Alban’s voice, sharp with outrage and worry, jerked Kieran from his bardic trance. His hands pulled a last discordant clash of notes as they fell from the strings.
Kieran’s chest rose and fell as though he had run a great distance. His hands shook. Power—too much, too wild!—dissipated slowly.
Outside, the wind calmed, though black storm clouds still covered the sky.
“What were you doing? Cold as it is, your storm would have come down as snow. A blizzard. We have a hunting party out there. Were you trying to kill them?”
Oh, mercy of the Grace. He hadn’t lost control of the magic like that since he had been a gawky adolescent. Only this would have been much worse had Alban not been there because Kieran had grown that much stronger.
He put the harp down, far out of reach, and then wrapped his arms around himself.
“What happened?” Alban asked more gently.
Music still ran through his mind, drowning out language. The only words that came were not useful. Bardic magic. Healing magic. Duets.
“The head housekeeper came to me, said you scared the girl who brought your lunch, but she wasn’t making much sense. Then I looked outside and saw storm clouds gathering, and I felt— I can’t describe what I felt, but I recognized you in it.”
Kieran curled up a little tighter, humiliated that Alban had seen him lose control.
“There is a residual affinity between you and me from the mind-link,” Alban continued. “I might not have sensed it otherwise. I doubt my father knows. I need you to give me a reason not to tell him.”
Kieran dropped his head. “I can’t. You should tell him. I would in your place.”
“Kieran, what happened?” Alban asked again, this time in his healer’s voice, anger completely gone and replaced with patient concern.
“I got lost,” he whispered. “In the music. It happens sometimes. It’s not supposed to.”
“You’re not making much sense.”
Kieran felt exhausted now, and shaky, like he always did when the magic took him so completely and then left him bereft. He wished Alban would embrace him as he had in the library, soothing his mind with the touch of his own.
He took a breath and tried again. “It’s more common when a bard is young and is first learning the craft. The magic sneaks up and takes over, and things happen. As you get older and learn to better control the magic, it doesn’t take over. It was, well, my weakness, my failure that let it get so out of hand.”
Kieran remembered his tutor screaming in his face in the middle of a rainstorm. And he’d been young then, and the loss of control seemed normal from everything he had later read on the subject. But his tutor had terrified him, and the memory still remained.
“I was thinking more about the book, and about my frustration, than I was about what I was doing. I was careless, and I’m old enough and have trained enough to know better. You’re right, people could have been hurt because of it. I can’t ask you to keep this from your father.”
Toryn would take the harp away, surely. Probably the book as well. He’d violated their hospitality. The Oathbreaker would be justified in throwing him in the dungeon, or tossing him out to flounder in the snow until he froze to death.
Alban shifted onto the bed and pulled Kieran into his arms, an entirely welcome and unexpected gesture that Kieran had no defense against. Then Alban’s power brushed against Kieran’s mind, and Kieran allowed the touch, expecting a gentle interrogation of his truthfulness. Instead, Alban’s mind cradled his, warm and reassuring. With a sigh, Kieran leaned into him, body and mind.
What Alban’s intentions were with this level of contact, surely beyond a healer’s attentions and definitely beyond the bare civility of enemies in armistice, Kieran could not say. Were Alban not so innocent, Kieran would have suspected the beginnings of a seduction. Might even be tempted to go along with one, except that the Oathbreaker would likely have his bollocks if he found out.
In Alban’s thoughts, however, he sensed no arousal and no cunning, just compassion layered with disquiet and indecision.
“I’m not asking you to keep this from your father,” Kieran reminded Alban reluctantly from the cocoon of comfort.
Alban’s unhappiness flared, rather than subsided, at Kieran’s attempt at reassurance. “Do you think this is so easy for me? Father is not fond of you. Though it is not all your doing, your presence here has caused a lot of headaches for him. I do believe that he will still try to be fair—”
“You’re acting like I—”
Annoyance tinged Alban’s thoughts. “I know you aren’t asking. But I can feel how worried you are about Father finding out, though I think it would not be quite so bad as you imagine. Certainly he wouldn’t do anything that would endanger your life or even compromise your healing.”
The closeness of their bond meant Kieran couldn’t hide his skepticism. Alban’s annoyance rose a notch in response.
“But there should be consequences of some sort,” Alban continued. “I don’t want to see you made miserable over something that I can tell you didn’t intend. On the other hand...”
“On the other hand, what I did was dangerous and you have a duty to tell your father. Alban, I’ve no desire to come between you and your duty, or you and your family.”
“Why should you care?”
The underlying bitterness through the link made Kieran regret the harsh things he’d said to Alban about Leas in those early days. Still he found the question dangerous.
“Why should you care about me?” he returned.
Alban’s frustration at having the question turned on him came clearly through the link. Awareness of the inadvisability of the conversation belonged to both of them.
“Can you promise me it won’t happen again?” Alban asked.
Kieran shook his head. “I can’t.” Over the spike of Alban’s disappointment and anger, he added, “Not that I don’t want to. Before today, I would have sworn that what just happened couldn’t happen to me at my age and with my training. I suppose I was too cocky, too careless.”
