“I understand what you do.” Evan said. “Being a prince, I can hardly misunderstand why you do it. But—I do not envy you.”
“No,” Donal agreed. “But too many other people do.”
Donal stepped forward. He waited until his stillness silenced them all. And then he beckoned Alaric forward. “Tonight, in this hall, we feast you, my lord of Atvia. Tonight we give you good welcome and blessings for your health. But you came to us with a purpose, that being to pledge us your fealty.” Donal met Alaric’s wary eyes. He did not smile. “Then pledge it, my lord. Here in this hall before us all.”
Alaric’s lips parted. Briefly, Donal saw the tic of a muscle in his jaw. But he knelt. In elegance, he knelt, making it not an act of submission but of calm willingness to sacrifice anything for his realm.
Donal unsheathed the Cheysuli sword. The ruby blazed in the pommel as he raised the blade toward Alaric’s face. “Swear,” he said, “by all the gods you have.”
Alaric bent forward. He placed his lips upon the rune-chased blade and gave it the kiss of fealty. “I swear by all the gods of Atvia, by my rank and by my birth, that I am vassal to Donal of Homana. My sword, my life, is his. I pledge this in all good faith. I break this oath only upon my death. My liege—will you accept me?”
Unless he were a false man, willingly surrendering birthright and royal holdings, Alaric would die before renouncing so binding an oath. Donal did not believe the Atvian would risk his place so casually.
“I accept your oath and do hold you by it,” he agreed. “Rise, my lord of Atvia.”
Alaric rose. His intense gaze did not move from Donal’s face. He waited.
Donal slid home the sword in his sheath. “By my right as Mujhar of Homana, I enter into willing alliance with this man. Let all know there is peace between our realms.” He inhaled a steadying breath. “By my right as Mujhar of Homana, I enter into willing agreement with this man: that this oath of fealty be sealed with a wedding. He has asked for my sister in marriage.”
He heard Bronwyn’s gasp clearly. “Donal! Donal—no! You said I would not have to!” She thrust herself out of the crowd to face him in the center of the hall. She did not look at Alaric. “You said—”
“I said.” His tone was harsher than he meant it to be. “I said, aye. But now it must be done.”
“My lord.” It was Alaric, urbane and calmly pleased. “My lord, you honor me.”
“I do not honor you. I honor the prophecy.” He would not hide the truth, blatant though it was; he would not hide his open dislike of the man. “Because of that, my lord of Atvia, I will give Bronwyn into marriage. But there are agreements you must make.”
Alaric inclined his head and spread his hands. “Name them, my lord.”
“That should Bronwyn bear you a son and heir, any daughter the Queen of Homana bears me shall be wed to him, thus fixing the succession.” He did not smile. “That should Bronwyn bear you a daughter, that daughter will come to Homana and wed Niall, the Prince of Homana.”
Alaric’s smile was one of subtle triumph. “Aye, my lord, I agree.”
“Ku’reshtin!” Bronwyn cried. “You are no rujholli of mine!”
“Fetch a priest,” Donal told a servant.
“How can you do this to me?”
He looked into her angry face. “For the prophecy, I will do anything.”
* * *
It was quickly done; too quickly. The priest was brought. The ceremony performed in front of everyone present over loud protestations from Bronwyn; so loud Donal doubted anyone else could hear the vows. It did not seem to matter to Alaric. He smiled a cool, satisfied smile. But the priest was clearly offended by her words. And a Homanan priest at that.
At last Donal stepped in and caught her elbow. “Rujholla,” he said quietly, “you lend credence to the belief we are little more than beasts with such noise.”
“Noise!” She stared at him through tear-filled amber eyes. “I will make more noise than this, given the chance. I want no part of this!”
“It is done,” he told her. “You are wife to Alaric of Atvia.”
“And I promise a fine celebration when we have reached Rondule,” Alaric said calmly.
“I want nothing to do with celebrations! I want nothing to do with you. I want none of it, do you hear? And I want none of my rujholli, who turns his back on Cheysuli customs!”
“Bronwyn—”
“You do!” she cried. “You sell me off to a stranger, just to make an alliance—”
“Bronwyn, you cheapen your jehana’s name with such behavior.”
“You cheapen it as well, Donal.” Bronwyn shut her eyes a moment, teeth clenched so hard the muscles stood up along her jaw. “I swear, I swear, when I am given the chance I will show you all what gifts I claim. I will show you what the Old Blood means—”
“Old Blood,” Alaric frowned. “I have heard rumors…the girl has it, you say?”
“The girl is now your cheysula, my lord of Atvia, and your queen. You might give her proper rank,” Donal said tightly. “And aye, she does. Why? Does it make you wish to end the marriage almost as soon as it is made?”
“Not at all,” Alaric said smoothly. “I welcome the Cheysuli with all their arts. I must. It may be that my children will reflect their mother’s gifts—”
“There will be no children,” Bronwyn said bitterly. “I will see to that—”
“Enough,” Donal said gently. “You will send all our guests from here muttering of your intended witchcraft.”
“Let them. Let them. Do you think I care?” And then, before he could move, Bronwyn brought the flat of her hand across his face. “I renounce you. I renounce you. You are no rujholli of mine!”
For a moment, Donal shut his eyes against the pain and humiliation. Then he swung around to face them all. “Get you gone!” he shouted. “Can you not see the celebration is done?”
Blindly, he watched them go. Bronwyn. Alaric. Even Aislinn, Meghan, Evan. And then the hall was empty save for a single man.
