Donal counted the bodies. Fourteen that he could differentiate from others. Fourteen boys who had run messages between the captains and tended their noble lords.
As Sef had.
His head snapped around as he stared at Finn. “Is he here?”
Mutely, Finn gestured to one of the sprawled bodies. It was mostly hidden by another.
Donal went to the body and knelt. The flickering torchlight showed him shadowed, ghostly faces; slack, childish mouths. He gently moved the body off Sef’s legs, then beckoned one of the sentries over.
The torch was unmerciful. Sef’s head was twisted slightly, so that his face was turned away. But his neck was bared, and the cut in his throat showed plainly. From ear to ear it stretched. The ground was sodden with his blood.
Red blood, Donal thought. None of the blackened Ihlini ichor— “Fourteen boys,” he said aloud. “Surely one of them must have heard the Solindish coming.”
“This was Ihlini-done,” Finn told him grimly.
Donal snapped his head around. “Are you certain? This smells of raiders to me.”
“It is meant to. But see you this?” Finn held something out.
Donal, frowning, took it from his uncle’s hand. It was a stone, a round, dull gray stone with a vein of black running through it.
“An Ihlini ward-stone,” Finn explained. “Apart from the other four, it is worthless. But it tells us who was here.”
“Dropped?” Donal rolled the stone in his hand. “Used to make them helpless—silencing their cries…” He looked again at Sef. Near one bent knee lay a flaccid wineskin. Donal smelled the tang. Wine, not cider; boys had tried to mimic men.
Carefully, Donal closed the staring odd-colored eyes. He recalled Carillon performing the same service for Electra. And then such grief welled up as to nearly unman him before the others. “Gods—” he choked “—why did it have to be boys—?”
“Because they knew what it would do.” Briefly, Finn touched Donal’s rigid shoulder. “I know what he was to you. I am sorry for what has happened.”
“To me—?” Donal stared up at his uncle. “What of you? What if he was your son—or kin or some other kind? What then, su’fali?”
The scar jumped once. “It changes nothing,” Finn said evenly. “The boy is dead.”
“Dead,” Donal echoed. Gently, he touched Sef’s right wrist. He felt the feathered band. He recalled how it was meant to be a charm against sorcery.
Cheysuli sorcery.
Deftly, Donal untied the knot in the leather lace on the underside of the cool, limp wrist. He took the band and tucked it into his belt-purse.
Not strong enough, he told the murdered boy. Was I not charm enough against the sorcery you feared?
But then, looking again at the fourteen bodies, he knew he had not been.
Donal rose stiffly. He could not look at Finn. “We need a burial detail.”
The other sentry inclined his head. “My lord—I will see to it.” With the torch smoking in his wake, the Homanan went away.
Donal stared gloomily out at the drowning world from the open flaps of his saffron pavilion. It was late evening, just past supper. It was cold. Summer was gone; fall had settled in. In Solinde, it rained during the fall. He was bored, restless and weary, and heartily wishing Carillon had left someone else to lead the army.
He had led it, now, for two months. Occasional word came from Carillon that Osric of Atvia still pressed them on the plains between Hondarth and Mujhara. Worse, it seemed unlikely there would be any immediate resolution. Osric, Carillon claimed, was a master strategist. The two armies were utterly deadlocked.
Donal sighed and turned away from the rainy darkness to watch Evan rattle a small wooden casket. It held ivory dice and slender sticks of rune-carved wood. The Homanans called it the fortune-game. There were two levels of play: a straightforward dicing game for unimaginative gamblers, and the more elaborate rune-stick portion involving portents and prophecies.
I weary of prophecies. Let Evan play at being Seer—I have enough to concern myself with.
The Ellasian prince had unmatched skill with both dice and rune-sticks. Dice and sticks fell his way repeatedly, but Donal knew he did not cheat. The game itself was not Evan’s, but won from a Homanan soldier in an unconnected wager.
Evan rattled the casket. “Come, my lord of Homana—let us see what your fortune says.”
Donal smiled wryly. “Have you wearied of taking my coin? Now you wish to steal my fortune also?”
