Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  Donal shook his head. “The prophecy says nothing of annihilation. It speaks of a Mujhar of all blood uniting four warring realms and two magic races. Is that so horrible a fate?”

  Tynstar’s teeth showed briefly. “It means the mingling of Cheysuli blood and Ihlini, Donal. It means the swallowing of our races and a merging of the power. No more independence. No more—apartness. The Ihlini and Cheysuli will die out, drowned in each other’s blood.”

  Gods…tell me he is wrong…Donal felt as if he had been walking in darkness all of his life. Blind. Deaf. Mute. Yet now he could see and hear and speak. Tynstar had given him sight and hearing: Tynstar had loosed his tongue.

  But he did not speak. He lifted the sword and hurled it at the image as if the blade were a spear.

  The ruby blazed a trail of incarnadine fire as it arced downward toward the column of flame that housed Tynstar’s image. The sword fell, slicing through the fire like a scythe; a ringed hand flashed up and slapped the blade aside. The sword fell, point first, and stuck into the ground. There it stood, sheathed in flame, like a headpiece to a grave.

  “No—” Finn caught Donal’s arm as he started forward blindly.

  “Wait you—” Carillon whispered.

  The ruby flickered. Tynstar, smiling, reached down to touch the stone with a single finger. Again, it flickered. Then it turned to black.

  Tynstar laughed. “Shall I make it mine? I have only to shut my hand around the hilt. I will take it into my hands and caress the shining blade—until the runes are wiped away. And then Hale’s sword will be nothing but a sword, intended for any man, even a common soldier.” He reached down, threatening languidly; one finger touched it, another; the palm slid down to rest against the grip.

  “No!” Donal cried.

  And then, as Tynstar sought to shut his hand upon the hilt, the ruby blazed up again.

  The Ihlini cried out. He snatched back his hand instantly; Donal heard his breath hissing in startled comprehension.

  But the hand stretched out again. It lifted. Paused. Considered. The silver ring winked in the sorcerous flames.

  Tynstar scribed a rune in the air and split the darkness apart.

  “My lord…my lord—”

  Hands caught at his shoulders, urging him to rise. Donal, mouth tasting of dirt and flame, realized it was Sef.

  “My lord—please…are you hurt?”

  He thought perhaps he was. His head was filled with a darkness rimmed by colored light. Sef’s voice was distant, fogged, distorted by the humming in Donal’s ears. Even the hands on his clothing did not seem real.

  “My lord!” Sef cried in desperation. “Please—get up—”

  Slowly, Donal rolled onto his side, then pressed himself upward. He sat on one hip, braced against a stiffened arm. Squinting against the brilliance in his head, he tried to see Sef’s face.

  Abruptly, he recalled what had caused his present condition. He jerked around, drawing his legs beneath him as if preparing to leap. Splayed fingers pressed against the ground; the other hand half drew the long-knife at his belt.

  But there was no enemy. Where Tynstar had been was only a charred patch of smoking ground, and the sword.

  The sword. Still it stood upright, though tilted, sheathed in the earth from which it drew power. The moon, clean and unobscured once more, flooded the hilltop with silvered light. The rune-kissed blade shone with an eerie luminance. The ruby, cradled in its golden prongs, was a crimson beacon in the night.

  “My lord?” Sef whispered.

  Donal came out of his crouch. He rose slowly, aware of a faint tingling numbness in his bones. But he did not approach the sword. He looked instead for the others.

  Lorn stood but two or three paces away, legs spraddled as he shook his coat free of dirt and debris. Taj still spiraled in the air. Evan was sitting upright, spitting out dirt and muttering of Lodhi and sorcerers. Finn stood even as Donal rose. He went at once to Carillon and put down a hand to him just as Rowan arrived.

  “Carillon—!” In his urgency, Rowan nearly shouldered Finn out of the way. “My lord?”

  Finn did not give ground. His very silence transmitted itself to Rowan, who—bending down to aid Carillon—glanced up at him in irritated impatience.

  Watching them both as Carillon sat up and brushed his clothing, Donal was struck by their eerie resemblance. In the moonlight the differences in their faces were set aside. All Cheysuli resembled one another, but some more than others.

