Legacy of the Sword

by Jennifer Roberson

  “—sired only me.” He saw the spasm in her face. “Gods, Bronwyn, I wish I could spare you this. I wish it were not true. But—when you say I fear your children may threaten the throne—you may have the right of it. I cannot shut my eyes to the possibility.”

  Her eyes were fixed on his face. “You said—you said we do not share a jehan—”

  “No. Another man sired you.”

  “Who?” she demanded. “Gods, rujho, I beg you who I am—”

  He felt the tightness his throat. “You are Tynstar’s daughter.”

  Silence. Bronwyn stared. He could not look away.

  “Oh—” she said. “Oh—oh—no—”

  “Aye,” he told her gently, and reached out to steady her. Slowly he guided her to the stool and made her sit down again. “Bronwyn, you are still my rujholla, still our jehana’s daughter. Almost half Cheysuli, and bloodkin to the clan. It changes nothing. It changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything.” The words were dead in her mouth.

  “No, Bronwyn, it does not. Do you think I will send you away? There is too much blood between us—”

  “—too much spilled blood between us.” She looked up blankly to meet his gaze. “Why was I never told?”

  “There was no reason for it. You were raised Cheysuli—it was hoped you would never show Tynstar’s power. And—unless you have purposely hidden it—you never have.”

  Trembling, she touched the vicinity of her heart. “I have ever felt Cheysuli…Cheysuli and Homanan.”

  “You are both. You are. But—there is also Ihlini in you.”

  “How—?”

  Donal sat down again. “You have heard how Tynstar had our jehana taken to Valgaard. I was just a boy. He wanted me as well, but I managed to escape.” He looked down at her shaking hands as she clutched them in her lap. “He kept our jehana captive. And while she was there—”

  “—he raped her?” Bronwyn shuddered. “Gods, oh gods—it makes me feel so dirty—”

  “No!” He reached out and caught her hands. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “But I do not feel Ihlini!” she cried. “How do you know it is true?”

  He put out his arms as she slid off the stool to kneel on the floor. He soothed her head against his shoulder, as if she were Isolde requiring special comfort. One arm slid around her shoulders. He held her close, knowing he could never share her grief.

  A woman told she cannot bear a child— He shut his eyes. He whispered inanities.

  Bronwyn clutched at his leather jerkin. “I begin to see—all the times I sensed a barrier between us…something keeping us apart. That was it, was it not? The knowledge I was Tynstar’s daughter?”

  “Oh rujholla, I would do anything to lift this grief from you.”

  “Jehana never said. Never did she say—”

  “She told no one. Only a few of us knew, and none of us ever spoke of it to others.”

  “Why did you let me live?” The question was hardly a sound.

  “Bronwyn! Oh, gods, Bronwyn—do you think we would ever desire to have you slain? What do you think we are?”

  “You are Cheysuli. And—I am the enemy.”

  “No enemy. No enemy!” And yet he recalled all the times he had watched her, wondering, and felt the guilt in his soul. Not an intentional enemy.

  “But you will never let me wed.” The tears welled up again. “Do you distrust me so much? Do you think I will work against you? Do you think I would ever aid the boy who slew our su’fali?” Bronwyn shook her head. “Gods, Donal—I would never do such a thing! You know I would not. We are kin. There is blood between us.”

  “There is blood between you and Strahan.” He shook his head. “It is not you I do not trust—it is how your power might be used. By another, if not by you.”

  “Power!” she shook her head. “I have no power, Donal. I would know it. I swear—I would know it. There is nothing in me. Do you think I would not know?”

  “Bronwyn—”

  “Then test me.” She rose and stood before him. “Test me, Donal! See if there is power.”

  He shook his head. “Bronwyn, I could not—”

  “You did it to Aislinn!” she snapped.

  “And I nearly slew her! Gods, Bronwyn, have sense! Do you think I wish to harm you?”

  “You harm me now,” she said. “You tell me I cannot wed, cannot bear children—you name me Tynstar’s daughter. How can I live with that? You have given me a life of emptiness!”

  He could not answer. He had no answer for her.

  “Donal,” she said, “I beg you.”

  He threaded his fingers into hers and pulled her down to kneel against the tapestry rug. He looked into her eyes. “Do I do this—do I test you, and learn you are Ihlini…you must promise never to wed. Never to bear a child.”

