King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  My brother let out a fierce bark of a laugh. "By my faith, you're a clever man!"

  "Mm. Save your praises till we see if this works."

  "But what happens once we're inside Adland's castle?"

  What, indeed? The wine-sharp Power of the herb was fading, and all at once I wasn't so sure of myself. Och fi, and this was the king I was leading into danger! If something went wrong, if something happened to him—

  But Estmere, this once in his life openly romantic and foolhardy, wasn't about to turn back. "Come, what's your plan?"

  I ran my hand down the harpstrings, rather astonished and pleased to hear from the pure trail of sound that I'd conjured the thing already tuned. But I couldn't think of a single clever thing to say, except, "Why, to go boldly ahead, trust in the . . . ah . . . the One and, as the harpers say, simply play it by ear!"

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  HARPERS

  So it was that the two of us alone, most unregally clad in clothing we'd borrowed from two of Estmere's grooms—such well-worn garments as travelling musicians a bit down on their luck might wear—rode back towards King Adland's castle. I glanced at my brother (a little unnerved myself by that unfamiliar face), marvelling at his apparent composure and wondering if he was at all afraid; I know I was going through every self-calming spell in my possession.

  "Aie, Estmere, don't look so proud! You're supposed to be a harper now, not a king."

  He gave me a wry smile. "Every harper I ever saw considered himself a king. Don't worry. I won't betray us." The smile faltered. "But what about you?"

  "Me and Bremor, you mean?"

  He'd hit on my greatest worry: that I, not my self-possessed brother, would be the one to destroy us. Gallu nef, would I be able to face Bremor without anger? Or . . . fear?

  "I'll manage," I said grimly.

  Pity flickered in his eyes, but all Estmere said was, "That's fortunate, because here we are."

  We were stopped at the castle gate by Adland's porter, who eyed us most suspiciously. "Who are you? What's your business here?"

  "We're harpers," I answered, trying to keep my voice properly innocent and boyish, "come down from the north countries. We've heard that there is to be a wedding here, a fine, proud, royal wedding. And so we've come to entertain with our music."

  But all the while the porter was studying Estmere. I remembered how thoroughly he had stared at my brother before, and suddenly was very uneasy, wondering if the disguise was, after all, sufficient.

  "Now, if your hair was yellow," the porter said softly, "if your skin were fairer, I would say you were none other than King Estmere."

  My brother didn't panic. Smoothly he slipped a gold ring into the man's hand. "We are but harpers, fellow. Do us no harm."

  The porter looked long and hard at Estmere, he looked long and hard at the gold ring.

  Then he shrugged, and opened the gate to us.

  We rode boldly straight into the Great Hall itself, which of course isn't exactly an unheard-of thing for even a minstrel to do—though if you think I might have used a touch of magical persuasion to smooth our way, you're right. But that persuasion didn't stop the hard-eyed guards from slamming the doors shut behind us, making our horses shy. And I nearly did some shying of my own when the bolts were slammed into place.

  They know—no, no, of course they don't know. Bremor is merely being wary.

  That wasn't exactly a comforting thought.

  A grand feast was prepared in that hall. Banners brightened the grim stone walls, and sweet-scented rushes carpeted the floor. All the long tables were set out, from the foldable everyday trestles to the heavy, solid, priceless High Table with its royal canopy. All were covered from top to floor by fine white linen, and nearly sagged beneath the platters of meat and bread and sweetmeats piled upon them. Elegant, jewel-set goblets and ewers glowed softly silver in the extravagance of torch and candlelight, and I caught hints of brightness from that new delight of the wealthy, golden plates.

  Not a seat was vacant about those tables, and I thought absently that no doubt things were arranged as they were in Estmere's court, noble folk in the preferred spots closest royalty, above the massive, ugly, expensive saltcellars, commons below. But just then, I noted the crowd merely as one great blur of color, because my attention was shooting straight to one man:

  There in the place of honor sat Bremor, King of Telesse.

  And I—felt no fear. Whether from shock or desperation or sheer emotional exhaustion, I felt nothing at all, nothing save a mild contempt.

