King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  Tairyn never flinched. "Listen to me. Come, listen. I did not abandon you. I am not omnipotent, human, nor do I pretend to hold a perfect view of the future. Had I known you would fly straight into the hands of a foe, yes, I would have done something to stop you. But I could not know. And after that, if I could have pulled you from your trap, yes, I would have done that, too. But I could not. Do you understand me? Can you?"

  If he was trying to rouse me from apathy, he was succeeding. But I didn't particularly want to he roused; it hurt too much. "Tairyn," I managed, "I am honored you've contacted me, and all courtesies like that. But I'm not at my best and—"

  "Fool."

  I blinked in surprise. "What—"

  "You heard me, human. Fool, I say, to let yourself be betrayed by yourself."

  "I don't—"

  "There are charms to bar this ridiculous self-torment from your mind. Listen. Learn."

  With that, he proceeded to teach them to me, giving me no choice but to learn, waiting with—for him— remarkable patience while I struggled to commit those sleek, cool syllables to a mind that seemed far too worn to accept them. But at last I had them whole.

  "Now use them," Tairyn ordered shortly. "You should be able to unlock their Power even in this sorry state."

  I did. And of course the charms worked. As each was completed, I felt the inner darkness fall away more and more as a cool, wonderful peace settled about me.

  And as I whispered the last spell, on the verge of sobbing like a child with relief, sanity returned in a rush. Yes, what had been done to me in Bremor's dungeons had been terrible; no, I would never truly forget. But that terrible time no longer existed. I could accept the past as past—and I would no longer let my mind keep me Bremor's slave.

  "Tairyn, I am in your debt! I—I—"

  "Enough." For an instant, I was almost sure I'd surprised something like sympathy in those opaque eyes. But then, lest I dare think he had softened in his opinion of me, Tairyn added in his usual cool voice, "Why Ailanna wishes to cleave to you is a mystery beyond my fathoming. But you would have been of little use to her dead or mind dead. Farewell."

  With that, he broke the mind link and vanished, and I let myself fall into a sweet well of dreamless sleep.

  Freshly bathed, shaved (after a brief self-debate I had decided the beard acquired during my . . . recovery made me look more villainous than sorcerous), and clad in blessedly clean clothing, I climbed down from my tower, feeling like some woods thing crawling out of its winter lair, and came face to face with Estmere on the stairway, looking as raw and worn and newborn as I felt.

  For a moment we stared at each other in silence.

  "I was just coming to see if you were still alive," he began hesitantly. "I assume you were engrossed in powerful magics up there all this while. I didn't want to disturb you. But the servants who'd been delivering food to you reported that the trays were going untouched and nobody was answering their knocks. I . . . was concerned."

  "Thank you." I really must have been in a state of mental collapse; I couldn't even remember the last time I'd eaten, or heard anyone at my door. "I . . . let's just say I spent the winter exorcising demons."

  After a startled moment, Estmere realized how I meant that, and let out his breath in a long, silent sigh. "So did I," he confessed softly. "Oh Aidan, so did I."

  CHAPTER XXV

  SPRING THAW AND

  SPRING PLOTS

  The day was fine and fair, the sky unstained and richly blue as the pigment on a master artist's brush. I stood alone on the castle ramparts, cloak wrapped about me, breathing in the clean, clear air with something close to rapture, feeling like a man who has been given back his life.

  The winter, the long, terrible winter, had finally ended.

  Eh well, to be fair, it really hadn't been a terrible winter. Not for folk untroubled in their minds. The harvest had been a rich one, and the weather not unbearably cold.

  As for Bremor—ah yes, he had survived his little excursion into sorcery; "the Devil," as people say, "looks after his own." But he hadn't been able to find himself a new sorcerer. Powerful ones are, after all, hardly common, and few are as foolish or as easily snared as Ybarre. Nor had there yet been any signs of military trouble out of Telesse.

  By now I had almost managed to convince myself that my interest in him was strictly political.

  And as for Estmere and myself . . . what would you have me say? That our friendship had quickly returned to its former easy path? That in one little half-year all the fears and suspicions and mutual pain had been forgotten?

