Donal glared. “I claim nothing but the favor of the gods.”
Rowan laughed. The sound rang out raucously, and he threw the leather rein back at Donal. “Do you, now? Are you better, then, than others?” But he stopped laughing. The ironic humor left his voice. Donal saw the tautness in Rowan’s mouth and heard the too-smooth note of elaborate condescension in his tone. “And does your divinity preclude you from lying with your wife?”
Donal felt his breath flow out of his chest. He stared back and saw minute disgust in Rowan’s eyes.
Disgust…with me…“What has Aislinn said?”
Rowan shrugged with studied negligence and gathered in his reins. “You will have to ask that of Carillon.”
“Then let us do it.” Donal set heels to his horse. “By the gods, let us do it—”
Carillon sat in his favorite private solar, soft-booted feet propped up on a three-legged footstool and torso slumped back into the depths of a padded velvet chair. In his hands he cradled a goblet of pale yellow wine; he nursed it, sipping almost absently. A fresh flagon sat on the table beside the chair.
Donal, facing him, felt impatience rise. He had sought out the Mujhar and confronted him, demanding to know what Aislinn had said of their failed wedding night. Carillon had said nothing, merely waving him into silence as if he must think things over. And so Donal waited.
Taj perched atop the high back of a second chair; Lorn, sleepy-eyed, slumped loosely against the stones in front of the fireplace. Neither offered comment: Donal thought they, like he, waited.
Carillon stared fixedly into the half-gone goblet of pale sweet wine, as if he dreamed. Donal thought he looked lost somehow, elsewhere entirely; there was a slackness about his spirit, a lessening of the intensity Donal had always known in him. But after a moment he stirred. “I am told you left Aislinn to seek entertainments with Lachlan’s brother; that you embroiled yourself in a brawl that quickly became more than a misunderstanding. Evan says you are fortunate to be alive.”
“Aye.” Donal controlled his voice with effort. “I am—fortunate. But I left Aislinn because she would not have me lie with her. There were—impediments.”
“Impediments?” Carillon straightened in his chair. One hand gripped the goblet, the other clenched on the knobbed end of the wooden chair arm. “If you speak of a young bride’s natural modesty, you should know that a caring husband can overcome impediments such as that.” He did not smile. “You and Sorcha were quite young when first you lay together. And yet you managed it. Why could you not manage this?”
Donal felt the coil of distaste and embarrassment tighten within his belly. “She would not have it,” he said quietly. “She swore she would not have it. There were—words of insult. Words meant to hurt, to unman me—and they did.” Donal looked straight at the Mujhar. “What I heard were Electra’s thoughts, Electra’s words in Aislinn’s mouth, and I refuse to lie with her.”
Carillon sat forward in the chair, hunching, both hands clutching the goblet. “Electra,” he said hoarsely. “By the gods, I wish that woman were dead!”
Donal moved forward. “But she is not,” he said evenly. “She is alive, and well, and no doubt abetting Tynstar as he seeks to attack Homana.” He paused before the Mujhar, a man grown old before his time, and aging too quickly even now. “But—she is also here, my lord…within your daughter’s mind. And while she dwells there, there will be no heirs to the Lion Throne.”
For just a moment, the twisted hands on the goblet shook. Wine spilled, splashing against the soft leather of Carillon’s boots. “And so they shall win this realm because there are no children of my daughter and her husband,” he said. “War becomes—incidental. Unnecessary, somehow. Because they can destroy us another way.” Carillon drank. He tossed back the wine as if it were water, then poured a second goblet. But this time he only stared into it, his face lined with bitterness and regret.
And then he looked at Donal. “Can you not shut her away? Shut her out of Aislinn’s mind?”
Donal shrugged. “She is the parasite and Aislinn is the host. A rapacious parasite…and a fragile, erratic host.”
Carillon sighed and shut his eyes. For a long moment he kept himself in silence. Then, “Name me a monster, if you will, but I must bid you to use force. Use the power I know you have.”
