My jehana, the Queen of Homana—but the wonderment did not last. “She wanted no one but my jehan.” He said it a trifle cruelly, but he felt threatened by Carillon’s admission.
For so many years he had known how deeply his parents had loved one another, and how deeply Alix grieved for Duncan. Now, to think of her wed to Carillon— “No,” Donal said. “She was Cheysuli.” He thought it was enough.
Carillon lifted his head and looked directly at Donal. There was no hesitation in his tone, no tact. Just raw, clean emotion. “It would have made you my son…as much as if you were my own.”
Donal stared at the aging face; at the lines and creases and brackets put there by Tynstar’s sorcery. He saw sorrow and regret and anguish in that face, and an almost inhuman strength of will coupled with unexpected vulnerability.
Donal drew in a breath. “I never knew, my lord.”
Carillon smiled a little. “She would not have me. She would not put another man in Duncan’s place. And so we did not wed—” He broke off a moment. When he resumed, it was with careful intonations so as not to display the magnitude of his grief. But Donal heard it regardless. “Together, they died. And you are still Duncan’s son.”
“My lord!” The urgent voice came from outside the pavilion.
“Rowan—” Carillon straightened in his chair. “Come in at once!”
Rowan pulled aside the flap and came through part way, so that the crimson fabric hung over one shoulder like a cloak. “Carillon—you had best come. There is something you should see.”
The Mujhar pushed himself up from his chair awkwardly and moved at once to pick up his sword and sheathe it. The black ruby glittered in the candlelight; Donal, seeing it again, felt guilty that he had not yet accepted it from Carillon. But somehow he could not.
“Come.” Carillon went with Rowan out of the pavilion. Donal, waiting for his lir, threw down the crumpled parchment and followed a moment later.
Outside, Donal frowned. Something was—different. Something was—not right. There was a tension in the air, a sensation that set the hairs to rising on the back of his neck. A prickle ran down his spine.
Sorcery. That from Taj, flying above in the darkness.
Ihlini, Lorn agreed as he paced next to Donal’s left leg.
The light was wrong. Instead of normal deepening twilight, it was nearly black as pitch. Torchlight illuminated the encampment, but the flames seemed almost muted, swallowed by the darkness. Something muffled sight, sound, smell, as if the camp had been swept beneath a carpet.
Rowan took them westward to a line of gentle hills that rolled out to ring the camp. He gestured briefly to the moon hanging so low against the starless sky: its face was filled with darkness. A thick, viscid darkness. The color was deepest purple.
Carillon stopped at the crest of a grassy hill where another man waited with his wolf. In the light from the dying moon, the slender stalks of grass glowed a luminous lavender.
“Ihlini,” Finn said.
Donal frowned. Wreaths of cloying mist rose up from the flatlands below the hills: bog steaming in a storm. There was the faintest of hisses, almost lost in the heavy darkness. “Some form of spell?”
“More like a warning—or a greeting.” Carillon’s hand was on his sword. “Who can say what Tynstar means by anything he does?”
Rowan, next to them, frowned. “How can he summon sorcery before so many Cheysuli?”
Carillon’s eyes did not stop moving as he studied the lay of the land and the mist that rose to obscure it. “Here, there are four times as many Homanans. Tynstar strikes at them.”
Finn’s expression was stark in the purpled moonlight. “Even face to face with a Cheysuli, the Ihlini still have recourse to simple tricks and illusions. With so many Homanans present, he need not concern himself with us. He need only play upon the superstitions of the Homanans, as he has done in the past.”
Lir, Donal said. I wish you could do something.
Nothing, Lorn answered. You know the law. We cannot fight Ihlini.
And yet Ihlini fight us.
I did not say the law was fair. Lorn’s tone was ironic. I only know we of the lir honor what the gods have given us.
If I die, you and Taj are dead.
It is all a part of the price.
Too high, Donal retorted. You should tell the gods.
Why not do it yourself?
Ground fog rolled. Within the violet wreaths flashed tiny sparks of deepest purple, as if fireflies danced in the mist.
“The men are understandably—concerned,” Rowan said pointedly.
