Donal’s fingers closed on the leather scabbard. “I—I would prefer to have nothing but Cheysuli blood in my veins.”
“But you do not. There is Homanan as well. Else you would not be part of the prophecy.” Rowan sighed and shook his head. “You are what they have made you, your mother and your father. Duncan was all Cheysuli, and Alix—out of a wish to keep alive the husband she had lost—did what she could to make you Duncan come again. It is—not necessarily bad. I could think of worse warriors for you to emulate—including Finn.” Rowan flicked one hand in a silencing gesture as Donal moved to protest. “Finn was what the prophecy made him. He was what Carillon needed for many years. But—people change. They grow older, they mature. Carillon no longer needed him. And neither, now, do you.”
Donal shook his head in violent disagreement. “I need him badly, my su’fali. There is so much left for me to learn.”
“You will learn it. But first you must learn to acknowledge the Homanan in you as well as the Cheysuli.”
Donal lifted the hilt. “Do I not wear this now? What Cheysuli has ever borne a sword—except, perhaps, for you?”
“It is a beginning,” Rowan agreed.
“It is more than a beginning,” Donal muttered. “It is an alteration of tradition.”
“Perhaps it is necessary.” Rowan smiled. “You are the first Cheysuli Mujhar to hold the Lion Throne in four hundred years, Donal. That is alteration.”
Pensively, Donal nodded. Then he sighed and looked up at Rowan. “There is a thing I would have you do.”
The general shrugged. “What I can, I will.”
“Win this war. Win this gods-cursed war, so I can begin my reign in peace.”
* * *
Donal rode northward through Homana, bypassing Mujhara entirely, until he reached the Bluetooth River. On the southern bank he pulled in his horse, staring at the river. It had been sixteen years since he had last seen the Bluetooth, when Tynstar’s Ihlini servitors had taken him toward the Molon Pass for entry into Solinde. He had been Valgaard-bound, prisoners, he and Alix, but because of Taj and Lorn’s aid in accelerating his ability to take lir-shape, he had escaped. Alix had not. He had left his mother behind, crossing the huge river on his escape to Homana-Mujhar.
Then it had been much colder, for winter had only recently left the land. Now it was spring and the waters were quick, unclogged by ice and slush. He stared at the wooden ferry on the far side and wondered if he should wait for it, or cross Cheysuli-fashion.
Taj, perching in a nearby tree, fixed him with a bright dark eye. Do you recall it, lir?
I recall.
You sought the air then. Shall you do it again?
Donal turned to stare over his shoulder, searching for Lorn. A moment later the ruddy wolf broke free of the dense vegetation fringing the riverbank.
No—I will ride. I will have Sorcha and the children with me.
Lorn shook dust from his coat. Then I must swim this river, unless you bribe the ferry-master to let me pass with you.
The ferry-master, when he banked his wooden vessel, accepted Donal’s gold eagerly. He slanted an apprehensive glance at the wolf, eyed Donal closely, then gestured them both aboard. Donal led the horse onto the thick wooden timbers and waited for Lorn to join him.
The man cast off and began the lengthy process of pulling the ferry back across the wide river. But it did not keep him from watching Donal, or from talking.
He hawked, spat over the side into the water, and jerked his head. “Na’ meanin’ to offend ye, but ’tis curious I am. Be ye a halfling, then?”
“Halfling?” Donal was startled by the rough northern dialect. The language seemed hardly Homanan.
“Halfling. Aye. Lookit yersel’. Yon color is Cheysuli, but ne’er I seen one dressit like ye. Leathers, they wear, and gold. Be ye only half, then?”
In shock, Donal realized the Homanan clothing Rowan had lent him after his escape from Strahan robbed him of identity. He had put off the torn and soiled leathers, replacing them with black soldiers’ breeches, linen shirt and rich brown velvet doublet, which hid the gold on his arms. His hair, left uncut for too long, hid his earring.
He eyed the ferry-master speculatively. “Were I to say I was all Cheysuli, what would you do?”
The man laughed, hawked again, spat over the ferry again. “Indeed, nothin’. On’y curious, master. But ye don’t be lookin’ like’ee others. Ne’er hae I seen one wear a sword.”
