King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  "She lets you forget who and what you are?"

  Estmere's glance was sharp. "No. Never that. Rosamonde is every bit as aware of royal obligations as I." Then, more gently, "But together we find ourselves able to—to accept what we are. Or doesn't that make any sense at all?"

  "It does."

  But he wasn't finished trying to explain. After a time of helpless floundering, Estmere said simply, "With Rosamonde I feel I have come home. I would give my life for her."

  "Y Duwies prevent!" I sketched a quick protective Sign in the air. "Love is a joyous thing, or at least it should be. Why are you brooding?"

  "Because I don't understand myself."

  "Why not? You're permitted to fall in love just as common folk do!"

  "That's not what I mean. How can I possibly feel what I feel so quickly?"

  "It happens." I smiled, remembering my first, wonderstruck sight of Ailanna. "It does happen."

  "But . . . so soon. Not even a year since . . . Clarissa . . ." He shook his head again, more bewildered with himself, I sensed, than grieved or shocked.

  "Fy brawd, there's no time boundary for love. I don't know if this will be a comfort to one of your faith, but remember that Death and Life are simply two parts of a whole."

  "The . . . what do you call it? The ever-turning Wheel of Life? The pattern of birth and death and rebirth in which nothing's lost, nothing's wasted?"

  "Something like that."

  "Your Goddess does sound like a most practical lady. Oh, don't bristle, Aidan; you know I didn't mean it as an insult." He snorted. "And if it will set your mystical Cymraen mind at ease, I'm really not 'melancholie as a hare,' nor hopelessly brooding over Clarissa and—and what might have— Never mind."

  There was a long, long silence. I watched the evening darken about us, listening to the murmurs and jestings of our men gathered about the campfires, to the occasional stampings and snortings of our horses, to beyond our civilized little circle, the thousand small songs of a spring night.

  Estmere stirred. "It's the suddenness that bothers me," he murmured. "One short week ago I didn't even know sweet Rosamonde existed, and yet now I don't think I could live without—oh God, no!"

  Startled, I turned sharply to him. His eyes burned into mine, so bright with suspicion and fear that they seemed almost to glow. "Aidan. You forced me into this journey."

  "Well yes, but—"

  "You were so incredibly insistent I meet Rosamonde. Why?"

  Taken by surprise, I could only stammer, "Why—why, because I thought you could be happy together."

  "No other reason? None at all?"

  "I didn't want her trapped by Bremor. Estmere, brawd, what's the matter?"

  "You arranged—you forced my meeting with Rosamonde. Please, tell me you didn't arrange something more."

  "What in the—"

  "Please! Tell me that what I feel isn't just the result of your magic. In God's name, swear to me you didn't force me to fall in love!"

  I stared at him, stunned. "Why would you ever think something like that?"

  "I don't know! Magician, elf-friend—I don't know how your mind works!"

  Shimmering faintly just behind his eyes was the specter of Clarissa. And as ever, that vital last memory of her taunted me, almost within my reach, then gone when I would grasp it, leaving me crying out in sudden fury, "What a wonderful excuse!"

  "What—"

  "It's so much simpler, isn't it, to say, 'Och, well, he's alien, I don't have to understand him,' so much simpler than struggling to see things through someone else's eyes. 'He's alien' explains it all, and you can piously accuse that 'alien' of—of—" But I just couldn't mention Clarissa's name. "Of whatever crimes you wish!"

  "I didn't mean that."

  "Didn't you? Once and for all, I am not one of the Faerie Folk, I don't think like one of the Folk—"

  "Aidan, hush."

  "And, Gallu nef, you go too far when you suggest I would ever, ever perform such sacrilege as interfering with the holiness of love. . . ."

  I floundered to a stop under the weight of his cold, regal stare. "Are you quite finished? Or perhaps you want the whole eamp to hear you?"

  I glanced quickly about, reddening to see our men staring at me in astonishment. At that range, they couldn't have quite made out my words, only my tone of voice, but even so . . . "No," I muttered. "But, Estmere, to accuse me of such a crime . . ."

