"Oh, indeed. I shall send a message up to her where she sits with her ladies, and bid her come down to us."
"Bid?" I thought wryly. From what I'd seen of the Princess Rosamonde, "ask"—and politely, too—would be a far better word! If Estmere expected a shy little fawn of a girl, he was in for a surprise.
I only prayed it would be a happy one.
King Adland, for all his unquestioned maturity, was curious as a child about me and my magic. Though, to be honest, I suspect he would have welcomed any diversion from his worries about Bremor. At any rate, though, as I've said, I detest performing like some marketplace conjurer, I did little tricks of shaping and illusion to help pass the time. I glanced at Estmere and saw a faint, amused smile on his lips. But my brother's vague gaze showed he wasn't realty paying attention to me at all. And I knew why:
Despite the fact he hadn't wanted to come, despite his resentment of my . . . meddling, now that he was actually here, all Estmere's thoughts were only of the Princess Rosamonde. Willy-nilly, she would seem to have intrigued that secret, romantic self within him. And, though he never would have admitted it, my brother was nervous.
He wasn't the only one.
What if the princess simply refused to come down to us? She hadn't struck me as the sort to be at anyone's beck and call.
No. She would come. The hope of escaping Bremor would bring her to at least meet Estmere. Besides, didn't she harbor that tiny hope of him courting her?
But what if she and Estmere just didn't like each other? What if I had been blinded by my own longings and read them both completely wrong? Duwies glân, what if they actually hated each other? I had a sudden miserable image of Estmere so enraged he really would exile me—but with my vow still binding me, how could I possibly let myself be exiled and—
Then, down into the Great Hall came the Princess Rosamonde and her pretty little handmaidens, with pages, squires and knights as their escort.
I don't think Estmere saw any of that procession. From the first, his gaze went to Rosamonde. Ah, how fair she was, clad most sweetly in deep, clear blue, her honey-dark hair streaming unconfined down her back. Her head was encircled by a little coronet of crystal flowers, and a ring of that bright crystal shone on her hand.
So, the Princess Rosamonde. Softly she descended, eyes downcast in what I knew must be a wild mingling of fear and hope, and I thought, Ah, Rosamonde, look up! His heart is all but in his eyes—Rosamonde, look up!
Whether she heard my silent plea or whether she felt the weight of Estmere's entranced gaze on her, Rosamonde did glance up at that moment. Their eyes met for the first time—
And I forgot all my fears. I had been right, Duwies glân thank you, I had been very right! She was for him, he was for her, and with my magician's eyes I saw the wonder flash all pure and bright and golden between them, heart to heart, soul to soul, the oldest, truest magic, stronger than the strongest spell of wizardry.
While the two young people, royal titles forgotten, stood transfixed and silent, faces innocent and defenseless and beautiful with the awe of what had passed between them, King Adland bustled about—proving he'd been nervous, too—making introductions and conversation until I gently steered him aside. And all I said was:
"I doubt she'll say nay to him, King Adland."
CHAPTER XXXI
THE LOVERS
Estmere and Rosamonde had no eyes for anyone else all that day and night. Not that they ever quite forgot again that they were king and princess. How could they, having both grown up as royal heirs? I chanced to overhear one of their conversations as they strolled together through the palace gardens blissfully hand in hand (oblivious to the courtiers trailing after) and realized the two of them were seriously discussing politics—politics, of all things! And yet somehow, for all their regal earnestness, they managed to make even that unlikely topic hopelessly romantic.
True love, no doubt of it.
That garden intrigued me. Like Estmere's palace gardens, it was meant for use more than pleasure, and was more herbs than flowers. Along with the plants I knew were some of the more southern herbs familiar to me only in their dried state. The next morning found me (a little weary of Estmere's perpetual wide-eyed wonder and glad to temporarily escape him) down on my knees by an intriguing patch of what I thought must be arnica, an herb not native to Cymra (a deadly herb to taste, but good, it was said, for treating sprains and bruises). As I warily touched a leaf, wondering if anyone would mind if I snipped off a sample, a woman's voice asked:
"Prince Aidan?"