Donal’s hand dropped to the heavy hilt. Possessively, he shut his fingers upon it. “A new custom.”
“Yon breed be fierce, master. I seen many of ’em here, crossin’ south, bound for the Mujhar’s city.” Interest flared up in the man’s brown eyes. “Hae ye been to Mujhara, master?”
Donal smiled. “Aye.”
“Big as they do say?”
“Bigger.”
“Hae ye seen yon palace, what called Homana-Mujhar?” His dialect—and several missing teeth—ran the syllables together until they were nearly indistinguishable.
“Aye, I have.”
“Ye’ll say ’tis grander than I can ’magine, doubtless.”
Donal patted his horse’s muzzle. “Aye, it is.”
“And be he the man they do say he is?”
“Who—the Mujhar?” Donal shrugged. “Tell me what they say.”
The ferry-master pulled hard upon the ropes. His mouse-brown hair was long, clubbed back with a strip of leather. He wore rough woolen clothing and heavy boots. Brawny muscles played across his back and shoulders as he pulled against the current. “They do say Carillon chose hi’self a right’un. A man even the ’lini give a wide road to.”
Donal smiled wryly. “I thought the Ihlini feared no one.”
The man eyed him. “I dinna say they feared ’im. The ’lini, most likely, fear nae man. But up here I carry passengers from all lands and all races, and I do say I hauled a few ‘lini sorcerers ‘cross this beast.” He shrugged. “Man doesna say nae to gude gold.”
Donal stared across the swift-running river to the far side. He shivered slightly as the chill wind blasted from the frozen mountains of the Molon Pass, several leagues away from the river, but close enough to wall them in on one side. “I would have thought,” he said lightly, “that Ihlini sorcerers had no need of a ferry to cross this river.”
The ferry-master laughed. “Aye, so ye would think—but they dinna fly. Nae more than ye do, master.”
Donal smiled. “But I do.”
“Fly?” The man shook his head. “Ye be jestin’ wi’ me, then.”
“No.” Nae, he said silently, liking the dialect.
The man eyed him closely. “Then why be ye takin’ my ferry?”
Donal laughed. “I do not always fly. Besides, I will have company on the way back.” He studied the man a moment. “Do you fear me, ferry-master?”
“I hae heard of yon sorcery. Na’ feared to say I ’spect it.”
“Respect and fear are two different things.” Donal leaned idly against the rail. “You have a Cheysuli Mujhar. Do you fear him?”
“I do fear what it might be meanin’.” The ferry-master’s head rose and he met Donal’s eyes squarely. “The legends do say the shapechangers once held Homana, and gi’ her oop to men of my race. Now ye hae it back. ’Tis no wonder honest Homanans wonder what it all be meanin’.”
“There is no danger in it for any Homanan,” Donal told him. “The Mujhar means to keep peace in this realm.”
“That I’ll be havin’ to see fer mysel’, then.”
“So you shall.” Donal gestured. “We are nearly there.”
The man whipped a quick look at the bank, hauled on the brake ropes and brought the ferry in smoothly. Donal led the horse onto the bank and mounted. As he waited for Lorn he saw the ferry-master watching him in a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Donal raised his hand in a brief wave, then put his horse to the northernmost track.
* * *
The Keep was set in the toothy fo
othills of the mountains. Like most Keeps, it was ramparted by high stone walls that wound their way up slopes and down again to encircle all the pavilions. It was a harsh blue-gray stone, almost indigo, that greeted his eyes, not the warm grayish-green he was more accustomed to. In the Northern Wastes, many things were different.
He rode up to the entrance and paused. Three warriors guarded it; even now, nearly twenty years after Carillon ended the qu’mahlin, the clans knew better than to trust any stranger who rode in. Even one who appeared Cheysuli.
One of the warriors came forward from the wall. His yellow eyes appraised Donal shrewdly, marking the characteristic Cheysuli features; marking also the Homanan clothing. There was calm politeness in his tone as he offered casual greeting, but Donal saw the slight trace of contempt in the eyes.
Gods—he does not see a warrior, he sees a city-bred Cheysuli. It nearly made him cringe.
“I am Kaer,” the warrior said. “Have you business in our Keep?”