  There was certainly nothing contemptible about his appearance. Bremor was proud and fiercely handsome as ever, very elegant in a dark red velvet tunic, richly embroidered with gold thread and gems glinting with every breath he took. A spotless white cloak trimmed with the royal ermine was thrown casually back over his shoulders. His face was a cool, finely chiseled mask.

  But his eyes were haunted. And I felt hints of a terrible fear not quite hidden behind that mask.

  The rewards of sorcery, I thought, then caught myself. Sorcery? No wielder of Power can hide from another, not at so close a range, and yet I was willing to swear there was no sorcerer in that hall. Except . . . Bremor? Impossible.

  Estmere distracted me with the softest of gasps. For Rosamonde sat at Bremor's right hand. I winced, but fortunately my brother had the self-control not to cry out to her.

  Most charmingly the princess was clad in pale rose samite—priceless stuff—her pretty crystal beads gleaming at neck and wrists, shining from the circlet binding her hair. Despair burned in her lovely eyes, and with it, a certain unconquered fury that boded ill for Bremor should she get her hands on a weapon. Wisely, he wasn't trusting her with so much as a little meat knife.

  King Adland sat at Bremor's left. And I almost didn't recognize the man, for all that I had been at his side just a short while ago. He looked . . . pathetic, unbearably weary and sad, on his face the utter hopelessness of a man who has lost everything in the world that matters to him. Och, it hurt to see that shrewd king and loving father so reduced.

  Worse, I didn't doubt that Bremor meant to see that in due course Adland simply vanished. After all, once Rosamonde was safely wed, and her kingdom firmly in her new husband's hands, there would Be no need to keep a potentially dangerous father-in-law alive.

  I glanced warily about the hall, trying to separate friend from foe. And for the first time I realized, with a growing chill, that none of the folk here were mere courtiers. For all the bright and festive garb, all, save for one sad-eyed, miserable priest, were fighting men, weapons hidden at their sides.

  Bremor's men. And only his.

  Invader that he was, the king of Telesse wasn't taking unnecessary chances. Estmere and I, two apparently harmless and unarmed minstrels, had been allowed to enter; Bremor was probably glad to see us, looking to us to provide a much-needed lighter tone. But once we were within the hall, as I've said, the door had been bolted fast behind us. Now I saw that all the other doors to the Great Hall were barred as well, and smiled grimly to myself. Clever Bremor! King Adland's men had quite literally been barred from the feast, presumably till after the wedding was safely, legally, concluded.

  Estmere and I were two against a small army.

  This, I suppose, would have been a very sensible time to be afraid. Instead, a bold madness born of sheer panic seized me. I took our two horses and, before any of the guards could stop me, stabled the animals right at the High Table, so close to where Bremor sat that when my steed snorted, the froth lit most satisfactorily right in the king of Telesse's finely trimmed beard. He cried out in fury, and turned on Estmere, roaring:

  "What is the meaning of this?"

  Estmere, to my delighted surprise, played his role beautifully. He must have been wondering what I was about, but my brother smiled beatifically at Bremor and asked innocently, "The meaning of what, Sire?"

  "Don't play games, fool!" (His accent, I noticed irrelevantly, was heavy, but he seemed more
fluent in Anglic than I'd been in his tongue.) "Your horse belongs in the stable, not in a royal hall!"

  Two meek servants came to lead our animals aside. Estmere ignored them, his smile never wavering. But there was a world of delicate mockery in his voice as he said, "Oh, my lad is so headstrong. He never does what's fitting or proper."

  "Then he shall be taught manners." Bremor signalled sharply to one of his men, commanding in his native tongue, "Go down there and beat me that lad. And when you've done, beat me that insolent harper as well!"

  Disguise or no, I certainly wasn't going to allow that! The soldier came up to me menacingly, and a coarse-faced, powerful fellow he was, too. But I caught his glance with mine. And I willed terror into his mind, just as I'd once done with a wild boar. The sending of fear is even easier with a reasoning target, and almost instantly I saw wild panic blaze up in the man's eyes. White-faced, he hurried back to his place.

