King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  But I remember no more.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A ROYAL GUEST

  It was a fine hall, the smooth stone walls all but hidden by rich rows of tapestries in muted reds, brightly lit by scores of candles in black iron holders. The style of furnishing was foreign to me, but impressive enough: massive chairs and chests carved of some dark, heavy wood. The floor was paved in dark red tile, without so much as a bunching of rushes to mar its expensive solemnity. A fine hall.

  And it stank.

  I don't mean literally. There was nothing offensive in the mingled scents of stone and candle wax and smoke. But the aura of that place, the soul of it if you will, was most oppressively stale and heavy. Sorcerous.

  I most certainly did not want to be in that hall. But there wasn't much I could do about it, not with my arms bound behind me by chains enhanced with dark spells for which I knew no counterspell, not with those grim-eyed warriors on either side.

  I tensed. There ahead of me was the one who could only be my sorcerous acquaintance, the man who'd spied on me in bird form, the man who'd sent that foul anfoniad to test or kill me. The man who, curse his soul, had captured me with one blow from his staff.

  And . . . do you know, I almost laughed at the sight of him? Without the mystery of his hooded cloak, the sorcerer looked like nothing more impressive than some bone-weary, nervous, middle-aged merchant.

  That's it! I realized. He is a merchant!

  Sorcerer he was, yes, follower of the Lefthand Path without a doubt (which, of course, made us natural enemies), but he hadn't a shred of innate Power. He was, as my mother would have said, llyfr-dwin, only a book-sorcerer, limited to what he could cull from scrolls and grimoires. And even under the circumstances I couldn't help but feel a twinge of contempt. Granted, he had a fair amount of skill, summoning a storm and an anfoniad—but only someone without a true feeling for his craft would ever have made such dangerous mistakes as letting his mind be trapped within that anfoniad.

  With a little jolt of surprise, I realized that the Sending hadn't been created from hatred or jealousy or anything else so dramatic. The man had merely been trying, like any good merchant, to sell his wares and please his patron—a patron he feared, judging by that harried face and those haunted, nervous eyes.

  Now, who was his patron? Ah, of course. The merchantlike sorcerer stood beside a great throne carved of that somber black wood. And there, without a doubt, sat his lord and master, the king of these lands: a tall, lean young man, not at all unhandsome, with strong, clean features and glossy blue-black hair and beard. He was clad in rich royal robes of dull purple, a crown of iron set with purple stones on his brow.

  And his dark eyes were those of a predator.

  More about him I couldn't say just then; this king was certainly no sorcerer but, like Estmere, had learned enough to guard his inner self from a magician.

  "Who is this you've brought before me?" he asked.

  The sorcerer looked at his master in surprise. "Why, sire, this is King Estmere's own magician. Surely you—"

  "Estmere's brother? The prince called Aidan ap Nia?" "Why, yes—"

  "And you dare treat royalty in so shameless a fashion? Bringing a prince before me bound like a common criminal— Release him at once!"

  The uneasy sorcerer hurried to obey. As the magic-enhanced chains fell away from me (I refused to give the man the satisfaction of rubbing my sore arms), I heard the king say to me, "You must forgive my servant's boorishness, Prince Aidan."

  "Of course." I wasn't quite as at home with the language as I had fancied back in Estmere's court, but at least I could understand it. "But I fear you have the advantage over me. You would seem to know my name, my title, but I have not . . . do not know yours."

  "I am Bremor, King of Telesse, ruler of these lands onto which you have strayed."

  "Believe me, King Bremor, it was never my . . ." Intent? No. Ah, I had it! "My intention to trespass. I—"

  "No, no, Prince Aidan. No need for apologies." Was that mockery glinting in the hard eyes? As I wondered, he continued blandly, "In the past, our two kingdoms were often . . . less than friendly. But these are days of peace. Pray accept my hospitality."

  It was not a request. I dipped my head in wary acknowledgement, but said nothing.

  "But now, Prince Aidan, you must be weary from your unfortunately rough handling."