Donal stared at him in shock. “You would have me force your daughter?”
“Not rape.” Carillon shook his head. “No, never that. Use the third gift. Compel her to lie with you. I know you will not harm her.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Poor Aislinn—it is not her choosing, what Electra has done to her. She has become a valuable gamepiece, a gamepiece which Electra can use to raze the House of Homana. She infests Aislinn now, so that against her will Aislinn heeds what Electra intends, even to attempting murder.” He ran twisted fingers through the heavily silvered hair. “But one way of making certain Electra does not succeed is to overcome her with magic stronger than what she has learned from Tynstar.”
“It is force,” Donal said. “Kin to rape, or worse— you ask me to take her will from her and replace it with my own.”
Carillon set the goblet down on the table and moved slowly to one of the sun-drenched casements. He stared out, but Donal thought he saw nothing. “It is not force if it be replaced with willingness.”
Donal crossed to the table and picked up Carillon’s goblet, meaning to wash the foul taste from his mouth with a swallow of sweetened wine. But the Mujhar, turning back, saw it. “No!” he said sharply, crossing to catch the goblet from Donal’s hand. “No—I am sorry…it is my favorite, and the cask is nearly empty. Until more is delivered, I am limited to a single goblet each night…and I am a selfish man.” Carillon smiled. “I think you might do better to keep yourself from wine this night and think of what awaits you in your bed.”
Donal shook his head. “I have no taste for this.”
“I do not ask you to have taste,” Carillon said raggedly. “I ask only that you perform a service any man should be ready and willing to perform.”
“Ready and willing!” Donal threw at him. “This is your daughter, Carillon…not some silly chambermaid!”
“Do you think I do not know?” Carillon shouted back. His voice shook a little, and Donal saw the anguish in the depths of the fading blue eyes. “Ah gods, would that I had never married the woman, so this would not be necessary. Would that I had wed someone else—” He broke off. Tears shone in his eyes. “They warned me. Finn, mostly. And Duncan. Even Alix and my sister. Do not wed Electra, they said, she is Tynstar’s meijha and will only seek to slay you. Oh, aye, they had the right of it…and now I pay the price.”
Donal drew in a deep breath, knowing somehow he had to offer comfort to the man. “You took her for the alliance between Homana and Solinde. You have spent these past fifteen years teaching me the rudiments of kingcraft—I think I understand at least a little of it. You wed her because you had to.”
“Had to?” Carillon’s twisted smile was bittersweet. “Oh, aye—I had to. For the alliance…but something else as well.” He stared into the goblet. “Aye…there was sorcery and witchcraft, but much more to the woman than that. She was—unlike any other I had ever known. Even now. And—I think I even loved her…for a little while.” Slowly, he lifted the recaptured goblet and drank down what remained of the pale, sweet wine. “Do what you must,” he said at last. “but be gentle with her, Donal.”
Looking at him, Donal felt a chill of apprehension run down the length of his spine. Gods…grant me health, grant me the kindness of never putting such choices before me.
* * *
He waited until it was very late and most of the servants were abed. Then, telling his lir to remain in his chamber, he went down the corridor to Aislinn’s suite of apartments, and pushed open the heavy door.
He had half expected it to be locked. But perhaps Aislinn, knowing her actions had driven him into the city streets and then to Sorcha in the Keep, thought he would
not return to her. And so his way was unimpeded as he entered the darkened chamber.
One candle burned in the far corner. Donal had never understood the Homanan penchant for leaving candles lit when sleep was sought; if there were demons sent to catch a man, a candle would not stop them. And if it were meant to ward off mortal enemies, the light destroyed night vision and left the victim more vulnerable than ever.
But he did not blow it out. He wanted Aislinn to know him when she saw him.
Noiselessly he walked to her draperied bed. He could see nothing through the sheen of silk and gauze. But he could hear her breathing.
Gods…does Carillon know what he asks? But he knew the Mujhar did.
Quickly Donal shed boots and leathers. Naked, he stripped aside the draperies, prepared to slip into the bed—
—and found Aislinn waiting for him, kneeling amid the folds of the coverlet.
