King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  It was on these troubled thoughts that Estmere entered. Alone. Which wasn't quite as trusting as it sounds: I was still weaponless, and of course guards were right outside the chamber door. I hesitated, uncertain, then started to bow. Estmere waved that off.

  "There's no need, ah . . ."

  "Aidan," I supplied. "Aidan ap Nia."

  "Aidan ap Nia. Why have you come here, Aidan ap Nia?"

  I couldn't, by the wording of the vow I'd sworn, tell him about that vow. "I wanted to see what you looked like," I said, which was, when I thought about it, quite true.

  He gave an involuntary little laugh. "So! I trust you approve of what you see?"

  "Yes." It wasn't empty flattery, because I was looking at him with magician's eyes, and my gaze was going beyond the physical. "I see a young man as honest and just as is wise for him to be." The rest came tumbling forth without conscious thought; a magician engrossed in true-sight can't always control his words. "Ahh, and I see the strain . . . the strain of never daring to trust . . . hiding honesty for diplomacy's sake . . . keeping to justice and never, never yielding to the endless seduction of power."

  He certainly hadn't expected such an answer. For perhaps two heartbeats' time Estmere was too surprised to hide his emotions. I read loneliness there like a quick cry of pain—how very alone he was!—and a weariness of spirit that didn't belong in so young a man. Shaken by sudden fierce pity, I almost said that aloud, too. But Estmere had turned away. "You speak strangely, Aidan."

  Didn't I know it! "I'm unfamiliar with court speech," I hedged. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  "No offence taken." He shot me a wary little sideways glance. "Are you always so . . . blunt?"

  "I fear so! You see, I grew up in Cymra, and the—Folk I know there just—do not lie."

  "And now that you've satisfied your curiosity about me, what will you do?"

  What, indeed? I stared at him blankly. "Frankly, I'd made no plans beyond this point."

  "I see." Estmere studied me, eyes guarded, and this time I could read nothing of his emotions. "Well, Aidan ap Nia of Cymra," he said suddenly, "it would be a novelty to have someone at this court who just—does not lie." It was an excellent imitation of my voice, Cymraeth accent and all. "Will you stay?"

  Was that kindly meant? Or did he simply want to keep this unexpected and potentially perilous relative safety under his eye? "If you will it," I answered cautiously, "I'll stay, ah—I fear I don't know what to call you."

  The boyish flash of his grin surprised me. "Look in your mirror, man. Call me 'brother,' of course!"

  CHAPTER VI

  BROTHERS

  What can I say of my entrance into the court of His Most Gracious Majesty, King Estmere II? Of course my mother had taught me manners, and the Faerie Folk, under Tairyn's stern eye, something of their elegant graces, but this . . .

  First, understand that the palace was a separate small city in itself, housing not only the king and his advisors, servants, and the like, but the various smiths, weavers, bakers—in short, the whole population of Pentref could have fit amid the maze of walls and outbuildings. Despite the crowding, I think I would have been much happier down there with the common folk, even if few of them spoke Cymraeth. At least I would have understood how their minds worked!

  Instead, Estmere swept me through a dizzying crowd of nobles, introducing me hastily to this lord or this lady (almost as if he still wasn't quite sure what to do with me), all of them splendid in their fur-trimmed gowns and cloaks and tunics glinting with gems—all of them fairly blazing with curiosity about me.

  Not that they had a chance to satisfy that curiosity. No sooner was I being greeted by Sir Verrin, Estmere's seneschal, a pompous, efficient little man with a smile that didn't include his wary eyes, than I was coming face-to-face with such courtiers as Baron Aldingar, a fine, elegant, auburn-haired fellow with the feel of a ferret to him, or with the whole covey of royal advisors, shrewd, well-settled noblemen, not one of them young (indeed most of them looked old enough to have served Estmere's—and my—father) all of them quite polite to me with proper, surface courtesy. The impact of so many very human, very unmagical minds against mine, particularly when I was so used to the totally magical, quicksilver wits of Faerie, was enough to leave me dazed.

