Estmere was looking hopelessly smug. "The stories do say the Folk won't let humans discuss them. Not even a human who speaks their language and carries a Faerie blade. Therefore, I decided, your love could only be one of the Folk herself!"
"Logical," Rosamonde murmured. "But that still doesn't explain how you knew to summon help from her."
"Oh. Well. I didn't doubt that a lady whose very blood is magical would be watching over my brother here in some arcane way. At least, so I prayed." The humor faded from Estmere's eyes. "So, when Bremor had us trapped, and I thought you were . . . dying, yet couldn't move a finger to help you, I tried calling to her."
"Mentally. Gallu nef, brawd, do you know how difficult that is? Particularly for someone untrained in Power?"
He gave me a pitying look. "Yes, brother. I do know. I did it, remember? I hadn't the vaguest idea of what to do, or how; I just kept yelling in my mind, praying she would hear me." Estmere chuckled. "It's amazing what one can do under the whip of sheer terror! God's blood, I don't know where you magicians get your stamina. I thought my brain was going to burst. But—I did reach her!" He paused. "Now, I have only one question for you, Aidan. Who was that fierce, splendid, silver-haired fellow who appeared behind you for a moment?"
It was my turn to be smug. "Och, that was merely a Faerie Lord," I said, and grinned.
Plans for a royal wedding went through with truly remarkable haste: "It's either that," Estmere warned his court once we were home again, "or you're going to find your king has eloped!"
Rosamonde made an exquisite bride. And if a fragile, blue-eyed ghost watched the proceedings, she did not linger.
Now, two months later, little remains to be told. My mind seems totally healed; what few small gaps of memory remain are hardly worth concern and will almost certainly vanish with time. As for the fact that a king died on my sword—
Do you recall that sensible-eyed member of Telessian royalty I'd seen in my mirror? Merhaut, his name is, cousin and perforce heir to the late king: in short, he's now King Merhaut I of Telesse. What with no sorcerer in residence there—and none ever likely to be!—the gray hopelessness is fading from that land. Judging from the courteous message of congratulations he sent to the newlyweds, with polite, wary greetings added to me, Merhaut bears me no grudge at all for taking him out from under Bremor's threat and placing him on the throne!
Estmere and Rosamonde, of course, are radiantly happy together, so obviously in love that even prim Sir Verrin beams when he sees them. My brother never did learn of the vow that held me at his side, and I see no reason to enlighten him.
And what of me? Can't you guess? Now that Estmere no longer needs me by his side, now that he's truly happy, I can find my own happiness. I'm returning to the land that's always been my true home. I'm returning to Cymra—
And to Ailanna.
END
GLOSSARY
Aidan's Cymra is, of course, loosely analogous to Wales, though the geography of that and other lands is hardly the same as our own Western Europe. Most of Aidan's Cymraeth exclamations should be obvious to the reader, but a list of translations follows for the curious.
King's Son, Magic's Son Page 30