  That was true enough, but I was hardly about to admit any weaknesses to him. He signalled to a servant, who took me from that hall. I glanced back just in time to see Bremor give a slow, secret, cruel smile.

  The rooms I was assigned were spacious, almost elegant, though I was growing heartily sick of those depressing, seemingly inevitable dark wood furnishings. The clothing I was given was of fine quality, well befitting royalty. The servants were all efficient and quietly polite.

  And, Bremor's fair words to the contrary, I didn't doubt for a moment that I was meant to be a prisoner. That wasn't quite an alarming thought; a magician, as I've said before, is a difficult captive to keep, enemy magics or no. It was the sorcerous reek of the place that truly disturbed me, weighing down my mind.

  There came a discreet cough. I turned a bit too sharply and found myself face to face with one of the servants, a dark-faced, aging man. We both recoiled, he startled, I in shock.

  For ah, the dull despair I read in his eyes! Not even the lowliest of kitchen drudges in Estmere's castle, not even my little unwashed pot hoy, bore such hopelessness as was in that man's heart. I turned to the other servants, magically alert now, and was sickened to feel the same death-in-life in them, as well.

  Sorcery.

  Not directly worked against common servants, of course not. But the residue, the unavoidable psychic miasma of Power misused, has a way of stealing into magickless, defenseless folk such as these, chilling their souls as surely as ever the mists from the fen chill men's bones.

  But this was impossible! That merchant of a sorcerer could never have created such a backwash of Power.

  "Your Highness?" one of the servants asked me uneasily.

  "Your master," I said sharply. "Take me to him."

  Enough was enough. One way or another, I meant to find out what King Bremor of Telesse was hiding behind his smiles.

  King Bremor, sleek and elegant in his regal purple, was relaxing in a small, roofed courtyard, a pleasant place of bright mosaics and the splashing of fountains. But to my eyes, the sunlight flooding down from the high, narrow windows was dull and muted, almost like light seen through mist, and I wondered at it, uneasy.

  Bremor glanced up as I entered and gave me a charming smile that might or might not have been genuine. At this close range I could see he was even younger than I had first thought, perhaps Estmere's age or my own. His eyes, as I had noted, were the hard eyes of the naturally cruel, but there was as well an . . . oldness to them that had nothing to do with mere physical dissipation.

  "Ah, Prince Aidan. Have you recovered from your ordeal?"

  "Och, quite. King Bremor, am I your prisoner?"

  He did a very pretty imitation of surprise. "Now why should you think that? You are said to be a magician. Surely no one can hold a magician prisoner."

  "You evade my question very nicely."

  "Come, have I offered you any threat? Done you any harm? No! I have offered you nothing but hospitality." He smiled blandly. "It is true, then, that you are a magician?"

  I was trying my best to read the truth behind those odd, cold, weary eyes. But he, as though guessing my purpose, just would not meet my gaze squarely. So I answered flatly, "I have never denied it."

  "Ah. Like Ybarre."

  "Your sorcerer?" Did he mean it for the insult it was? "No. Not exactly."

  "No," he agreed with smooth, subtle mockery. "So Ybarre has advised me."

  I sighed. "King Bremor, I am no skilled fencer with words. Why was I brought here?"

  Bremor smiled. Curse him, I thought, he's playing a game with me. There's something a
bout him he wants me to discover. But what?

  Then my eye was caught by the pendant he wore, a flat golden medallion on a thin golden chain. And as suddenly as that, I knew the truth.

  "Gallu nef." There was no way to hide the disgust in my voice. "And I thought that Ybarre was the only worshiper."

  "Ah?"

  "I should have realized. The darkness that . . ." I was frantically hunting for words, "that smothers this castle could only be caused by the corruption of its king."

  "So-o!" Bremor raised an eyebrow. "I can see tact isn't one of your weaknesses."

  As he spoke, his hand caressed the medallion, turning it to reveal the reverse. He could have spared himself the trouble: I already knew what must be there. Roughly engraved on the soft gold by Bremor's own hand, was a pentagram, that Powerful five-pointed star. But this wasn't the ancient symbol of Light, which is always drawn with point upward. This was that debased variant, point downward, which was so often flaunted by those who, for whatever obscene reason, worship Evil.