  No. Though Estmere had proven that winter he still cared about what happened to me, though he never again openly accused me and we both fiercely pretended nothing was wrong, the gray uncertainty of Clarissa's death still hung between us like a never quite banished ghost. And I . . . I still lacked the memories that might finally lay that ghost to rest. The period of mourning was nearly over now; it was time for me to face him and settle matters between us once and always. If I dared.

  But how could I hold to bitterness now? Though the wind was still chill enough to make me shiver, it had lost the edge to its bite. And there was the faintest sweetness in the air, that wonderful scent so familiar to me from my childhood, telling me tales of thawing earth and the first new stirrings of vegetable life, a scent bearing the birth of hope within it. I stood for a time lost in a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

  The most discreet of coughs brought me back to my surroundings. "Ah, Prince Aidan . . ." said a tentative voice.

  "Sir Verrin." I dipped my head a cool, polite fraction. "What are you doing up here?"

  "A servant saw you climbing this way. I took the liberty of following. Please, Prince Aidan, if you would be good enough to spare me some of your time, I needs must speak with you. In private."

  That surprised me. Sir Verrin, the king's seneschal, a solid, busy little man of definite abilities and scant humor, and if I haven't mentioned him much, it's for a very good reason: I don't like the man. That, in turn, is for an equally good reason: he dislikes (in a more flighty fellow I would have said fears) any hint of magic. And so, perforce, he dislikes me.

  At least he'd had the sense to puzzle out that I'd been praying, and been courteous enough to let me finish. I glanced about the deserted rampart, intrigued. "None can hear us up here, Sir Verrin." A mischievous whim made me add innocently, "If you would prefer I cast Sbel LHrgelwch, the Speu of Secrecy, about us . . . ?"

  He turned a bit green at the thought. "Uh . . . thank you, Prince Aidan, no. That . . . will not be necessaiy."

  "Well, then? Speak."

  He took a deep breath, a man steeling himself for an ordeal. "Actually, it isn't just myself who needs speak with you."

  "Ah?"

  "No. But I—we—" Verrin shook his head. "Pray forgive me. What I mean to say is that we had no wish to intrude upon your privacy. But if it would please you to join us in the Rose Chamber?"

  The Rose Chamber is one of the smaller audience chambers, so named for the roses—Anglic emblems of privacy—painted on the ceiling. "First name this 'us.' "

  "None to harm you or betray his majesty, my word on it. Please, Prince Aidan . . ."

  Well now, perhaps it was foolish of me, but by now my curiosity was well and thoroughly roused. I followed the bustling little man down into the Rose Chamber—and stopped short. If this wasn't the entire flock of Estmere's advisors—that well-padded lot of velvet and fur—it was a goodly sampling. They stood as I entered, bowing with polite, unnerving precision. There wasn't a one of them who was less than a decade my senior, which was also a touch unnerving.

  "Gentles," I said warily. "I hardly expected to see you gathered here. I thought you would be with my brother."

  "No need, Prince Aidan," I was solemnly assured by Sir Randal, the very image of the somber graybeard. "As you know, your royal brother meets with the ambassador from King Wencin, and he did not wish us all there to . . . ah . . . '
unnerve the man.' "

  That sounded like Estmere, indeed. "So instead you conspire here."

  "No, no," Verrin cut in hastily. "We do nothing here to harm the king, I have already given you my word of that!"

  They very obviously weren't going to tell me any more until I sat down in conference with them. "Och fi," I muttered under my breath, and then, to all of them, "Before we go any further, gentles, pretty painted roses on the ceiling are all well and good, but I am going to cast Sbel LHrgelwch, The Spell of Secrecy in here. Don't give me that fearful look, Sir Verrin! I am not having someone think I'm conspiring against my brother."

