Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  “He was a man…not a beast, not a bird, not a thing—” Donal sucked in a breath. “He was Duncan of the Cheysuli, from the line of the Old Mujhars…in the days when the Lion of Homana still belonged to us—”

  Strahan looked down upon him. “Us,” he echoed. “Aye. My father has taught me, too. How the Lion belonged to us all.”

  “No!” Donal shut his teeth into his lip. No more—give this boy no more words to twist around— “The Lion was ever ours. Cheysuli—never Ihlini. Tynstar spun a tale—”

  “Tynstar spun nothing,” Strahan retorted. “My father told the truth.”

  “The old gods take you,” Donal said weakly. “There are nothing but lies in your head.”

  “And nothing but truth on my tongue.” Strahan stood next to the bunk. “Even if my father lied, do you think he would ever claim kinship to you? Would he admit to a taint so willingly if there were no need for it?”

  “Taint.” Donal nearly spat. “Cheysuli blood would be his saving grace.”

  Strahan’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a smile full of spite. “Then consider us nearly saved, my lord. Consider us full of grace.”

  “Ku’reshtin,” Donal swore weakly, but the boy had left the cabin.

  * * *

  He did not know where Lorn was. He had wakened on board a ship in heavy iron, half senseless from the blast of power Strahan had leveled against him. He knew Lorn still lived for the link was intact. His Old Blood gave him the ability to converse with his lir regardless of the presence of Ihlini, but he could not break through the wolf’s pain. He was, more or less, alone.

  Yet again he entered the link in search of Taj, knowing it likely the falcon was still too distant to hear his pattern; knowing also it was worth trying. With Taj free, he had a chance. The falcon could rouse the others and warn of Strahan’s purpose.

  But there was no answer from Taj. All Donal could do was detach himself from the link and hope Lorn would recover in time.

  He hung in his chains and sweated into the thin blanket on his bunk.

  * * *

  Donal was brought on deck under close guard. He squinted against the sunlight and nearly fell. Confinement in irons had stiffened his muscles and slowed his reflexes. He caught himself against the taffrail and wrenched himself upright, then realized where Strahan had brought him.

  By the gods—does he think he can hold the Crystal Isle? This is a Cheysuli place!

  The mist still clouded the island, closing down over the ship. It settled into his furred leathers. He looked past the dock to the beaches and saw the fine white sand; the forests that lay beyond.

  Strahan stood nearby. He was wrapped in a crimson, fur-lined cloak as fine as any Donal had known in Homana-Mujhar. “When last we were here you brought me as a servant, thinking to elevate a homeless orphan from the degradation of the streets.” He laughed. “All my talk of demons—all my talk of fear! Enough to lull you to my purpose.” He gestured. “I have made the island mine. I have Atvians and Ihlini to serve me. Fitting, is it not, after you so eloquently told me how the Firstborn came from here?” His odd eyes were fixed on Donal’s face. “How does it feel, warrior, to know I have made this an Ihlini place?”

  Donal, clinging grimly to the rail with manacled hands, did not choose to answer. What he saw and what he knew conflicted in his mind, for before him stood a slender, delicate boy who had yet to reach proper manhood, and yet claimed all the burgeoning power of the Ihlini.

  Tynstar spent more than three centuries learning his arts. Strahan is a boy—those centuries stretch ahead. What will he be in a hundred, two hundred years from now?

  The Atvian guards took him from the deck and led him off the ship. Donal stood silently on the dock, watching how Strahan ordered the unloading. He tried to get some glimmer, some indication from the gods that they watched what Strahan did, but there was nothing. The wind was empty of omniscience.

  Strahan turned to him and laughed. “Where are your old gods now, shapechanger? How could this have happened?” Silver glinted in his ears. No more was he the urchin but a well-dressed young man instead, clothed in fine woolens and glittering ornamentation.

  It was useless to remonstrate, to offer Strahan worthless threats and promises. If Lorn recovered, there was a chance Donal could escape. If Taj at last heard his seeking pattern, the falcon could carry warning to Finn and the others as well. But there was no certainty of either.

  “Your wolf, Donal.”

