Though she looked nothing at all like Ailanna (and, therefore, lacked just a tiny bit to my biased eyes), there was no denying that the Princess Rosamonde was lovely. Tall and slim and, yes, sweetly formed as a woman out of Faerie, with long, thick plaits of richly honey-dark hair falling past her waist and nothing of Clarissa's too-inbred delicacy about her. Rosamonde's face was strong rather than pretty, saved from severity only by the smooth curve of cheek and the hint of humor in lips and eyes. Those eyes were the deepest blue I had ever seen in a human, and bright with intelligence. I could picture her at Estmere's side, I could!
Don't be naive! I snapped. You don't know anything about who she truly is.
Here was a tricky little moral dilemma: I had to learn something of who and what Rosamonde was—the true, inner Rosamonde—yet I could hardly pry into the young woman's mind or soul; that would be too akin to rape even if she never learned the violation had taken place.
So I compromised and took a less sure, less safe road by catching the gaze of those lovely eyes and letting my mind lie passively open to what might be behind them. It was not done without a qualm, believe me! Passive searching meant running the risk of being flooded with the fear and jealousy of another Clarissa, or the bitter darkness of a Bremor. . . .
But what brushed my mind was . . .
Power? Magical Power?
Magic it was, given her by some fluke of breeding or Dame Fortune, but no more than the slightest touch, not enough to truly be developed; I doubt the princess even knew she had anything more than the intuition tradition grants to women. That tiny touch of magic, though, meant no one would fool this lady! She would see through deception as easily as I, and have the wisdom to deal with it. If she sat at Estmere's side at meetings with advisors or ambassadors, what a wondrous help to him she'd be!
A little shiver of delight raced through me. For look, yes, look, the princess was more than mere cleverness, more than wit, she had what poor Clarissa had lacked—a sense of the wonder and joy that is life. And yes, yes, yes, now I felt, I knew that she and Estmere fit. They must be happy together, they must belong together—
Wait. As I drew my mind shut again, sealed my senses back within myself, I found myself wondering a bit. Such diffuse sensings as I'd just worked aren't always quite true. Had I read her rightly? Or was I so eager for a happy ending I saw only what I wanted to see?
Och fi. I would have to find a way to meet the princess and her father . . . mm, and without revealing my true identity . . . tricky . . .
My unannounced visit had been brief enough to be measured in heartbeats (magician's sight, of course, takes no longer than a magickless glance), hardly qualifying as an intrusion, but I could hardly justify spying on them at length. If I stole carefully past King Adland, I should be able to be out the door without them thinking me anything more than a sudden gust of wind.
As I tiptoed past her, I saw despair flash in Rosamonde's eyes, and paused, realizing that up to now I hadn't been aware of a word of what father and daughter had been discussing. It wasn't really my affair, I really shouldn't stay to listen.
But then Rosamonde said, "There's no chance of it. I will not marry him." And I came starkly alert.
Marry him? Marry whom? Gallu, was Rosamonde already betrothed? An Anglic betrothal was as legally binding as a marriage—had Estmere already lost his rightful wife without even meeting her?
I glanced hastily from princess to king. Preoccupied with Rosamonde as I'd been, I had barely noticed her father, save as a pleasant-looking man of middle years, graying of hair and running somewhat to fat. In that quick dismissal, I was doing Adland an injustice—but I'm racing ahead of my story. At the time, all I knew was that worry (and fear?) was blanching his face, shadowing his eyes.
"Rosamonde, don't be hasty. Oh aye, I'll grant his father was a cruel man, but a son doesn't always take after his father."
"Yes, but—"
"No, no, I'm not finished. You must admit he's young and well-formed, not at all ill-favored."
"Oh, yes!" Rosamonde spat out. "The devil wears a pleasing shape!"
"Rosamonde!"
"Father, please. You know I'm not a coy, silly little girl. I wouldn't reject a suitor just on a whim. But why do you keep harping on my accepting his suit? Are you that fond of him?"