  They are alike in more than appearance, Donal thought. Both of them serve the Mujhar. Finn may have given up his rank as liege man to Carillon, but the loyalty is still there.

  He saw the momentary flash of possessiveness in Rowan’s eyes. No, he had not taken Finn’s place when the oath had been broken; no man could. But he had made a new place at Carillon’s side, and Donal knew he was indispensable. Facing Finn, it would be difficult for Rowan to give way.

  “Get me up from here!” Carillon said testily, and caught Rowan’s outstretched hand. Donal saw how Finn remained very still a moment, and then moved a single step away.

  Relinquishing the service yet again…Donal saw the pain graven deeply in Carillon’s face; the taut starkness of his expression and the incredibly tight set of his jaw. Like Donal’s; like everyone else’s, his face was smeared with traces of ash. Moisture glittered on Carillon’s brow, and Donal realized it was the sweat of unbearable pain.

  And yet he bears it…Donal moved to him at once. “My lord—Carillon…how do you fare?”

  Briefly, Rowan’s teeth were bared in a feral, possessive snarl. “How does he fare? Look at him, Donal! How do you fare after what Tynstar did?”

  “Enough.” The word issued hoarsely from Carillon. He stood nearly erect as they surrounded him, allowing the pain no opportunity to swallow him whole. One handed rested on Rowan’s shoulder as if in placation; Donal saw how the sinews stood up against the flesh of Carillon’s hand and knew he clutched the shoulder for support. “Tynstar is—gone. Let us go as well: down from this hill to our pavilions. Tomorrow, I do not doubt, we will be tested by the Solindish.”

  “He sought to slay us,” Donal said. “Who is to say he will not do it again?”

  Carillon’s eyes were couched in brackets of strain. “That was not an attempt to slay us. That was his manner of leave-taking. No doubt he might have tried to slay us, but the sword prevented that.” A fleeting grimace crossed his face as he glanced back at the shining sword. “Hale’s blade begins to serve its master.”

  Donal shivered once. “No. That sword is yours.”

  Sef, standing between Donal and Evan, wrenched his head around to stare. “That’s the magic sword?”

  Donal looked at him sharply. “What are you saying, Sef?”

  The boy shrugged self-consciously. “I—I’ve heard it’s got magic in it. There’s a story around Homana-Mujhar that it’ll be your sword, and when it is—”

  “Enough!” Donal cut him off with the sharp Cheysuli gesture. “There are better things to do with your time than listen to stories. Go on, Sef—go back to camp. Is there nothing for you to do?”

  Color moved through the boy’s face. For a moment his vitality dimmed, then came rushing back. He flicked a glance at the Mujhar with his odd, uncanny eyes, then looked directly at Donal. “But they say the sword was made for you.”

  Donal’s bones tingled. His head ached. He glared at Sef through eyes that burned from smoke and flame. He pointed at the sword. “Then go and fetch it, Sef, and see what nonsense you mouth.”

  Sef shrank back. “No! I can’t touch it!”

  “Do not be foolish, Sef.” Donal, still somewhat disoriented, felt his patience slipping. “What is to keep you from touching the sword?”

  “It—it might stop me.” He shrugged. “Somehow. It might. You don’t know it wouldn’t.” Furtively he looked at the sword. “It’s a magic sword, my lord. It isn’t meant for a boy like me.”

  “Donal.” Carillon’s voice, with the
snap of command in it. “Fetch the sword yourself. I have no more time to waste on Tynstar and his tricks.”

  The Mujhar turned away. With Rowan’s aid he made his way down from the crest of the scorched hill and walked through his gathered army, speaking quietly to frightened men. Finn and Evan were silhouetted against the horizon, lighted only by the moonlight. Lorn waited as well, and Taj, still drifting in the heavens.

  Donal turned from Sef to fetch the sword. The blade was half-buried in charred earth. He reached down, clasped the hilt and tugged.

  At once he felt again the thrumming of life in bones and muscles; the promise of power and strength. Gods…is this what has kept Carillon strong all these years as his body decayed? A sword—?

  He pulled it free of the earth. The blade was perfectly clean, unblemished by ash or dirt. The runes seemed to writhe upon the steel.

  In the silvered darkness, Sef’s pale face was almost translucent. “Hale’s sword,” he said, “is not meant for such as me.”