  He swung around, taking an involuntary step forward. He saw a crate, a wooden crate, rolled end over end down the plank, from the ship to the dock below. He heard a muted yelp.

  Pain blazed through his mind. What has Strahan done? Lorn—what has he done to you?

  Guards held him back. He was helpless to aid the wolf. All he could do was mouth incoherent appeals, but he voiced none of them to Strahan.

  The boy gestured. “Release him. I want him to understand what it is to confront a dying lir.”

  Donal jerked free of the loosening hands and stumbled across to the chest. He fell to his knees, seeking to work stiff fingers through the single narrow opening admitting air to the wolf. He touched a crusted nose.

  Lorn! You must not fail!

  The wolf’s pattern was very weak. No water—no food—little air—

  You cannot die…Lorn, I beg you—

  You have another, Lorn answered weakly. You will not be lirless. You will not face the death-ritual.

  Donal tried to thrust his fingers more deeply but the wood compressed his flesh. Lorn—I will not let you die—

  It is better so. I grow weaker. Were I an unblessed wolf of the pack, the others would slay me to protect themselves. The crusted nose pressed briefly against his bruised fingers. Lir—there is also another reason.

  There is no reason worthy of giving in! Donal said angrily. Have you gone mad? I need you!

  As I weaken, so do you, Lorn told him. Do not deny it—I can feel it in the link. Do you lose strength because of me, the Ihlini will have his victory.

  Donal could not deny it. In the days since Strahan had taken them both he had known a steady lessening of his strength; a gnawing weakness in his spirit. While Lorn was so ill from his injuries and captivity, Donal was affected as well.

  Lir—I will not allow you to die.

  “Come,” Strahan said. “It is time you saw your quarters.”

  Hands on his arms dragged Donal from the chest. Donal lashed out in fury with manacled hands and booted feet, seeking to slay what he could reach, but the guards were well-prepared. He struck out again, then froze as he heard a low wail of pain from Lorn.

  Lir—?

  He turned. He saw the sword in Strahan’s hands. The tip of the blade protruded into the crate through the narrow opening. “Do as I say,” Strahan ordered. “Accompany my servants.”

  “And if he dies?” Donal challenged. “How will you make me obey you then?”

  “If he dies, so does your will.” Strahan smiled. “You will live a while longer because there is still the falcon, but when I am done with you the madness will be a blessing.”

  One of the Atvians thrust an arm into the air. “My lord—look!”

  A fleet falcon swept through the air toward the ship. It circled neatly over them all and dipped toward the dock, screaming its agitation.

  Taj! Donal cried within the link. Go! Seek Finn and the Cheysuli. Tell them it is Tynstar’s brat who holds me—the boy we thought was Sef—

  “By the Seker, it is the falcon!” Strahan shouted. “I will slay both of them.”

  “Taj,” Donal shouted. “Go!”

  Strahan took two steps to Donal and set the tip of the sword against his spine. “I know you. I know your heritage. Alix’s son, are you not? And she with all the Old Blood. Seek you the shapechange? Do not. Or I will slay you here.”

  “Slay me, and you lose your tame Mujhar.” Donal bared his teeth, feigning a smile.

  “I plan to replace you one day,” Strahan
pointed out. “It can be sooner rather than later.” He raised one hand. In the other, the sword wavered, tilted downward, too heavy for him to hold up. The tip bit into the wood of the dock.

  Fingers stiffened, snapped apart. From the tips came a blinding stream of brilliant light. Deepest purple, tinged with sparks. An echo of the power Donal had seen in Tynstar.

  He aims for Taj— Donal turned on the Ihlini, striking out with shackles and chains. He struck through the flame streaming from Strahan’s fingers and felt it spark and burn against his skin, raising crimson weals. Then the fire abruptly died, for the boy lay gasping and blue-faced beneath Donal’s weight and throttling fingers.

  Hands were on him, jerking him from the boy. Donal teetered at the dock’s edge as they thrust him roughly away. He saw that Taj still flew unmolested toward the mainland and released a sigh of relief.

  Strahan got unsteadily to his feet. The sword lay on the dock, but he ignored it. “Punishment,” he promised hoarsely. “You will be sorry for that.”