“They are afraid.” Finn had no time for wordplay. “As Tynstar means them to be.”
Donal glanced around. Behind the rim in the shallow bowl gathered all of the Homanan army. He heard whispers and mutters and curses as the river of fog flowed over the hill and downward. The muffled silence of the night was palpable.
Donal shivered. Lir—call me a coward. I do not like this at all.
Taj still hung in the air. Then all of us are cowards.
Carillon gestured sharply to Rowan. “Go and speak to the captains. I will not have my men fleeing Ihlini illusions.”
“Aye, my lord, at once.” Rowan departed with alacrity, wading through rolling fog.
“Donal? Donal?” It was Evan’s voice, as the Ellasian climbed the hill. “Is this what you meant when you told me about Ihlini magic?”
Donal waited until Evan had reached the top of the hill. “Somewhat,” he answered tersely. “Evan—it is not a joking matter.”
The Ellasian prince frowned as he looked out across the blackened land. “No,” he said after a moment. “It is not. Lodhi!—but what a coil!”
Donal looked at his uncle worriedly. “You think he intends no harm, then—if he uses only illusion?”
Finn shook his head. “It is not Tynstar’s way to join in battle without first seeking to fill men’s minds with fear.” His mouth hooked down. “What better than to win before blood is shed?”
“That would never stop him,” Carillon answered. “He will spill all the blood he must.”
“Look!” Evan cried.
The mist parted, sliced neatly as if cloven with an ax. In the wound stood a fountain of purple flame with a heart so brilliant it burned a pristine white. The illumination pouring from the fountain filled the world up with light, bathing each face with a starkness from which there was no hiding. Men squinted, holding up their arms to shield their eyes. Picketed horses screamed and tried to bolt. Cries of fear rose from the clustered mass of men.
Carillon spun around to face them all, thrusting up a belaying hand. “No! It is only Ihlini illusion. Do not fear what is not real!”
But Donal watched the burning fountain. It cracked open and spilled out a sinuous gout of flame that crept across the grass. Blackness spread out around it; what it touched it consumed, and anything else nearby.
“Lodhi!” Evan whispered dazedly.
A serpent, Donal thought. Tynstar’s serpent, sent to do his slaying for him—
“Carillon,” Finn warned.
The Mujhar turned. Ten feet from them all, on the crest of the hill, the writhing serpent halted. It coiled, rose upward, stretched itself toward the sky. It thickened, as if it had been fed. It swelled, as if heavy with child.
And then the swollen belly spit open, and the serpent gave birth to a man.
He was wrapped in a purple cloak so dark it was nearly black. A silver brooch glinted at one shoulder; silver earrings flashed in his lobes; a ring was on one hand. But it was the eyes, not the jewelry, that Donal saw more than anything else; the eyes, black and beguiling, set in the smooth flesh of eternal youth. The smile, framed by black and silver beard, was singularly sweet.
For the first time Donal faced the man who done so much to destroy his life, and he found he was afraid.
Gods—I am not fit to hold the throne—I can barely look at the man—
“I bid you farewell, Carillon.” The voi
ce was warmly affectionate, lacking the hostility Donal had expected. “We have been good enemies, you and I, but I am done with you at last. The time for your death has come.”
Donal looked quickly at Carillon. He could not conceive of what he might say, did Tynstar speak to him. But Carillon was more accustomed to facing the man.
The Mujhar laughed aloud. “Tynstar, you fool—what makes you think you will succeed this time? Have you not failed repeatedly before? Even the last time we met, nearly sixteen years ago, you could not end my life. Oh, aye, you shortened it—but I am still alive to thwart you.”
Donal was more than a little amazed by Carillon’s composure and the audacity of his answer. But then, the Mujhar had had years in which to refine his courage.
Tynstar’s smile was genuinely amused. “It is true you have guarded yourself well. The Cheysuli ever serve their Mujhar.” He looked at Finn. Then at Donal. “But now there is one of their own who waits to take the throne—and you are no longer needed.”
Carillon shook his head. “You will not put me in fear of the warriors who serve me so well. I am not Shaine, Ihlini. I do not succumb to such transparent tricks as these.”
