King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  She was dying.

  But at last, when the springtime had come again, and all the world was bright with new life, she called me to her bedside, and I could no longer pretend all would be well.

  I looked down at my mother where she lay uncomplaining. Her hair, untouched by time, was blacker than the heart of night, her face unlined and smooth. And yet it came to me suddenly, for the first time—we are so unobservant about those we love—that she was far older than I'd ever realized, that it was only by her magic that she had ever been able to bear a child.

  She smiled up at me, eyes tranquil. "Don't mourn, lad."

  "But—"

  "No. I've lived long, but now y Duwies calls me, and I must return to her. You know that." She sighed. "But there is something you don't yet know. First, you must not stay here in the woodland after I am gone."

  "I—"

  "No. Hear me out." Her eyes were troubled now. "I've never spoken much of your father. Perhaps I was wrong. But I loved you dearly, my son. I . . . feared I might lose you if you knew the truth."

  "Never that!" I said sharply, and she laughed.

  "Och, Aidan, so firm, so sure of yourself! Like your father, indeed."

  And she told me then what you already know, of King Estmere and my begetting, nor did she stop at my open-mouthed amazement.

  "I wanted a child, Aidan. And he was a good, kind man, for all the weight of the crown on him." A ghost of humor flickered across her face. "I do think he wanted to bring me back to court with him. But his ways were not my ways, and we never could have—" She stopped, then added softly, "But he's dead now."

  A thought penetrated my stunned brain. "Mother . . . are you . . . surely you're not trying to say I'm heir to a throne."

  She laughed, but her black eyes studied me with something of their old strength. "Would you want that to be so?"

  "Duwies glân, no!" The words burst from me without thought, but they were true ones, and my mother laughed again.

  "Now, that's most fortunate, because there is already a king! You have a brother, a half-brother nigh two years your senior. And he, too, is called Estmere, the second of his line. I've studied him through my mirror, and found him a fine young man and an honest ruler." Almost to herself, she murmured, a dreamy, sensual smile on her lips, "What else, with such a sire?"

  But then she roused herself, fixing her gaze on me. "He's lonely, Aidan. It hurt my heart to see young Estmere so in need of a friend. A brother. And you . . . it is in my mind that I've been wrong to keep you here."

  "No."

  "Yes. Your blood is half of the realm of court and throne, your very name is Anglic in your father's honor, yet you know almost nothing of the ways of the human world! Go to your brother. Offer him your friendship."

  No! I wanted to cry. No! Ailanna! Ah, Tairyn, Tairyn, why did you do that to me? Why deny me that final chance to tell my mother of my love? How it would have comforted her to know I wasn't alone, how she would have smiled to see Ailanna at my side—

  But Tairyn's will bound me. Faerie pride proved stronger than my merely human Power, and though I fought till my head blazed with pain, no words came.

  My mother must have thought I was merely fighting back grief. I didn't argue with her. Duwies glân, I couldn't argue with her, not at such a time.

  And in the end she won from me this vow, though it wrung my heart to swear it:

  I would go to the royal court and seek out King Estmere, my brother.

  I would stay by him till the day came when he no longer needed me at his side.

  Now, perhaps you don't understand what a vow means to one of the West Country. It isn't just a light speaking of words. It's a duty, an unbreakable obligation—in short, the sworn word is sacred, it's as simple as that.

  Once I had sworn that unbreakable vow, my mother smiled in satisfaction. And then, quite peacefully, she died and I was alone.

  Of that time I will not speak.

  When all was done that needs must be done, I took up those few possessions I wished to keep, and left forever the hut that had been my childhood home, and sought out Ailanna.

  She knew what had happened ere I spoke. I saw my sorrow reflected in her eyes, and we wept together without shame.

  After a time, Ailanna asked softly, "What will you do now?"

  "I . . . don't know." I did know; I couldn't say the words.

  Ailanna was wiser. "You swore a vow, love. You must go."

  "Come with me."

  "No!" Fear blazed up in her eyes. "That is a world of stone walls and iron!"

  "I would shield you."

