And what will they say of you? Taj asked, wheeling idly in the air.
Of me? Inwardly, Donal grimaced. That I could never be Carillon’s equal.
Is that truly what you desire? Lorn asked from beside the stallion. Did he not make his own way in the world—just as you yourself will?
Aye. Donal sighed. What they say, I will know in time. And perhaps they will have the right of it after all.
On the crest of a rise, Carillon halted his horse. Still he sat in silence, staring eastward toward Homana. Donal, waiting beside him, heard the buzz of a bee in the air.
“I thank you for coming with me to this place,” Carillon said at last. “You might have refused.”
“Refused you—?”
Carillon rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Aye. You may refuse me, Donal. I have not stripped you of your freedom entirely—it only seems that way.”
The chestnut stallion stomped to discourage a bothersome fly. Dust rose. Donal smelled the pungent tang of freshly crushed plains grass. Absently, he tapped his mount with a heel and reprimanded him gently, urging him into stillness. “It is—difficult to refuse you.”
“Because that is what I wanted.” Still Carillon stared eastward. “But I am done telling you what you must be, what you must say, how you must behave. I am done locking the shackles around your wrists.” At last, he looked at Donal. “I have brought you here so I may ask your forgiveness.”
Donal started, frowning. “Forgiveness—? From me?”
“Aye,” Carillon said gently. “Duncan left me a chunk of naked metal and I did my best to shape it into a sword—even to tempering it to my liking, knowing what weight and balance I desired. But I am no arms-master, and I may have unwittingly set blemishes in the steel.” His mouth hooked down in a brief ironic twist. “Now I seek to blood the blade after keeping it sheathed for nearly sixteen years.”
“My lord—”
“I am sorry, Donal. I could offer you countless reasons and excuses for what I have become—and what I have done to you—but I am finished with that. I am finished with—much.” His brows twisted briefly; Donal heard the undertone of despair in the steady voice. “I am sorry. I am sorry. For you…for Aislinn…for the child that must come of this.” He looked at his ruined hands as they clasped the saddlebow. “Last night I said there was no time for decency in war. Perhaps I meant it then, but it is not true. War may be obscene, but it is also necessary. So is decency, if you are to retain a measure of humanity.” His faded blue eyes met and held Donal’s. “My wars are nearly over. It is you who will fight them for me, and eventually for yourself. I pray you do it with the decency I denied…and the humanity you will need.”
“Ru’shalla-tu,” Donal said thickly. I pray the gods it may be so.
Slowly Carillon smiled. “Ja’hai, Donal. Cheysuli i’halla shansu.”
After a moment, Donal put out his arm. Their hands met and locked in the firm Cheysuli clasp. “Accepted,” he said. “May there be Cheysuli peace upon you.”
Carillon at last broke the clasp. “We had best go back to the army. Rowan will be worried.”
“As well he should be,” agreed a sinuous voice. “Have I caught you two alone?”
Donal spun his horse even as Carillon mimicked him. Before them, unmounted, stood Tynstar. And with him was Electra.
She laughed. “We have taken them by surprise.”
Tynstar smiled. “I think we have made them mute.”
“No,” Carillon said. “Hardly that. But I am surprised you come to us here. The army is not so far.”
“What I mean to do will not take much time,” Tynstar said benignly, “and whenever has an army been able to gainsay me?”
Electra’s cool gray eyes watched Donal. He felt the power of her gaze. “You wanted Carillon, and now we have the wolfling as well. Will you give him to me, my love?”
Donal felt a frisson slip down his spine. Apprehension filled his belly. Lir—
What is there to do? Lorn asked wretchedly.
Taj circled in agitation. It is law, lir, our law, given by the gods. We do not attack the Ihlini.
Because we are bloodkin? For the first time, Donal wondered if Tynstar’s falsehood might hold some truth after all. Is that why you keep the law?
Neither bird nor wolf answered.
Tynstar smiled sweetly. “If you want him, Electra, I will give him to you when I am done with Carillon.”
Donal straightened in his saddle. “If you think I will sit idly by while you attack Carillon, you are a fool indeed.”
