Roberson, Jennifer - Chronicles of the Cheysuli 03 - Legacy of the Sword

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JENNIFER ROBERSON'S

CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULl

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*

CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULl:

BOOK THREE

LEGACY

QFTHE SWORD

JENNIFER ROBERSON

*forthcoming

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

1633 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

Cover art by Juiek Heller

DAW Book Collectora No. 669.

First Printing, April 1986

56789

PRINTED IN THE U.S. A

This book is for C.J. Cherryh

who is, quite simply,

the best.

PARTI

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ONE

Hondarth did not resemble a city so much as a flock of

sheep pouring down over lilac heather toward the glass-gray

ocean beyond. From atop the soft, slope-shouldered hills

surrounding the scalloped bay, gray-thatched cottages ap-

peared to huddle together in familial affection.

Once, Hondarth had been no more than a small fishing

village; now it was a thriving city whose welfare derived

from all manner of foreign trade as well as seasonal catches.

Ships docked daily and trade caravans were dispatched to

various parts of Homana. And with the ships came an influx

of foreign sailors and merchants; Hondarth had become al-

most cosmopolitan.

The price of growth. Dona) thought. But I wonder, was

Mujhara ever this\a151haphazard?

He smUed. The thought of the Mujhar's royal city\a151with

the palace of Homana-Mujhar a pendent jewel in a magnifi-

cent crown\a151as ever being haphazard was ludicrous. Had not

the Cheysuli originally built the city the Homanans claimed for

themselves?

Still smiling, Donal guided his chestnut stallion through the

foot traffic thronging the winding street. Few cities know the

majesty and uniformity of Mujhara. But I think I prefer

Hondarth, iff must know a city at alt.

And he did know cities. He knew Mujhara very well

indeed, for all he preferred to live away from it. He had, of

late, little choice in his living arrangements.

Donal sighed. / think Carillon will see to it my wings are

12 Jennifer Roberson

clipped, my talons filed ... or perhaps he will pen me in a

kennel, like his hunting dogs.

And who would complain about a kennel as fine as

Homana-Mujhar ?

The question was unspoken, yet clearly understood by

Donal. He had heard similar comments from others, many

tiroes before. Yet this one came not from any human companion

but from the wolf padding at the stallion's side-

Padding, not slinking; not as if the wolf avoided unwanted

contact. He did not stalk, did not hunt, did not run from man

or horse. He paced the stallion like a well-tamed hound

accompanying a beloved master, but the wolf was no dog.

Nor was he particularly tame.

He was not a delicate animal, but spare, with no flesh

beyond that which supported his natural strength and quick-

ness. The brassy sunlight of a foggy coastal late afternoon

tipped his ruddy pelt with the faintest trace of bronze. His

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eyes were partially lidded, showing half-moons of brown and

black.

/ would complain about the kennel regardless of its aspect,

Donal declared. So would you. Lorn.

An echo of laughter crossed the link that bound man to

animal. So I would, the wolf agreed. But then Homana-

Mujhar will be kennel to me as well as to you. once you have

taken the throne.

That is not the point, Donal protested. The point is. Caril-

lon begins to make more demands on my time. He takes me

away from the Keep. Council meetings, policy sessions . . .

all those boring petition hearings\a151

But the wolf cut him off. Does he have a choice^

Donal opened his mouth to answer aloud, prepared to

contest me question. But chose to say nothing, aware of the

familiar twinge of guilt that always accompanied less than

charitable thoughts about the Mujhar of Homana. He shifted

in the saddle, resettled the reins, made certain the green

woolen cloak hung evenly over his shoulders , , . ritualized

motions intended to camouflage the guilt; but they empha-

sized it instead.

And then, as always, he surrendered the battle to the wolf.

There are times I think he has a choice in everything, lir,

Donal said with a sigh. / see him make decisions that are

utterly incomprehensible to me. And yet, there are times I

LEGACY OF THE SWORD

almost understand him . . . Almost . . . Donal smiled a little,

wryly. But most of the time I think I lack the wit and sense to

understand any of Carillon's motives.