Against all instincts, he made no attempt to hide how much the experience had shaken him. “I will be more cautious from now on, but I can’t make an absolute guarantee, not unless I stop harping altogether. That I will not do unless someone takes the harp away.”
Alban rubbed his hands down Kieran’s arms, a soothing gesture, almost a caress. “I should not want that to happen.”
The admiration for his music that Alban sent through the bond made Kieran flush. But then Alban slipped away to stand by the window. Kieran felt a chill with the absence of his embrace and the touch of his mind. Outside, the sky had begun to clear.
If Alban had not stopped him, Kieran’s storm might have killed the Leas hunters, technically his kindred despite all, without provocation or the excuse of war.
He knew what Alban should do, for all that he selfishly hoped he would not.
Alban spoke to the sky beyond. “How am I to know what you are capable of? You are like the trickster in the tales mortals tell. Serious one moment, playful the next, angry and laughing by turns. All things and none.”
“I’m a bard. It’s in my nature to rise to the occasion, whatever the occasion might be, funeral or wedding or raucous night at the pub. Not all of us can be solid, reliable healers. You know that what happened was unintentional, which makes it all the more dangerous, because I cannot promise with absolute certainty that it will not happen again.”
When Alban turned, it seemed as though he had aged. Not in lines of the face, the way mortals aged, but in the eyes. Some essential innocence was gone, and Kieran mourned its passing.
“I will not tell my father about this. So long as it does not happen again. The Grace help us both if it does.”
“And you are leaving that book alone for a while,” Alban said. “It is too much on your mind.”
Kieran bit back his instinctive cry of protest. He needed that book, needed to solve its mysteries.
And yet Alban would be perfectly in his rights to take it away forever, just as he could have, should have told his father what had happened this day.
Though every fiber of his being rebelled against it, he held his peace and clung to the hope that ‘for a while’ would not prove to be as long as he feared it might.
Eleven
That evening, Alban mind-linked with Kieran before the healing session without being asked. No point any more with the pretense that they were only enemies thrown together by chance. No point even pretending that they were just friends, not when he hid things from his father to protect Kieran. Just what they were, he had no words for.
At Kieran’s request, Alban eased him into sleep, leaving him with a silent wish of good night. It was early still, but the day had taken its toll on them both.
Given that he had left Kieran early in restful sleep, he was surprised when he brought in breakfast the next morning that the Scathlan looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. To Alban’s queries, Kieran would only say that he had not been sleeping well.
“Is it the ankle?” Alban asked. “I can ask Father about increasing the dosage of herbs for pain.”
Kieran shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it. I could ask you for herbs to achieve a deeper sleep, but I think we both know how dangerous those can be.”
Alban could mix and measure the herbs so they would be safe enough in the short term, but Kieran was right. Such things could easily be habit forming. Alban did not want to send Kieran back home with an unhealthy dependence.
It was a good thing he had taken the book from Kieran. The bard needed to rest. Perhaps, with a few days’ respite from his obsession, he would sleep better.
Kieran was not in the mood to harp that morning, so Alban read to him from a book of mortal folk tales. That cheered him, and by afternoon Kieran asked for pen and paper to jot down ideas on how the stories might be improved or combined and added to his repertoire.
Days passed and, even without the book, Kieran seemed to get little rest, judging by his increasingly wan appearance. Alban brought him lavender and heart’s solace cut from his mother’s glassed conservatory. Both flowers were said to bring restful sleep. He might have felt shy bringing blossoms to the Scathlan as though he were courting a maid, but Kieran set him at his ease, thanking him and singing a mortal ballad on the supposed origins of heart’s solace.
Like many ballads, it was beautiful but sad, a story about a young woman dying from heartbreak after her love wed another for the sake of the other’s dowry. According to the song, heart’s solace first grew from her grave. Anyone who gathered it in her memory and hung a sprig at the bedroom window would never be parted from true love.
“Silly, of course,” Kieran said. “Heart’s solace has been around for as long as anyone can remember, and mortal girls are still losing their true loves to another in droves, despite the advice of the song. At least to go by the ballads and the public house gossip.”
Alban shook his head at the cynicism. “I would offer to hang a sprig in your window and you could try it out, but you don’t believe in true love.”
“You do.” Kieran broke off a sprig and handed it to him. “If there is a true love for you, may you never be parted.”
The lavender and the heart’s solace gave the room a sweet scent like the first of spring, but it didn’t seem to help Kieran sleep. Kieran, who nightly shared the intimacy of the mind-link with Alban, still refused to say anything of the dreams that disturbed his sleep. Though tempted, Alban would not violate Kieran’s trust by trying to read more through the bond than his friend willingly shared.
#
Kieran wondered if he was going crazy, wondered if he would end up plunging to his death as his teacher had. Every night Alban eased him into sweet sleep. That first little part of the night was the only respite Kieran found. No matter how deeply he slept, he always knew the moment Alban slipped from his mind and went to his own bed. And then the dreams began, dreams in which he shared the suffering of his trapped queen.
