Limits of Power

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Yes, sir king,” Camwyn said with a formal bow. He felt like dancing.

  “We’ll be in tents some nights,” Mikeli said. “Sharing a tent—and if I snore, you’re not to complain.”

  Sharing a tent. Camwyn restrained himself from shoving his hands in his pockets. What would he do if his hand lit up and Mikeli saw it?

  “You’ve never seen the royal tent,” Mikeli said. “It’s huge, big enough for a dozen or more to sleep in, so you’ll have a little room of your own.”

  Thank you, Gird.

  “Because you might snore and keep me awake.” Mikeli laughed. “Oh—and you’ll need a page. Someone I trust. You can have Aris. He’ll have a pallet in your room.”

  Near panic again, except it was Aris. Aris was better than Mikeli. And maybe he slept very soundly.

  Past that panic, his first thought was that he and Aris now had three whole days without lessons in which to explore the palace roofs and find a route to one particular skylight. They met at evening arms practice—not a regular lesson, he told himself, putting on his banda and lining up with the others. Just as he was about to tell Aris the good news, Armsmaster Fralorn arrived, and they all bowed. Fralorn scowled at him. “Prince, what are you doing here? Surely the king himself told you you’re excused—”

  “From tutors, he said, sir. Not arms practice.”

  “Here as well. You and Aris Marrakai. Put your gear away neatly and quietly and begone.”

  Aris, it was clear, had not heard the word; his lips were clamped tight and his expression stubborn. Maybe he thought they were in trouble. Camwyn explained on the way back upstairs, finishing with, “And you get to come with me. The king says I need a page—”

  “I’m not your page! I’m your friend—I thought—”

  “Of course you are. But I’m just a prince. I can’t take friends with me. Only people with a job. That’s why you’ll be a page.”

  Aris’s expression eased. “Are you going to order me around, then?”

  “I am older,” Camwyn said. “And if you were my brother, you’d be younger.”

  “Yes, but … all right.” Aris gave in as quickly as a colt might. Now he grinned. “And no lessons or duties until we leave? Both of us?”

  “That’s right. They want us out of the way while packing, I don’t doubt. We can go out on the roofs any time we want.”

  Early the next morning, they were up high in the palace, this time in the library wing, looking for a way out that would give them easy access to the north side roofs. One little windowless stair after another emptied only into attic storerooms, servants’ quarters, or promising niches that might have been doors before having stones set firmly into the arch or square-cut gap. Once more, repair debris helped point the way: a stack of slates by a closed door in a blind passage.

  By the time they made it up a ladder and out the trapdoor at the top, the sun was well up. The ladder, they discovered, had been on one side of a chimney stack that now hid them from anyone on the south palace roofs. They were dizzyingly high even for boys who liked to climb on roofs. Camwyn’s stomach seemed to writhe inside him. Aris looked paler than usual.

  “We’re here,” Camwyn said. Sitting down with his back to the chimney and one hand clasping the last rung of the ladder seemed a good idea. The roof here, shadowed by the chimney stack, was still damp; he ran his fingers over it. Yes, slippery.

  “I didn’t know it was this high on this side,” Aris said. He looked straight out to the horizon, not down.

  Ahead of them, the city roofs made jagged shapes out to the north wall; from up here, the places it had been breached in Gird’s war showed clearly. Beyond were the pastures and then the forests and then higher hills and forests beyond. Up there somewhere, Camwyn reminded himself, was the northernmost part of the kingdom, the North Marches, where the dragon had come from.

  He looked east and west along the ridge of the roof, trying to spot the skylight of the treasury. It should be … there. He forced himself to let go the ladder and scoot on his backside around the chimney stack to the ridgeline, telling himself he was less likely to be seen than if he stood up.

  “Won’t he be expecting you at breakfast?” Aris sounded scared. Camwyn turned to look, surprised. Aris was still sitting by the chimney stack, now more than his body’s length away. “The king, I mean. Don’t you have breakfast with him?”

  “Usually,” Camwyn said. He looked at the sun, then the distance to the skylight he thought was the right one. It would be quicker with just one. He looked back. “It will just take me a flick of time, Aris. You don’t have to come.”

