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i_read_whatSo there's like five more chapters to this thing, which surprises me because I don't remember there being five more chapters worth of memorable moments. But then, it's been a while. And to be honest, I'm not really looking forward to some of the bits I do remember. You'll see them when we get to them.
To be honest, I'm just looking forward to being done with this book.
So we're back with Evan and Donal, who steal a boat at night and sail to Hondarth. They're trying to avoid the notice of the Atvian fleet. Both Lorn and Taj are doing much better.
Donal's got his sword in hand, because he doesn't have a scabbard or belt for it. The ruby is glowing blood red. I feel like that makes the whole avoiding notice thing difficult, but okay. Evan, as the obligatory second banana, has the duty of shilling Donal for this scene:
“I am trusting my life to you,” Evan whispered as they crept into the shadow of an alley by the tavern.
Donal raised his brows and slanted a curious glance. “To me? What of yourself? I thought you ever claimed yourself a valiant fighter.”
“Oh, aye, I am, I am…but certainly not as accomplished as you. After all, you have wolf and falcon by you and the ability to shapechange—what have I?” He grinned. “And you carry that sorcerous sword.”
Donal looked down at the sword. He thought perhaps it was ensorceled somehow; he recalled how it had warded them against Tynstar; how it had felt like a living thing in his hands when he had nearly beheaded his uncle.
...dude, the ruby is fucking glowing.
Anyway, Donal thinks about Finn and I admit, I do feel for him here. But really dude, Finn finally escaped this wretched book and we should be happy for him. Anyway, Donal doesn't have any boots, so they end up mugging some men for theirs. I'm assuming the men were Atvian soldiers, because I don't think we're supposed to believe that Donal would rob his own subjects. They also steal some horses.
Donal and Evan have some pretty fun banter here:
“I should have made you steal them,” Donal said. “It is you who requires a mount. I can always fly.”
“The proof of a real king lies in his humanity.”
Donal scoffed. “What nonsense do you mouth?”
“A man who will rule others must learn to treat them as he himself would wish to be treated.”
Donal laughed. “Such wisdom from a renegade prince!”
I really do like their dynamic. Donal is far far more likable with Evan than he's been with any other character. Donal decides it's time for some kingly angst:
Carefully, he slid the Cheysuli sword into the sheath and slid it home. The old leather scabbard was too short; the blade extended a handspan from the lip. But it would do. “I am not yet a king,” he said absently, settling the blade.
“You are Mujhar. The difference lies only in the name.”
“First I must slay Osric.” Donal wished for a cloak against the cold; winter had passed into the edge of spring, but nights were still quite cool. “Only then will I be worthy of assuming the Lion Throne in Carillon’s place.”
...I mean, fine, okay. What's another delay? Donal's been theoretically king for six fucking months. And at no point does he ask who is actually running his goddamn kingdom. It'd take two fucking seconds, Roberson. "Who's actually governing Homana right now?" He could ask. Evan could say "Aislinn, in your name." And there we go. Donal looks like he actually cares about his fucking job.
--
So they end up rejoining the Homanan army. Apparently racism isn't a factor anymore:
Donal slipped through the Homanan lines like a wraith, with Evan close behind. He spoke quietly to the guards who challenged him. When they saw clearly who it was, all men fell to their knees and swore allegiance. It was a forcible reminder of Carillon’s death. Donal—accepting the fealty offered wholeheartedly—nonetheless felt the weight of the burden usurping any pride he might have felt by the reception.
I mean, it's good. But it seems pretty sudden. At one point Donal hands the reins of his horse to a young boy. The boy reminds him of Sef, until Donal remembers exactly who Sef was. It's a nice story beat.
Ooo. And a reunion:
Rowan glanced up from the map he studied. Black brows drew down; no doubt he was irritated by the unannounced intruder. But his mouth dropped open as he saw Donal clearly in the candlelight. The map rolled itself back into itself. “Donal! We had begun to fear you were dead."
Honestly, given what an ass Donal's been to him, Rowan is much happier to see him than he ought. He's also not AS surprised, having heard from Finn about a month ago before Finn and Evan embarked on their rescue mission. Though the delay did make Rowan fear the worst.
...what part of the rescue took a whole month?
Oh well. Anyway, the armies are at a stalemate. Neither advancing. Donal thinks Osric is waiting for Donal. Which...seems really fucking stupid. Wouldn't it be better to fight your enemy without their king present? But okay, Osric likes the symbolism I guess. Donal shows Rowan the sword, and Rowan learns what happened. They share a moment.