As good a reason as any for your attendance at council

meetings, policy sessions, boring petition hearings. . . .

Donal scowled down at the wolf. Lorn sounded insuffer-

ably smug. But arguing with his lir accomplished nothing\a151

Lom, like Carillon, always won the argument.

Just like Taj. Donal looked into the sky for the soaring

golden falcon. As always, I am outnumbered.

You lack both wit and sense, and need the loan of ours.

Taj's tone was different within the threads of the link. The

resonances of rtr-speech were something no Cheysuli could

easily explain because even the Old Tongue lacked the ex-

plicitness required. Donal, like every other warrior, simply

knew the language of the link in all its infinite intangibilities.

But only he could converse with Taj and Lom.

/ am put in my place. Donal conceded the battle much as

he always did\a151with practiced humility and customary resig-

nation; the concession was nothing new.

The tiny street gave out into Market Square as did dozens

of others; Donal found himself funneled into the square al-

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most against his will, suddenly surrounded by a cacophony of

shouts and sing-song invitations from fishmongers and

streethawkers. Languages abounded, so tangled the syllables

were indecipherable. But then most he could not decipher

anyway, being limited to Homanan and the Old Tongue of

the Cheysuli.

The smell struck him like a blow. Accustomed to the rich

earth odors of the Keep and the more subtle aromas of

Mujhara, Donal could not help but frown. Oil. The faintest

tang of fruit from clustered stalls. A hint of flowers, musk

and other unknown scents wafting from a perfume-merchant's

stall. But mostly fish. Everywhere fish\a151in everything; he

could not separate even the familiar smell of his leathers,

gold and wool from the pervasive odor of fish.

The stallion's gait slowed to a walk, impeded by people,

pushcarts, stalls, booths, livestock and, occasionally, other

horses. Most people were on foot; Donal began to wish he

were, if only so he could melt into the crowd instead of riding

head and shoulders above them all.

14 Jennifer Roberson

Lorn? he asked.

Here, the wolf replied glumly, nearly under the stallion's

belly. Could you not have gone another way?

When I can find a way out of this mess, I will. He grimaced

as another rider, passing too close in the throng, jostled his

horse. Knees collided painfully. The man, swearing softly

beneath his breath as he rubbed one gray-clad knee, glanced

up as if to apologize.

But he did not. Instead he stared hard for a long moment,

then drew back in his saddle and spat into the street.

"Shapechanger!" he hissed from between his teeth, "go

back to your forest bolt-hole! We want none of your kind

here in Hondarth!"

Donal, utterly astonished by the reaction, was speechless,

so stunned was he by the virulence in words and tone.

"I said, go back!" the man repeated. His face was red-

dened by his anger. A pock-marked face, not young, not old,

but rilled with violence. "The Mujhar may give you freedom

to stalk the streets of Mujhara in whatever beast-form you

wear, but here it is different! Get you gone from this city,

shapechanger!"

No. It was Lom, standing close beside the stallion. What

good would slaying him do, save to tend credence to the

reasons/or his hatred?

Donal looked down and saw how his right hand rested on

me gold hilt of his long-knife. Carefully, so carefully, he

unlocked his teeth, took his hand away from his knife and

ignored the roiling of his belly.

He managed, somehow, to speak quietly to the Homanan

who confronted him. "Shame's qu'mahlin is ended. We

Cheysuli are no longer hunted. I have tile freedom to come

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and go as I choose."

"Not hereV The man, dressed in good gray wool but

wearing no power or rank markings, shook his dark brown

head. "/ say you had better go."

"Who are you to say so?" Donal demanded icily. "Have

you usurped the Mujhar's place in Homana to dictate my

comings and goings?"

"I dictate where 1 will, when it concerns you shapechangers."

The Homanan leaned forward in his saddle. One hand gripped

me chestnut's reins to hold DonaTs horse in place. "Do you

hear me? Leave this place. Hondarth is not for such as you."

L\a163GACY OF THE SWORD

Their knees still touched. Through the contact, slight though

it was, Donal sensed the man's tension; sensed what drove

the other to such a rash action.