  He thrust both arms into the air as if he invoked a deity. Donal, recalling how Tynstar had tried to summon Asar-Suti, thought Strahan intended the same. He saw the air darken around the pale hands; smoke rolled out of the mist. It wreathed the hands in flame.

  Strahan laughed. “Would you care to meet my lir?”

  Donal’s flesh rose up on his bones. “The Ihlini have no lir—”

  “No? Well, perhaps she is not a lir precisely—but she is made of the same blood and bone.” Crimson sparks shot out of the smoke as it spun around his hands. “She comes from the netherworld, from the Gate of Asar-Suti. And such a lovely, lovely demon—” the flame and smoke exploded “—shall I fly her for you, Donal?”

  Black smoke and flame took substance. Donal saw talons, wings, a wickedly curving beak. And a pair of golden eyes that watched him with a malicious intensity.

  “Sakti—” Strahan hissed, “—take the falcon for me!”

  Donal spun. “Fly!” he shouted at Taj.

  The falcon dipped and dove, streaking from the hawk, but Sakti was relentless. She gained, caught up, struck out with raking talons.

  “Taj…fly!”

  Taj flew, but the demon-hawk flew faster. Sakti rose, stooped, struck down with curving talons. One pierced the falcon’s breast.

  “Taj!” Donal screamed.

  The falcon fell out of the sky.

  * * *

  Taj—

  —Taj—

  Taj?

  He drifted, He dreamed. He cried. He knew himself half mad.

  * * *

  Lir—

  —lir—

  Lir?

  He slept. He wakened. He cried.

  He could not help himself.

  * * *

  —“Wanderer,” Evan said, “you will embark upon a journey.” The dice and rune-sticks fell, rattling on the wood—

  —“Jester and Charlatan: those who are not what they seem—”

  —Youth—

  —Imprisonment—

  —Executioner—

  —Why not have the Ellasian dice you your destiny?

  —Who is to say he will be wrong?—

  —wrong—

  Wrong.

  * * *

  He slept.

  Dreamed.

  Drifted.

  * * *

  —Your shar tahl has failed your clan. You know nothing of the histories—

  —They sired also a second race—

  —They sired the Ihlini—

  —who bred with the Cheysuli—

  “No!”

  —who bred with the Cheysuli—

  * * *

  He wakened shouting No. But there was no one there to hear.

  * * *

  For a long time he forgot who he was or why Strahan held him. And then he remembered.

  He remembered why.

  * * *

  He was alone. He was locked within a room that held a comfortable bed, a bench, a table and high narrow casements that let in the mist and muted sun. The iron remained on his wrists, but he had the freedom of the chamber.

  Freedom.

  It almost made him laugh.

  * * *

  Lorn he could not reach. There was a barrier in the link. But not the utter emptiness that would signify Lorn’s death. The wolf lived, but Donal could not touch him.

  * * *

  He tried to follow the days by scratching runes into the bedpost with the buckle of his belt, but he knew he had lost track. The light was somehow wrong. The fog occluded the sun. He could not judge the season or the time.

  But it was cold. One brazier was not enough.

  * * *

  He ate.

  He drank.

  He was left entirely alone.

  * * *

  The door crashed open. Donal spun around.

  Strahan stood within the chamber—

  —and so did Finn and Evan.

  The boy laughed. “It pleases me to reunite you, now that I have you all.”

  Donal’s breath rattled in his throat as he stared at Finn. “He—took—you?”

  “Evan and I came to rescue you.” The tone was wry, reproving.

  The Ellasian grinned. “You might at least give us your gratitude.”

  “Why?” Donal demanded. “How could you come alone—?”

  “It seemed the best idea.” Finn and Evan seemed well enough. Unharmed, and certainly less than horrified by the presence of Tynstar’s son.

  Donal glared at Evan. “What will High King Rhodri say when he learns his youngest son has fallen prisoner to Strahan?”

  “Probably that I am a fool, and no loss,” Evan said lightly. “Perhaps I am, and it is not…but I thought to aid a friend.”

  Donal thrust out his hands, displaying the heavy shackles. “How?” he demanded. “By wearing Ihlini iron?”