In the shadows of the curtained bed, her eyes were blackened hollows. Dim candlelight threaded its way through the draperies and burnished bronze her red-gold hair. She wore a thin silken nightshift; nothing else, except her pride.
“You knew,” he said.
“I knew. No one told me, but—I knew.” She drew in an uneven breath. “All my life I have been brought up to know my task in this world is to bear children for my lord. All my life I have known my firstborn son would become Mujhar in his father’s place, as you will when mine is dead. Well…there will be no son if I do not lie with you.”
She was frightened even as she smiled a wry little smile, stating the obvious; that much he could tell. But frightened of herself, not of him. “It is not you, Aislinn,” he told her. “It is what that witch has done to you.”
She swallowed visibly. “I know it. But—knowing it does not undo what she has done.”
Gently, he asked, “You know what I must do?”
Aislinn briefly shut her eyes. “Gods, Donal—I would trade almost anything to make this bedding pleasurable for us both! Do you think I wish to spew such vileness from my mouth?” Her fingers were locked into the neckline of her nightshift, twisting at the fabric. “For as long as I can remember, you were the man I wanted. Even as children, I knew I could go to you for anything. And now—now, when I can have you—I drive you instead to her.”
Her. Aislinn knew very well what competition Sorcha offered. And yet he did not, for the moment, see jealousy in her face. Only dashed hopes and forlorn self-hatred, because Aislinn blamed herself.
He nearly put out his hands to reach for her, to touch her hair, to stroke her shoulders, but he stopped himself. “Aislinn,” he said gently, “if there were another way I would seek it. I have no taste for this.”
She nodded. And then her eyes beseeched him. “Do you think—it is possible whatever my mother did to me has faded? Perhaps—perhaps it was meant only for the wedding night.”
“Perhaps.” He knew better—she grasped at straws—but said nothing of it. “Aislinn—come and sit beside me.” He himself sat down on the edge of the bed, knowing the posture was unthreatening. And after a moment, she did as he had bidden.
She laughed an odd little laugh. “I feel like a fool. Like an untried girl, nervous before her lord.”
“Are you not?”
She sighed. “I am. Donal—” She stopped short, glancing sideways at his nudity, her eyes dark with passion and fear. Tentatively, she put up a hand and touched the lir-gold on his arm. “Do you never take it off?”
“Rarely. It is a part of me.” He let her touch the gold, knowing the motion took more than a little courage.
Her fingers explored the armband. “I see Taj and Lorn in the patterns,” Aislinn said. “The craftsmanship is superb—I have seen many fine gifts offered to my father, but none, I think, so fine as Cheysuli lir-gold. The knife he wears—”
“Finn’s, once. They exchanged knives when they swore the oath of liege man and Mujhar.”
“And broke it.” Aislinn shook her head a little. “What I know of Finn and what I am told are two different things. All those stories…and yet, he is different from what is said. It seems odd, to know a man, and yet realize others know him differently from the years before I was born.”
Donal thought of his father. He had been told countless stories by Alix, Finn, Carillon and others about Duncan. So many of those stories dated from before his birth, even before his mother and father had married, Cheysuli-fashion. For many years he had treasured the tales, storing them away in the sacred trunk of memory, cherishing all the contents. And now Tynstar had smashed that trunk, destroying the memories.
“I remember when you were born.” He did, though not well. But perhaps it was time they began to fashion their own memories for the future. “There was rejoicing throughout Homana, that the Queen had been delivered of a healthy child.” He did not say how that rejoicing had been tempered with disappointment; Homana had needed a son.
Her fingers had left the gold to touch his arm. Now she withdrew them. “The Queen.” Aislinn’s mouth twisted. “When men speak of the Queen, they link her name with Tynstar. Not with Carillon, who wed her and made her Queen of Homana. No. With that vile, wretched Ihlini!” Bitterness balled her hands into fists. “I wish—I wish he were dead! I wish someone would slay him!”