He is afraid. He does not do this out of a sense of justice

gone awry. or any personal vendetta\a151he is simply afraid.

Frightened, men will do anything. It was Taj, circling in

seeming idleness above the crowded square. Lir, be gentle

with him.

After what he has said to me?

Has it damaged you?

Looking into brown, malignant eyes, Donal knew the other

would not back down. He could not. Homanan pride was not

Cheysuli pride, but it was still a powerful force. Before so

many people\a151before so many Homanans and facing a dreaded

Cheysuli\a151the man would never give in.

But if I back down, I will lose more than just my pride. It

will make it that much more difficult for any warrior who

comes into Hondarth.

And so he did not back down. He leaned closer to the man,

which caused the Homanan to flinch back, and spoke barely

above a whisper. "You are truly a fool to mink you can chase

me back into the forests. I come and go as 1 please. If you

think to dissuade me, you will have myself and my iir to

contend with." A brief gesture indicated the hackled wolf

and Taj's attentive flight. "What say you to me now?"

The Homanan looked down at Lom, whose ruddy muzzle

wrinkled to expose sharp teeth. He looked up at Taj as the

falcon slowly, so slowly, circled, descending to the street.

Lastly he looked at the Cheysuli warrior who faced him: a

young man of twenty-three, tall even in his saddle; black-

haired, dark-skinned, yellow-eyed; possessed of a sense of

grace, confidence and strength that was almost feral in its

nature. He had the look of intense pnde and preparedness that

differentiated Cheysuli warriors from other men. The look of

a predator.

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"I am unarmed," the Homanan said at last.

Donal did not smile. "Next time you choose to offer insult

to a Cheysuli, I suggest you do so armed. If 1 was forced to

slay you, I would prefer to do it fairly."

The Homanan released the stallion's rein- He clutched at

his own so violently the horse's mouth gaped open, baring

massive teeth in silent protest. Back, back . . . iron-shod

16 Jennifer Roberson

hooves scraped against stone and scarred the cobbles. The

man paid no heed to the people he nearly trampled or the

collapse of a flimsy fruit stall as his mount's rump knocked

down the props. He completely ignored the shouts of the

angry merchant.

But before he left the square he spat once more into the

street.

Donal sat rigidly in his saddle and stared at the spittle

marring a single cobble. He was aware of an aching empti-

ness in his belly. Slowly that emptiness filled with the pain of

shock and outraged pride.

He is not worth slaying. But Lorn's tone within the pattern

sounded suspiciously wistful.

Taj, still circling, climbed back into the sky. You will see

more of that. Did you think to be free of such things?

"Free?" Donal demanded aloud. "Carillon ended Shaine's

qu'mahlinf'1

Neither lir answered at once.

Donal shivered. He was cold. He felt ill. He wanted to spit

much as the Homanan had spat, wishing only to rid himself

of the sour taste of shock.

"Ended," he repeated. "Everyone in Homana knows Car-

illon ended the purge."

Lom's tone was grim. There are fools in the world, and

madmen; people driven by ignorant prejudice and fear.

Donal looked out on the square and slowly shook his head.

Around him swarmed Homanans whom he had, till now,

trusted readily enough, having little reason not to. But now,

looking at them as they went about their business, he won-

dered how many hated him for his race without really under-

standing what he was.

Why? he asked his lir. Why do they spit at me?

You are the closest target. Taj told him. Not because of

rank and title.

Homanan rank and title, Donal pointed out. Can they not

respect that at ieasfl It is their own, after all.

If you tell them who and what you are, Lom agreed.

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Perhaps. But he saw only a Cheysuli.

Donal laughed a little, but there was nothing humorous in

it. Ironic, is it not? That man had no idea I was the Prince of

Homana\a151he saw a shapechanger, and spat. Knowing, maybe

he would have shut his mouth, out of respect for the title. But

LEGACY OF THE SWORD 17

others, other Homanans\a151knowing what Carillon has made

me\a151resent me for that title.