  "How?" she asked fiercely. "Being surrounded by so much of that cruel, cruel metal would kill me, no matter what you did!"

  I winced. Iron is, just as the tales tell, most deadly to all Faerie kin. "Forgive me. I wasn't thinking clearly. But—och, my love, how can I ever leave you?"

  "You can. You shall." Ailanna suddenly smiled. "What, do you think me a mere human, to be frightened by the passing of a little time?"

  "It may be more than a little time."

  "What of that? Aidan, what am I to you?"

  "Och, Ailanna, you know! My lady, my love, my wife-to-someday-be—my very soul, Ailanna."

  "So," she said with wry humor. "After that outburst, are you afraid you might forget me? And I certainly won't forget you, either." She cupped my face in her cool hands. "You'll return when the One wills it, Aidan ap Nia, and I'll be waiting."

  The Folk cannot lie. And despite myself, I felt the burden of grief lessen just a bit, and my spirits lift. I was young, after all, and new to the promise of adventure. "So be it. I'll go forth and conquer worlds for you, my lady, like some hero of the sagas."

  "Ah, but a hero needs a sword." It was all at once there in her arms, a fine, slim Faerie blade in a scabbard of pale, soft leather. "Tairyn left this for you, when you should be ready for it. But it was forged at my request."

  My hand itched to hold it. The hilt, wound about with silver wire to provide a better grip, slipped into my palm as though it belonged there. Wondering, I drew the sword free, seeing now the guard curved towards the blade as sweetly as the bow of the crescent moon. And ah, the blade was fiercely beautiful, not gaudy-bright as swords of mortal forging but sleek and clean and coolly shining, Faerie metal, with runes for strength upon it.

  Reluctantly, I resheathed the sword, reminding myself I was a healer, not a warrior. "But this is a princely gift, Ailanna."

  "And are you not a prince?"

  That gave me pause. "Prince Aidan," I said experimentally in Anglic, "Prince Aidan ap Nia," and had to laugh. "Doesn't sound quite right, does it? Doesn't sound like me." My hand caressed the smooth softness of the scabbard. "But I do thank you for this gift."

  Her eyes were all at once strange, very Faerie and farseeing. "It will serve you well," she said in a cool, clear tone totally unlike her norm. But then Ailanna shivered, and the strangeness was gone. She gave an awkward little laugh. "Come, my hero. It's time you set forth."

  We both knew I dared not wait. A moment's hesitation more, and I might not be able to keep my sacred vow. So, without another word, she fastened the swordbelt about my waist, as tradition demands human ladies do for their knights.

  We embraced.

  And then, tearing myself away, not daring to look back, I set out eastward for the world of men.

  CHAPTER V

  FAMILY REUNION

  King Estmere's lands are broad and fertile: rolling hills and healthy farms, and over all the scent of prosperity. Queen of these lands is the ancient capital, Lundinia, that mighty walled city on the River Taemese. Nine gates has Lundinia, and nine bridges over the Taemese, and all of these are usually well-crowded with merchants and farmers, peasants and nobles, with wanderers and traders and just plain curious visitors from all over the kingdom—yes, even from all over the known world.

  Now, in my travels eastward, I had come to consider myself cosmopolitan enough, easily accepting that the folk I met
wouldn't be speaking Cymraeth, attuning my ear instead to the clipped sounds of Anglic (no easy thing; no one had ever warned me just how many dialects had arisen from the basic form) and being careful not to mention y Duwies just in case. I had passed through villages and towns in plenty, some of them large enough to make simple Pentref look like a poor little huddling of huts. After the first shock of seeing so many folk living crowded together had worn off, I had become almost blase about such things, sure that Lundinia would prove to be nothing more than a slightly bigger town.

  My initial view of the city, from the far end of a vast, grassy field, did nothing to change my mind. At that range, the bridges and the famous stone walls looked scarcely more impressive than the wooden palisade about Pentref.

  But as I came closer, the walls began to tower and tower over me till I had to tip my head back to see the top of them. For a confused moment, it seemed that the law governing the proper proportions of things had vanished, and I had shrunk to the size of a cat. Then the confusion cleared, and I realized that the walls really were that tall, and winced at the sheer cold strength of them. Had I blithely thought to trap my dear Ailanna behind that? Overwhelmed by the sudden terror of a wild thing being driven into a snare, I paused nervously by the side of the road, unable to take another step.