“Not a fool,” Tynstar answered. “Merely—patient.” He raised a hand noncommittally. “For now, I do not desire your meddling.”
The Ihlini flicked a single finger. A blow knocked Donal off his horse and into nothingness. He floated, bodiless and mindless, knowing only fear and helplessness and a strange, wild grief. Then he landed against the ground and all such fleeting sensations were knocked utterly from his head, along with the breath from his lungs.
He struggled up on one elbow, trying to catch his banished breath, and saw the tableau take life before him. Taj flew in circles, shrieking in desperation; Lorn tipped back his head and howled in despair.
Donal’s leg throbbed. He sank his teeth into his lip, tried to rise, and found himself fastened to the ground. He could not move at all.
“You sent Osric to Hondarth,” Carillon challenged.
“I take Homana how I can,” the sorcerer agreed. “Would you not do the same? You have learned what it is to be ruthless in order to get what you desire.”
Carillon glanced back at Donal. Indecision and concern showed briefly in his eyes. But the indecision faded; Donal saw him smile—
—and set spurs to the flanks of his stallion.
Carillon rode at Tynstar. The Ihlini, unmounted, was prey to a galloping horse. He was prey to the sword the Mujhar drew.
But he merely lifted a languid hand and split the air with flame.
Concussion knocked Carillon from the saddle. Donal saw the Mujhar crash against the ground, sword dropping free of his hand.
Another gesture brought a bolt of lightning lancing out of the sky. It blasted the ground around Carillon’s sprawling body, splattering him with dirt.
“Slowly,” Electra said. “Let him know he dies.”
“Old man,” Tynstar said, “shall I release you from your pain?”
Slowly, Carillon pushed himself to his knees. Donal saw how his body trembled, how the chest heaved in complete exhaustion. Dust filmed his face; part of his beard was burned away.
He slumped. Slumping, his hands went to the ground. Fingers splayed. Elbows stiffened. He braced himself with every ounce of his waning strength.
Gods— Donal begged, do not let it end like this!
Failing, Carillon’s body curled forward, slumping—
—but did not fall. Instead, he jerked the knife from his belt and hurled it through the air.
“No—!” Electra screamed.
The knife went home high in Tynstar’s chest.
Carillon laughed. “Whose death today, Ihlini? Mine—or is it yours?”
Tynstar’s right hand clawed at the hilt. A hissing exhalation poured from between his lips. “Seker—” he said, “Seker—I call upon the Seker—”
“What?” Carillon asked, still kneeling on the ground. “Do your powers begin to fade? Do you call upon your god?”
“Seker—” Tynstar hissed. “I call upon the Seker—”
“Before a Cheysuli warrior?” Carillon climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I think the petition will fail.”
Tynstar thrust his right hand upward into the air. The fingers shook. “Asar-Suti!” he shouted. “I summon you to me!”
Carillon did not wait. He hurled himself forward and came down near the forgotten sword. He rolled rapidly and thrust his failing body upward, leveling the blade in a vicious, scything sweep.
Electra screamed. Tynstar’s upthrust hand dropped limply back at his side. H
e stood a moment longer, then buckled at the knees.
But his head struck the ground before his body did. The scream went on and on. It sliced through Donal’s head like a blade, and then it stopped. Abruptly.
Electra simply stared.
Donal slowly got up. He looked at the severed neck. The blow had been quite clean, no wasted effort.
Blood, thick and viscid, oozed slowly from the trunk. But the color was not red, but deepest black.
Carillon turned to Donal. “How do you fare?”
“He did not harm me, but—Carillon, look to Electra—”
The Mujhar spun around. But Electra made no move to attack. Instead, she walked unsteadily toward the decapitated body and knelt beside it.
White-blond hair spilled down her breasts and trailed into the blood. Slowly, the blackness benighted the shining strands. It stained the pale lilac of her gown.
“Electra.” Carillon walked slowly toward his wife. “Electra—he is dead.”
She leaned forward. She moaned. She put her hands on the bloodied shoulders of the body. She slid them down across the torso in a morbid caress.
She jerked the knife from the chest—
—and came up, spinning, aiming for Carillon’s belly—
—in time to spit herself to the hilt of Carillon’s waiting sword.