There was no graceful way to turn in that awkward position. Steadying myself with a hand against the ground, I blinked up into sunlight at the dark outline of a feminine shape. Puzzling out more by magic than sight that it was Princess Rosamonde, I got hastily to my feet, brushing earth from my knees. "Your pardon. I didn't realize anyone was watching."
I can't say Rosamonde looked radiantly lovely; like Estmere, she very blatantly hadn't been getting enough sleep lately. But a quiet joy enfolded her, more beautiful than any bland, perfect prettiness.
Her smile included me in that joy. "Estmere . . ." She said the name as a caress. "Estmere has told me you're a healer. Please feel free to take whatever plants you wish."
"A healer? That's . . . all he told you about me?"
Rosamonde straightened slightly. "Prince Aidan, I already know you are a magician, if that's what you're worried about."
Remembering poor, frightened Clarissa, I asked warily, "You're not afraid?"
"Should I be?" Her gaze was steady. "From everything I've heard from Estmere and your courtiers, you are a follower of the Righthand Path, which means there's nothing of Evil about you."
"So!" She really had been given a comprehensive education!
"Besides . . ." Her wonderstruck smile broke out again. "You are his brother. Nothing you are could frighten me." But then Rosamonde shook her head impatiently. "Listen to me. I sound like some romantic little idiot."
"Hardly. Just like someone in love."
There must have been a certain wistfulness in my voice, because deep blue eyes studied me thoughtfully. "You know about such things, too, don't you? You have a lady of your own."
"Yes. I . . ." But then Tairyn's damniol spell clamped down on me again, and after a brief, futile struggle, I had to add ruefully, "I'm sorry. I . . . can't say anything more."
I think she suspected, with her tiny touch of magic, that I meant it quite literally. "No matter." Her voice was polite, her eyes suddenly impatient. "Prince Aidan, I . . ." But then Rosamonde glanced back over her shoulder to where her curious ladies clustered nearby, and bit her lip. "There are no secrets in a castle."
"Don't I know it!"
"Couldn't you cast some manner of secrecy spell?"
"Not without it looking terribly suspicious to everyone who would see but not near us."
"Ah. That would be awkward." She gave me a sudden, bright, false smile and chirped for her ladies' benefit, "Come, Prince Aidan, will you not walk with me?"
Rosamonde held out her hand. I bowed over it, and we strolled together, her hand resting ever so lightly on mine, like any courteous, casual couple, moving seemingly by chance further and further from curious ears.
"They can't overhear us now," I said after a time. "What did you wish to discuss?"
She never hesitated. "Bremor of Telesse."
"Ah."
Rosamonde glanced at me sharply. "You don't want to talk about him, do you?"
"Your pardon, no." But I couldn't ignore the worry in her voice, so I added, "He's not a magician of any sort, if that's what concerns you."
"But he does worship Evil."
It wasn't a question. "I—yes."
"I see." Rosamonde paused thoughtfully. "It was you sending me a message about him, some days back, wasn't it?"
"By magic, you mean?"
She nodded. "It was an odd sensation, something like a . . . a brushing at the mind."
"I hope I di
dn't frighten you!"
"No. I didn't know who or what you were," Rosamonde said with a wry little laugh. "For a moment I even thought you might be something supernatural. An angel, perhaps. Or," she added with a sly little sideways glance, "a devil. But whatever, I knew you meant your words kindly."
"I'm glad. Och, look you, don't be afraid of Bremor! As I promised, Estmere and I will shield you. We won't let any harm befall you."
She stopped short. "Oh, thank you." The words dripped sarcasm. "And I'm supposed to wait in my tower like a helpless, dutiful little princess while you heroes save the day."
"I didn't mean—"
"Please don't patronize me, Prince Aidan. I've heard enough soothing words from my father lately."
"I'm sorry."