  “This sword,” Donal said deliberately, “is meant for any man who can wield it.”

  “Oh?” Finn’s voice held a familiar undertone of irony. “Is that why it warded us against Tynstar?”

  Evan shook his head. “In Ellas, magic is limited to such things as simple tricks and potions, or to the harpers of Lodhi. You have seen Lachlan’s power. But—I have never seen anything like this.”

  Donal looked down at the sword. In his hand, the grip was warm. The ruby blazed bright red. “Nor have I.” He could deny the sword no longer. And so he turned and left the hill.

  * * *

  The pavilion held two cots, two stools, one chair, a tiny three-legged table. Tripod braziers stood in two of the corners. The fabric was pale saffron. The candlelight, thrown against the sides, painted the interior burnt gold, pale cream and ivory. It reminded Donal of the Womb with all its marble lir.

  He sat in the chair. Beside him slumped Lorn, sleepy-eyed in the glow of fat white candles. Taj perched precariously on Donal’s chairback; he could feel the meticulous balance of the falcon. In front of him stood the table, and set on the knife-scarred wood was the sword. No more did the ruby blaze, but neither was it black. It was the rich blood-red of a Cheysuli ruby, no more, no less—yet full of significance.

  “In the clans, it is held a Cheysuli-made sword has a life of its own when matched with the proper master. I have heard of others made for foreign kings and princes because of all the legends…but this one—this one Hale made for Shaine. I know the story. It was Shaine who gave it to Carillon when he became Prince of Homana…it has been his weapon for years and years. It is a part of the tales they tell about him. And now he thrusts it upon me, says it is mine—”

  Evan, sprawled inelegantly across the cot, shrugged. He held a cup of wine in his hand. “Perhaps it is. Does it matter so much?”

  “Aye. Cheysuli do not use swords.”

  Evan snorted. “Then what is the use of making them?”

  “We do not, now. When the qu’mahlin was declared, no longer did we make weapons with which to arm the Homanans.” Faintly, he frowned. “If—if it is true Hale made that sword for me—why? I am Cheysuli.”

  “And Homanan, are you not?”

  Donal shifted in his chair, disturbing the falcon. Taj reprimanded him gently. “Aye,” he said grimly. “But none of me wants that sword.”

  “And if Carillon leaves it to you?”

  “I will not use it,” Donal declared. “Never will I fight with it. There is my knife, my bow—even lir-shape. Why would I want a sword?”

  Evan smiled. “Just because you don’t want it, does not mean it wasn’t meant for you.”

  Donal’s smile was wryly crooked. “You sound almost like a warrior discussing his tahlmorra.”

  Evan drank for a moment, then shifted his posture to sit more upright. “Well, every man has a fate. Some men make theirs. I may not be Cheysuli, but I am a son of Lodhi—for all I may not seem so.”

  “The All-Father,” Donal said wryly. “Is it true you Ellasians believe he sired all of you?”

  “Well, He did not precisely lie with my lady mother, if that is what you mean.” Evan grinned and drank again. “But aye, in a way, He did. You see, Lodhi lay with a single mortal woman, and from that union sprang Ellas.”

  Donal, losing interest, looked again at the sword. He rubbed absently at his chin. “This sword is Carillon’s—” Abruptly, he rose. He snatched up the sword and went out of the pavilion, ignoring Sef’s startled question as the boy rose up from his mat outside the doorflap. Donal ignored everyone as he strode through the encampment; he was intent upon his mission.

  Carillon’s crimson tent stood apart from the others. Tall wooden stave torches had been thrust into the earth around the pavilion to bathe it with light. Shadows flickered against the crimson fabric; Donal saw there were no guards.

  No guards—?

  And then he heard the Mujhar’s startled cry of pain.

  Donal ran. He felt the grip settle more comfortably into his palm. His fingers found ridges meant to cradle his bones; the remaining space beckoned his other hand. The metal was warm, alive; he could feel the power rising. It bled into his body and spread to fill the very marrow of his bones. He almost wanted to fight.