“Finn—” Rowan’s breath ran ragged. “Not Finn…” he begged. “No. Oh…no—no—”
Donal could find no words to answer Rowan, so he gave him only silence.
After a long moment, Rowan slid awkwardly off his stool and knelt in the dirt of the pavilion floor. “Forgive me, my lord,” he whispered. “I did not give you proper honor when you came in.”
Donal stared at the general’s bent head. They had ever been at odds, it seemed. Rowan served Carillon, not his heir, and that exacting a service had made him intolerant of Donal’s small rebellions. But Carillon was dead. And now Finn. It left him with no one at all.
Save me. Donal bent and clasped Rowan’s shoulder. “I have said I will not have you kneeling to me.”
“It is done.”
“Not this night. Rowan—I need your help.”
Rowan stood up. “And I have said you will have it.”
1. Honestly, given how Finn treated Rowan, I'm a little surprised by the depth of his grief. But then, I think they did understand each other in a way. If nothing else, they had mutual respect for the other's loyalty to Carillon.
2. It is nice to see Donal showing empathy for another person.
So anyway, for some reason, we start talking about the prophecy here:
Donal tried to ignore the pain in his back. Finn had not had time to heal the talon wounds. “I am Mujhar,” he said. “Cheysuli…but I do not suit.”
Rowan, turning to pour three cups of wine, frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“The prophecy speaks of a man of all blood who unites four warring realms. Blood of two races flows in my veins—not four.”
I have no idea why this fucking matters now. Except to facilitate some later developments, I suppose. But we've barely talked about the prophecy all book.
Rowan, Evan and Donal muse over the four warring realms thing. Homana and Solinde are a given, and may be resolved if and when Donal and Aislinn finally have a son. They think Atvia is probably the third. But what's the fourth.
Ellas is suggested, but Evan vetoes that. Ellas doesn't fight often and have never fought Homana, Solinde or Atvia. They do fight occasionally with their Eastern neighbors, but resolve that through intermarriage.
The other option is Erinn. Per the world map, Erinn and Atvia are a pair of interlocking islands. Donal actually has Erinnish blood already, through Shaine's first wife. (Also, theoretically the source of the old blood). We're going to forget about this though because technically speaking, I'm pretty sure this little factoid means that the bad guys actually beat the good guys to the prophecy. Don't ask. Let's just say the later books will have a whole lot of rape and cousin fucking.
So Erinn is an interesting kettle of fish though. Homana hasn't had much contact with Erinn since that one marriage. They've never fought. Erinn has been fighting Atvia for generations though.
Donal comes back to the realization that he's not the man of the prophecy, lacking the requisite bloodlines. But, Rowan notes, maybe his son will be. And no, he's not talking about Ian. Here's some questionably good news, I guess. Aislinn's conceived. And the child is due in two months.
Gods…she has won…that night she drugged me— Donal shut his eyes. Does she serve Strahan, that child will be a travesty!
Ugh. I mean, I suppose I'm grateful for Roberson actually, for once, treating rape with some seriousness. But at the same time, he raped her first! And I'd have a whole lot more sympathy for him if he'd acknowledge that. They're a fucked up relationship all around.
There's more news though:
Rowan took a breath. “Aislinn—summoned Sorcha to Homana-Mujhar. What they discussed I cannot say…but not long after it was announced the queen would bear a child, Sorcha took the children and left the Keep.”
“Left—” Donal was on his feet. “Aislinn has sent them away—?”
“They are well, Donal.” Rowan said it sharply. “They are well. Aislinn meant them no harm. But Sorcha has taken the children and gone up across the Bluetooth, into the Northern Wastes.”
“To the other Keep—?” Donal slammed down his cup so hard wine slopped over to spill across the table. “I cannot believe she did it…not Aislinn—but—” His resolve hardened as he recalled how she had tricked him. “I swear—if she does this out of spite or to serve Strahan, I will do to her what Carillon did to her jehana. Send her away from me—”
...okay, I suppose this is where I should have more sympathy for Donal than I do. But Donal's been allowed to have his cake and eat it too for the entire fucking book. It's not even a matter of him having a mistress, he has a whole other fucking family, and he expects his wife, the QUEEN OF THE GODDAMN COUNTRY, to be okay with it.
ESPECIALLY when it isn't even clear that she knew Donal was even alive.
Rowan and Evan try to calm the situation down, pointing out that Sorcha and the kids are unharmed. Evan points out that pregnant women sometimes get odd notions, and notes that his mother, who had twelve kids, could get that way with several of Evan's sisters.
Donal doesn't give a shit though. He swears he'll slay Osric, win the war, and fetch them home.