After a moment, she murmured, "So am I. I didn't mean to snap at you. But after all these years of being raised not to be passive, not to be submissive . . . God! I can't just sit back and do nothing!"
"How maddening it must be for you! I wish there was something I could do to help."
"You mean that, don't you? Those aren't just ritual words." Rosamonde hesitated a moment. "Thank you."
I held out my hand. She placed hers atop it, and we started forward again. "You're from Cymra, aren't you?" Rosamonde asked.
"My accent's still so thick?"
She gave me a sweet flash of a smile. "Still so musical, I would have said. But is it true Cymraen women are the equals of their men?"
"Particularly by your people's standards."
"My people." She let out her breath in a weary sigh, and all at once I saw princess overwhelm woman, just as in Estmere the king must always be dominant over the man. "Yes," Rosamonde said flatly. "That's what it comes down to, doesn't it? They are my people, as much as my father's. You may not believe this, but I haven't been worrying about myself these past days so much as I have about them. Our little kingdom lies in such a precarious position, balanced as it is between two greater powers."
"I won't lie to you. Bremor is a very real threat, magic or no. And I wish I could do something to remove him. Believe me," I added savagely, "nothing would please me more. Unfortunately, I . . . can't. But I can't see Bremor being foolish enough to challenge Estmere." No matter how much his Patrons might prod him. "You will almost certainly be safe. Particularly if you form an alliance."
Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rosamonde redden. She laughed softly, nervously. "With your brother, you mean?" Suddenly the princess pulled her hand free, turning sharply away. "I d-don't know," she said after a moment. This has all happened so quickly. . . ."
I waited. And at last Rosamonde turned to me again with a smile joyous as springtime. "But . . . I . . . think such an alliance may come to pass, Prince Aidan, I truly do."
As Estmere's brother, I had been assigned a room to myself, Adland having graciously yielded to my "peculiar" love of solitude. Although it had no door, which meant little genuine privacy, the room was comfortable enough, holding a smotheringly deep feather bed and the ubiquitous clothes chest, and with walls covered by innocuous tapestries of wood and field. Just now, the night was cool enough for a fire to be pleasant, warm enough for that fire to be more a luxury man a necessity, and I sat before it and stared moodily into the flames.
Adland's castle was far enough south for its architects to have been influenced by southern styles, which meant that the living quarters faced inner courtyards and had luxuriously wide windows (a major problem to heat in the winter, but so nicely dramatic in summer). My room overlooked the very romantically moonlit garden. And in that garden wandered Estmere and Rosamonde. They were chaperoned—of course they were chaperoned—but I doubt either of them was aware of anyone else in the world but the other.
I was delighted for them, no doubt of that. But on this lovely evening, watching them together in the garden while I was alone . . .
More than a little jealous and missing Ailanna passionately, I sat before the fire, studying the flames as though they might escape. After a time, the temptation to play with them became too strong. Ailanna had once taught me that minor Faerie Art, and now I began to hold and form the flames with my will, shaping fantastic castles and spires and forests of that most malleable of mediums. Of course the pretty red-orange-yellow pictures faded as quickly as they were formed, but they were amusing enough until I found myself creating image after image of a certain slim and lovely Faerie woman . . .
"How charming," said a sudden voice, and I whirled, half rising from my chair, ready to take fire in my hand and hurl it—
"King Adland!"
I caught my breath and got to my feet with a polite bow, straightening to receive his apologetic smile. "I fear I startled you."
"No harm done." I wasn't about to confess how close he'd come to a singeing. Quickly I glanced at the fire, relieved to see it had died properly back down to normal.
Adland followed my gaze. "A lovely art."
"It was nothing. A little trick of shaping. No real skill to it."
"Still, it was lovely. Prince Aidan, may I speak with you?"
"But of course! This is your castle."
I offered him the chair, but Adland stood looking out over the garden and the happy couple, and after a moment I joined him. "They look well together," the king murmured, like any plain, non-royal father, and I had to smile and agree, "They do."