  And what a tight little artificial world was in that palace! Convention would not allow for anyone of noble blood to actually do anything, not even take up a craft. That left too many noble folk with too little for them to do. Save pick at each other and play with elaborate rules of order.

  Still, I told myself, a magician was supposed to welcome any form of knowledge. At least I was gradually getting the trick of inuring myself a bit to being surrounded by so many emotions of so many ever-present courtiers.

  So I endured, though my mind winced from the sheer triviality; I learned what there was to be learned: the proper style of dress and address (y Duwies help the poor soul who dared wear ermine when his rank entitled him only to vair, or who called a male bird of prey a falcon, not a tercel!), the ways to deal with noble and favor seeker, saying much and promising nothing.

  It was a learning more tiring than any sworaplay or magic. And, och, it suffered so much by comparison to the cool, clean elegance of the Faerie Folk! There were times when I would have welcomed even Tairyn at his sardonic, perilous worst.

  And what of the court's reaction to me? I've already mentioned that initial burst of curiosity. As the saying goes, I was a "seven-day wonder," with everyone staring at the king's mysterious half-brother, whispering behind my back (not always complimentary things, either; these people of the newer ways have some very uncharitable names for the son of an unwed mother), and waiting for me to do something extraordinary. But when I neither overthrew my brother nor grew fur and fangs when the moon was full—I hadn't the slightest intention of revealing a hint of magic, see you!—and when I, with my unfashionable Cymraen ways and accent, proved most shockingly innocent of court intrigues (deliberately innocent, I need not say), they lost all interest in me.

  "A peasant," I heard one nobleman whisper condemningly. "Royal blood or no, he's nothing but a peasant."

  So be it, fool, I thought. At least that keeps me out of your silly status games.

  And I? I was bored. And very, very lonely: hiraeth, we call it in my land, that wistful, bittersweet, painful longing that is so much more than the simple Anglic word "homesick." Grief for my mother had died to a dull ache by now, but—Duwies, how I hungered for the sound of Cymraeth, for the feel of clean, spicy woodland air about me once more. And Ailanna . . . my longing for Ailanna was sharp and fierce as flame.

  They had no true idea of privacy at Estmere's court. But when I, half-mad with the need for solitude, had begged the favor of chambers in an isolated tower top, my brother had ceded them to me without a moment's pause. It was, I realize now, done as much out of caution as kindness; he must surely have been thinking that, stuck up there, I could work no plots against the throne.

  I didn't much care. Sitting in my tower's window one night (since the window was high enough to be out of bowshot, it was agreeably wide), listening to the small winds bring me tales of my homeland, I was aching with hiraeth.

  What did I know about Estmere? Really know? Other than that he made a fine, handsome picture of a king who took his royal job very seriously. Pw! Any courtier with an eye in his head could have told me that much.

  I looked moodily out over the night-dark city, then gradually let myself slip into trance, just as I'd done every night when I'd felt myself safe enough. Magicians have, of course, their means of seeing and speaking from afar. Almost at once I felt Ailanna's mind brush mine, and laughed for joy. We made our usual happy, frenzied greetings, aching to hold each other in the flesh. And then my love asked the same question she'd asked ever since I'd entered the palace:

  "Have you befriended your brother yet?"

  "You make it sound so simple! I've tried—no, I'll be more honest, I don't know how to
try! Ailanna, love, I've spent too much time in Cymra. I don't even know how these folk think."

  "Nonsense. If you can understand my people—"

  "As much as they'll allow."

  "Well yes," she admitted wryly, "there is that. But you're among humankind now, your own kind. They must be simpler to understand! Surely your brother—"

  "Surely my brother has no need of me! Ha, he doesn't just have no need of me, he out-and-out avoids me!"

  "But the vow—"

  "The vow, the vow!" I snapped, nearly shaking myself out of trance. "My poor mother was wrong, Ailanna. Estmere doesn't need me at all. We might chance to be brothers, but y Duwies glân knows we're as remote as any strangers."

  In my innocence, it never occurred to me that Estmere might have his reasons for keeping things like that.

  "That's it, Ailanna," I decided. "I've been apart from you for far too long for nothing. Good night, love."