  "What ails you?" Bremor hissed at him.

  Gallu, was that dawning suspicion in those hard eyes? Estmere must have been wondering the same, for he quickly raised his harp as distraction and began to play.

  And ah, the sound of that harping! Despite our peril, a shiver of sheer delight raced through me, for if Estmere's music had been silvery fair before, now it was a flame of beauty, keen enough to make one weep with wonder, for his very heart was in it. All within that hall, down to the lowliest servant, grew still, listening entranced.

  But Estmere played only for the Princess Rosamonde.

  I think she suspected who he was almost from the beginning. For when Estmere had first spoken, even though his voice was as disguised as his face, the princess had given a little start, as one who can't quite believe her ears. Now, as Estmere harped and gazed at her, Rosamonde gave a small, involuntary laugh, as one who dares hope anew.

  Well now, they do say love pierces all disguises. Besides, more logically, she did have that touch of magic to help her.

  Bremor couldn't help but notice what was happening. I thought, Brawd, brawd, be careful, and wondered: Bremor was no trained magician to see through illusion, and yet . . .

  Our charade must end soon. I caught Estmere's eye and sent him as clear a silent message as I could. He nodded.

  But at that moment, Bremor said, "The lady would seem to be quite taken with your music, minstrel. Sell me your harp."

  "For what fee, Sire?" Estmere's voice held just the right touch of greed.

  Bremor laughed in contempt. "Would you bargain with a king?" He made an extravagant sweep of his arm. "For as many gold coins as there are men in this hall!"

  Estmere's fingers never faltered on the strings. "And what would you do with my harp, Sire, if I did sell it to you?"

  "Why, play a sweet tune for my wife when we are alone on this our wedding night."

  Innocent words. But I glimpsed cruel mockery in Bremor's eyes: he knew full well to whom he spoke!

  But Estmere was saying, his voice lightly insolent, "If I sell my harp to you, you must sell me your bride." There were angry murmurings throughout the hall at that, but my brother continued smoothly, "As many coins as there are men in this hall? Miser! For this fair lady I would pay more coins than there are stars in all the reaches of Heaven."

  The disapproving murmurs grew louder. Only Bremor showed no sign of anger. But I saw his hand slip smoothly down to the hilt of his sword, and at last something broke free within me and I could feel emotion: a cold, pure, clear fury unlike anything I had ever known.

  If he does but the slightest harm to Estmere, he shall die, I thought, and wondered at my calmness.

  And I knew, with a quiet, dreadful certainty, that nothing I could have done, no vow Ailanna could have had me swear, would have changed this moment. I would not be breaking that vow; I would not be seeking anything as small as revenge. Bremor had freely chosen the Lefthand Path, I, the Right, and it was surely fated that we face each other in battle.

  It was surely fated that one of us must die.

  But Bremor, all unaware of Fate, was saying to my brother, "And why should I sell so beautiful a prize to so filthy a beggar?"

  The contempt in his voice was finally too much for even Estmere's self-control. "Because even a beggar is a finer mate for a princess than you, Bremor of Telesse!"

  With that, he drew from his harp the wild, fierce music we had chosen earlier as a signal. And I sang:

  "Oh lady, this is thine own true love,

  No harper, but a king!"

  And again I sang, though this time the words weren't those we had planned:

  "Oh, lady, this is thine own true love,

  As plainly thou mayest see—

  And I'll rid you of that foul, false king

  Who parts thy love and thee!"

  With those words, I let illusion fall. Amid gasps of wonder, Estmere and I regained our proper forms. I know my brother wanted to be the one to face Bremor, but that wasn't the way it must be. Before Estmere could move, I had pushed him unceremoniously aside. And something fierce or fatalistic in my eyes kept him from protesting.

  So I confronted my foe at last, Faerie sword bright in my hand.

  Only Bremor showed no amazement at my sudden transformation. "I was wondering if you would ever dare meet me again," he purred. "You make a fine entertainer, princeling. Even as you did in Telesse, writhing in your chains, screaming like a beaten slave."