  His steady gaze suddenly wavered and fell. "Forgive me. Things really have been happening too quickly for me. I still cannot believe—"

  "Estmere. Any further discussion right now is only going to lead to us shouting at each other. The One granted you and Rosamonde a wonder. In your heart you know that's true. I had nothing to do with it. Accept it. And now, good night!"

  With that, I turned my indignant back on him and entered our tent to try settling down for the night. My insulted anger faded bit by bit as I relaxed.

  Poor Estmere. He really hadn't realized the blasphemy of his words. And I supposed the suddenness of love was difficult for his . . . civilized mind to accept. . . .

  How much simpler if Tairyn's cursed spell wasn't on me and I could tell him of my own dear one. . . .

  I drifted off to sleep with a vision of Ailanna warm in my mind.

  But as I sank deeper into slumber, my dreams changed, growing darker, troubled and distorted. And at last I began to dream horrors I'd thought banished. Once more I was back in Bremor's dungeon. Once more I was lost in that despair and anguish while he taunted me, calling my name mockingly over and over. . . .

  "Aidan.

  "Aidan!

  "Aidan, wake up!"

  My eyes shot open. Gasping, shaking, I tried to strike out—

  "Hey! Gently, brother, gently."

  "What . . . Estmere?" I rubbed an unsteady hand over my eyes. "It . . . was only a dream, then."

  "Yes." Estmere waved away the alarmed guards who had gathered in the tent's entrance. "A singularly foul one, I would guess."

  "Gallu, yes." Still dazed, I stared up at Estmere, trying to marshal my thoughts, reassured by the warmth of concern in his eyes.

  "Aidan? Are you all right? Yes? You're sure?"

  "Do I look that badly shaken?"

  "You do. Do you want some wine?"

  "No. Thank you." I sat up, shaking my head to clear it of the last haze, glancing at Estmere, who was watching me with a curious alertness.

  "What is it, brawd?"

  "Can you talk clearly now?"

  "Yes," I said warily. 'What?"

  "In your sleep you kept shouting a name: Bremor."

  "Oh." Damnio.

  "Don't try to evade me. When King Adland mentioned Bremor, I saw true hatred flash in your eyes."

  "I . . . have no love for the man."

  "That time when you returned to me in such sore distress, when you refused to name the one who'd tormented you—it was Bremor, wasn't it?"

  I sighed. "Yes."

  "But why? Why would he risk—"

  "Och, brawd," I murmured wearily. "He hardly expected me to escape. Let's just say he envied me my Power, wanted it, and didn't much care what was done to me to steal it."

  Estmere's eyes widened. "He didn't . . ."

  "Succeed? No. I'd be dead if he had. Please. My memories are shattered enough. I would rather not have to remember that time."

  "Of course not." His hand was warm on my shoulder. "But can you just tell me why you refused to name him? Did you—oh." Estmere sat back on his heels. "Were you afraid I would do something foolish? Like perhaps sending an army into Telesse in retribution?"

  "Duwies glân, yes. I—I—I saw war in Bremor's mind once, horror, ugly horror, mindless killing . . ." I swallowed hard. "We have nothing that foul in Cymra; we don't even have a word for it! And I c-could not let that horror happen because of me."

  "It wouldn't." Estmere's shoulders sagged. "Not even for you could I so endanger the realm."

  As I gave a shaken sigh of relief,
he glanced fiercely my way. "You could have trusted me, though. Even if you didn't want to avenge yourself with magic for some arcane reason—that Threefold Law, I suppose—you still could have come to me. After seeing what Bremor had done to you, I would gladly have helped you plot some other revenge." He smiled thinly. "No matter now much time it cost me with Father Ansel."

  "No." I remembered the vow sworn to Ailanna, and the fear sharp in her eyes. "I cannot seek revenge."

  "Cannot!"

  "Ask me no more, brawd." I got to my feet, driven by a sudden surge of unease. "I shouldn't have had that dream. I had set my mind against any nightmare memories. Mor a mor . . . was it only a dream? Or was some unsleeping sense trying to send me a warning?"

  Estmere tensed. "Of what?"

  "I . . . think I do sense something . . . a vague shadow. Damnio! I've lost it." As my brother watched me anxiously, I sought after that elusive psychic thread, only to shake my head in frustration.

