order to protect kin, clan and king. To fight for the sheer enjoyment of such things seemed utter foolishness. Yet Donal, who had imbibed so much harsh wine he no longer saw anything without a blurred halo surrounding it, found himself embroiled in the midst of a tavern brawl.
He did not precisely recall how it began. Merely that somehow he had discerned an insult to his person and his race, and that redress was necessary. He dimly recalled the offending man had gone down easily enough—and then everyone else in the common room joined in the affray.
He felt himself waver on his feet. Then a shoulder came against his spine and braced him. Without looking he knew it was Evan, giving him what aid he could.
And I need it—
The tavern was a shambles. Groaning bodies sprawled under tables and fallen benches, counting bruises and fingering cuts. Other bodies, limply strewn in corners of the room, did not move at all. Donal was dimly aware he and Evan had accounted for all the wreckage; the knowledge made him groggily happy. He was upholding the honor of his race.
The Ellasian fights like a Cheysuli…pity he must go home with Lachlan, now the marriage is made—
A great weight landed on him from behind. He folded beneath it, experiencing mild surprise as his face scraped against the wine-stained boards of the plankwood floor. He struggled briefly, felt an arm wrenched behind his back and grunted with unexpected pain. Then he was jerked to his feet and held quite still by a powerful arm thrust around his throat.
Evan, he saw, was in a similar
position. The foreign prince was bruised and bloodied, his face battered, but he was smiling. He did not appear unduly perturbed by the sudden cessation of the fight or that he was so easily contained.
“I will pay the damages,” he announced. “There is no need to hold us for the watch.”
A short, squat man wearing the rough woolen tunic and breeches of a dalesman pushed his way through the wreckage and stopped before Donal. He was thickset, a common sort, with small brown eyes and a small, pursed mouth. The mouth formed his words oddly, twisted by his thick dalesman’s dialect.
He stared up into Donal’s battered face. “Shapechangers be not welcome here.” He spat on Donal’s boot.
Donal swallowed. “I was,” he said, “before the Homanans began to lose.”
Small brown piglet eyes, malignant and unblinking. “Shaine the Mujhar put purge on your sort, shapechanger. Years ago, ’twas…and those of us’n here still be holdin’ with’t.”
Donal was dizzy and disoriented, but the mists were clearing from his head. He stared at the pig-eyed man in dazed amazement. “Shaine is dead. Carillon is the Mujhar.”
“Demon-spawn,” the short man said clearly. “Your kind’ll be burnin’ in the name of good an’ clean Homanan gods, unspoiled by the foulness of shapechanger demons.”
Donal heard stunned disbelief in Evan’s voice. “You would slay a man because of his race?”
“Demons,” the man repeated, and spat again against the floor. Mucous fouled Donal’s boot. “I be Harbin, leader of these men. We all of us’n here be servin’ the memory of the rightful Mujhar of Homana.”
“Shaine is dead!” Donal repeated. “Carillon is in his place.”
“Carillon be a weaklin’ king, bespelled by Cheysuli magic. We don’t be followin’ him.”
Donal became aware of the tension in the tavern. This was not some simple disagreement or mere displeasure over the outcome of the fight. Carefully he took a breath, feeling the arm press more tightly against his throat cutting off the indrawn breath. “Carillon has declared the qu’mahlin ended. Do you slay me, you slay a man sworn to the Mujhar.”
Harbin stared up at him. Thick arms were crossed against his wool-clad chest; his heavy boots were planted firmly against the plankwood floor. “Carillon be bespelled. He holds Homana because of that. Because of his masters, the shapechangers. E’en now he plots to be givin’ the throne back into the hands—the paws!—of demon-spawn. Us’n be helpless to reach Carillon himsel’, but can reach the Cheysuli.” His eyes shone in the candlelight. “One at a time, us’n be slayin’ them. Us’n begin with you.”
Legacy of the Sword Page 21