  "But why?" I asked. "I can see Ybarre, that fool of a llyfr-dewin, being so desperate for Gallu, for Power, he might be snared. But you're a king! Why should you need such"—there was no way around the word—"Evil?"

  Bremor looked at me as though I were mad. "For power, of course."

  It took me a moment to realize he meant politics, not magic; in this language the word had no arcane connotation.

  "Power," I repeated, and Bremor gave a short, humorless laugh.

  "You don't understand, do you? Telesse is at the heart of it." He paused. "What, still no comprehension?" A hint of iron edged the suave, smooth voice. "You see, Telesse was once a mighty land, ruling over a true golden age—but you would surely know that."

  I didn't, but I wasn't about to display my ignorance. Bremor must have taken my silence for passive agreement, rather than the battle to follow the language it really was, for he smiled thinly and continued, "Unfortunately, years of peace and plenty soften a people, bring stagnation to a land."

  "Meaning?"

  His eyes blazed. "Meaning I will not see this, my Telesse, decline into a land of peasants drowsing in the sun!"

  How theatrical, I thought drily. Is this your personal

  style, or are all your people so florid? But that was hardly the sort of thing I could ask him. When I didn't respond, Bremor continued, urbane once more:

  "Unfortunately, no king can act without his people's support."

  "Neither well nor for very long," I agreed, a little pleased at myself for managing even a slight quip in a foreign tongue, and received a sharp flash of those hard eyes.

  "Clever. But alas, Prince Aidan, my people do tend to be"—he shrugged at the cliche—"sheep. Sheep content with their own little lots, unwilling to see the need to rouse themselves for their country. To die if need be."

  He was throwing words at me too quickly for a mind still attuned to Anglic. And that overblown style wasn't helping. Not quite sure what Bremor actually meant, I asked carefully, "Are your borders so insecure?"

  Is that it? I wondered. If a king loved his land enough, if that land lay in too much peril, he might grab whatever strength he could to guard it, just as Lalathanai did for grief of her son. . . .

  "My neighbors' borders are insecure!" Bremor snapped, putting a sharp end to my theory. "Or they will be when I force my people to see the truth: Telesse must regain its greatness. And the only way it can do so is by force of arms!"

  Patriotism, I thought. Warped, perverted and cruel, but patriotism just the same. But och, I was growing weary of his melodrama! "Why tell such things to the brawd—the brother of a rival king?"

  "Don't look so worried! I'm not about to threaten your brother's peace."

  Yet, I thought.

  "No," he continued blithely, "there are far more promising lands to the south."

  Which, of course, translated into: there are less well-guarded lands to the south. I wasn't all that confused by the language.

  "Prince Aidan, if Telesse is ever to be restored, I must shake my people from their complacency. You don't know these folk; I do. They are the sort who can only be impressed by a display of strength. Strength beyond the merely human. My father was a strong enough ruler, but he couldn't rouse them, not even with that guerra against Lorcana."

  Guerra? The word meant nothing to me. I had no idea what Bremor's father had brought against Lorcana, or who or what Lorcana was, but as I struggled to keep up, I thought that maybe the man hadn't wanted to rouse his people. Not everyone sees peace as stagnation. Or conquest as patriotism. "So you turned to Evil for that strength."

  Bremor frowned impatiently. " 'Evil' is a relative word. Let us merely say I've found the Patrons I need, who will more than grant me the strength I must have."

  Patrons? Now that I understood only too well. He meant cythrauliad, of course, demons. And most surely stronger entities than that which had destroyed Lalathanai. Of course. Such impossibly alien, impossibly cruel beings would have delighted in answering Bremor's call. How much more satisfying for them than the possessing of one poor madwoman's mind! How satisfying to turn a king's dreams to waking nightmare!