  This is ridiculous! Do you want to meet your brother or not?

  Or not. But I had given my word, and so . . . gritting my teeth, I forced myself forward.

  I entered Lundinia by the West Gate, a massive affair fully twenty feet thick and guarded by two stone watch-towers from which guards peered down through narrow arrow-slits of windows. I entered wonderstruck and dazed, gawking like any peasant, the sights and scents and bustle hitting me like a blow.

  I have no idea how long I stood staring like a fool, eyes dazzled by the colors, reds, blues, golds, flashing bravely in the bright sunlight from cloaks and gowns and banners, ears ringing with shouts and laughs and the squawking of chickens, nostrils filled with the scents of cinnamon and roses, horse sweat and human sweat and dung. But I was shaken from my trance by the curses of the driver of a wagonload of vegetables, telling me in no uncertain terms what he thought of idiots who blocked the road, and I set out to find the palace of the king.

  My brother.

  Westgate Street is broad and smoothly paved with cobblestones, swept reasonably clean. Faced on either side with houses of wood and plaster two and sometimes even three stories high, some of them with ground floor shop-fronts unfolding out onto the street to catch the eye and narrow the roadway, it slopes gently up into the city to the great marketplace, the true hub of Lundinia, with the nine main streets radiating from that vast open square like the spokes of a wheel.

  And here in the market I was temporarily lured aside from my mission, fascinated by the riches for sale: not just the wealth of forest and field so familiar to me, but silver and gold and gems (flash of ruby, glint of pearl), thick piles of furs blue-black or dull gold from the chill northern lands, perfumes with the memory of a hundred springtimes in them, even carved ivory and rare silks almost fine as Faerie weave—and almost as costly—from the lands that lie so many months' journeying to the east.

  And the people! In the space of perhaps twenty heartbeats, I noted broad-faced farmers in sensible brown homespun, sharp-eyed, gaily clad merchants, northerners thick-bearded as bears, dark-skinned southerners, supple and quick to laugh or curse: a true tangle of humanity. In the air clashed such a jangling of tongues (a flash of Cymraeth here and there to make me homesick) as was a confusion to the ear and a bewilderment to the mind. The wild variety of human essences beat dizzyingly against my senses till I slammed shut every psychic wall I could muster, understanding in that moment why my mother had chosen to live in solitude.

  But it was the citizens of Lundinia who disturbed me the most. Many of them would glance casually at me, then glance again, sharply, almost staring. I would read puzzlement in their eyes, then comprehension and alarm or, sometimes, what might have been amusement. And yet I had done no magic, drawn no attention to myself, and though the city folk tended towards blond or reddish hair, there were enough black-haired foreigners about for me not to be outstanding.

  Then why in the name of Power are they all staring?

  Almost, I decided to catch myself a townsman, to ask him pointblank what he found so amazing about my appearance, and if he refused, to put a truth-telling spell on him! But no, that wasn't a wise idea. It seemed that wizardry was frowned upon in these more . . . modern lands. I had discovered it the hard way during my travels, having nearly gotten myself burned at the stake by some terrified villagers for passing the time of day with someone's cat. I certainly didn't want these folk thinking their king's brother was in league with Evil!

  The amusements of the marketplace had palled. I pulled up the hood of my cloak to hide my face and put an end to staring, and set out once more upon my quest.

  The royal castle of Lundinia stands on a high, craggy hill overlooking the River Taemese. And a fine, proud, forbidding old fortress it is, all curving towers and sharp-angled walls, home to who knew how many generations of kings.

  And now home to one King Estmere.

  There is a custom at the royal court old as the castle itself of once a month allowing into the royal presence anyone, noble or peasant, who would petition the king. And I, who'd chanced to arrive on that very day, saw here the easiest way possible to meet my brother.

  Short of magic, of course.