  Bronwyn shut her eyes. “Ja’hai-na,” she said. “Accepted.”

  * * *

  Tentatively, he parted the curtain of her awareness. He slid through, hardly disturbing the threads of his sister’s consciousness. What she felt he could not say; what he felt was a sudden unexpected communion that nearly threw him out of the link. It had been different with Aislinn, who had received him unwillingly. What he had done to her was little different from rape. But Bronwyn understood. Bronwyn desired his presence. She welcomed him willingly, but he sensed a trace of fear. She was not certain what he would find.

  Gently. Gently. He left no residue of his passing.

  The barriers went down.

  In the web of her consciousness he saw the junctions of inner knowledge that buried itself so deeply. He allowed his own awareness to expand, touching the junctions carefully. He feared no trap-link in his sister, but it was possible that Ihlini were born with warding powers. That somehow, unconsciously, she would move to throw him back.

  But she did not. He sensed only complete acceptance; a trust that nearly unmanned him. She had seen what he did to Aislinn, yet she did not fear the same for herself.

  Gently, he expanded his awareness. And her own surged up to meet him.

  Patterns linked. Meshed. Knotted. Everything fell into place.

  He knew, without a doubt, Duncan had sired them both.

  * * *

  Bronwyn sagged. He caught her against his chest and stood up, holding her on her feet. Gently, he said her name, until she opened her eyes. She was dazed, clearly disoriented. But sense moved into her eyes.

  “Rujho?”

  He hugged her as hard as he dared. “Rujho, aye—there is no Ihlini in you.” He felt the tears in his eyes. All those years, all those years…oh rujholla, how we all have wronged you—

  Bronwyn’s laughter was little more than a breath of sound. “It was worth it, rujho… oh, it was! To know I am not that demon’s daughter!” She hugged him, laughing against his chest. But then she went stiff in his arms. “Gods—oh gods—there was the boy! He told me the truth—”

  Donal drew back. “Bronwyn—”

  Her hand was at her mouth. “He said—oh, I recall it so well! We sat outside su’fali’s pavilion while he tested Aislinn. He showed me those runes—he asked me to try my own—” Her breath was harsh in her throat. “None of this was necessary! Sef gave me the answer then.”

  “Sef! What answer could he give—” And then he recalled it also. How he had seen them kneeling in the dust, drawing foreign runes.

  Bronwyn nodded. “Something he said made no sense. I thought nothing of it. But—he said I was not who you thought I was.” She frowned, shaking her head. “It made no sense: You are not the woman your brother thinks you are.” She clutched at his shoulders. “Oh gods, Donal—he knew—he knew I was not Ihlini!”

  “He tested you.” The words were bitter in his mouth. “Even as Finn tested Aislinn, Strahan tested you.”

  Bronwyn shuddered. “How could I have been such a fool—?”

  “No more so than any of us.” Donal loosened his arms and turned her toward the door. “I am no less glad t
han you are to have it settled at last. But we have no more time for it now, either of us. Bathe and dress yourself as fits a princess, Bronwyn—we feast the Atvian tonight.”

  Bronwyn made a face. “Could I not plead sickness? I would rather not see this man who thought I would wed him.”

  “Let him see you—to know what he has lost.”

  She laughed. But then she frowned. “But I have nothing to wear!”

  Donal merely sighed.

  Donal saw Alaric’s amazement when first he set eyes on Bronwyn. Undoubtedly he had prepared himself to charm a barbaric Cheysuli woman who hardly understood the niceties of courtship. Instead, he saw a lovely young woman in copper-colored silk with her heavy hair bound up in a mass of looped, shining braids pinned against her head with gold. Garnets glittered at ears and throat; a matching girdle of tiny bells dripped down her heavy skirts.

  Donal realized, as he watched her, she knew precisely what she was about. He smiled inwardly. Does my young rujholla play at being a woman? Well—perhaps she should. No longer is she a girl.

  Bronwyn, during the feast in the Great Hall, was seated next to Alaric. Donal, watching them both, noticed how quickly Alaric saw through his partner’s subterfuge. He did not set out to charm her, as he had undoubtedly first intended; instead, he spoke courteously and sparingly. But Bronwyn was not won over.