The flame around Tynstar rippled, as if the serpent writhed. “Shaine succumbed to his own fears and inner madness. You will succumb to something else.” Light glinted off his silver ornaments. “Carillon, you have played out your part in the prophecy. You are toothless now, like an old lion—useless and merely a bore. There is another who serves the prophecy now, even as it serves him.” One hand rose to point directly at them. “Do you see him? You have only to look at the warrior who wards your left side, so solemn and silent beside you.” The sorcerer smiled. “A man at last, Donal…no more the boy I sought to make my own so many years ago.”
Unconsciously, Donal put one hand to the flesh of his throat. He could feel the kiss of the iron collar, the weight of his vulnerability. Then he forced his hand away. “You are a fool indeed if you think I will turn against Carillon.”
Tynstar smiled. “No. I am quite aware of the folly in trying that. You are not so pliant as I could wish. No, you will not turn against Carillon…but you will not have to. He will be dead within a year.”
“And the throne?” Carillon rasped.
“Mine,” Tynstar said simply. “As it was ever meant to be.”
“Mine,” Donal retorted. “The Lion will never accept an Ihlini. The gods intend it for us.”
Tynstar, cloaked in purple shroud and brilliant flame, merely shook his haloed head. “Your shar tahl has failed your clan, Donal. You know nothing of the histories.”
“Ku’reshtin!” Donal swore.
“Resh’ta-ni,” Tynstar returned equably, clearly fluent in the language.
Donal stared. But he told himself anyone could learn the Old Tongue—including an Ihlini—if there were reason enough to do it.
Casually, Tynstar made the gesture of tahlmorra. “I shall have to instruct you, I see, to reduce your alarming ignorance.”
Finn laughed. “An amusing idea, Ihlini. You instructing us?”
“I know the truth of the histories,” Tynstar said. “And I will willingly share them with you.”
“I will not listen,” Donal told him flatly. “Do you think I would heed your words?”
“Take them to the Keep with you and question your shar tahl,” Tynstar challenged. “See then who lies. See then who speaks the truth.” He put up a silencing hand. “Have you never wondered why the Firstborn left Homana to the Cheysuli? Have you never wondered precisely how an entire race died out?”
“You are an unlikely tutor,” Carillon told him. “I think you had better go—or do what you came to do, so we may end this travesty.”
“I come, I go—I do as I wish.” Tynstar did not smile. “Heed me well, all of you—I give you insight into a truth you have never encountered.” Again, the hand was raised. He looked directly at Donal. “Cheysuli warrior, you are—with a little Homanan blood. Because the shapechangers serve the prophecy of the Firstborn, who gave it to them before the race died out. Do you know why?”
“A legacy,” Donal answered. “We are the children of the Firstborn—”
“—who were the children of the gods.” The flame burned more brightly around Tynstar, as if it answered some secret bidding. “But are you so proud, so insular, so arrogant, as to believe they sired no others?”
A blurt of sound escaped Donal. He felt Lorn go rigid beside him.
“What are you trying to say—” But Finn was interrupted.
“They sired a second race,” the sorcerer said. “They sired the Ihlini…who bred with the Cheysuli.”
“No!” burst simultaneously from Finn and Donal.
A rasp. Metal sliding. It hissed, almost like the serpent cloaking Tynstar. Carillon drew forth his Cheysuli sword.
Tynstar laughed. “That cannot slay me, Carillon. Have you not tried with it before? Have you not seen the blackened stone?”
“Aye,” Carillon agreed evenly, “and would you care to see it again?” Before the image in the flames could answer, Carillon turned and thrust the sword into Donal’s reluctant hands. “Show him. Show him the blackened stone!”
Donal held the edged blade in one hand, clasping it beneath the hilt. He could feel the runes against his palm. Slowly he raised the sword, thrusting outward with a stiffened arm as if to ward off evil. Against the flame the sword was a silhouette, lacking all colors save the blackness of the night. As if Tynstar had leached it of life.
But then the ruby turned brilliant crimson and set the hill afire.
The fog evaporated at once. The ruby blazed, and as its magic burned away the Ihlini mist Donal felt the thrumming of power in his hand. He thought at first he might drop the sword, so startled was he by the growing strength, but he found he could not. From him the sword took life; from the sword he took strength. A perfect exchange of power.