His hair was disheveled. A smear of dirt marred his face. His clothes were soiled. Mud clotted his boots. He wore no leathers, no gold; there were no lir at his side. But as he faced his Mujhar, Donal knew he was a Cheysuli.
“So, the travesty is concluded.”
“Rowan—” He broke it off; the time for defense was past. “It is done.”
Rowan smiled a little. “I came to bring news of a final victory in Solinde. Instead, as I make my way through the hordes of departing guests, I am given news of my own: the Mujhar of Homana has wed his rujholla to Alaric of Atvia.”
“For the prophecy.” The words came out listlessly.
“Of course. Everything is done for the prophecy.” Rowan laughed, and then the laughter died away. “But I wonder—what would Alix say to see her daughter bartered away—”
Donal flinched. “We do not speak of my jehana! I have done this thing!”
“Oh, aye, you have. And now you must live with it.”
Donal wanted to turn away. But he did not. The time for that was also passed. He was Mujhar; he must behave as a Mujhar. “I will live with it.”
“Am I to assume the Homanan Council also desired this match?”
“Aye. And campaigned most eloquently for it.” Donal stared down at the cup in his hand. He had forgotten to drink. The tang of the wine filled his nose and head.
“So quickly you succumb to the desires of Homanans. Do you think Clan Council would have agreed?”
Sluggishly, anger rose in his defense. “This was done for Homana—Homana and the prophecy! A son of Bronwyn’s will one day sit on the Atvian throne.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. Tiny creases fanned out across his cheeks. “Do you care so much for kingship?”
“Aye,” Donal answered harshly. “Would you tell me I should not? Is it not what Hale left to me when he fashioned a sword and took a Mujhar’s daughter as his meijha?”
Rowan slowly closed his eyes. “Ah gods, ah gods�
��you have accepted it at last…after so many years.” He opened his eyes and smiled a bittersweet smile. “Carillon used to despair that you would ever know the cost. The legacy of the thing. And a man, never knowing the cost of kingship, is never really a king.”
“Carillon despaired…” The pain was worse than he had expected. “And you as well?”
“From time to time.” Rowan’s smile was a little broader, but his tone was still ironic. “Now—do you see what it does to others? Do you see what it does to you?”
“You do not approve.” Somehow, he wanted Rowan to approve. He needed someone’s approval.
“It is not my place to approve or disapprove.”
At last Donal succumbed and turned his back on the man. He faced the Lion instead. “Do I see what it does to others?” he cried. “Aye, I see what it does! No doubt it was much the same for Carillon. And now—only now—I understand why a man curses his birth if only to escape the demands of his entrance into the world.” He drew in a ragged breath. “Bronwyn’s children will bring us another bloodline. I do what I must do.”
He expected Rowan to answer. When he did not, Donal turned. And found himself alone.
He wanted his meijha. He wanted his mother. He wanted his father, his uncle, his lir. He wanted his rujholla. And he could have none of them, because this he must face alone.
Donal turned back to look at the hall. He saw the casements, glowing dimly; the banners, the tapestries, the weapons. The Lion upon the dais.
Slowly, he walked the length of the hall. He stood before the throne. He felt all the pain and grief and fear well up into chest and throat. He could not bear it. He thought he might burst with all the anger and frustration.
Before he could consider the blasphemy of his actions, he hurled the cup of wine against the ancient wood. “All of them, gone!” he shouted. “All of them you have taken. You have robbed me of even my pride, even the pride in my heritage, because I must be a ruler before I am a Cheysuli. A man before a warrior. And a lion before a man: The Lion of Homana.”
Wine spilled down to stain the crimson cushion. The Lion bled. Or cried. He could not tell the difference.
Donal put his hand upon the hilt of his sword and drew it from the scabbard Rowan had made. He heard the steel-song as it slid; the hiss when it rattled free.
By the blade, beneath the crossguard, he held it. He looked at the hilt from gritty, burning eyes, and saw how the weapon shook in his trembling hand.
Gold. Solid gold, with the mark of men’s hands upon it. The curving prongs that caged the ruby, brilliant Mujhar’s Eye; the avatar of his soul.
And the lion. The royal rampant lion.
Donal laughed. It was a sound of discovery, lacking all humor; the futile sound of a man who knows himself trapped by what he has done and what things he still must do.
He laughed, and the sorrow filled up the hall.
“I am Donal,” he said when the echoes had died. “Just—Donal. Son of man and woman. Born of the Cheysuli and a dutiful child of the prophecy. But—just once—just once—I wish I could turn my back upon it all and be nothing but a man!” His challenging stare shifted from sword hilt to crouching Lion, looming on the dais. And then, abruptly, he shut his eyes.
I wish Carillon were here.
After a moment he turned, intending to leave. He stopped. Aislinn stood in the doorway with their child in her arms.
Waiting.
Donal sheathed the sword and went to his wife and son.
Click here for more titles by this author
DAW titles by Jennifer Roberson
THE SWORD-DANCER SAGA
SWORD-DANCER
SWORD-SINGER
SWORD-MAKER
SWORD-BREAKER
SWORD-BORN
SWORD-SWORN
SWORD-BOUND
CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULI
SHAPECHANGERS
THE SONG OF HOMANA
LEGACY OF THE SWORD
TRACK OF THE WHITE WOLF
A PRIDE OF PRINCES
DAUGHTER OF THE LION
FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN
A TAPESTRY OF LIONS
THE GOLDEN KEY
(with Melanie Rawn and Kate Elliott)
ANTHOLOGIES
(as editor)
RETURN TO AVALON
HIGHWAYMEN: ROBBERS AND ROGUES
Legacy of the Sword Page 41