  His free hand ripped aside the crimson doorflap. Automatically it dropped the fabric and went unerringly to the hilt, closing around the gold. He felt the blade rising, rising, incredibly light in his hands and yet substantially weighted as well. The balance was perfect. The sword was a part of his body, an extension of his hands, his arms, his mind—

  —“No!” he shouted as he saw the man bending over Carillon’s body in the cot.

  Candlelight flashed off the blade. The reflection struck full across the man’s face as he turned; Donal saw a haze of gold and black and bronze. And eyes. Yellow eyes, staring back at Donal.

  The blow faltered. His arms sagged. Donal let the weight drop down, releasing his left hand so that the sword dangled limply from his right. “By the gods, su’fali…I might have had your head—”

  “And regretted it later, no doubt.” Finn straightened. His hands were empty. But he stood at Carillon’s bedside, and the Mujhar was clearly unconscious.

  “What are you doing?” Donal demanded in alarm. “What is wrong with Carillon?” He moved closer to the cot, fingers clenching the sword hilt. “Gods—he is not dead—”

  “No.” Finn glanced down at the Mujhar’s slack face. “No, not yet.”

  “Yet?” Donal stopped beside the cot, but he did not look at Carillon. He stared instead at Finn. “You do not mean—”

  “—I mean he has little time,” Finn said flatly. “Are you blind, Donal, to say you do not know it?”

  “But—but he is so strong—” Donal gestured with his empty left hand. “He rules—”

  “—stolen time,” Finn said, and his voice had roughened a little. “Tynstar took it from him—I have stolen it back. A little. Not enough. But—as with all things, it carries a price.” He looked down at Carillon. “Donal—are you prepared to be Mujhar?”

  “No!” It burst out of him instantly. “No, su’fali—no.”

  “Have you learned nothing from Carillon?”

  At last, Donal looked down at the man who ruled Homana. He saw how the flames overlay the face and emphasized the slackness of the flesh, the banishment of the strength inherent in Carillon’s bones. The beard had silvered, thinning, so that the line of the jaw was visible. The hair, fallen back from his face, no longer hid the fragility of his temples; Donal saw clearly the hollows of age, the upstanding threading of veins, the prominent bones of the nose.

  But it was not the face that shocked Donal. It was the leather that had been wrapped around Carillon’s naked torso. Stiff leather, laced together; it held his spine perfectly straight, almost too straight. Straps ran over both broad shoulders. The leather bracers, which Donal had always believed were mere cuffs providing some measure of support, were reinfor
ced with metal.

  “Years ago, when the disease began to twist his spine and shoulders, he had that made.” Finn’s tone was expressionless. “It allows him to resemble a man instead of a blighted tree. It allows him to hold the sword you have just returned.”

  He is dying. I see it, now— “Gods!” Donal whispered. “Oh, su’fali—say it is not true.”

  “I will not lie to you.”

  Donal felt pain knot up his belly, rising to fill chest and throat. “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “I have done it.” The tone was minutely unsteady, yet tight, controlled. “I gave him tetsu root.”

  Donal blanched. “How much?”

  Finn’s smile lacked humor. “Enough to do some good. And it has. He has been—better—since the wedding.”

  Donal felt a chill. “Su’fali—tetsu root is deadly.”

  “So is growing old.” Finn looked down at Carillon’s unconscious body. “It was his choice, Donal. I did not force him. I did not hide it in his wine. I simply told him about tetsu and what it could do for him. He said he would take the risk.”

  “Risk? There is no risk! Tetsu always kills.” Donal gestured emptily again. “Have you known a man to set it aside once he has begun drinking it regularly? I have not. Every warrior who desires it has taken it once, then twice, and soon enough there is no stopping it, not until the root slays. By the gods, su’fali, you have given him over to death!”

  “I have lessened some of his pain,” Finn declared. “For him, I could do no less.”

  Donal stared at the Mujhar. All the grief welled up and made him feel helpless. Carillon was dying more quickly than was natural. Tynstar had seen to that. But Finn, in a final obscene service performed by a loyal liege man, had made it more immediate.

  “How long?” he whispered.

  “A month. Two. Perhaps a little longer.” Finn looked down at his friend. “What Tynstar did tonight destroyed many of Carillon’s defenses. His will has been such that he would not give in to disease or drug. But now—time is running out.”

  Donal tried to swallow down the swelling in his throat. “Does—does he know it?”