Tynstar’s smooth face exhibited mild surprise, but very little concern. “So—Hale’s sword at last finds its master. I feared it might happen one day. I thought perhaps I might gainsay him in time when I slew him in the forest, but obviously not.”
“You slew him!” Finn took a single step forward. “It was Shaine’s men who slew my jehan—”
“Was it?” Tynstar smiled. “Do not be such a fool. I sought Hale because I knew his was the seed that could destroy the Ihlini race. Think you I could let him live?” A dismissive wave of a graceful, negligent hand. “Lindir I intended to slay as well, before she could bear the child—but she escaped me and fled to Homana-Mujhar. So I slew Hale after I slew his lir—I meant to take the sword. But he had given it to Shaine.” For a moment his beautiful, bearded face altered into something less sanguine, much more malevolent. “I should have known it would be Alix’s child for whom it was meant. I felt it in her, before she lay with Duncan. I should have slain her too, as I took Duncan’s hawk. It would have gainsaid the prophecy and saved me the trouble of meeting you here.”
Donal lowered the sword. The ruby had dimmed a little, as if knowing much of its job was done; only Tynstar remained, surrounded by his cocoon of living flame. The fog and the serpent were gone. “You slew her anyway And my jehan. When you sent him to trap us.”
“That was not my idea,” Tynstar said. “It was my—apprentice’s suggestion.” He smiled. “Was it not a good one? Nearly successful, as well.”
Donal drew in an unsteady breath, recalling how his mother and father had died. “I do not believe your lesson.”
Tynstar’s shrug was slight. “I know your prophecy very well, Donal. I helped make it, merely by being born three centuries ago. I understand what a tahlmorra is much better than you or any other Cheysuli, for I have known the gods much longer than any of you.”
“Dare you speak of gods when you worship that filth of the netherworld?” Carillon demanded.
“I worship nothing,” Tynstar retorted. “I serve, even as you pretend to serve. The Seker does not require the nonsen
se of obeisance and ritualistic loyalty. He knows what lies in a man’s true soul.” He touched the brooch at his left shoulder. “Aye, I am an integral part of the same prophecy that orders Donal’s life—but I serve it not. I seek only to break its power, before the Ihlini are destroyed.” For a moment, there was a touch of humanity in his eyes. “Can you not see? I do this for the salvation of my race.”
No one answered. Donal stood with Finn, Evan and Carillon as the lir locked themselves in silence, and looked at the Ihlini. The sword was heavy in his hand.
“Salvation.” After a moment, Donal shook his head. “I do not believe you. Were the Ihlini truly children of the Firstborn, we would not be mortal enemies.”
“Ask the lir why they will never attack an Ihlini,” Tynstar suggested.
Donal could not answer. Neither did Taj or Lorn.
Tynstar smiled. “You are idealistic, Donal—or perhaps merely young. Comprehension will come with age. You see, we Ihlini desired more gifts than those the Firstborn gave us. More—power. We turned to the only source that would heed us when the Firstborn would not—”
“—Asar-Suti,” Carillon finished.
“The god of the netherworld, who made and dwells in darkness.” That from Finn.
“Aye,” Tynstar agreed. “A generous lord, in fact. He did not stint what powers he gave those who wished to serve him.” His eyes were on the sword still clasped limply in Donal’s hand. “But the Firstborn sought to destroy us when they learned of our oath to serve the Seker. Knowing they would die before this destruction could be accomplished, they fashioned a prophecy instead, and left the destruction to the Cheysuli—”
“No,” Donal said.
Tynstar did not allow the interruption to interfere. “They instilled within you all a perfect and blind obedience that even now binds your soul. They gave each warrior a fate and called it a tahlmorra, to make certain the task would be fulfilled. They turned you into soldiers for the gods, as dedicated to preserving and fulfilling the prophecy as we are to its downfall. Because that fulfillment, once achieved, means the annihilation of my race.” Tynstar’s voice was harsh. “An Ihlini qu’mahlin, Donal—instituted by the Cheysuli.”
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