Evan raised dark brows in feigned indignation, one hand touching his heart. “I, my lord? Do you mistrust me, then? But here. I will show you—I shall throw and read you what I see.”
Donal watched idly as Evan chanted over the rune-sticks and dice as he rattled them in their casket. Boredom settled more deeply in his bones.
Solinde, of late, had been peaceful. The Ihlini, perhaps stunned by Tynstar’s death, were quiet. The Solindish did not attack. The most recent encampment had stood safely for three weeks. It was possible the rebellion was over; also possible the Solindish meant to trap the Homanans into leaving prematurely. And so the warhost waited.
Evan spilled out the dice and rune-sticks across the wooden table. Ivory rattled; rune-sticks rolled, then settled. Evan frowned in concentration. “Ah!” he cried in discovery. “Fortune looks kindly on you, my lord. See here the rune signifying the Wanderer? And the die here for modification? It means within days you shall find yourself traveling on a journey filled with adventure and discovery—see you here? Jester and Charlatan.” Evan’s grin was sly. “A Woman as well, Donal—see you this rune here?”
“I see the folly of idleness,” Donal retorted. Before Evan could speak, he scooped up dice and rune-sticks without dropping them into the casket, and threw them across the table. “There. Read them for me now.”
Evan stared at the pattern. After a moment he lifted his head and met Donal’s eyes squarely. “You mock the game, my friend. Not wise. Now what you see is a genuine destiny.”
Donal snorted. “I was promised a destiny long ago, Ellasian—all Cheysuli are. Read me my fortune.”
Evan looked back at the tumbled dice and rune-sticks. He touched none of them, but he pointed to the indicators. “There. A Minor rune, representing Youth. But, coupled with a Major one, so—” he pointed to another rune on the same stick “—that is the Magician, Donal, and a very powerful rune.”
Donal, still smiling, nodded. “Say on, Seer.”
Evan’s habitual sleepy expression was gone. “Here—this is the Prisoner. This die signifies time spent—months. And this rune is another Major—it is the Executioner.” He met Donal’s eyes again. “Conjoined with what I threw just before you did, the fortune is a powerful one.”
“Aye?” Donal waited.
Evan sighed. “Wanderer: you will embark upon a journey. Charlatan and Jester: you will meet those who are more than what they seem. Woman is obvious—perhaps she is also the Magician. And at the end of the journey there is imprisonment and potential death—there is an Executioner.” Evan gestured. “There, my friend, is your fortune.”
“A full one,” Donal said lightly. “You do not underplay the moment, Evan.”
“I underplay nothing—” Evan began, but his words were drowned out in a shout from outside the pavilion. Donal heard his own name called.
He turned to the doorflap at once. Framed in the opening was a cloaked and hooded man, nearly indistinguishable from the rain and darkness. “My lord.” The voice was raised to reach above the downpour. One hand came up to move the hood and the shadows shifted.
“Rowan! Come in.” Donal stepped aside at once and gestured the general in. “Word from Carillon?”
Rowan moved past him into the pavilion. Rain ran down the muddied cloak and splattered against the hard-packed floor; he threw it back from his shoulders. He wore leather-and-ringmail, and his rumpled crimson tunic was stained with blood and grime. The brazier cast harsh shadows across his face and limne
d his weariness.
“My lord,” he said without ceremony. “Carillon is dead.”
Donal stared at him. For a moment he felt nothing, as if the words were syllables of nonsense. But then they came together into a sentence he understood. Shock reared up in his soul. “Carillon…” he whispered.
Rowan reached into his belt-pouch. From it he took an object and placed it on the table. In the candlelight, the bloodstains shone dark red.
A ring. A gold ring, set with a black stone, and into the stone was carved the rampant lion of Homana.
Rowan bent his head. Silver shone in his hair. And then, with a gracelessness that emphasized his grief and utter weariness, he knelt upon the floor. “My lord,” he said. “You are Mujhar of Homana.”
Donal looked down at him. Rowan knelt stiffly and his head was bowed. The wet cloak molded itself to his body and tangled on his spurs. He was wet, wet and weary, and stark pain was in his voice.