Rowan's got a good question:
“How?” Rowan asked. “We have been fighting Osric for more than half a year. Half our army remains in Solinde; Osric supplies his men from Hondarth. Do you propose to end this war tomorrow?”
Donal heard the underlying hint of contempt in Rowan’s tone. He did not blame him; no doubt it was hard for Rowan to serve another, younger master, who had less knowledge of war than he did. It was a bittersweet service.
Rowan was on his fucking knees for you practically like a page and a half ago, you fucking cretin. He's got a good fucking question.
But Donal answers: he intends to do it tonight. He gets a pretty good dramatic line here admittedly, when he says: “I will go to him as a Cheysuli…and fight him as a king.” Donal’s eyes were on the sword.
Basically, he'll fly over as a falcon and challenge him. It's not a terrible plan, but I wonder why any bird-bonded Cheysuli couldn't have done that and assassinated the guy ages ago.
--
So here we go. Donal has the sword. It's swanky:
The sword was naked in his hands. Unsheathed, the steel was silver in the moonlight. A bright, white silver, wrought with eloquent runes. Oh, aye, he could read them. He could read what was written there. What Hale had put there for him.
Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.
Donal nearly laughed. How he had run away. How he had turned his back. How he had repeatedly refused to accept a gift meant for him alone.
“Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.” Donal spoke the words aloud. First in the Old Tongue, and then in the language of Homana: “Accept, grandson. In the name of Homana’s tahlmorra.”
Of fucking course. If I can say nothing else about the later books, at least we don't have to deal with a protagonist who is quite as SPECIALLY WONDERFUL as Donal again. Thank fucking god.
So he basically slices his palms with the sword, because blood makes everything better. It's a ritual of some kind, I guess, but I don't fucking care. I am SO TIRED of this fucking book.
He has a memory of Duncan:
—he was a boy again, so small, and listening to his father. Listening to the man who was clan-leader of the Cheysuli, wiser than everyone save the shar tahl, who kept all the histories.
“You are a Cheysuli warrior, a child of the Firstborn, and beloved of the gods. You are one among many; a man who is more than a man; a warrior who serves more than war, but the gods and the prophecy. In you lies the seed of that prophecy, dormant now, but waiting for the day when you will awaken at last and comprehend the tahlmorra of a kingdom. Not of a boy, of a man, of a clan. Of a kingdom, and you will be its king. You will be what no one has been for nearly four hundred years: a Cheysuli Mujhar of Homana. The man in the prophecy.”
Donal opened his eyes. Took his hands away from the sword. The blood-bathed ruby glowed more brilliantly than ever. And when he looked at his palms, he saw the wounds had healed.
We just figured out that Donal ISN'T the man of the prophecy. But it fits that Duncan is, again, fucking wrong. Hah.
--
Okay, so, let's get us to Osric!
Osric of Atvia, when Donal finally found him, was ensconced in a huge black field pavilion ringed with smoking torches. He was alone. He sat at his table and pondered his maps, plotting new strategy. Four braziers and two tall candleracks illuminated the interior of the tent. Light flashed off ruddy hair banded by a plain gold circlet; it glinted as he absently smoothed the map with a thick-fingered hand. His broad shoulders threw odd shadows on the fabric behind him: black on black. He scratched idly at his heavy, sun-gilded beard.
He was not old. Perhaps thirty, a year or two more. He was a hardened fighter in his prime; Donal knew he faced harsh odds. But he would not turn from them.
Donal stepped into the glowing light and smiled, carrying the sword. Osric, glancing up at the faintest whisper of sound, froze. His blue eyes widened minutely, then narrowed; he did not otherwise indicate alarm or fear. He appeared more irritated than anything.
Truth be told, I kind of like him already. At least we both find Donal irritating.
Interestingly, Osric seems inclined to talk.
“Strahan held you captive, I was told.”
“I was freed. I brought the sword out with me.” He paused. “It is mine, Osric. My grandsire made it for me.”
Osric’s blue eyes glittered. He was so vital Donal could sense the strength moving in the man. “I have heard that sword holds magic. Shapechanger sorcery.” The blue eyes dipped to the sword, then lifted to Donal’s face. “Hale was your grandsire, then?”
“Aye. You see, do you not, I am not an upstart warrior who wishes to grasp at a throne? I have a lawful right to it, Osric. I have blood in me that harks back to the Mujhars of old, and the Cheysuli Mujhars before them.”
“I have the right of conquest,” Osric said.
I'm sorry, Osric is really kind of awesome. And really, is he wrong? That's the same justification that Carillon had for ruling Solinde after all. (Well, and marrying Electra. But Osric could marry Aislinn after killing Donal, I suppose.)