  Aris reddened. “I’ll come. I’m not scared.” He stood up; Camwyn could see at once that Aris had moved too quickly. His foot skidded on the damp roof; he grabbed for the ladder but raked his hand on the stone chimney instead and—his balance completely off—began the fall that could be nothing but fatal.

  Camwyn flung a frantic prayer for help—Gird! Falk! Camwyn!—even as he moved, even as he knew he was too far away, too slow … and then he was flat on his front, his right hand around Aris’s wrist, his left fisted in Aris’s shirt. He had a moment to realize that he was lying on nothing but two handspans of air, and then he settled to the roof as gently as the dragon had settled back to the stones of the courtyard.

  They were not falling to their deaths. They were not even sliding down the roof … here, out of the chimney’s shadow, the roof had dried and the pitch felt less steep than it had looked. Face to face, eye to eye, they stared at each other. Camwyn could feel his heart pounding, his blood roaring in his ears, and he could feel—separate, distinct—Aris’s pulse in the wrist he held.

  “You … flew…” Aris said.

  “I jumped,” Camwyn said.

  “You saved my life.”

  “Maybe. Let me see…” Very cautiously, without letting go of Aris, Camwyn squirmed a little uphill, using his hips and his toes. The roof under him felt rough, lumpy, and awkward, but stable. “I don’t know if I can pull you, Aris, but I can steady you. Can you push with your feet? Squirm upward?”

  It was an awkward retreat because Camwyn wouldn’t let go of Aris at first.

  “At least let go my wrist,” Aris said. “Grab my shirt on that side—”

  “It’s an old shirt. What if it tears?” Camwyn could not believe their voices were so calm.

  “I’ll feel it; I’ll grab for you. But I need both hands.”

  It took much longer than either wanted to get back up to the chimney and its ladder—where the roof was now dry—and then they were in the dark, with the trapdoor secured overhead and a long climb down a vertical ladder to the passage below. Their bare feet made no sound on the rungs, but the rungs started a cramp in Camwyn’s left foot. He tried to use only his right foot, but he missed the rung and slid, banging Aris on top of the head and setting off another panic.

  Then they had light. Camwyn stared at his hand, wondering what else could possibly go wrong. Light and heat glowed from it, and when he looked down, he saw the light reflected in Aris’s eyes.

  “You—” Aris began.

  “Just don’t say anything,” Camwyn said. “My foot’s cramping, and I can’t get it to stop while I’m on this ladder.”

  Aris went on down the ladder; Camwyn followed, hanging by his arms most of the way. It was easier in the light; he could see the rungs before reaching for them. Aris waited at the bottom, shoulders hunched. When Camwyn touched the level surface and was able to force his feet to uncramp, the light in his hand went out like a snuffed candle. Dim light from the door they’d left open remained, enough to see Aris’s expression.

  “Did you know?” Aris said.

  “Hush,” Camwyn said. “We are late now, just as you warned, and we don’t want to be caught around here.”

  “You—that was magery!”

  “I don’t think so,” Camwyn said. “I hope not.”

  “But did you know?”

  “Not exactly,” Camwyn said. “I�
�ll talk to you later about this, but we have to get back to my rooms and clean up before they find us looking like street thieves.” Their clothes bore the stains of everything that had been on that roof.

  “But magery—that’s—”

  “That’s illegal. I know. Beclan was banned for it. I know. Later, Aris, please. Just don’t spread it around right now.”

  Aris nodded, his mouth pinched tight. Cautiously, they eased into the branch passage and made their way down from the top floor of the north wing to the next and then the next, where they were immediately collared by palace staff before they could reach the passage that led to Camwyn’s room.

  “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you—the king is most displeased. And you’re filthy, both of you!”

  “It’s my fault,” Camwyn said. “Mik—the king had given me permission to go up on the roof if I had a friend along, so I asked Aris, and—”

  “What were you doing? Rolling about like puppies in a dunghill? Because that’s what it looks like.”