Not quite the ritual greeting of warrior to warrior—well, I can expect no better. Not hiding all my gold, even with the lir. Donal looked down upon Kaer. “My business is with my kin, who shelter here. Sorcha, my meijha, and our children, Ian and Isolde. I am Donal, son of Duncan.”
Kaer’s expression altered at once. Quickly he made the subtle hand gesture denoting acknowledgment of his rudeness; rarely did a warrior admit to such before another warrior, since Cheysuli were rarely rude, and so an apology was never spoken. The gesture was enough.
“My lord Mujhar.” He reached out to catch the stallion’s reins. “I will escort you to the clan-leader at once.”
It was proper for a visiting warrior to meet first with the keep’s clan-leader. Donal badly wanted to see Sorcha and the children, but he forced himself into patience as he dismounted, gave up the reins of his horse to Kaer and went with him across the Keep toward a rust-colored pavilion. On the side a yellow mountain cat was painted.
Kaer paused, called for entrance, was granted it and pulled aside the flap. He spoke quietly to someone inside. A moment later he turned and gestured Donal within, then disappeared with the horse. Donal saw Taj light upon the ridgepole. Lorn flopped down beside the doorflap to exchange greetings with the sleek tawny mountain cat who sprawled upon a rug.
Donal went in. A Cheysuli sat cross-legged before the small pavilion fire, but he rose fluidly as his guest slipped through the doorflap. He smiled. “Be welcome among us. Do you hunger, you will be fed. Be you weary, safe rest is yours.”
Donal felt the brief flicker of nostalgia rise up, tempered with a touch of sorrow. So many times, as a boy, he had heard his father say those traditional words to a stranger being welcomed into the Keep. And then Finn. Now they were said to him.
“Cheysuli i’halla shansu,” he returned. “I am Donal, son of Duncan and Alix. My meijha, Sorcha, is here.”
The yellow eyes flickered, then assessed him shrewdly, though the warrior’s face remained bland. With a flash of insight Donal realized he would be judged more harshly by his own race than by any Homanan. The Cheysuli had waited for four centuries for one of their own to regain the Lion.
Now one has, but they do not know me as well as they would like to.
The clan-leader nodded. “I am Tarn.” He reached out to clasp Donal’s arm in a gesture of welcome, then indicated the thick brown bear pelt spread by the fire. Donal sat down accordingly and accepted the cup of honey brew from Tarn’s own hands. “I have heard of the war you wage against Osric of Atvia.” Tarn poured his own cup full and drank.
Donal nodded, sipping at his portion. It was warm, rich and satisfying; he had drunk too much wine of late, and found he missed the traditional liquor of his race. “We have left warriors from my clan in Solinde, but I think the rebellion dies. Osric is slain now, and we will soon boast an additional five thousand soldiers from Ellas. The war should be over soon.” He did not ask why Tarn had not sent warriors of his own; it was not the proper time.
Tarn nodded. “We are isolated here. But we hear many things. Such as Tynstar’s death—and the rising power of his son.”
Donal slowly released a silent breath. “Strahan is yet a boy, but powerful. He has learned well from his jehan. I do not doubt Valgaard will soon be inhabited again—if it is not already.”
“We have heard nothing of that.” Tarn set down his cup. “You have come to see your kin.”
Donal was relieved the casual talk was ended. “Aye. And to thank you for taking them in. But now I shall have them come home with me.”
“I—think not. Not all of them.” Tarn’s voice was steady. “Donal—it is unhappy news I bear. Shocking news, as well. I wish there were another way—” He broke off, then said it plainly. “Sorcha has taken her life.”
Donal dropped the cup. It overturned against his knees, spilling hot liquor across the fabric of his breeches to soak into his skin. But he felt nothing. Nothing but total shock.
“Sorcha?” he whispered. “Sorcha—?”
Tarn nodded. “I sent a messenger to Homana-Mujhar, not knowing where you were.”
Donal stared blindly at the man. “I was—I was—” He stopped speaking. He could not form another word. All he could do was stare at the blurred face before his burning eyes.
“Shansu,” Tarn said compassionately. “It grieves me to give my Mujhar such news.”