He asks how Donal made it through the lines, and Donal gets to boast here:
Donal smiled. “I am a falcon when need be—or a wolf whenever I choose.” He pulled aside the doorflap. Lorn came into the pavilion silently. “You have chosen a bad enemy,” Donal told the Atvian lord. “We Cheysuli do not sit idly by while you try to usurp our homeland.”
Osric still stared at Lorn. “My grandsire died because of a wolf,” he said slowly. “In Homana, it was—inside Homana-Mujhar. It was whim—a wolf’s whim. It did not slay with tooth or claw—it slew by using fear.”
Donal laughed aloud. “That wolf, ku’reshtin, was my mother.”
I rolled my eyes for the first part of Donal's boast, but I admit to cheering a bit when he mentions Alix.
So Osric is happy to challenge Donal with sword skill. Donal notes that Carillon taught him. And Osric gets his own badass line here:
Osric’s eyes narrowed. “Carillon is dead. I was the one who slew him—as once he prophesied.” He smiled suddenly as Donal started. “Did you not know? Aye—Carillon prophesied our meeting. He told it to my brother, Alaric, when I sent him here some sixteen years ago.” He laughed. “Carillon said—if I recall it right—that if we ever met on the field of battle, one of us would die.” He studied Donal closely. “Carillon’s reputation? Overpraised, I think. As for yours? Let us make one now.” He turned. He caught up his own broadsword from his cot, swung back and advanced on Donal.
So they fight. Osric is gigantic, like his grandfather. He's also a master swordsman. Donal is quicker, but half-assed his studies. They exchange taunts. Osric appears to win, but...
He stepped back, back again. The table pressed against his spine. Donal threw himself onto the table in a bid to roll away and gain his feet, but Osric’s sword was in the way. It settled at his throat.
“True,” Osric said. “The Cheysuli have no sword-skill.”
The ruby blazed up and created a nimbus around them both. Osric, crying out, fell back, eyes popping in their sockets. His own sword shook in his hands, but he was too much a warrior to give over to fear so easily.
Donal pressed up from the table. Osric brought his sword down. Blades clashed. The immense strength of the Atvian drove Donal down again. His torn back pressed against the wood.
The nimbus continued to burn. It splashed blood-red light across Osric’s face until his blue eyes turned Ihlini purple.
Donal felt the numbness beginning in his hands, felt the sword cleave to his grasp as if it was part and parcel of his body. Runes glowed white the length of the blade—he swung—
—Osric’s sword broke in a rain of shining steel.
He stood there with nothing in his hands but a useless hilt. His mouth hung open: a tombstoned cavern in red-gilt hair.
Donal, still flat on his back on the table, felt the sword lift him up; felt the power surge through his arms from shoulder to fingertips. He was lifted; he thrust. The blade slid home in Osric’s belly.
That for Carillon. That for my su’fali.
The sword fucking cheats for Donal.
Hmph.
But I included this whole bit mostly for the bit about Osric's eyes turning Ihlini purple. Which is an interesting little touch when we consider what Strahan said about both races. Remember how Hale had etched his sword with magic runes. And what other magic race uses magic runes?
So anyway, the chapter ends with Osric's death and thus the last thing resembling a real conflict. I don't think we'll be seeing Strahan again in this book, because, like Tynstar, he's meant to plague multiple generations. (Sadly, losing a bit of impressiveness each time.) So yeah. Dude murders Finn and scampers off. Hooray.
Anyway, thankfully the chapter is over, and I'm one step closer to being free of this fucking book.
To be honest, I'm just looking forward to being done with this book.
So we're back with Evan and Donal, who steal a boat at night and sail to Hondarth. They're trying to avoid the notice of the Atvian fleet. Both Lorn and Taj are doing much better.
Donal's got his sword in hand, because he doesn't have a scabbard or belt for it. The ruby is glowing blood red. I feel like that makes the whole avoiding notice thing difficult, but okay. Evan, as the obligatory second banana, has the duty of shilling Donal for this scene:
“I am trusting my life to you,” Evan whispered as they crept into the shadow of an alley by the tavern.
Donal raised his brows and slanted a curious glance. “To me? What of yourself? I thought you ever claimed yourself a valiant fighter.”
“Oh, aye, I am, I am…but certainly not as accomplished as you. After all, you have wolf and falcon by you and the ability to shapechange—what have I?” He grinned. “And you carry that sorcerous sword.”
Donal looked down at the sword. He thought perhaps it was ensorceled somehow; he recalled how it had warded them against Tynstar; how it had felt like a living thing in his hands when he had nearly beheaded his uncle.