  The scar twisted on Finn’s cheek as he laughed. “I see a lengthy confinement has not improved your temper.”

  Donal stared at him. He felt his mouth dry up. “How long?” he asked. “How long have I been here?”

  No one answered at once. And then Strahan laughed. “Have you lost count? Did you not see the season change? It worked—it worked—I made you forget everything, even the time of year!”

  Donal recalled how he had made marks in the bedpost to keep track of time. One day, he had stopped. And then the time was lost, and he was lost, and now he could not recall how long he had been a prisoner of Strahan.

  Gods…is this how the madness begins?

  “It worked!” Strahan exulted. “Do you not recall all the times you begged me for your name? How you begged me for a polished plate so you could see yourself? You believed yourself a hawk—a hawk, not a falcon. Mimicking your father?”

  “Six months,” Donal whispered in horror.

  “Winter has come and gone,” Finn said gently. “Donal—let it go.”

  He looked at his hands. Hands only. The fingers were fingers, not talons. But he recalled it, a little; he recalled how he had feared the shapechange as he slept. As Strahan teased him with his power. By the gods…I think we have all gone mad—

  He stared at Finn and Evan. “You are fools.” His tone was inflectionless. “Fools, both of you…you have given Homana over to Tynstar’s son.”

  “I think not,” Finn answered. “You see, the boy is just a boy—still learning about his power. He may be Tynstar’s son, but can he lead his race? He is young. Young—and youth has a way of tripping over hardships before the highest goal is won.” He turned to Strahan. “Did you think we fell into your hands when we made certain you would take us?”

  Color shot into Strahan’s face. “What do you say to me?” he demanded. “What do you say to me?”

  “That it is time for us to go.”

  “You cannot! I hold you! You are my prisoners!”

  Finn’s hand was in his belt-pouch. “It is time for us to go.”

  The boy stretched out his hand. At his fin
gertips danced a rune of brilliant purple. “I am Tynstar’s son. I am the Ihlini!”

  “And you have lost one of your ward-stones.” Finn held it up so all could see it: a small round rock, dull gray, with a single streak of black. “Boy,” Finn said, “do you know enough to be frightened?”

  Clearly, Strahan did. He backed away, clutching at the crimson robe he wore over dark gray winter leathers. His thin face turned white, then splotchy red; the rune snuffed out in his hand.

  Finn smiled. “I do not suppose you have the other four somewhere upon your person—?”

  Strahan turned and ran.

  “Apparently he does not.” Finn returned the stone to his belt-pouch. “I think it is time to go, before he fetches the rest of the stones.”

  Donal stared at his uncle. “Why? What would happen if he did?”

  “Together, the ward-stones augment his power. Apart, they can be used against the sorcerer who made them.” Finn gestured toward the door. “Do you tarry, I will think you wish to stay.”

  “I need Lorn.”

  “We will find him.” Finn preceded him through the door.

  They ran down a corridor. “What of the other Ihlini?” Evan asked.

  “They die like other men.” Finn led them down a staircase and through an airy chamber. “You have a knife, Ellasian—surely you can use it.”

  They went down. Down and down, into the bowels of the palace.

  “Su’fali!” Donal cried. “I can touch him…there—Lorn is there!” He gestured at a narrow wooden door half hidden by an arras.

  Finn tore it aside and jerked open the unlocked door. “Storr,” he said in satisfaction. The wolf held a guard at bay.

  “Lorn—?” Donal asked.

  “Through there, I would hazard.” Finn indicated a second door. “And now, Ihlini—safe journey to your god—”

  Donal’s chains clashed as he shouldered open the door. He stumbled inside, ducking his head, and nearly fell over his lir.

  “Lorn!” He dropped to his knees beside the wolf.

  Lorn lay on his side in soiled straw. The visible eye was rolled back in his head. The tongue, protruding from between his jaws, was dry and crusted. But he breathed. Barely, but he breathed.

  Donal touched the lusterless, matted fur. Lir—I will not allow you to die—I order you to live—

  He felt the faintest flicker of amusement from the tattered edges of the link. But it is the lir who have the ordering of the Cheysuli.