“Such beauty…” he whispered in a ragged, helpless voice.
The knife dropped from her hand. Knees buckled. She fell, and Carillon caught her.
Carefully, he pulled the blade from her body. He set the sword upon the ground. Then he shut the lids of her gray-pale eyes and straightened her silken skirts. Her hands, still stained with Tynstar’s blood, he folded beneath her breasts. The glorious hair, half-white, half-blond, he smoothed away from her flawless face.
Carillon knelt. Donal saw the bloodstain spreading beneath Electra’s folded hands. Black. Black and thick and viscid.
With Tynstar dead—with Electra dead…is Aislinn free at last?
The Mujhar rose. He took up the sword again. He turned to face his heir. “You must go back. Return to the encampment. I must go on to vanquish Osric—I will send your regrets to my daughter.”
Donal stared. “But—I thought you wished me to go to her.”
“I was wrong.” He looked down at the body of his wife. “Once, she must have been a woman. A woman…not a witch.” Slowly he sheathed his sword. He clasped Donal’s shoulder, squeezing firmly, as if he were young again. “Go, my lord. Win back Solinde for me.”
Donal turned away. He mounted his chestnut stallion and eased his throbbing leg into the stirrup. Taj perched on the saddlebow; Lorn stood by his side. He turned westward, toward the camp that lay so many miles behind them.
But when he looked back he saw Carillon standing over the bodies of his wife and the Ihlini.
As if he mourns them both—
Sef’s odd eyes were stretched wide in shock. “The demon is dead?”
Donal sat on the edge of his cot and worried at his boot, trying to strip it off without causing more pain to the injured leg. Sef stood stock still in front of his master, not helping.
“Aye.” Donal caught heel and toe and pulled, gritting his teeth. “At last, we are free of Tynstar’s plotting…it may be this war will end sooner than we hoped.” His foot moved in the boot. He tugged harder, grunting with effort. “Sef—help me with this. Stop gaping at me like a fish.”
Sef’s usually efficient hands caught the boot clumsily and pulled it off. “But you did not slay him—?”
“No. The Mujhar did.” Donal, frowning, felt at his bandaged leg. “But it was Electra who slew herself. Had she not tried to slay Carillon, she would not now be dead.” He wiggled his toes experimentally. “So we are rid of them both.”
“And now?” Sef asked. “What happens to all the other Ihlini—the ones who still fight here?”
“The race is still powerful,” Donal told him. “All of them claim some measure of the dark arts. But without Tynstar to lead them, I think perhaps we will have less trouble with them all. Carillon cut the head from the serpent—it may be all the little snakelets will wriggle about in confusion, with no knowledge of how to strike.” He stretched out carefully and lay back on his cot. “Ru’shalla-tu.”
Sef, moving to the table to pour a cup of wine, twisted his head to stare over his shoulder. “What do you say?”
“May it be so. Old Tongue saying.” Donal scrubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. “Gods, but when I recall the sight of Tynstar’s head falling from his body—” For a moment, he shut his eyes and summoned the vision again. “And all the blackened blood—”
Sef spun around, nearly spilling the wine. “Blackened blood! Tynstar’s blood was black?”
“Black and thick and heavy.” Donal levered himself up on one arm and accepted the cup of wine. “Electra’s too—” He grimaced. “It is enough to give one nightmares.” Abruptly, he looked at Sef with his pale face and staring eyes. “Gods, I am sorry. I should not have spoken so plainly.”
Sef shrugged. “No. No, better I know the truth…” He shrugged again, as if to ward off the gooseflesh of fright. “But—what will happen now? Here—to us?”
Donal sipped. “We continue to battle. The Mujhar and his portion of the army will try to stop Osric before he reaches Mujhara—here, we must put a stop to the Solindish-Ihlini uprising.”
“Then—we will stay here until this war is done—and then return to Homana?”
Donal nodded as he swallowed down the wine. “Aye. Carillon has left me a task. I am to lead these men while he confronts the Atvian.”
“Then—Osric doesn’t know the demon has been slain.” Sef frowned. “Does he?”