  There was a hiss of fury from Estmere, but I waved him sharply to silence. Words, I told myself, only words, they have no power to harm. "No chains bind me now, Bremor."

  He shrugged. "But now I have no use for you. So I shall kill you."

  What he did next truly startled me. For he cried out three sharp, ugly Words of Power and shouted, "I call a Spell of Holding on this company!"

  All motion instantly ceased in that hall, as though everyone, down to the two horses standing forgotten in a corner, had been turned to stone.

  Everyone save me. With the first Word Bremor shouted, my Power roused, and his spell slid from me as harmlessly as water.

  Bremor smiled. "I didn't think it would affect you. Good. Now none shall interrupt our little play."

  "Must you always be so damniol dramatic?" But how had he ever managed . . . och. "You persuaded your Patrons to lift the Guardian Spells from what was left of Ybarre's grimoires."

  "Clever princeling. I did."

  But where was an untrained sorcerer getting his magical stamina? Those Words of Power alone should have drained him.

  Unless, of course, Bremor was drawing on the all but inexhaustible strength of his Patrons? Yes, of course he was! And did he realize the danger? Did he know that even a trained mind can die from an overflow of Power. An untrained mind could only be helplessly intoxicated by that endless flood, wildly drinking in more and yet more of Power far beyond all mortal bearing until . . .

  For a moment I suppose I really was thinking like one of Faerie, which is to say, quite without that most human of emotions: pity. For a moment I considered simply shielding myself and letting Bremor strike futilely at me again and again till at last he overreached himself. The backlash of demonic Power would very literally burn out his brain, and I would watch him writhe in anguish as he had once watched me—

  No! Morality aside, such Powerful wildfire would destroy everyone in the hall!

  Ah well. Decided, I smiled thinly. "Despite your Patrons, you're still very much an amateur. We both know it. You wouldn't stand a chance in combat with a true magician."

  "Such as yourself?" he mocked. "You were my slave, princeling, remember that. You were my toy to torment as I saw fit."

  He was trying his best to weaken me with terror or shame. But I ignored his taunts, overwhelmed by the fierce eagerness building within me. "I don't want to murder even such as you." I also didn't want to risk taking on the infernal magics of his Patrons. "So let this settling of accounts be a test of iron, not Power."

  He grinned, throwing off his elegant cloak. "Agreed."

 
; With one lithe bound, he had cleared the table, theatrical even in his moves. His sword flashed out.

  And our long overdue battle was joined.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  BATTLES

  We fought in silence. Leave the gallant words, the mocking jests, to minstrels' tales; in true combat you have no breath to spare for them. There was only the wild, cold song of blade on blade, the faint rustle of our feet on the treacherously shifting rushes, as we cut and slashed and lunged, all before the eyes of that motionless, helplessly entranced assembly, beneath those bright, incongruous banners.

  But we were much of a height, much of the same reach and skill; Bremor knew the shieldless style of fighting as well as I. Time passed: too much time, I thought. Trying not to pant, I began to realize it might well be Estmere's fickle Dame Fortune or simple exhaustion that determined the winner. My sword already seemed painfully heavy, and perspiration was stinging my eyes and what small cuts Bremor had managed to inflict.

  But wasn't he ever going to tire as well? Though I knew I'd cut Bremor a few times, darkening that elegant red velvet here and there, the wounds hadn't been important, not enough to weaken him. For all that his hair was now as sleekly wet as mine, the man's stamina seemed inhuman.

  Inhuman? Demonic, perhaps?

  Gallu, no, if I started letting myself believe I was fighting something more than a man, I was lost. But by sheer ferocity he was driving me back and back—

  Dame Fortune laughed. My foot landed on something round—a dropped goblet. It turned under my heel, and I went sprawling, cushioned by rushes, clinging to my sword and twisting desperately to avoid Bremor's savage downward stab. His blade crunched into the rushes, so close to my head I lost a lock of hair. Before he could pull the sword free, I scrambled to my feet, trying to slash at him even as I struggled for balance. Bremor sprang back out of my reach with a contemptuous laugh—