King Adland wouldn't meet her gaze. "Ours is a very small land, my love," he said softly. "If it lay anywhere else, no one would even know it existed. Yet here is a rich and powerful king asking for your hand." He glanced at her hopefully, but the shadow of overwhelming worry loomed behind the hope. "It would be a very good match."
"A good match! You can't think the man's mad for love of me! He needs an heir, that's all."
"What's so very wrong in that?"
Rosamonde stirred uneasily. "Nothing, if that was his only motive. We both know if he captures me, he captures our land as well. How very . . . convenient."
"My dear, don't worry about such things."
"But you raised me to worry about them! You encouraged me to think for myself—"
"I know, I know. It was wrong of me to force you to be my heir—"
"What else could I be? I'm your daughter!"
"Exactly. I never should have given you a prince's education. I should have married again after your poor mother died (God rest her), I should have tried to get a son. But I . . . loved her, I couldn't . . . No. That's not the point. This is a highly valuable offer of marriage, and I'll not have you refuse it out of some childish whim."
"Father, please, please, listen to me! I told you this isn't a whim!"
"Well?"
The princess took a deep breath. "I'm not objecting because the man's a stranger. Of course I must marry, and of course my bridegroom will be a stranger. That's the way life is! I assure you, I long ago grew out of wanting to run away as a knight errant." Rosamonde glanced down at her undeniably feminine self and added with a glimmer of wry humor. "I doubt anyone would believe I was a boy, at any rate!"
"Daughter, I . . ."
"Don't give me that pitying look. I'm quite happy with who and what I am. Even if it means I must sit here and wait like a d-damned poppet— Sony," she added hastily before her father could object "I didn't mean that. But I repeat I'm not a silly little girl. My husband doesn't have to be handsome, or heroic, or even young. If he's a kind, honest man who cares for his people and . . . me . . . why, I wouldn't even object if you married me to be a heathen if he—"
"Rosamonde!"
This time it was an outright shout. The princess winced, but continued bravely, "I wouldn't object to a heathen if he followed the Light. A man doesn't have to worship in our chapels to choose Good over Evil."
I gave her a silent, heartfelt salute.
Her father, though, was clearly scandalized. But before he could manage to sputter out more than a word, Rosamonde added hastily, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shock you. I was only trying to make a point—"
"I don't see—"
"Please. Let me finish. Father, the man to whom you'd give me is worse than any heathen. I cannot and will not marry anyone who freely worships Evil. And such a man is King Bremor of Telesse!"
Bremor! In my shock, I nearly lost my hold on the invisibility illusion. But fortunately father and daughter were so distressed they didn't notice me fading in and out like some conjurer's trick.
Bremor.
Of course. Before he could risk anything as dangerous as conquest, his advisors would insist on an heir. No matter how much a cythraul-slav, a demon-thrall, he might be by now, Bremor would still be king enough to agree. Particularly when the only other choice for heir was that sensible-eyed relative I had seen in my mirror—och, no, Bremor certainly wouldn't risk his life by naming an almost certainly more popular man his successor! He would definitely want a child, an heir of his body. And naturally he'd be delighted at the thought of gaining a kingdom along with a wife.
His Patrons would be even more delighted at the war potential of that ki
ngdom just happening to border Estmere's own. . . .
So engrossed in unhappy thoughts was I that I almost failed to see King Adland pacing nervously in my direction. He had me cornered! I glanced about for a table, a tapestry, anything under or behind which I could hide—ah! Just in time I leaped silently up onto the window sill. It was so close a thing that his sleeve brushed against my leg, and I held my breath, expecting an outcry, but he never noticed.
"Daughter, daughter, that's a harsh accusation."
"It's true."
"You can't be sure of that."
"Oh, I can."
Of course you can, I agreed silently. Your touch of magic would be just enough to let you sense the bitter coldness of him.
As though she'd heard my thought, Rosamonde shuddered. "I know he didn't mean me to see it, but Bremor wears the sign of his foul pact about his neck. I'm no student of magic, but I do know the difference between a 'good' pentagram and an 'evil' one."