  Throughout the feast Alaric and his countrymen were unceasingly polite to the Homanan nobles. Nowhere was there a sign of hostility or resentment. Nor were there any signs the Atvians considered themselves the vanquished. They moved quickly, smoothly, speaking of unification. More and more Donal saw how members of the Homanan Council looked first at Alaric and then at Bronwyn. More and more he saw consideration in their eyes.

  They will ask, he knew. Oh, aye, they will ask…and I will have to answer them.

  And after the food was taken away, with Donal in an adjoining antechamber, the council members asked.

  Donal listened. He heard the arguments for and against the match. Some members said Atvia was too distant, too unknown; the Mujhar could never keep constant watch on political happenings. Others said the match would unify the two realms, much as Carillon’s marriage to Electra had, while it lasted, unified Homana and Solinde—save for a few insurgents who fought against the alliance.

  But it was an elderly man, Vallis, former counselor to Shaine himself, who spoke most clearly to them all. “Many of us, my lord Mujhar, understand we are here to serve the gods. Cheysuli, Homanan…it does not really matter by what names we call our gods. It merely matters that we serve them.” He was in his eighties, and frail, with a thin, soft voice and thinner hair. The dome of his skull was mottled pink. Only the merest fringe of fine white hair curled around his ears. “While it is true as Homanans we do not dedicate ourselves to this prophecy of the Firstborn, we do acknowledge its existence. We do not discount it—or should not.” He looked at each of the men with rheumy, pale blue eyes. “Before the purge, Cheysuli and Homanans intermarried. You yourself, my lord, claim blood from both those races. And does not this prophecy say there must be more?”

  Donal agreed warily.

  Vallis nodded. “What I tell you now is by wedding your sister to Alaric of Atvia, you move one step closer to fulfilling that prophecy.”

  “I am aware of that.” Donal kept his tone very even, giving nothing away of his private thoughts. “Say on, Vallis.”

  The old man braced himself against a chair. Ropes of veins stood up beneath his flesh. “Prince Niall bears the blood of Homana and Solinde, as well as the Cheysuli. Do you wed your sister to Alaric, and she bears him a daughter, in time that daughter could be wed to the Prince of Homana.”

  Donal raised his brows. “And does she bear him a son instead?”

  Vallis shrugged narrow shoulders. “Doubtless by then, you and the Queen will have daughters enough to wed into every royal House.”

  He felt their eyes upon him. Slowly he walked to a casement and stared out, though he could see little in the darkness. Then he turned to face them. “Bronwyn does not desire it.”

  Some of the others smiled. Some faces expressed outright surprise. He knew his statement made no sense to them; Homanans wed their daughters to men most able to advance their rank or wealth.

  Like bartering horses. He shook his head. “Bronwyn does not desire it.”

  They knew it was his answer. They had learned that much of him since he had become Mujhar. And so they filed from the antechamber and back into the hall, while Vallis stayed behind.

  “My lord,” he said, “I know you value your sister. Do not lump me in with the others. I am an old, old man…I have seen the Cheysuli elevated by Shaine and then destroyed by him—I know your customs well. She is not a broodmare. She is not a ewe. She is not a favorite bitch. She is a woman, a Cheysuli woman…but she is also a part of the prophecy.” Slowly, the old man put out a palsied hand. Palm uppermost, with the fingers spreading. “Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu.”

  Donal turned and left the chamber, returning to the hall.

  Evan came up to him, holding two cups of wine. One he held out. “So solemn, Donal…did they put you into a corner and make you listen to their babble?”

  Donal, smiling grimly, accepted the wine. “You know court habits very well.”

  Evan laughed. “Ellas is no different! Only the language.” But his laughter died away. “I must go, Donal. It is time I went back to Ellas.”

  The taste of the wine turned flat. “Evan! So soon?”

  “Soon?” Evan stared. “I have been here nearly a year.”

  “Stay another.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot. It is time I went home. There are things in Ellas for me.”

  Donal drank down the rest of his wine, gave the empty cup to a passing servant and got another to replace it. He saw his sister across the hall, laughing with Aislinn and Meghan. “Have you told Meghan you intend to leave?”