He woke shaking from it each night, never soon enough for his sanity and yet too soon for his body, which craved rest. Unable to return to sleep even if he dared, he stared at the dark window for hours, the empty stillness pressing around him, waiting for the first pale grayness that meant dawn, that meant Alban would be coming with breakfast before too long.
Kieran thought he had known loneliness in his life, but those empty hours lying awake while the rest of the world peacefully slept and the dream hovered at the edge of his thoughts waiting to take him should he fall, those empty hours taught him the true meaning of being alone. Tempting, so tempting, to go to Alban, sleeping just in the next room. Alban would be worried, would fuss and ask questions Kieran couldn’t answer, but he would keep Kieran company.
Tempting, too, to beg Alban to stay the night with him, to not leave his mind. But would Alban’s presence keep the dreams away? Or would he expose the queen’s pain to someone who was still her enemy, even if no longer his?
More stopped him than concern for his queen’s sanctity. The mind-link was primarily a Leas talent, but he still knew a little about it. Enough to know that the compatibility of their minds and the casual frequency with which they linked was not common and implied a level of intimacy beyond their true situation. To the outside observer, the moments of—should he call it cuddling? Embracing?—that they shared would speak of a romantic relationship or at least a sexual one. Despite his inexperience, Alban had to know this too.
Were it not so utterly impossible, Kieran would have tried his luck a long time ago. Pushing the boundaries further by asking Alban to guard his sleep or keep him company through those sleepless hours would threaten to destroy what they already had, forcing it to a point where they had to acknowledge and discuss it.
He had a lot of time, in those lonely, dark hours before dawn, to contemplate the inadvisability of even their current relationship. Despite his reckless nature, he prided himself on never playing with another’s heart.
What did this all mean to Alban? More, what did it mean to him?
Kieran liked Alban. A lot. He enjoyed his company. Love? He couldn’t even swear he knew what the word meant, for all the pretty ballads he sang.
What he did know was that Alban kept him sane.
#
When Alban brought in breakfast a week from the day that he had taken the book from Kieran, he found the bard standing by the window. The open window with cold air rushing in. He set the tray on the table.
Kieran turned at the sound. “It still amazes me that sometimes we are actually above the clouds here.” He smiled. “The sun is so bright on the clouds today, and the clouds look so soft and thick, like you could just walk across them.”
“Well, you can’t,” Alban said sharply.
Kieran laughed, some of his old spirit shining through. “Of course not. I may be the Fool, but not that much of a fool.”
“Why is the window open?”
The quick flash of humor slipped away like the sun behind the cloud. “I needed fresh air.”
Alban stepped closer, evaluating Kieran with a healer’s eye. “Did you sleep last night?”
“I was asleep when you left me, O Prince of Light.”
Alban frowned. “Did you sleep well? Or did you dream again and wake?”
“I slept enough.”
“For one who makes his way in the world by telling stories, you are a terrible liar.”
“Only when I am not trying.” Kieran closed the window, then hobbled over to the table to join Alban for breakfast.
“Will you tell me about the dreams?”
Kieran studied his plate. “There’s nothing to tell. They’re just dreams.”
“It’s not healthy to go so long without sufficient sleep. It’s hard on your body. And on your mind.”
Was it his imagination or did Kieran just flinch?
Alban took a deep breath. “I’ve done everything I can for you to th
e limit of my skill. There are drugs that bring sleep, but they can be dangerous. I would have to consult with my father.”
“No.”
Of course Kieran would object. Father wouldn’t give a courtier’s smile and dance politely around Kieran’s evasions. Which might be for the best. There were reasons why tradition cautioned against having friends as patients if a healer could avoid it.
If Kieran didn’t start doing better, Alban would have to go to his father.
He reached across the table, placing his hand over Kieran’s. “I want to help you. Tell me what I can do to help.”
“It was better when I was working on the book.”
True, but Alban hadn’t forgotten Kieran’s preoccupation with its contents nor the day he had lost control of his magic.
“You said I should take a break for a few days. It’s been more than a few days,” Kieran pressed.
The book might not have had anything to do with Kieran’s loss of control. Perhaps Alban had made a mistake by taking the book from him.
He wished he could consult with his father, but that would mean confessing things that he had so far withheld. His father would be angry and disappointed. Kieran would feel betrayed.
Alban would muddle through for a while longer and hope for the best.
“I have the book in my room. I’ll get it for you when I go down to have dinner with my family. If you let me get you out of the room today.”
Kieran frowned. “I have been practicing with the crutches in the room—”
“This is not just about exercise, though I think just moving about the room isn’t enough. You need to get outside these walls. I don’t think it’s been good for you to stay here days on end.”
“It didn’t turn out so well last time.”
“I’ll be with you.”
“I don’t want to cause you difficulty with your own people.”
Alban sighed. “You were almost easier to deal with when you thought we were enemies.”
“We are enemies. Only now it’s complicated.”
Complicated didn’t begin to cover it. Alban crossed his arms over his chest and held Kieran with his stare.
Where Light Meets Shadow Page 9