  "Wait! Where are you going?"

  "Why, to find the king, offer him my farewells, and end this ridiculous exile!"

  "I don't think it will be so easy," she murmured.

  But I was already shaking myself out of trance. Blinking groggily as mind and body reunited, I got to my feet, stretching stiff muscles, and left my chambers.

  Now, I had flatly refused the normal thing of allowing servants to share my quarters: sleeping at the foot of my bed, fussing over me, prying into my every move. Estmere already thought me eccentric; let him accept this as just one more bit of proof. But of course I wasn't completely free of attendants; I had been watched and followed from the moment I'd first entered the palace. As soon as I opened the door (thanking y Duwies my chambers had a door; not all castle rooms did), the little cluster of servants waiting outside roused themselves from what looked like a hot game of dice, springing to their feet in a fluny of nervous motion, frantically smoothing red and gold royal livery, hastily bowing.

  "My . . . ah . . . lord?" No one at court had quite decided what my proper title should be. "Is there aught we can do for you?"

  "No. Go back to your game. Let me pass."

  They continued to block my path, very obsequious, very determined. "Ah, no, my lord, we can't just let you wander about by yourself."

  "Really? Why not?"

  "Why it . . . it just isn't done. You might get yourself lost or something."

  I snorted. "I might spy on my brother, you mean. Look you, I mean him no harm. Stay here."

  "But—"

  My nerves were beginning to tighten. "Will you leave me alone?"

  Wait, now. Gently. Faerie spells, I had already discovered, worked not at all during daylight hours, their Power cancelled by mortal sunlight. But the sun had already set. And Tairyn had taught me a subtle, harmless charm, smoother and more effective than any human magic. I had made use of it more than once back in Cymra, finding it the quickest, kindest way to soothe an injured patient.

  "Listen," I told the servants, and softly recited the elegant, twisting words, putting the proper touch of will behind them. One by one, the men blinked and yawned, sliding down into sleep. I smiled.

  Thank you, Tairyn. Not that you would appreciate my thanks.

  I slipped past the softly snoring servants and set out to find my brother. But as I passed the doorway to a small, tranquil cloister, I was stopped and held by a lovely, silvery waterfall of music. A figure was seated alone there in the semidarkness, bent over a small harp. A court minstrel? A singularly fine one, then; only a true poet could create beauty to so touch the heart.

  It was Estmere. Estmere for once, amazingly, free of servants and courtiers. Estmere letting his harp say for him what he could not, singing of gentleness and poetry and love. The music he coaxed from that small harp nearly made me forget the hard reality of the castle around us and see only the play of leaves beneath a radiant Cymraen moon.

  Almost without willing it, I moved to his side, silently, not wanting to break the thread of his music. I recognized the song he played, an old, old ballad of a country lass loved by an elven knight, a Cymraen ballad originally. Softly I sang the words as they should be sung: in Cymraeth. Estmere didn't look up, but a small smile formed on his hps. We finished that ballad, went on to others, not wanting to shatter the spell the music was casting, but at last Estmere laid down his harp, wriggling stiff fingers.

  "How did you elude the servants?"

  I waved that aside impatiently. "I did."

  He raised a bemused brow, but added only, "You have a passing fine voice, Aidan."

  It was said so lightly I knew he must be embarrassed at having been caught revealing so much of his inner self. I wasn't. I couldn't joke about the beauty we had just created. "Estmere, your music is fflam a golau—och, no, I mean flame and moonlight, near as fine as Faerie harpings."

  Come now."

  "Yes! Why, some nights I've heard . . ."

  But here I stopped. Tairyn had made it quite clear that his Folk didn't care to be discussed by humans, even by such humans as I.

  "You've heard what?" Estmere prompted, amused, plainly determined to keep the tone light. "The Fair Folk singing, perhaps?"

  "I have." The words slipped out before I could stop them, and my brother grinned.

  "Why, Aidan. I thought you never lied."

  "I don't."

  His grin broadened. "The start of a jest, then, and here I've spoiled it for you. You might actually have had me believing that . . . that. . . . You weren't jesting, were you?"