...dude, the ruby is fucking glowing.
Anyway, Donal thinks about Finn and I admit, I do feel for him here. But really dude, Finn finally escaped this wretched book and we should be happy for him. Anyway, Donal doesn't have any boots, so they end up mugging some men for theirs. I'm assuming the men were Atvian soldiers, because I don't think we're supposed to believe that Donal would rob his own subjects. They also steal some horses.
Donal and Evan have some pretty fun banter here:
“I should have made you steal them,” Donal said. “It is you who requires a mount. I can always fly.”
“The proof of a real king lies in his humanity.”
Donal scoffed. “What nonsense do you mouth?”
“A man who will rule others must learn to treat them as he himself would wish to be treated.”
Donal laughed. “Such wisdom from a renegade prince!”
I really do like their dynamic. Donal is far far more likable with Evan than he's been with any other character. Donal decides it's time for some kingly angst:
Carefully, he slid the Cheysuli sword into the sheath and slid it home. The old leather scabbard was too short; the blade extended a handspan from the lip. But it would do. “I am not yet a king,” he said absently, settling the blade.
“You are Mujhar. The difference lies only in the name.”
“First I must slay Osric.” Donal wished for a cloak against the cold; winter had passed into the edge of spring, but nights were still quite cool. “Only then will I be worthy of assuming the Lion Throne in Carillon’s place.”
...I mean, fine, okay. What's another delay? Donal's been theoretically king for six fucking months. And at no point does he ask who is actually running his goddamn kingdom. It'd take two fucking seconds, Roberson. "Who's actually governing Homana right now?" He could ask. Evan could say "Aislinn, in your name." And there we go. Donal looks like he actually cares about his fucking job.
--
So they end up rejoining the Homanan army. Apparently racism isn't a factor anymore:
Donal slipped through the Homanan lines like a wraith, with Evan close behind. He spoke quietly to the guards who challenged him. When they saw clearly who it was, all men fell to their knees and swore allegiance. It was a forcible reminder of Carillon’s death. Donal—accepting the fealty offered wholeheartedly—nonetheless felt the weight of the burden usurping any pride he might have felt by the reception.
I mean, it's good. But it seems pretty sudden. At one point Donal hands the reins of his horse to a young boy. The boy reminds him of Sef, until Donal remembers exactly who Sef was. It's a nice story beat.
Ooo. And a reunion:
Rowan glanced up from the map he studied. Black brows drew down; no doubt he was irritated by the unannounced intruder. But his mouth dropped open as he saw Donal clearly in the candlelight. The map rolled itself back into itself. “Donal! We had begun to fear you were dead."
Honestly, given what an ass Donal's been to him, Rowan is much happier to see him than he ought. He's also not AS surprised, having heard from Finn about a month ago before Finn and Evan embarked on their rescue mission. Though the delay did make Rowan fear the worst.
...what part of the rescue took a whole month?
Oh well. Anyway, the armies are at a stalemate. Neither advancing. Donal thinks Osric is waiting for Donal. Which...seems really fucking stupid. Wouldn't it be better to fight your enemy without their king present? But okay, Osric likes the symbolism I guess. Donal shows Rowan the sword, and Rowan learns what happened. They share a moment.
“Finn—” Rowan’s breath ran ragged. “Not Finn…” he begged. “No. Oh…no—no—”
Donal could find no words to answer Rowan, so he gave him only silence.
After a long moment, Rowan slid awkwardly off his stool and knelt in the dirt of the pavilion floor. “Forgive me, my lord,” he whispered. “I did not give you proper honor when you came in.”
Donal stared at the general’s bent head. They had ever been at odds, it seemed. Rowan served Carillon, not his heir, and that exacting a service had made him intolerant of Donal’s small rebellions. But Carillon was dead. And now Finn. It left him with no one at all.
Save me. Donal bent and clasped Rowan’s shoulder. “I have said I will not have you kneeling to me.”
“It is done.”
“Not this night. Rowan—I need your help.”
Rowan stood up. “And I have said you will have it.”
1. Honestly, given how Finn treated Rowan, I'm a little surprised by the depth of his grief. But then, I think they did understand each other in a way. If nothing else, they had mutual respect for the other's loyalty to Carillon.
2. It is nice to see Donal showing empathy for another person.
So anyway, for some reason, we start talking about the prophecy here:
Donal tried to ignore the pain in his back. Finn had not had time to heal the talon wounds. “I am Mujhar,” he said. “Cheysuli…but I do not suit.”