  "I'm sorry, Estmere. Much as I hate sounding like some cheap village seer, I just can't put it any clearer than that." Our glances met. "Now, I'm not sure," I said carefully. "I may well be wrong. But I do think it best that we return."

  "To Rosamonde?" His hands clamped painfully down on my arms. "Tell me! Is she in danger?"

  But try and try though I would, I just couldn't answer that.

  We hadn't ridden far into the pale gray coolness of early dawn before I spotted a small shape running unsteadily towards us. I caught a flash of yellow hair and thought for one foolish moment, Arn?

  "That's one of Rosamonde's pages!" Estmere gasped.

  We leaped off our horses together, more quickly even than the guards, and were just in time to catch the boy as he fell, exhausted. He glanced wildly from one of us to the other, trying desperately to find enough breath to speak.

  "Couldn't . . . get to my pony . . . horses all watched . . . had to . . . had to run all night . . ."

  "Never mind that, lad." Estmere signalled to a soldier, who brought a flask of water. The boy drank thirstily, then tried again:

  "Sire, my . . . my lady, the Princess Rosamonde . . . my lady sends her love, but . . . oh, she is in sore peril."

  "What peril? Tell me!"

  As the boy struggled for coherent speech, I put my hands on his temples, willing calm into the frantic mind and a little bit of my strength into the exhausted body. After a moment, the page took a deep, steadying breath and sat up. With a grateful glance at me, he began, "It was no more than a half-day after you had left, Sire, that King Bremor entered our land—"

  "Bremor!" Estmere and I cried in unison.

  "Yes. He—he swore so convincingly that he had come in peace our king opened the castle gates to him."

  I groaned. From what I had seen of Adland, he never would have been so foolishly trusting, not without sorcerous persuasion from Bremor's dark Patrons.

  Estmere glanced from me to the boy. "Go on, lad. What then?"

  "We were tricked, Sire. King Bremor had full many fighting men with him. And our own soldiers seemed so helpless . . . almost as though they'd been bewitched."

  "Indeed," I muttered.

  A shudder shocked the slim form. "And now Bremor holds the royal castle, Sire, and s-swears that this very day he will wed my lady, and—and tomorrow carry her away."

  "Now, by my faith, this he shall not do!" Estmere sprang savagely to his feet, me with him, and the wave of raw rage and horror and fear for Rosamonde blaring from him nearly knocked me over. I caught my balance and his arm.

  "Are you planning to boldly rush in and singlehandedly cut down alt Bremor's men?"

  He looked at me with fierce, despairing eyes. "What else am I to do? Abandon Rosamonde? Go meekly home? Aidan, there's no time to gather an army!"

  Even if there were, openly attacking Bremor would be declaring outright war on Telesse. Och fi, och fi, what were we to do?

  With a surge of will that must have been equal to anything summoned by a magician, Estmere forced his emotions under control. In a voice that was almost level, he commanded, "Counsel me, brother. Use your magic. How may I rescue Rosamonde?"

  How, indeed? "Give me a moment to think, I pray you."

  I glanced about the glen, pretending to be searching for something but actually just stalling for time while my mind insisted only on reliving those fragmented, unwanted memories of Bremor, and darkness, and chains. Useless! Worse than useless!

  Come, come, think! You can't abandon Estmere, nor Rosamonde—think!

  But I couldn't turn my mind from the darkness, from lying helpless at the mercy of a merciless man. Whatever I did, it would mean confronting Bremor. . . .

  Was this the reason I'd agreed so quickly not to seek revenge? Was it not for sweet Ailanna's sake, but because, secretly, I was glad of the excuse not to face him again?

  Was I afraid to face him?

  "No!" I said fiercely, and told myself it was the truth.

  So be it. We couldn't fight him, not with our small party. So we must use guile. A disguise—but surely Bremor or his Patrons would see through any disguise.

  Save . . . a magical one?

  Pw, but it had been difficult enough to shape-change when I'd been in peril of death in Ybarre's storm. I would never manage that spell again without aid.

  Aid? And my odd, distorted memory brought an image to mind of a spring meadow, and my mother and I gathering herbs, me trying to memorize the use of every planet, including one . . .