  Getting myself admitted into the castle was no problem. I merely followed the crowd up the steep ramp, across the wide moat, past the heavy, brass-bound doors and under that alarming, spear-pointed contraption known as a portcullis, then made eye contact with a guard and willed him to let me pass into the great audience hall beyond.

  "Your sword."

  "Eh?" I turned, startled.

  "Surrender your sword." There was no emotion on the guard's weatherworn face; he had plainly been through the routine countless times before. "Look, man, you didn't expect to go into the royal presence armed, did you?"

  "Oh. No. Of course not." Reluctant though I was to part even temporarily with Ailanna's gift, I obeyed. "Be careful with it." And I put just the smallest touch of Power behind the words.

  "Heathenish-looking thing," the guard muttered, eyeing the crescent-curved hilt. But I saw how gingerly he was handling it, and I smiled to myself. While undergoing a quick, professional search for concealed weapons, I asked the man:

  "How long do you think it will take before I can speak with the king?"

  "How should I know? Don't you see the crowd ahead of you?"

  He couldn't have seen much of my face, not with my hood so far forward, but he must have belatedly responded to the uncertainty in my voice, because he added, not unkindly, "Don't worry. If you really need to see him, you'll see him. Our king may be young, God bless him, but he cares about us common folk. Just like his father, God rest him." Then, brusquely, "Hurry up, now. There's others behind you."

  The hall was vast indeed, the sharply peaked roof so high overhead its color was hidden by shadow, its timbers supported by rows of tall, slender stone columns. The furthest end of the hall, like the roof, was shadow-shrouded. In fact, the entire room was shadowy, poorly lit by window slits set high in the walls and by a profusion of torches that sputtered and swayed in the occasional breeze. The air reeked of smoke and too many not quite cleanly folk crowded in together. By peering over the heads of the throng ahead of me, glad of my height, I could just make out the shape of a tall, richly dressed young man, golden crown glinting on golden hair, though I was still too far from him to make out detail.

  Estmere, I thought, and then, of course it's Estmere, you idiot! Who else would be wearing a crown?

  I was nervous, no denying it, and dizzy from the massed emotions surrounding me, the petitioners' unconscious sendings of fear, hope, desire. I turned my mind inward, silently repeating disciplines for calm, succeeding so well that
it was a shock to realize time had passed and there was no longer anyone ahead of me.

  So I came before my brother like any other petitioner, going down on one knee as I'd seen was proper. A strong, clear young voice bade me rise, and I did, rather bemused at hearing curt Anglic turned into something more pleasant by a melodic, aristocratic accent. My hood was blinding me, and I quickly pushed it back out of my way.

  Our eyes met for the first time.

  And what a shock that was! Now I knew why the city folk had stared. For though Estmere's hair is gold, his eyes sky-blue, while mine are, as I've said, black as night, the likeness between us, feature for feature, was so strong that anyone who saw us must name us kin.

  There was a long silence during which we were both too stunned to speak. But then Estmere found his voice. My brother's first words to me were a stumbling, "I—I didn't know—I did not know my father had . . . wandered so far afield."

  "Don't blame him for that!" I felt a sudden irrational need to protect the man I had never known. "It was a full year after your royal mother's death that he met my mother, and him full of grief and lonely. . . ."

  My words trailed off. Again we stood staring at each other, awkward as two young stags come face to face in a forest. At last Estmere said, "An audience hall is a poor place for . . . kin to talk. Have you any belongings?"

  "My sword."

  "It will be brought to you."

  He signalled a little page, who took me away from the court's buzzings of excitement to rooms within the castle where I could bathe and change into fresh clothing. Princely clothing, I suppose, but truth to tell, my mind was so awhirl I couldn't have described it.

  Estmere, King Estmere. "Fy brawd," I said experimentally in Cymraeth, and then again, in Anglic, "my brother."

  Duwies, yes! My brother, no denying that.

  But. . . Estmere. Until that brief meeting in the audience hall, he had been only a name to me, hardly more real than someone in a tale. Now I had to face a living, breathing man, one about whom I knew nothing save our relationship by accident of birth. Yes, the vow had forced me to come. But was I right to upset my brother's life, and my own?