Rowan, turning to pour three cups of wine, frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“The prophecy speaks of a man of all blood who unites four warring realms. Blood of two races flows in my veins—not four.”
I have no idea why this fucking matters now. Except to facilitate some later developments, I suppose. But we've barely talked about the prophecy all book.
Rowan, Evan and Donal muse over the four warring realms thing. Homana and Solinde are a given, and may be resolved if and when Donal and Aislinn finally have a son. They think Atvia is probably the third. But what's the fourth.
Ellas is suggested, but Evan vetoes that. Ellas doesn't fight often and have never fought Homana, Solinde or Atvia. They do fight occasionally with their Eastern neighbors, but resolve that through intermarriage.
The other option is Erinn. Per the world map, Erinn and Atvia are a pair of interlocking islands. Donal actually has Erinnish blood already, through Shaine's first wife. (Also, theoretically the source of the old blood). We're going to forget about this though because technically speaking, I'm pretty sure this little factoid means that the bad guys actually beat the good guys to the prophecy. Don't ask. Let's just say the later books will have a whole lot of rape and cousin fucking.
So Erinn is an interesting kettle of fish though. Homana hasn't had much contact with Erinn since that one marriage. They've never fought. Erinn has been fighting Atvia for generations though.
Donal comes back to the realization that he's not the man of the prophecy, lacking the requisite bloodlines. But, Rowan notes, maybe his son will be. And no, he's not talking about Ian. Here's some questionably good news, I guess. Aislinn's conceived. And the child is due in two months.
Gods…she has won…that night she drugged me— Donal shut his eyes. Does she serve Strahan, that child will be a travesty!
Ugh. I mean, I suppose I'm grateful for Roberson actually, for once, treating rape with some seriousness. But at the same time, he raped her first! And I'd have a whole lot more sympathy for him if he'd acknowledge that. They're a fucked up relationship all around.
There's more news though:
Rowan took a breath. “Aislinn—summoned Sorcha to Homana-Mujhar. What they discussed I cannot say…but not long after it was announced the queen would bear a child, Sorcha took the children and left the Keep.”
“Left—” Donal was on his feet. “Aislinn has sent them away—?”
“They are well, Donal.” Rowan said it sharply. “They are well. Aislinn meant them no harm. But Sorcha has taken the children and gone up across the Bluetooth, into the Northern Wastes.”
“To the other Keep—?” Donal slammed down his cup so hard wine slopped over to spill across the table. “I cannot believe she did it…not Aislinn—but—” His resolve hardened as he recalled how she had tricked him. “I swear—if she does this out of spite or to serve Strahan, I will do to her what Carillon did to her jehana. Send her away from me—”
...okay, I suppose this is where I should have more sympathy for Donal than I do. But Donal's been allowed to have his cake and eat it too for the entire fucking book. It's not even a matter of him having a mistress, he has a whole other fucking family, and he expects his wife, the QUEEN OF THE GODDAMN COUNTRY, to be okay with it.
ESPECIALLY when it isn't even clear that she knew Donal was even alive.
Rowan and Evan try to calm the situation down, pointing out that Sorcha and the kids are unharmed. Evan points out that pregnant women sometimes get odd notions, and notes that his mother, who had twelve kids, could get that way with several of Evan's sisters.
Donal doesn't give a shit though. He swears he'll slay Osric, win the war, and fetch them home.
Rowan's got a good question:
“How?” Rowan asked. “We have been fighting Osric for more than half a year. Half our army remains in Solinde; Osric supplies his men from Hondarth. Do you propose to end this war tomorrow?”
Donal heard the underlying hint of contempt in Rowan’s tone. He did not blame him; no doubt it was hard for Rowan to serve another, younger master, who had less knowledge of war than he did. It was a bittersweet service.
Rowan was on his fucking knees for you practically like a page and a half ago, you fucking cretin. He's got a good fucking question.
But Donal answers: he intends to do it tonight. He gets a pretty good dramatic line here admittedly, when he says: “I will go to him as a Cheysuli…and fight him as a king.” Donal’s eyes were on the sword.
Basically, he'll fly over as a falcon and challenge him. It's not a terrible plan, but I wonder why any bird-bonded Cheysuli couldn't have done that and assassinated the guy ages ago.
--
So here we go. Donal has the sword. It's swanky:
The sword was naked in his hands. Unsheathed, the steel was silver in the moonlight. A bright, white silver, wrought with eloquent runes. Oh, aye, he could read them. He could read what was written there. What Hale had put there for him.
Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.
Donal nearly laughed. How he had run away. How he had turned his back. How he had repeatedly refused to accept a gift meant for him alone.
“Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.” Donal spoke the words aloud. First in the Old Tongue, and then in the language of Homana: “Accept, grandson. In the name of Homana’s tahlmorra.”
Of fucking course. If I can say nothing else about the later books, at least we don't have to deal with a protagonist who is quite as SPECIALLY WONDERFUL as Donal again. Thank fucking god.
So he basically slices his palms with the sword, because blood makes everything better. It's a ritual of some kind, I guess, but I don't fucking care. I am SO TIRED of this fucking book.
He has a memory of Duncan:
—he was a boy again, so small, and listening to his father. Listening to the man who was clan-leader of the Cheysuli, wiser than everyone save the shar tahl, who kept all the histories.
“You are a Cheysuli warrior, a child of the Firstborn, and beloved of the gods. You are one among many; a man who is more than a man; a warrior who serves more than war, but the gods and the prophecy. In you lies the seed of that prophecy, dormant now, but waiting for the day when you will awaken at last and comprehend the tahlmorra of a kingdom. Not of a boy, of a man, of a clan. Of a kingdom, and you will be its king. You will be what no one has been for nearly four hundred years: a Cheysuli Mujhar of Homana. The man in the prophecy.”
Donal opened his eyes. Took his hands away from the sword. The blood-bathed ruby glowed more brilliantly than ever. And when he looked at his palms, he saw the wounds had healed.
We just figured out that Donal ISN'T the man of the prophecy. But it fits that Duncan is, again, fucking wrong. Hah.
--
Okay, so, let's get us to Osric!
Osric of Atvia, when Donal finally found him, was ensconced in a huge black field pavilion ringed with smoking torches. He was alone. He sat at his table and pondered his maps, plotting new strategy. Four braziers and two tall candleracks illuminated the interior of the tent. Light flashed off ruddy hair banded by a plain gold circlet; it glinted as he absently smoothed the map with a thick-fingered hand. His broad shoulders threw odd shadows on the fabric behind him: black on black. He scratched idly at his heavy, sun-gilded beard.
He was not old. Perhaps thirty, a year or two more. He was a hardened fighter in his prime; Donal knew he faced harsh odds. But he would not turn from them.
Donal stepped into the glowing light and smiled, carrying the sword. Osric, glancing up at the faintest whisper of sound, froze. His blue eyes widened minutely, then narrowed; he did not otherwise indicate alarm or fear. He appeared more irritated than anything.
Truth be told, I kind of like him already. At least we both find Donal irritating.
Interestingly, Osric seems inclined to talk.
“Strahan held you captive, I was told.”
“I was freed. I brought the sword out with me.” He paused. “It is mine, Osric. My grandsire made it for me.”
Osric’s blue eyes glittered. He was so vital Donal could sense the strength moving in the man. “I have heard that sword holds magic. Shapechanger sorcery.” The blue eyes dipped to the sword, then lifted to Donal’s face. “Hale was your grandsire, then?”
“Aye. You see, do you not, I am not an upstart warrior who wishes to grasp at a throne? I have a lawful right to it, Osric. I have blood in me that harks back to the Mujhars of old, and the Cheysuli Mujhars before them.”
“I have the right of conquest,” Osric said.
I'm sorry, Osric is really kind of awesome. And really, is he wrong? That's the same justification that Carillon had for ruling Solinde after all. (Well, and marrying Electra. But Osric could marry Aislinn after killing Donal, I suppose.)
He asks how Donal made it through the lines, and Donal gets to boast here:
Donal smiled. “I am a falcon when need be—or a wolf whenever I choose.” He pulled aside the doorflap. Lorn came into the pavilion silently. “You have chosen a bad enemy,” Donal told the Atvian lord. “We Cheysuli do not sit idly by while you try to usurp our homeland.”
Osric still stared at Lorn. “My grandsire died because of a wolf,” he said slowly. “In Homana, it was—inside Homana-Mujhar. It was whim—a wolf’s whim. It did not slay with tooth or claw—it slew by using fear.”
Donal laughed aloud. “That wolf, ku’reshtin, was my mother.”
I rolled my eyes for the first part of Donal's boast, but I admit to cheering a bit when he mentions Alix.
So Osric is happy to challenge Donal with sword skill. Donal notes that Carillon taught him. And Osric gets his own badass line here:
Osric’s eyes narrowed. “Carillon is dead. I was the one who slew him—as once he prophesied.” He smiled suddenly as Donal started. “Did you not know? Aye—Carillon prophesied our meeting. He told it to my brother, Alaric, when I sent him here some sixteen years ago.” He laughed. “Carillon said—if I recall it right—that if we ever met on the field of battle, one of us would die.” He studied Donal closely. “Carillon’s reputation? Overpraised, I think. As for yours? Let us make one now.” He turned. He caught up his own broadsword from his cot, swung back and advanced on Donal.