  Evan’s mouth turned down wryly. “No. I dislike tears cried into my velvet doublets.”

  “Tears from Meghan?” Donal shook his head. “She is stronger than you think.”

  “Oh, aye—strong…if you count willfulness as strength.” Evan scowled into his wine. “No, no tears from Meghan. But I could wish for more complaisance.”

  “I warned you,” Donal told him. “She is not meant for just any man. Not even for Evan of Ellas—does he desire no more than an evening in her bed.”

  “Ah, but he does desire more.” Evan ran the rim of the cup across his bottom lip. “Lodhi protect me—but I invited her home with me.”

  “To Ellas?” Donal stared at Evan in surprise. “Did you really think she would go?”

  “I—hoped.” Evan shrugged. “It was useless. She refused me.”

  Donal saw the genuine unhappiness in the Ellasian’s sleepy eyes. It was not like Evan to exhibit anything other than mild distress when a woman refused him; it did not happen very often, and generally he found another who suited him as well. But Meghan was different. And Donal realized Evan knew it.

  He smiled. “I am sorry. She may be Cheysuli, but there is Homanan in her also. Living so close to Aislinn lately may have given her Homanan sensibilities when it comes to such things as men.”

  “Because she would not become my light woman?” Evan shook his head. “But I asked her to wed me.”

  “You?”

  “Aye,” Evan said gloomily. “And a waste of time it was.”

  Donal sighed. “I am sorry. I did not know it had gone so far.”

  “Oh, it had not. But I thought it was the only way I might get her to lie with me.” Evan grinned. “Unlike all of the others, she did not believe I meant it.”

  Donal laughed and nearly spilled his wine. “You fool! Do you forget she is Finn’s daughter? She will take a man on her terms, if she takes a man at all.”

  Evan raised his goblet. “To Meghan,” he said. “And to the warrior who sired her.”

  Donal lifted his cup. And the
n, abruptly, he told Evan not to go. “What will I do without you?”

  “Learn to govern Homana without me to offer bad advice.” Evan shook his head. “My time here is done. I am sorry—but I must go.”

  “When?”

  “Probably in the morning. Or, depending on my head after this celebration, perhaps in the afternoon. But I do have to go.”

  Donal reached out and clasped his arm. “In advance, I will wish you safe journey and good fortune in your games. And—I wish I did not have to lose you.”

  “No more than Carillon wished to lose Lachlan.” Evan grinned. “But I am not so bound by responsibility as my brother, and I think I will come back. At least to bother Meghan once or twice more.”

  Donal released Evan’s arm and glanced back across the hall. Alaric still lingered near Bronwyn. Hoping, no doubt, she will have him. But why does he want her? What does he expect her to bring? Peace with Homana? Support for the island wars? Gods—I wish I could read that man.

  But he could not. Grimly, he drank more Falian wine. “You have heard, of course, that Alaric wishes to wed with Bronwyn.”

  Evan’s tone was wry. “Who has not, by now? But—with her Ihlini blood, you dare not allow the match.”

  “She has no Ihlini blood. I tested her today.”

  “None!” Evan turned sharply to him. “None at all?”

  “She is my full rujholla, Evan. She is Duncan’s daughter.”

  The Ellasian shook his head, frowning perplexedly. “Then—if you could have tested her all along, why did you wait so long?”

  “Because it could not have been done without her knowledge, without her willingness.” Donal sighed. “It was our jehana. She wished to leave Bronwyn in peace. She did not wish to awaken potential powers or bring grief to Bronwyn. And so—she was kept in innocence.”

  Evan’s blue eyes were fixed on the girl as she laughed with her two kinswomen. “Then—there is nothing preventing this marriage.”

  “No,” Donal said. “There is nothing preventing this marriage.”

  Evan looked at him sharply. “Lodhi!—you do intend to honor Alaric’s request!”

  Donal shut his fingers on the heavy cup. “All my life I have been told there would be choices placed before me. Choices I would hate. I knew it, of course—but it is so easy to push the knowledge away.” He heard the unevenness in his voice and worked to steady it. “I remember all the times I wanted to call Carillon a fool because of the choices he made…particularly the ones he made regarding me. And now—now it will be Bronwyn’s turn to ask me what I do, and how—in the name of all the gods—can I possibly even consider it.”