  I glanced about that glen in earnest. The time of year was right, the vegetation seemed right, too. Now, if only the herb grew this far east and south. . . . Blind to the rest of our party, I set out in an ever-widening circle, hunting for that one strange, homely little plant.

  And y Duwies was with me. All at once I bent and plucked two small, dull green little herbs from the clump I'd found. "Yes, yes, yes! Listen to me, fy brawd, and I'll show you how to set your lady free!"

  I hurried to his side. "See these? I've just found a way for us to enter Adland's castle unhindered. Wait. Estmere, it has to be just the two of us."

  There was a great uproar from our party at that. What, their king go alone into an enemy camp? It wasn't wise, it wasn't safe!

  They were right, of course; it wasn't safe. But it was the only chance I could see, because the herb's power was limited. Besides, any group of strangers larger than two begins to look suspicious to a suspicious mind.

  But if I'd had any doubts about the sincerity and intensity of Estmere's love for Rosamonde, they vanished there and then, because for once my brother abandoned ingrained royal caution (and, some might say, common sense as well). Eyes blazing, he held up a hand for silence, commanding me:

  "Continue."

  Brushing the earth from the roots of the herbs, I had a bizarre little flash of memory: an Anglic ballad Estmere had once taught me. Right now it was so singularly appropriate I couldn't resist quoting:

  " 'My mother was a westerne woman,

  And learned in gramarye,

  And when I learned at the schole,

  Something she taught it me.' "

  "Yes, yes, Aidan, I'm sure your mother taught you herb-magics, and all the rest of 'gramarye,' too! But—"

  "Here. Swallow."

  For all his impatience, he eyed the herb dubiously. "What, roots and all? What is it?"

  "In Cymraeth: cyfnewidiwr. Now, are you the wiser. Trust me, brawd. If you would rescue Rosamonde, swallow."

  He did, grimacing at the taste. I waited, smiling as I felt the tingling of Power growing, surrounding his being like the faintest of heat hazes, just as it was supposed to do. . . . Yes. Now.

  It was easy, surprisingly easy, thanks to that odd little herb legend says first grew in Faerie. Estmere heard his followers gasp, saw them draw back, amazed and frightened, some crossing themselves, some grabbing at weapons, and he whirled to me in horror.

  "What have you done to me?"

  "Nothing so very alarming. See?"

  As he s
tared transfixed at his reflection in the little mirror of polished tin, I swallowed the second herb (understanding his grimace; och, bitter!) and prepared for my own transformation.

  Cyfnewidiwr means, you see, "the changer."

  And so, to all outward seeming, Estmere was now a stranger, dark of hair and eye, weatherworn of skin, while I let the Power in the herb lighten my black eyes and hair to a nondescript, mousey hue, let it seem to make face and form younger till I looked no more than a boy barely come to manhood. Feeling the herb's magic heightening my own (as though I'd drunk some rich, rare wine), I worked an invisibility illusion over our two swords. Turning to a stunned archer, I took the bow from his unresisting hands and sent my will deep within its wooden self, altering the patterns of its shape slowly, delicately . . . till I held a fair little harp, sweetly strung by a bowstring transformed into a fine seeming of bronze and silver.

  Estmere just stared, as frozen with shock as any of his men. I smiled. "Don't worry, fy brawd. All this is but illusion, to change back to rightful shape at the slightest flash of will."

  And ignore the fact that I'm going to collapse as though hit by an axe when all this energy is used up!

  "I . . . see."

  He stopped, shaken anew by the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from his lips. Before he or his men could panic, I added calmly, "Go ahead, cross yourself if you wish. Speak holy names. The spell won't be harmed, because this is never devil's work."

  Estmere straightened. "Of course it isn't."

  "Gwych, splendid. To business. You are already truly skillful with a harp, no magic needed there. And musicians are always welcome at a royal court."

  "Normally, yes."

  "Then let us hope Bremor wants to keep up the appearance of normality, because you shall be a harper . . . mm, yes, a wandering musician come down from the north countries to try your luck at a more urbane court. Ah . . . do you think you'll be able to act the part?"

  Estmere smiled grimly. "I shall. And you?"

  "Why, I shall be your apprentice, the singer to your harping."