So they fight. Osric is gigantic, like his grandfather. He's also a master swordsman. Donal is quicker, but half-assed his studies. They exchange taunts. Osric appears to win, but...
He stepped back, back again. The table pressed against his spine. Donal threw himself onto the table in a bid to roll away and gain his feet, but Osric’s sword was in the way. It settled at his throat.
“True,” Osric said. “The Cheysuli have no sword-skill.”
The ruby blazed up and created a nimbus around them both. Osric, crying out, fell back, eyes popping in their sockets. His own sword shook in his hands, but he was too much a warrior to give over to fear so easily.
Donal pressed up from the table. Osric brought his sword down. Blades clashed. The immense strength of the Atvian drove Donal down again. His torn back pressed against the wood.
The nimbus continued to burn. It splashed blood-red light across Osric’s face until his blue eyes turned Ihlini purple.
Donal felt the numbness beginning in his hands, felt the sword cleave to his grasp as if it was part and parcel of his body. Runes glowed white the length of the blade—he swung—
—Osric’s sword broke in a rain of shining steel.
He stood there with nothing in his hands but a useless hilt. His mouth hung open: a tombstoned cavern in red-gilt hair.
Donal, still flat on his back on the table, felt the sword lift him up; felt the power surge through his arms from shoulder to fingertips. He was lifted; he thrust. The blade slid home in Osric’s belly.
That for Carillon. That for my su’fali.
The sword fucking cheats for Donal.
Hmph.
But I included this whole bit mostly for the bit about Osric's eyes turning Ihlini purple. Which is an interesting little touch when we consider what Strahan said about both races. Remember how Hale had etched his sword with magic runes. And what other magic race uses magic runes?
So anyway, the chapter ends with Osric's death and thus the last thing resembling a real conflict. I don't think we'll be seeing Strahan again in this book, because, like Tynstar, he's meant to plague multiple generations. (Sadly, losing a bit of impressiveness each time.) So yeah. Dude murders Finn and scampers off. Hooray.
Anyway, thankfully the chapter is over, and I'm one step closer to being free of this fucking book.
no subject
Date: 2021-10-13 08:50 am (UTC)Shame, though, because he was getting better and better... On the bright side, unlike Carillon, he didn't decide to cross the line a bit before his death.
“I should have made you steal them,” Donal said. “It is you who requires a mount. I can always fly.”
“The proof of a real king lies in his humanity.”
Donal scoffed. “What nonsense do you mouth?”
“A man who will rule others must learn to treat them as he himself would wish to be treated.”
Donal laughed. “Such wisdom from a renegade prince!”
I like this banter. So far, the second half is better than the first (except Aislinn's Moral Event Horizon, where Donal had done such a thing first.)
“Ja’hai, bu’lasa. Homana tahlmorra ru’maii.” Donal spoke the words aloud. First in the Old Tongue, and then in the language of Homana: “Accept, grandson. In the name of Homana’s tahlmorra.”
Even with this super spechul destiny, this is not the worst thing in this book. Alix, if she was alive, would be pissed, since we know her destiny *barfs*.
We just figured out that Donal ISN'T the man of the prophecy. But it fits that Duncan is, again, fucking wrong. Hah
Was he ever right about something? He was the worst in the series!
Osric’s eyes narrowed. “Carillon is dead. I was the one who slew him—as once he prophesied.” He smiled suddenly as Donal started. “Did you not know? Aye—Carillon prophesied our meeting. He told it to my brother, Alaric, when I sent him here some sixteen years ago.” He laughed. “Carillon said—if I recall it right—that if we ever met on the field of battle, one of us would die.”
Osric is one of the most badass villains of the series. Also, I appreciate Alix having any victory.
Donal felt the numbness beginning in his hands, felt the sword cleave to his grasp as if it was part and parcel of his body. Runes glowed white the length of the blade—he swung—
—Osric’s sword broke in a rain of shining steel.
Still rooting for Osric. He was the better swordsman, Donal just had better sword... but the sword is the title of the whole book, so it at least lives up to the hype.
But I included this whole bit mostly for the bit about Osric's eyes turning Ihlini purple. Which is an interesting little touch when we consider what Strahan said about both races. Remember how Hale had etched his sword with magic runes. And what other magic race uses magic runes?
It also interested me.
no subject
Date: 2021-10-14 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-12-04 07:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-12-04 08:35 pm (UTC)