“Someone will, someday.” No longer did she seem intimidated by his nudity. “Aislinn—”
She did not let him finish, turning instead to face him squarely. Hesitantly, she reached out both hands to touch his shoulders, closing fingers on the muscles. “I want it. I want you—I have always wanted you.”
Donal did what he had desired since he first pulled back the draperies. He set his hands into her hair and threaded persuasive fingers, tugging her closer to him. For him, at that moment, Sorcha receded; his present was only Aislinn.
“Gods…” She breathed it against his mouth. “No one said I would feel like this—”
“Who could?” he asked. “Electra? You see what she has done.”
“My mother is a fool—” Aislinn was in his arms, twisting shoulders free of her garment to press her bare flesh against his. “My mother—”
He felt her body abruptly go rigid beneath his hands. “Aislinn—?” But even as he said her name, he knew what was happening.
“No!” she cried. “No, no—” The shudder wracked her body. Donal saw her head arch back, back, until her throat was bared to him and her hair spilled down against the tangled sheets. The sound she made was one of terror mixed with madness.
“No more!” he hissed. “By all the gods of the Firstborn, I will not let Electra win—!”
A physical link was not necessary, but he sought it anyway. Aislinn, utterly limp in his arms, he lay on her back against the bed. He knelt over her, sinking hands through her hair to cup each delicate temple. He felt the pulse-beat beneath the flesh, against the palm of his hands.
“Not this time,” he said grimly. “Not this time, Solindish witch—”
But what Electra had done was not easily broken. Donal met resistance as he sought a way through the barriers to Aislinn’s subconscious. Something battered back at him, trying to throw him away. Instantly he threw up his own shields and advanced, gritting his teeth against the intensity of Electra’s spell.
“Aislinn…fight her…fight Electra—not me!”
But Aislinn was too lost within the ensorcelment. She fought him mentally and physically, sweating and crying in her efforts.
He would lose. And by losing, lose Aislinn entirely. He could not see any way to win without risking Aislinn’s welfare.
The witch set her trap very well indeed…if she does not catch me in it, she may well catch her daughter—
And then he realized there was a way to win. It was not fair. He risked Aislinn even as Electra risked her, but if he did not try, she was lost without a fight of any sort. Donal thought she was worth more than that. And so he sought the essence of the shapechange.
He would not change before the girl—did not dare to, w
hen that was Electra’s key—but he could use a measure of the concentration lir-shape required. It was honed sharp as any blade, but offering danger to Aislinn as well as himself. It was a matter of balance again. In such circumstances as these, he could tip over the edge so easily.
Donal summoned up the strength. And without warning the helpless girl, he tore through her mental barriers and forced his will upon hers.
He had told Carillon it was tantamount to rape. Donal knew only that as he forced his will upon the girl, he forced more than mental persuasion.
And yet, even as he fought to win Aislinn back from her mother and the Ihlini, Donal became dimly aware of a part of himself that understood the need for compulsion. A part of him knew physical release as well as mental was required, since he sought consummation as a result of forcing her will, and not just persuasion. With a man, there was no question it was merely a mental rape. The compulsion was never sexual. But with a woman, with Aislinn, whom he desired anyway, the compulsion was linked with intensifying need.
Perversion? He thought not. But—would he think it was while lost in the power of such overwhelming desire?
Man, not wolf…man, not falcon… And yet he knew, as he slid closer to the edge, it would not be difficult to shift into either form. It was possible he might mimic the being his father had been, neither one nor the other; a thing caught between.
He felt a wild rage building up inside of him. Not at Aislinn. But at Electra. At Tynstar. For using an innocent, vulnerable girl as bait to trap a Cheysuli. For setting up the obscene circumstances that required such violence.
For turning him into an animal, even in human form.
Will they never stop? Will they never give up their abuse of human beings?
Distantly, he heard Aislinn crying out. So near the edge, too near the edge; he silenced her with the only gag he had left: his mouth.
Legacy of the Sword Page 23