A woman, passing, muttered of beasts and demons and

made a ward-sign against the god of the netherworld. The

sign was directed at Donal, as if she thought he was a servant

of Asar-Suti.

"By the gods, the world has gone mad!" Donal stared

after the woman as she faded into the crowded square. "Do

they think I am IhliniT'

No, Taj said. They know you are Cheysuli.

Let us get out of this place at once. But even as Donal said

it, he felt and heard the smack of some substance against one

shoulder.

And smelled its odor, also.

He turned in the saddle at once, shocked by the blatant

attack. But he saw no single specific culprit, only a square

choked with people. Some watched him. Others did not.

Donal reached back and jerked his cloak over one shoulder

to see what had struck his back, though he thought he knew.

He grimaced when he saw the residue of fresh horse drop-

pings. In disgust he shook the cloak free of manure, then let

the folds fall back.

We are leaving this square, he told his lir. Though I would

prefer to leave this city entirely.

Donal turned his horse into die first street he saw and

followed its winding course. It narrowed considerably, twist-

ing down toward the sea among whitewashed buildings topped

with thatched gray roofs. He smelled salt and fish and oil,

and the tang of the sea beyond. Gulls cried raucously, white

against the slate-gray sky, singing their lonely song. The clop

of his horse's hooves echoed in the narrow canyon of the

road.

Do you mean to stop? Taj inquired.

When I find an inn\a151ah, there is one ahead. See the sign?

The Red Horse Inn.

It was a small place, whitewashed like the others, its

thatched roof worn in spots. The wooden sign, in the form of

a crimson horse, faded, dangled from its bracket on a single

strip of leather.

Here? Lom asked dubiously.

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It will do as well as another, provided I may enter. Donal

felt the anger and sickness rise again, frustrated that even

18 Jennifer Roberson

Carillon\a151with alt that he had accomplished\a151had not been

able to entirely end the qu'mahlin. But even as he spoke,

Donal realized what the wolf meant; (he Red Horse Inn

appeared to lack refinement of any sort. Its two horn win-

dows were puttied with grime and smoke, and the thatching

stank of fish oil, no doubt from the lanterns inside. Even the

white-washing was grayed with soot and dirt.

You arc the Prince of Homana. That from Taj, ever vigi-

lant of such things as princely dignity and decorum.

Donal smiled. And the Prince of Homana is hungry. Per-

haps the food will he good. He swung off his mount and tied

it to a ring in the wall provided for that purpose-Birfe here

with the horse. Let us not threaten anyone else with your

presence.

You are going in. Lom's brown eyes glinted for just a

moment.

Donal slapped the horse on his rump and shot the wolf a

scowl. There is nothing threatening about me.

Are you not Cheysuli? asked Taj smugly as he settled on

the saddle.

The door to the inn was snatched open just as Donal put

out his hand to lift the latch. A body was hurled through the

opening. Donal, directly in its path, cursed and staggered

back, grasping at arms and legs as he struggled to keep

himself and the other upright. He hissed a Cheysuli invective

under his breath and pushed the body back onto its feet. It

resolved itself into a boy, not a man, and Donal saw how the

boy stared at him in alarm.

The innkeeper stood in the doorway, legs spread and arms

folded across his chest. His bearded jaw thrust out belliger-

ently. "I'll not have such rabble in my good inn!" he growled

distinctly. "Take your demon ways elsewhere, brat!"

The boy cowered. Dona! put one hand on a narrow shoulder

to prevent another stumble. But his attention was more firmly

focused on the innkeeper. "Why do you call him a demon?"

he asked. "He is only a boy."

The man looked Donal up and down, brown eyes narrow-

ing. Donal waited for the epithets to include himself, half-

braced against another clot of manure\a151or worse\a151but instead

of insults he got a shrewd assessment. He saw how the

innkeeper judged him by the gold showing at his ear and me

LEGACY OF THE SWORD 19

color of his eyes. His /t'r-bands were hidden beneath a heavy

cloak, but his race\a151as always\a151was apparent enough.