For a moment Donal shut his eyes. Beneath his lids he saw Carillon as he had seen him last. Carillon standing over the bodies of Tynstar and Electra, knowing he too would be dead before the year was out.
He knew. He knew—I knew…and still I am unprepared.
He looked blankly at Rowan again. No. It was not right. The posture was incorrect. He was not the man for whom the homage was intended. “Get up from there,” he said unsteadily. “You do not kneel to me.”
Rowan raised his head. “I kneel to the Mujhar.”
Again, the words were unconnected. He heard them, but he could not acknowledge them. Slowly he shook his head. “Carillon is your Mujhar.”
The older man’s face did not change expression. It was a mask, a blank, weary mask, hiding what he felt. “You are in his place, my lord. And I must offer my fealty.”
“Get up from there!” Donal shouted. “You do this purposely!” His voice cracked. He stopped speaking. He felt the trembling in his body. And then, only then, did he see the tears in Rowan’s eyes.
He nearly turned away. He could not face the man’s grief, or it would swallow up his own. Instead he stared blankly at the ring.
Now it is meant for me. He looked down at his right hand. On his forefinger the ruby signet ring meant for the Prince of Homana. No longer was it his. He must replace it with the other. Gods…I am not worthy.
“Donal.” It was Evan, speaking softly. “Donal—will you keep him on his knees the length of the night?”
Abruptly, Donal looked back at the general. He saw how the sun-bronzed skin had lost much of its color. It was stretched taut over the strong, prominent bones, shadowed in the light. Rowan looked almost old.
He has lost so much…Donal bent. He caught Rowan’s left arm and raised him up. “Do you think I would not accept you?” His voice was steadier now. “Did you think I would dismiss you?”
“I am Carillon’s man,” Rowan said clearly. “I can never be anyone else’s.”
Donal did not answer at once. He lacked a voice; the words. Somehow, he had always known it. Rowan was Carillon’s man, as he himself had claimed. For more years than Donal had been alive, Rowan had served his lord. He had dedicated his life to Carillon utterly. And now the task was finished.
He will never serve me. To him, I am a makeshift man, not fit to assume the Lion. I can never take Carillon’s place.
He looked at the older man. “Surely you will aid me. My task will not be easy.”
“Nor was his.” The tears were gone from Rowan’s eyes. His face was a mask again.
Gods—he will never acknowledge me. Donal looked at the ring again. He felt empty and full all at once. Empty in spirit because Carillon was gone; full of the grief it brought. “Rowan,” he said softly, “I will need your help.”
The other Cheysuli drew in a deep, uneven breath. “Years ago, Carillon gave me an estate as a reward for my services. I have had it administered for me through all the years I remained at Homana-Mujhar…but I intended, when this time arrived, to leave royal service.”
“Leave?” Donal felt the apprehension spill into his belly. “Do you think I can do this alone?”
“I doubt you can do it at all.” The tone was uninflected. It made the words more cruel.
“Oh, gods,” Donal said. “Do you hate me so much?”
“I do not hate you at all.” Neither tone nor expression changed. “You are not—Carillon. That is all. It is not fair, I know…but then nothing is fair. Is it?” Rowan’s eyes were filled with bittersweet empathy. “You are resented by the Homanans because Carillon made you his heir. Oh, aye—they begin to accept the prophecy, but they would prefer to accept it later. With you, that time is now.” Rowan sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “There are foreign realms who view the succession with alarm and distaste: they must deal with a man who shifts his shape. And, of course, there are the Cheysuli, who view you as something like unto an avatar of all the ancient gods. How can I hate a man as swallowed up as you?”
Swallowed up— Aye, he was, or would be. The Lion would regurgitate a different man.
Fear lodged in his throat. “Rowan—I will need your help.”
After a moment, Rowan nodded. “And I will see that you have it.”
Donal turned to the table and poured a cup of wine. He offered it to Rowan. “Here. You are in need of food and rest. But for now…will you tell me how it was? Supposedly it is a painless ending.”
Rowan, accepting the wine, looked at him sharply. “Painless? His death?”
Donal gestured emptily. “I am told the root is—gentle. That at the last a man simply slips away in his sleep. I had hoped it would be so for Carillon.”