  They were near enough to Mikeli’s rooms that he might hear. “I’m sorry,” Camwyn said. “We’ll clean up, we’ll change—”

  “No. The king said bring you straight to him when we found you.”

  Mikeli looked all king this morning, none of the caring older brother about him at all. He looked them up and down and said to one of the servants, “Take young Marrakai off to bathe and change. Camwyn will breakfast with me.”

  Aris left; Camwyn hoped he would not reveal anything.

  “Sit down, Camwyn,” Mikeli said. “You look like someone who had an unfortunate adventure. Care to tell me about it?”

  As much as he could without … Camwyn sorted his memory of events and began. Finding himself suspended in the air for a few moments and the light that showed him the ladder’s rungs never made it past his teeth.

  “So … as I’m trying to organize and prepare for the first royal progress to be made in the kingdom since you were born, you chose to lark about up on the roof and nearly get yourself and your friend—who just happens to be my best friend’s little brother—killed?” The temper Mikeli rarely let himself show was an almost visible flame on that side of the table.

  “I thought … you said we had no lessons…”

  “That doesn’t mean you had no duties! Cam, if I weren’t determined to take you along, I’d have you locked in a closet for the duration. Where was your thinking?”

  Camwyn looked up and saw both the anger and the fear behind the anger. Tears stung his eyes; he fought them. He was too old to cry. “I know it’s my fault, sir king. I know I was wrong. I just can’t—one day I can think like you and my tutors—or some of it—and another day I think I’m thinking, but at the end of the day—I wasn’t.” His voice broke in the middle of that, a jagged switch of high to low that made it sound as if he were crying. “I try,” Camwyn said, in the harsh new voice.

  Mikeli leaned across the table, the angry flame dying down, the concern returning. “Camwyn … sometimes trying isn’t enough. I’m sorry; I wish it were not so; I wish I could protect you forever, but Cam—dear brother—you must try harder to think first, not once you’re in a pickle.”

  “Did you ever get in trouble?”

  That brought a snort of amusement. “Yes, Brother, I did, but I was the heir, and I had more watchers. And possibly—likely—you are bolder than I ever was or would have been even if I’d not been in leading strings so long. So my troubles were different ones. I was not overfond of protocol.” He shook his head. “But you’re the heir now, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you restrain your adventurous nature. Whatever possessed you to climb onto the north roof, anyway?”

  Camwyn felt the heat rising in his face. “We hadn’t been there yet,” he said.

  “Well, sate your desire for new experiences by making yourself useful to the officer organizing the order of march and the precautions to be taken for the safety of the king’s majesty. One of the staff will escort you to him. After you bathe and dress, of course. I will expect you to report to me at luncheon. I have a different errand for Aris Marrakai, but he may have the same duties in the afternoon as you do. There’ll be no more escapades on the roof before we leave; there’s too much to do.”

  Camwyn found himself paired with a Royal Guard officer for the rest of the morning, watching as the man made list after list of what must be carried along with them, handing each to Camwyn. Camwyn asked questions at first, but clearly the officer—who preferred to be addressed as Captain Rassen though he wore the Bells on his collar and must be a knight—thought princes should listen and not interrupt. He was left to figure out for himself why Captain Rassen inspected a stack of wagon wheels and rejected two and then demanded three to replace them. Why the rations carried for the horses and mules included much less hay than he’d expected. Why it mattered which wagon was where in the supply train.

  He brought his conclusions to Mikeli at lunch, where he found Aris serving the table for them both, looking a little wary as he did so. “You’re mostly right, Cam,” the king said. Then, to Aris, “Thank you, Aris; you may eat now. Sit there.” And back to Camwyn. “This afternoon, I want you and Aris to go to the library and see that the maps are ready, correctly labeled, and that the carrying tubes are long enough for them. If any of the buckles or straps are worn, make a note and let one of the servants take it to the saddler for repair. I have a list of the maps I’ll need—I had them copied onto smaller sheets.”

  By the time they set out two days later, Camwyn felt stuffed with new knowledge. His hands had not lit up again, and Aris had not asked any more questions, as they had not been alone long enough to discuss anything serious.