"More, they seem to suit each other." Gaze never leaving the garden, Adland continued softly, "I never dared hope. My daughter is very dear to me. I must admit, it always troubled me that her marriage would, perforce, be nothing but a . . ."
"A business arrangement?" As Adland glanced at me in surprise, I nodded. "I feared the same thing for my brother." I smiled. "No danger of that now."
"Amen." But Adland's answering smile faded as swiftly as it had come. "There's only one thing I would know, Prince Aidan: how is it that you and your brother are here so opportunely?"
"I don't see your point."
"I think you do. How is it your message and arrival come so hard on Bremor's departure?"
I didn't know how to answer that. "I . . . must confess I had something to do with it."
"Bremor is your enemy, isn't he?"
I started. "Your pardon, but I would rather not discuss that."
He snorted. "In other words, he is. And for reasons of your own, you don't want your brother to know."
"King Adland, you do amaze me!"
"Be that as it may, why are you here now? To thwart Bremor's proposed . . . an . . . annexation?"
"Not merely for that. I really do want to see my brother happy, and your daughter, too, for that matter."
"Ah." There was a world of skepticism in that syllable. But then the king sighed wearily. "It's not that I'm not truly grateful to see you here, please understand that. Bremor, as you surely know, can be very free with his threats, but I don't doubt there's a real menace behind them."
"There is."
"My daughter thinks that he—that he worships—" He shook his head. "But you would know the truth of that, white wizard that you are."
I could feel my face reddening. "Please. I'm a magician, no more, no less. But I can guess what you want to ask me. And . . . yes. Bremor realty does worship Evil." Adland looked so sickened that I almost found myself telling of my invisible visit. Just in time I said instead, "I think I understand your situation, King Adland, and I sympathize—if you don't think I'm being too presumptuous."
"No. Go on."
"I fear you've been a man torn several ways these past weeks, between love for your daughter, for your people, for . . . ah . . . sheer self-preservation."
"Too true!" he murmured.
"But you don't have to worry any longer."
"Ah, the certainty of youth." There was the faintest hint of paternal amusement in his voice. "You are younger than your brother, aren't you?"
"By nearly two years."
"Don't look so wary. I'm not insulting you." He gave me a sideways glance
. "And I do think you know more about all this than you've confessed, oh Prince Magician. But . . ." The king turned to face me fully, and the warm relief in his eyes was very plain. "Whatever your reasons, you and your royal brother—ah, but I'm glad you're here!"
CHAPTER XXXII
PREMONITIONS AND PLOTS
It was a warm, clear night sweetly scented with healthy greenness, and no hardship at all for our royal party to camp in the pretty glen we'd found a day's journey out from King Adland's castle. We were on our way back to Lundinia after a very joyous week. And a very painful parting, Estmere from Rosamonde. But part they must, of course; he must return to kingdom and throne.
Not that they would be parted unbearably long, y Duwies willing. First, of course, there must be the formal acknowledgement of their betrothal. Then the news must be spread throughout the two kingdoms and their allies (which lengthy process I intended to speed along in any way I could). And then at last would come the preparations—and the royal wedding itself.
All about us was activity, horses being picketed, fires being lit, but I don't think my brother noted any of the mundane details of setting up camp. Since the night was so warm and fair, he'd had servants place our two chairs (uncomfortable little folding stools, actually) just outside the royal tent, and now Estmere sat staring blindly out into the deepening twilight, looking very much like some moody hero out of a minstrel's romance, his eyes dark with memory, his thoughts so turbulent I could feel their confusion from where I stood. Sensing my eyes on him, my brother looked up, then gestured to me to sit beside him. As I did, I heard him murmur:
"Aidan, Aidan, what is this that's happened to me?"
I chuckled. "Can't you guess?"
Estmere smiled faintly at that, a smile at once as young and old as the dawn. "I love her," he said softly, as though trying out the words. "I never thought to say that again, but. . . I love her." He shook his head impatiently. "It's more than that with Rosamonde. . . . Bah, I don't even know what I'm trying to say."
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