  Sbel LHrgelwch is one of those quiet spells that require nothing more from the magician than a certain amount of will and the properly twisting, hopefully graceful, gestures of hand and arm. Basically it isn't so much a forceful changing of anything but rather a simple entreaty to the air and walls and whatever else surrounds the magician to let none of his words pass beyond their boundary. Indeed, the less forceful the entreaty, the more likely it is to succeed. There really isn't anything for a non-magician to see, but I admit to adding a few melodramatic sparkles and gleams, just to keep these folk a bit off balance.

  The spell slid smoothly into completion. I felt the air suddenly soften all around the edges of the room, absorbing all sound so none would escape. I sank into a chair to hide the fact that I was out of breath (even such simple spells aren't effortless) and waved the wary advisors all to sit. "Now, gentles, what would you?"

  They glanced uncertainty at each other. Then Sir Verrin, the sacrificial goat, began: "Prince Aidan, the king your brother has been a widower now for a full half-year."

  "I'm well aware of that."

  "Of course." Verrin hurried boldly forward. "Surely you see the need for him to wed again."

  I groaned. "Not you, too!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Look you, all of you, I wasn't up on the ramparts merely to take the air; I was escaping people." I glanced about the room. "What, still no comprehension? I have already, within the past few days—within the past few hours—been approached by almost everyone at court! Each one of them has been transparently seeking to win my favor, because each of them, just as transparently, sees in me a shortcut to the royal ear—even as you do, gentles!"

  "You misunderstand us," Sir Randal said.

  "Do I, now? Do you mean to say none of you here is hoping for advancement? None of you here has his own candidate for queen? Ha, no, you can't swear that, can you!"

  "But . . ." Verrin began warily. "Surely you see—"

  "Sir Verrin, I am very well aware a king must have a queen. An heir. But what I can't see is the point of all this sudden rushing about. It's only been six months since my brother's wife died!"

  Several advisors crossed themselves at that, several voices murmured, almost as though they'd rehearsed it, "God rest her."

  "Indeed," I agreed. "But it doesn't look as though you are willing to let her rest."

  Sir Randal sighed. "Prince Aidan, much as we all still grieve with His Majesty, the hard truth is that the period of mourning is over."

  "Barely!"

  "Ah yes, barely," he conceded. "But the fact remains, it is over, and we must think now of the future."

  "Ah, wait. Don't tell me. You have a daughter, or some nice little niece or cousin you'd like to see advanced."

  He gave me the look usually reserved for a parent faced with a rude child. "Please understand, none of us here are thinking of personal reward."

  "Of course not."

  Randal edged his chair a bit closer, leaning towards me. For a startled moment I thought he meant to give me a fatherly pat on the knee. But, just as surprisingly, he murmured, "I understand how you must feel, a powerful mage, a hero who's fought the Supreme Evil—"

  "The Supreme—don't tell me you believe that ridiculous tale!" As I glanced around the room, I felt reality turn to mist. "You eh, you all do!" I never would understand these folk, not if I stayed here till the stars ran cold! They could talk most rationally about the most mundane things and then suddenly turn around and believe something too fantastic for even the youngest Cymraen child!

  "No need for modesty," Sir Randal said, and the others all somberly agreed.

  "But I didn't—I never—look you, I'm not someone out of a—a wonder tale!" That wasn't getting to them at all. "Just how Powerful do you think I am?" I yelped. "If I'd been stupid enough to take on something as terrible as your Anglic Devfl, do you really think I would have survived?"

  Hands moved in hasty holy gestures. But obviously, they murmured, if I was here before them, I must have not only survived, but won.

  This was like wading through cobwebs! "If I was the winner, what was I doing lying sick to death for so long?"

  "You could hardly be expected to leave so terrible a battle with no wounds at alt" Sir Randal said in a sensible tone.

  "I wasn't wounded in battle, damnio, I was tortured!"

  I hadn't meant to say that; what had happened to me was none of their affair. But even that dramatic proclamation didn't shake the advisors in the slightest. All they did was make the smallest shift in the story: of course I'd been tortured; that was what their Devil did to people. That I was now here and healthy proved there'd been a battle that I'd won.

  Looking at all those totally sane, totally rational faces, I couldn't find a single sensible thing to say. "I give up. I just give up. Go on, Sir Randal. What were you saying before all this?"