  "No."

  "But . . ." He shook his head, eyes soft with wonder. "Tales do say the Folk linger in Cymra. And . . . is their music as fair as those tales would have it?"

  I floundered for words, and Estmere gave a small, almost wistful laugh. "As fair as that, eh? I think I should dearly love to hear it." But then, just like that, the wistfulness was hidden, and he added shortly, "I doubt I ever shall. Is it a Faerie sword, that strange, crescent-hilted blade of yours?"

  "Ah . . . yes. It is."

  He was too well-schooled in regal tact to ask the obvious—how comes a human by such a blade?—contenting himself with, "Tell me, are all your Cymraen folk so unusual?"

  I had to laugh. "No—yes—I don't know! How can I speak for anyone but myself?"

  "How, indeed?" But Estmere wasn't smiling. After a moment he said, "I've been avoiding you. Were you aware of that?"

  "How could I not be aware?"

  "Do you know why?"

  "I . . . well, I thought you might be ashamed of me, your . . . uncouth and illegitimate kin."

  "Oh no, never that! Do you really think me so shallow-minded?"

  "I hardly know what to think of you," I reminded him, and he acknowledged the point with a wave of his hand. "Let me be frank, Aidan. I was afraid of you."

  "Afraid!"

  "Not for myself. For my country." "I don't understand."

  "My—our—father was a very able ruler, as you must have learned by now, and the land prospered under his reign." He stopped at my blank look, and frowned. "You know nothing of the kingdom's history, do you?"

  "Nothing, I admit it."

  "So. Our great-grandfather had two sons. Only one of them was legitimate. But the other son was an ambitious man. Very ambitious. You must surely be aware that there are always noble factions, sometimes powerful ones, discontent with the policies of any king. The ambitious brother wooed these factions to him. And that, of course, could only lead to one thing: a brief but violent civil war."

  War? The Anglic word had no parallel in Cymraeth. I guessed from the context that Estmere meant combat, but combat on a far larger scale than the raids and counterraids we knew in Cymra. Odd. Why would princes want to involve so many outside folk in their personal conflict? Where was the honor in that?

  Estmere was studying me warily. "You do understand what I'm saying, don't you?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean by war, but pray go on."

  He probably took it only as a linguistic lapse on my part. Estmere's gaz
e never left my face as he continued, "When the fighting was done, the would-be usurper was dead. But so were scores of innocent folk caught up in the struggle. The land was nearly laid to waste, and almost destroyed by those . . . allies on our borders who saw a good chance to increase their holdings in that time of their strength and our weakness."

  Kill scores of innocent folk? Lay the land to waste? Suddenly very much aware of how foreign a realm this was, I grabbed at the only sense I could make out of all this: "Obviously they didn't succeed."

  "No. But hatred takes a long time to die. And prosperity and peace returned only very slowly to this kingdom."

  "I think I'm getting the point of your story. Our father kept the nation happy and secure. And now you are king."

  "I am king. And I will defend my people no matter what the cost."

  "Hey now, you don't have to sound so pompous with

  me!"

  Unexpectedly, he laughed. "No. From what I've heard, you are the least pompous person at court."

  "And did you really think history was about to repeat itself?"

  "Why not?" There was a sudden chilling hint of iron in his voice. "Stranger things have happened." But after the briefest pause, Estmere sighed. "What would you? I find it very difficult to believe that your—what shall I call it?—your unique honesty is genuine."

  "Och, but—"

  "Wait. From the first moment I saw you, I couldn't believe you didn't want something from me." He eyed me speculatively. "My throne, perhaps."

  "Gallu, no! You can't think that."

  "I don't know what to think. You seem likeable. And the good Lord knows I wouldn't object to having a brother I can trust at my right hand—No. Don't interrupt." It was a suddenly regal tone. "You may stay here at court if that's your wish. I'll not show less courtesy to kin than I would to some foreign ambassador. But . . . what more do you want? We created some lovely music just now, and for that interval, I thank you. But don't expect me to rush blithely into your brotherly embrace. I can't be that trusting. I can't afford to be."