Adland drew back in horror. "I should have supervised your studies more closely! First heresy, now sorcery—"
"But Father, it isn't—"
"No! I'll hear no more about it! And I never should have let you be so blunt about refusing Bremor. Even his messenger was furious!"
To me, Adland's anger seemed a bit too blustery to be real. Rosamonde must have been thinking the same thing, because she corrected softly, "Not furious. Merely terrified of bearing the brunt of his master's wrath when he . . ." Her voice trailed into silence as she studied her father. "There's more to this marriage proposal, isn't there? Something's very wrong. No, don't deny it. Please, let me help."
"It's nothing." But fear glinted in the man's eyes, and after a moment he confessed, "Ah, I can't say that. My love, today I received a new message from Bremor."
Rosamonde bit her lip. "I thought as much. What did he say?"
King Adland turned sharply away. "Simply: if I didn't give you to him, he would pull down this castle and take my life."
"And that's the man you would have me marry? He sounds like a small boy hitting out because I hurt his pride!"
"I wonder."
"How can he possibly hurt us? Bremor hasn't got an heir or anyone he really trusts; that much he let slip. He can't afford to leave his throne untended long enough to mount a siege. Even if he could, our castle is built strongly enough to outlast any siege." Rosamonde laughed without humor. "Besides, whatever else he is, I doubt Bremor's a fool. He has to know we have a powerful ally to the north."
"King Estmere." Adland sighed. "I've never had cause to call on him, or his father before him, and I pray I never shall. He's an honorable young man, but even if he did send help immediately . . . Rosamonde, love, you miss one point: we might be safe behind our castle walls, but what of the commons? For all our border defenses, ours is such a little land. Before help could reach us, dear Lord preserve them, what Bremor could do to our poor people!"
Rosamonde's hand clenched as though it longed for the hilt of a sword. "If only I could do something! Take up a weapon, fight him, send him shrieking down to his d-dark master—"
She turned away with a stifled sob, staring blindly out the window. That meant of course that, though she couldn't see me (or, fortunately, have sufficient Power to sense me), we were virtually staring into each other's eyes. And och, how it hurt to see hers all bright with unshed tears!
"If I must many Bremor to save my people," Rosamonde murmured in resignation, more to herself than her father, "then I shall." But, so softly even I almost couldn't hear her, she added, "They say King Estmere is young and fair and kind of heart. Why couldn't he be the one seeking me?"
Why, indeed? Of course I couldn't speak for Estmere, of course I couldn't command his heart. But if my brother could look at her and not be captivated, then he was even less human than he thought me!
I longed to materialize then and there to tell Rosamonde that. And wouldn't that have been a foolish thing to do? Instead, I contented myself with sending a message to her with all my will:
I think that may come to pass, Rosamonde, I truly do.
She started slightly. Hoping she just might have heard me, I continued fiercely:
And this much I can promise you, come what may: Bremor shall not have you!
CHAPTER XXIX
BROTHERLY LOVE
Wind sprites, those glittery little mostly transparent beings, aren't as powerful or perilous as their high cousins the Air Elementals; they're smaller entities, more capricious than dangerous. But they can be helpful enough if the whim suits them and the magician calling to them is persuasive enough.
I was. Our return flight to Lundinia was so swift it left both me and my griffin friend gasping. Sending him once more free on his way (he was so worn from our journey, poor beast, he virtually dove back into Faerie!), I hurried down into the palace in search of Estmere.
I found my brother in his chambers, alone for once, head bent over some old scroll, hair a mass of burnished gold in the candlelight. For a long moment I hesitated to disturb him. But:
"Estmere?"
He looked up with a start. "Aidan! I'd begun to wonder if you'd abandoned us."
"Ah . . . no."
"Business finished?"
"Yes and no." This was ridiculous. I had entered full of confidence, sure he would welcome news of the lovely Rosamonde, yet now I was as uneasy as—as—
As an erring subject before his king? Ridiculous!
"Fy brawd, I have something to tell you. But frankly, I'm not sure how you're going to accept it."