Inwardly Donal laughed derisively. Homanans! If they are

not judging us demons because of the shapechange, they

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judge us by our gold instead. Do they not know we revere our

gold for what it represents, and not the wealth at all?

The Homanans judge your gold because of what it can buy

them. Taj settled his wings tidily. The freedom of the Cheysuli.

The innkeeper turned his face and spat against the ground.

"Demon," he said briefly.

"The boy, or me?" Donal asked with exaggerated mild-

ness, prepared for either answer. And prepared to make his

own.

"Him. Look at his eyes. He's demon-spawn, for truth."

"No!" the boy cried. "I'm not!"

"Look at his eyes!" the man roared. "Tell me what you

see!"

The boy turned his face away, shielding it behind one arm.

His black hair was dirty and tangled, falling into his eyes as if

he meant it to hide them. He showed nothing to Donal but a

shoulder hunched as if to ward off a blow.

"Do you wish to come in?" the innkeeper demanded

irritably.

Donal looked at him in genuine surprise. "You throw him

out because you believe him to be a demon\a151because of his

eyes\a151and yet you ask me in?"

The man grunted. "Has not the Mujhar declared you free

of taint? Your coin is as good as any other's." He paused.

"You do have coin?" His eyes strayed again to the earring.

Donal smiled in relief, glad to know at least one man in

Hondarth judged him more from avarice than prejudice. "I

have coin."

The other nodded. "Then come in. Tell me what you

want."

"Beef and wine. Falian white, if you have it." Donal

paused. "I will be in in a moment."

"1 have it." The man cast a lingering glance at the boy,

spat again, then pulled the door shut as he went into his inn.

Donal turned to the boy. "Explain."

The boy was very slender and black-haired, dressed in

dark, muddied clothing that showed he had grown while the

clothes had not. His hair hung into his face. "My eyes," he

20 Jennifer Roberson

said at iast. "You heard the man. Because of my eyes." He

glanced quickly up at Donal, then away. And then, as if

defying the expected reaction, he shoved the tangled hair out

of his face and bared his face completely. "See?"

"Ah," Donal said, "I see. And I understand. Merely

happenstance, but ignorant people do not understand that.

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They choose to lay blame even when there is no blame to

lay."

The boy stared up at him out of eyes utterly unremarkable\a151

save one was brown and the other a clear, bright blue.

"Then\a151you don't think me a demon and a changeling?"

"No more than am I myself." Donal smiled and spread his

hands.

"You don't think I'll be putting a spell on you?"

"Few men have that ablity. I doubt you are one of them."

The boy continued to stare. He had the face of a street

urchin, all hollowed and pointed and thin. His bony wrists

hung out of tattered sleeves and his feet were shod in strips of

battered leather. He picked at the front of his threadbare shirt

with broken, dirty fingernails.

"Why?" he asked in a voice that was barely a sound.

"Why is it you didn't like hearing me called names? I could

tell." He glanced quickly at Donal's face. "I could feel the

anger in you."

"Perhaps because I have had such prejudice attached to

me," Donal said grimly. "I like it no better when another

suffers the fate."

The boy frowned. "Who would call you names? And

why?"

"For no reason at all. Ignorance. Prejudice. Stupidity. But

mostly because, like you, I am not\a151precisely like them."

Donal did not smile. "Because I am Cheysuli."

The parti-colored eyes widened. The boy stiffened and

drew back as if he had been struck, then froze in place. He

stared fixedly at Donal and his grimy face turned pale and

blotched with fear. "Shapechanger!"

Donal felt the slow overturning of his belly. Even this

boy\a151

"Beast-eyes!" The boy made the gesture meant to ward

off evil and stumbled back a single step.

Donal felt all the anger and shock swell up. Deliberately,

with a distinct effort, he pushed it back down again. The boy

LEGACY OF THE SWORD 21

was a boy, echoing such insults as he had heard, having

heard them said of himself.

"Are you hungry?" Donal asked, ignoring the fear and

distrust in the boy's odd eyes.

The boy stared. "I have eaten."

"What have you eaten\a151scraps from the innkeeper's

midden?"

"I have eatenV

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