  And he's proud of himself! He doesn't even realize— "Bremor," I said, knowing even as I spoke that I couldn't sway him, knowing I still had to try, "Bremor, no. Don't do this thing." The flash of contempt in his eyes made me continue impatiently, "I am not talking about politics! I'm a magician, it is my . . . my profession. I know what your patrons are like, and I know what will happen to you and your land."

  "What, visions of Heaven and Hell?" he cut in. "That's what the priests foretold. Before I banished them."

  Silently cursing the barrier the unfamiliar language kept throwing in my path, I struggled on: "You see yourself becoming ysblennydd—" No, damnio, that wasn't right! "—a figure of . . . of dark splendor, yes? Of course you do. The old tales all make Evil sound so dramatic, so romantic. But . . ." Och, would it translate? "The Left-hand Path isn't like that. There will not . . . won't be any splendor for you. Not once you are safely snared and your Patrons can drop pretense. They will eat at you, leach all hope, all will, all joy of life right out of you."

  "Indeed."

  "I've seen it happen!"

  "Of course you nave."

  "Look you, do you want proof? Think of the place where I was caught, that terrible, empty forest." By now I didn't care whether my words or grammar were correct: he must hear me out. "You will be that forest, Bremor, alive but empty. You and your land both, for in magic the kingdom and the king are one. Is death-in-life what you truly want for Telesse?"

  Cynical amusement had never left Bremor's face. "Finished?" he asked so politely it was an insult. "That 'empty' forest, as you so emotionally call it, was caused by one of Ybarre's experiments, no more than that."

  "Is that what he told you? And you believed him?"

  His eyes said plainly, Sooner than I would believe you.

  "If you think I am lying, Bremor, just look at your servants! Look into their eyes and even a . . ." damnio, what was the word? ". . . a nonadept like yourself should see what has happened to them—"

  "And that is what? Some mystic malady of the soul? Some perversion of spirit?" He smiled. "I would have been disappointed in you, Prince Aidan, if you hadn't tried to sway me with some fantastic tale. After all, I would have tried the same had I been in your place. But tales of doom never did frighten me."

  Indeed? I shrugged and continued on a different tack, very coolly, very professionally, "I must admit you have acted with surprising skill. Despite all the silly stories of . . . devil raising, not many people could have called up your Patrons. Even with a sorcerer's help. I am curious, though: what bargain did you strike with them? What will They ask in return? There is always a price—but of course you know all about that by now."

  That struck home where my more emotional warnings had not. For all his regal schooling in composure, Bremor still didn't have the control of a trained sor
cerer. For a startled moment his mask slipped, just enough for me to glimpse a bewildered and—for all the brave words— frightened man.

  "No price I cannot pay," he said, but his eyes said otherwise. "Telesse will be restored, and that is enough."

  And in that moment before Bremor could glance away, I had him. How I ached to work a spell strong enough to snare his mind! This was hardly the time to worry about ethics; anything that would get me out of this pretty prison was fine with me!

  But I didn't dare rouse Ybarre. So, instead, in this tiny instant of Bremor's lowered guard, I cast the smallest, gentlest "I mean you no harm" spell, not enough to alert his pet sorcerer looking for mightier magics, just enough to let me reach the young Bremor-who-had-been and learn who the Bremor-who-was really was . . .

  . . . the boy, so young, aching for approval from the father looming over his life like a fierce, dark god, fearing to show weakness before this deity, following him to guerra against a neighbor's lands . . .

  Guerra. War. I realized the words meant the same in two languages. And Duwies glân, what raw red ugliness that meaning held! I saw that guerra, that war through a boy's eyes, saw and heard and felt the anguish. Mine are not a weak people; when you worship y Duwies, the whole fierce, wild, wondrous force that is Creation, you cannot be weak. We defend our own. And in the past, it's true, one chieftain might raid another, stealing goods and the occasional head of someone careless enough to lose it. But we never knew war, never had a word for this foulness, this deliberate power lust, this lust for lolling, killing, killing. . . .

  "Why?" I asked the boy, and felt his joy and excitement and trust in his father . . . his father willed this thing, and therefore it must be right, this war for honor, for glory—