He stared at me. "Good Lord, you haven't killed someone, have you?"
"No!" Enough hesitation. "Do you remember our conversation some days back about the need for you to remarry?"
His hand tightened on the scroll so fiercely I heard the old parchment crackle. "Yes." Suddenly aware of what he was doing, Estmere very carefully put the scroll down on a little table by the side of his chair. Not yet looking at me, my brother asked softly, "What would you tell me?"
A cold weight seemed to suddenly settle in my stomach. Dyri Uffern, why hadn't I realized this before? If I told him about Bremor, Estmere wouldn't accept the news on a personal level. No, no, he was a king, he could only take the idea of Bremor seizing Rosamonde as a military threat. That cruel flash of memory repeating: that war, all that ugly, pointless dying . . . It wasn't a threat, I told myself desperately, not yet, not if we acted in time. But how could I word this safely and not—
"Aidan! What would you tell me?"
Panic. "I was bride hunting for you." Damnio! That wasn't at all what I'd intended to say.
"You what?" Table and scroll went flying as he sprang to his feet—
And the next moment, the room was full of guards who'd heard the crash, their weapons at the ready. "Sire?"
"It was nothing," Estmere told them rigidly. "An accident. Leave us." As soon as we were alone again, he whirled to face me. "How dare you defy me?"
The force of his rage staggered me. "I didn't—"
"The devil you didn't!"
"You told me not to send out messengers. Gwych, splendid, I obeyed you! I went myself and—"
"Stop twisting my words! Aidan, curse you, I wasn't jesting. I gave you a command not to meddle in my affairs—and that command was not from your brother, but from your king!" As I stared, open-mouthed, Estmere continued in a softer, deadly voice, "I assure you, had anyone else at court dared defy me like this, interfered as you've done, I would have had him banished."
"Now just a moment! I didn't do anything so dreadful that—"
"Damn it, Aidan, are you such an innocent you don't realize what your meddlings have done?"
"Suppose you tell me what—"
"To go off to other courts—you, the king's brother— announcing to all and sundry that King Estmere is searching for a wife, to stir up all manner of political waves I did not wish disturbed!—"
"Will you please let me finish just one sentence?"
"Well?" His hand tap
ped impatiently at the side of his chair. "Speak."
"I am not anywhere as naive—as stupid—as you think me! Look you, if I wanted to be petty, I could give you a list as long as my arm of all the noble fools who've tried to buy me. Pw, the court is full of a hundred little intrigues! But have you ever known me to be tricked into even the most subtle of them? Well? Have you?"
"Don't lecture me, Aidan."
I sighed, thinking, Estmere, sometimes you are a true test of a magician's patience! "No lectures. Yes, I went looking for a prospective bride for you. No, I did not involve you in anything you might not wish to handle."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, fe damnio, that I made very sure, by magic, that no one knew I was there!"
That stopped my brother for a moment, waves of thwarted anger swirling about him. Then Estmere muttered, "Thank God you've some sense."
"And thank you for some small measure—"
"Silence!"
I fell silent, but only because rage was choking me. Was this why I was living in exile? Was this why I was torn from my own dear one and—
And what? I knew my brother's fears. I knew the whole sensitive subject had cried out for tact. Yet instead I had come blundering in like the country lout he thought me.
"Aidan." It was said with visibly forced control. "I'm sure you meant no harm. But . . . stay with the things you know. Tend your sick peasants. Work your healing arts. Don't meddle in the king's affairs again. Because I promise you this, Aidan: despite our kinship, if you ever dare to flagrantly disregard a royal command again, I swear before Heaven I'll exile you. Now, leave me."
What could I do? We were both too angry for honest speech. So I did the only thing I could:
Raging silently, I left.
Well now, that gives you some idea of how the week went. True, it never came down to the two of us shouting at each other again. How could it? Every time I tried to simply mention the name of the Princess Rosamonde, my most royally stubborn brother would neatly elude me, pleading sudden, urgent business elsewhere.
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