“No. Perhaps it will aid Carillon’s campaign—he will go against Osric knowing the sorcerer is dead, while Osric anticipates Tynstar’s help.” Donal smiled. “A surprise for the Atvian—one that should help our cause.”
Sef’s voice was tentative. “Then—these are politics?”
Donal laughed. “More like strategies. But often enough they appear to be one and the same.”
It was gloomy inside the tent. Night had fallen; candles illuminated the saffron interior of the pavilion and turned it pale ocher and dull gold. Evan had absented himself to spend time with one of his women; most of the encampment celebrated Tynstar’s downfall. Donal had passed on the news calmly enough, then retired to rest his throbbing leg.
“I will rest, Sef. If you wish to go out and celebrate with the other boys, please yourself.”
“My thanks.” Sef had grown a little since joining Donal’s service, but he was still thin, still almost delicate. The sleeves of his tunic and shirt were too short now; bony wrists protruded.
Inwardly, Donal smiled. More clothing, yet again. “You may go, Sef. I will not need you again until the morning.”
The boy grinned crookedly. “I will drink the cider, my lord—I will drink a toast to the victory over Tynstar!”
“Go.” Donal waved a hand, and the boy ran out of the tent.
He sipped his wine. He stared into the shadows and thought of how he had come to be the victim of circumstance. Nearly twenty-four years before, a child had been born to a warrior and his woman. Their freedom, like the child’s, did not exist. The gods had seen fit to give them all another fate.
Taj perched upon the chairback. He pipped softly, preening his feathers into perfection, hardly aware of Donal’s presence. On the floor, next to the cot, lay Lorn, curled upon rough matting, nose covered by the tip of his ruddy tail. He twitched, and Donal knew he dreamed.
He sighed. He stretched out to set the cup of wine upon the table, and then he lay back, head pillowed on arms thrust beneath his neck. He shut his eyes, and slept.
* * *
He dreamed. He saw a palace and a dais and a woman upon the dais. She was beautiful. She was deadly. She had the power to twist his soul.
Beside her stood a man. Cloaked in black with a silver sword hanging a
t one hip. In his outstretched hand glowed a violet rune. It danced. Subtly. Seductively. Promising many things.
From behind them came a girl. Half-woman, half-child, trapped between youth and adulthood. Like her mother, she was lovely, but her beauty was unfulfilled. Like her father, she was strong, but without a will the strength was blunted.
“Donal,” someone said, “Donal, you must come.”
He frowned. None of the mouths had moved. The rune still danced in the sorcerer’s hand.
“Donal—rouse yourself—”
A hand on his shoulder, and he was suddenly awake. Awake—the dream was banished. He blinked dazedly at Evan and saw how the sleepy eyes were filled with grave concern.
He bent at once and picked up his boot, pulled it on with effort. Evan waited, solemn-faced and silent. There was no frivolity in his face; no hint of celebration.
Donal rose, suppressing a grimace of pain. “Is it better told or shown?”
“Shown,” Evan said. “Words would not describe it.”
Lir, Donal summoned, and they went with him out of the tent.
Evan led him through the encampment to a hollow in the hills ringing the huddled tents. Not far. But away from the bonfires and clustered soldiers who still celebrated Carillon’s victory over Tynstar.
The night was cool. The light had changed; it was nearing dawn. He had slept longer than he intended.
He saw three men standing at the edges of the hollow. Two Homanan sentries. The other a Cheysuli.
Finn turned as Donal came up with Evan. His face, like the others, was solemn, etched with tension. But there was something more in the eyes. Something that spoke of a hope destroyed.
He put out a hand and halted Donal. “There is grief in it for you.”
Both sentries held flaming torches. Light hissed and flared, shedding faulty illumination. In the hollow, Donal saw shapes huddled on the ground, sprawled awkwardly in the macabre dance of death. Outflung arms, legs; limp, questioning hands. Faces, stricken with amazement and terror. Open eyes, staring into the heavens.
Boys, all of them.
One of the sentries stirred. “My lord—the others would not have them at the fires. They said it was for men to do, without the company of boys. And so they came here to celebrate on their own.”
Legacy of the Sword Page 28