  "Simply that it must be difficult for you to leave the realm of great and terrible magic for the world of simple men."

  "More difficult than I'd ever expected."

  The sarcasm went right by all of them.

  "Prince Aidan," Verrin said earnestly, "surely you must see that the sooner our good ruler weds and produces an heir, the sooner the royal line is safe. Why, if something should happen to the king today—which, of course, Heaven forbid!" He crossed himself hastily, and the others followed. "But if something were to happen, and he quite childless, there would be no one to take the throne except—"

  He stopped aghast at what he'd almost said. Grinning, I finished for him, "Except the bastard son of a wild witch-woman. A hero, maybe, a great and terrible mage, but a bastard nonetheless. Most unsuitable."

  The others murmured in disapproval, and Verrin all but squirmed in embarrassment. "Oh, Prince Aidan, I assure you, I didn't mean—"

  "Oh, Sir Verrin, you did." My grin faded as I held him, as I held them all, transfixed by the force of my stare. "My thoughts about the throne have never been a secret. You know as well as I that I have not the slightest desire for the chains of kingship. You do know that, don't you? All of you?"

  "Yes." It was a strangled gasp from Verrin. The others slowly nodded.

  "So. Thank you."

  As Verrin's glance squirmed away from mine, Sir Randal asked me quietly, "You agree, then?"

  By this point I could hardly remember what we'd originally been discussing. "That Estmere must remarry?" I waved a helpless hand. "That's the way it's done in these . . . civilized lands. But what has this to do with me? It's your job to find a suitable bride, your job to make all those complicated arrangements you people seem to find necessary."

  "We have tried, Prince Aidan. I have tried. Believe me, I have tried." Verrin's voice quivered with frustration. "But there are problems."

  "And you're about to list every one of them, aren't you?"

  He blinked. And proceeded. "Primus: There are no unmarried women of childbearing years in the direct royal line."

  "True." Not that any noble would ever admit such a common comparison, but too many marriages of close kin had undoubtedly weakened the stock, just as is true in the breeding of animals. Poor, fragile Clarissa had been proof enough of that. "An unfertile lot, our royal folk!"

  A few of the more sensitive advisors stirred at this unseemly jest, but Verrin ignored it, continuing doggedly, "Secundus: There are few enough available lache
s of proper rank within the kingdom."

  "Och fi, we wouldn't want him contaminated by a woman not of proper rank, would we?"

  "Prince Aidan . . ."

  "Yes. I'm sorry. I won't interrupt again, I promise."

  He gave me a doubtful glance, but continued, "And tertius: Though a political alliance with some neighboring land would be the best thing for king and country . . ."

  "Yes?" I stirred impatiently. "Come, out with it!"

  Verrin reddened, glancing nervously about the room. "Tertius," he mumbled hurriedly, so softly I almost couldn't hear him, "your royal brother refuses to let me send out the proper inquiries, either within or without the kingdom."

  "So-o! Continue, do!"

  "He . . . absolutely refuses to even consider the question of remarriage, and . . . threatened to have my head if I ever mentioned it to him again."

  Poor Verrin. I burst out laughing, I couldn't help it. "And so"You are forced to come to me, the . . . ah, what was it you called me once? The 'dark sorcerer-prince,' was it?"

  "Your Highness, I never—"

  "Pw, man, don't perjure yourself."

  He took a deep breath. "Please, Prince Aidan. For the sake of the kingdom, won't you—"

  "Help you on the executioner's block?"

  But even with my sarcasm, I was wondering, half in despair, Why oh why do these people have to be so very sincere?

  Yes, they were ambitious; yes, they'd all probably said or done some questionable things during their years in royal service. But when it came to their love for and worry about their land, every one of them was most disarmingly honest.

  You win, Randal. Maybe I'm not the spectacular hero you seem to think me, but my destiny does seem determined to dump me into this most mundane of situations.

  Ah, well, not quite mundane. Not to Estmere. We were talking about his life, his future, after all. . . .