  To his delight, his own clothes for the journey included the mail Mikeli had worn some years before—not a perfect fit, but—as Mikeli said—it was no use changing the fit while he was growing so fast. By midday, however, he felt much less gleeful about wearing real mail. It was both heavy and hot, and as the morning heated up, he wished he’d followed Mikeli’s advice to wear it around camp in the evenings for a while.

  He told himself to ignore it, and that proved easier than he’d thought as they neared the edge of Mahieran lands and ventured into unknown—for Mikeli at least—territory. Ordinary-looking fields and orchards and pastures and patches of woodland … but ones he’d paid little attention to, riding in a carriage with Lady Verrakai and Egan, then his new best friend on that long-ago trip to Verrakai. Now, riding his own horse, he tried to notice everything. On their left the Honnorgat rolled on, sometimes near enough to see long-necked wading birds prowling the shallows fishing, sometimes screened by a field, a hedge, a fringe of trees. On their right, the land rose to distant hills, clearly arranged in some kind of pattern.

  They made little progress that first day, as people lined the road on either side, waving flowers, branches, kerchiefs. Riding behind the king, Camwyn remembered his instructions: smile, nod, or bow as rank suggested and maintain suitable demeanor—something the palace master of ceremonies had gone over repeatedly. He tried not to sneeze or cough as the king’s spirited stallion, impatient with the slow pace, fretted, jigged, and even pitched a few times, tossing dust in Camwyn’s face. As a result, Camwyn’s mount did the same, and he needed both hands on the reins until lunchtime.

  Those first few days were all delight, with new sights at every turn of the glass. The first evening they camped, Camwyn was thrilled to see the royal pavilion rise on the chosen meadow. He and Aris watched and even lent their weight on the ropes as it went up. They ate at the king’s table outdoors, food that tasted much better for having been cooked over a fire-pit. Camwyn had wondered if the curtains that divided room from room and moved slightly in the breeze would keep him awake, but he fell asleep quickly and woke only when the camp commander blew the morning signal.

  The third night under canvas changed everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Camwyn woke before the turn
of night to the unwelcome reality of his magery: his hand was brightening from a soft glow already. He stuffed his hand back under the blanket. Light leaked out through the weave, brighter every moment. Bright enough to see that Aris, on the other cot, was sound asleep on his back like a tiny child, mouth open, one arm flung out as if it had no weight and just rested on the air.

  Please, he begged a deity who so far had not cooperated. Don’t let this happen. Please.

  The light stuttered like a candle in a breath of air, like a cool draft blowing through the tent, when someone … lifted a curtain. He turned toward the draft, dread chilling his body more than the air. Mikeli’s face in that haunted light looked monstrous, terrifying. The face of someone who might kill him now, this moment.

  “You’re not asleep,” Mikeli said quietly.

  The light in his hand went out, plunging them both into darkness. Now he could see beyond Mikeli, through the two opened curtains between his chamber and Mikeli’s, the faint glow of a candle, fainter by far than his hand had been, lighting nothing.

  “Come,” Mikeli said. “Now.” He stood there, outlined from behind by that distant candle, while Camwyn struggled out of the tangle his bedclothes usually made, trying to keep quiet so Aris wouldn’t wake.

  Excuses tumbled through his mind, but he knew it was too late for excuses. He stubbed his toe on the leg of the camp bed and managed not to make a noise. Mikeli stood aside to let him out and then dropped the curtain behind him. Then he felt Mikeli’s hand—a man’s hand, larger than his own, harder-callused, stronger—on his arm, moving him into Mikeli’s side of the tent.

  As his eyes adjusted to the fainter light of the real candle, he could see Mikeli’s camp bed, the camp chair with its leather seat and back, the table with folding legs, the footstool.

  “Sit there,” Mikeli said, pushing him toward the stool.

  Camwyn folded himself onto it. The candle flame fluttered as Mikeli dropped the curtain to the passage and then sat in the chair. It should have been ludicrous, Camwyn thought, a king in his nightshirt, bare legged and barefoot … but there was nothing amusing about Mikeli’s expression.