“Suicide…” he whispered. “Oh—gods—no… she has forfeited the afterworld—”
“Aye.” Tarn would not meet Donal’s eyes so as not to acknowledge a grief that should be private.
“But—why? Why would Sorcha do such a thing?”
Still Tarn avoided his eyes. “The women came and spoke to me and told me what Sorcha said before she did the unspeakable. It was—grief and anger and loss, the loss of the warrior with whom she had shared her life.”
“She had not lost me—”
“It was anger, much anger; she told them the Queen had sent her here. Banished your meijha, to keep her from your sight.” Tarn’s voice was carefully modulated; he would not be judge or arbiter, merely a spokesman for what had happened. “She told them she had lost you to the Homanans and to Homana’s queen; that you had turned your back on all your Cheysuli heritage.”
“Aislinn sent them here…”
“That is what we were told. Sorcha and your children were banished here, never to go south of the Bluetooth.”
“But—suicide—” He could not conceive of the woman doing the unspeakable.
“Sorcha was—half-mad with grief and anger. I spoke to her when she came. Donal—she could not face life without you. Sharing you was bad enough, she said; she could not bear losing you altogether. Not to the Homanans. And so she emptied her veins of blood.”
Donal stared blindly at the damp liquor stain on his breeches. She said she wished to, once. To be rid of the Homanan taint…Oh gods—Aislinn is no better than her jehana. He shut his eyes. What am I to do?
“I am sorry.” Tarn said it gently, more gently than Donal expected; Sorcha was not deserving of compassion to a clan-leader’s way of thinking. She had done what was never to be done. “What will you do, my lord?”
Donal heard the rank without surprise. Another time, he might have remarked upon it; Cheysuli rarely gave rank to another man, and never to warriors other than the shar tahls and clan-leaders.
But things are different, now. He looked levelly at Tarn. “I would like to see my children.”
“At once. Wait here—I will send them.” Tarn rose and stepped outside, speaking quietly to someone. When the flap was pulled aside again, Donal saw his son.
Ian came in silently and conducted himself with grave correctness, waiting for encouragement before he moved closer yet. He was four now, and Cheysuli pride was already apparent in every line of his slender body, from the lifted chin to the squared shoulders. He wore winter jerkin and leggings.
I wonder…will he find his lir as young as I did?
Then a woman came in with Iso
lde and he banished everything else from his mind. He took the girl from the woman’s arms. When the woman went away again, he sat alone with his children.
He snugged Isolde into his lap, settling her against his chest. She was just over a year now; he realized, with a sense of shock, he had lost too much time. Since Isolde’s birth he had wed, gone to war, been held imprisoned for six months—too much, too much time. He cradled her silky-haired head in one hand and felt the uprush of grief and anger.
Oh gods…oh gods…why do you do this to children? Why do you take so many people? From me…and now from my children as well. Why do you do this to us?
He held Isolde there against his chest, eyes closed, softly caressing her wispy raven curls. He felt a child himself, badly in need of comforting…but his jehana and meijha were dead. Even Finn, who might have mocked his grief—while understanding it better than most—could do nothing to help him now.
Donal drew in a ragged breath. He looked over Isolde’s head to the face of his son and saw a matching conflict there. Ian was frightened, confused, lost. Badly in need of something he could easily comprehend.
No different from myself… “She loved you.” Donal knew perfectly well he broke Cheysuli custom by even discussing the emotion, but he did not care. Things were different now; he wore a sword at his side. “She loved you—and so do I.”
Tears welled up in the wide yellow eyes. Trembling, biting his lower lip, Ian came forward and knelt at his father’s side. His right hand hesitantly twined itself into the wide sword belt at Donal’s waist; the other hastily wiped the fallen tears away.
“Jehan,” he began in a small, soft voice, “where do we go now?”
Donal slid an arm around Ian’s slim shoulders. Isolde, cuddled against him contentedly as a kitten, scratched at the nap of his velvet doublet. “We go to the place that will be your home.”
Ian brightened. “The other Keep?”
Donal stared into the beseeching eyes of his son and realized with a sickening wrench that a Cheysuli keep would never again be home to any of his children. His line, and theirs, would come to know only the walled palaces of kings.
Legacy of the Sword Page 37