Rowan stared, the wine forgotten. “Root? What do you say?” Then his mouth dropped open. “Are you speaking of tetsu?”
“Aye,” Donal answered. Then, in shock, “Did you not know? I thought he told you everything.”
Color drained from Rowan’s face. “Gods—was that it? I knew he was in pain—the disease was eating his bones. But not once—never did I think he would resort to such as tetsu.” His mask had slipped. There was bewilderment in his face. “But where would he get it? It is a Cheysuli thing, and kept hidden from Homanans.” He looked at Donal questioningly. “How would he know of tetsu, and who would give it to him?”
Donal felt his jaw clench. “It was Finn who gave it to him.”
Shock flared in Rowan’s eyes. “Finn!” He caught his breath. “Aye—it would be! Leave it to Finn to give poison to Carillon!”
“For the pain,” Donal protested. “He said Carillon desired it.”
“And so he stole more time!” Rowan said bitterly. “Did he tell him what it would do? Did Finn say to him he would lose what little time was left?” His hands shook in his anger.
Donal’s fingers curled against his palms until the nails bit in. “I am certain Finn told him everything. He is not a murderer, Rowan.”
“He has been that, and worse.” Rowan’s tone was harsh, the words clipped. “Most of the stories of him are true.”
An answering spark of anger flared in Donal’s chest. “Finn was loyal to the Mujhar! What he did was because Carillon desired it! Do you dare intimate to me that Finn wanted him to die?”
Rowan shut his eyes. “No…no…I—do not. No. Forgive me, I am not myself. But—tetsu root? Why?”
“He was in pain,” Donal answered. “Did you not tell me that often enough?”
The older visage was haggard in the candlelight. Rowan passed a hand across his face and rubbed at his circled eyes. “Gods—he meant to rule until the end…he meant not to give himself over into imbecility from the pain…aye, I see it. A man such as Carillon would take tetsu and give up quantity for quality. It was his way.” Suddenly a breath of ironic laughter issued hollowly from his mouth. “And then, for all that, it was Osric who took his life.”
Breath spilled out of Donal’s body. “Osric! Osric?”
Rowan nodded. “Three weeks ago we rode into battle against Osric. And it was done with. We had won
the day. We had only to gather our dead and wounded.” He drew in a heavy breath. “I saw him. Carillon was mounted, standing on a hilltop. Just—looking. Looking across the battlefield as we went out to gather our dead. I saw him sitting there, watching…I wondered why he was so still. Now, I think it might have been the root. It—affects a man’s perceptions.” His brows twisted together in a spasm of grief. “I—saw him fall.”
“Fall—”
Jerkily, Rowan nodded. “He fell.” The words spilled out. “He went down by the hooves of his horse. For a moment I could not understand—Carillon would never fall!—and then I saw the arrow in his chest.” He stopped talking. “I was—too far…too far—I could not reach him in time. But—I saw the Atvian archer—I saw him ride up to my lord. Even as I ran across the hill, I saw him kneel down by my Mujhar. I shouted—gods, how I shouted!—but the archer did not listen. And by the time I reached my lord, the Atvian was gone.”
Silence. Donal heard the sibilance of the rain. It ran off the pavilion and splattered against the ground. “More?” he asked raggedly.
Tears ran unchecked down Rowan’s Cheysuli face. “He knew it was done,” he said. “He said I must not trouble myself to send for a chirurgeon. He said—he said he wished Finn were with him, or Duncan, so they could take away the pain.” For an instant, his voice shook. “He told me it was Osric himself—the Atvian archer was Osric…that he named himself to Carillon as he knelt down beside him. And then—then he said I was to carry the sword to you, because now you would accept it.”
“The sword…” Donal echoed. “Gods—now it is mine.”
Rowan’s face was gray. “My lord—Osric has the sword.”
“Osric!”
“I could not tell Carillon,” Rowan whispered wretchedly. “That is what the Atvian took.”
Donal recalled the sparring match he had had with Carillon so many months before. How they had discovered that, in his hand, the blade knew its true master. Not Carillon’s sword at all, for all it served him. Meant for another man.
Legacy of the Sword Page 29
