“Dance for me,” he said. Both Elias and Larry shifted. Sean was sure they were both biting their tongues, but he waved the girls to start their dance.
The girls pulled themselves together and returned to the middle of the floor. The flutist retired to the side and began to play.
As they spun, bent and swayed to the lively music of the flute, Sean caused scarves of the sheerest material to revolve around them. The scarves almost obscured the dancers, and yet they enhanced the grace and smoothed the flow of the dance. The gold and silver rings began to scatter and clatter across the floor and the dancers faltered in their pace, but only for a second.
Sean reached up and snagged a handful of Larry’s mail at his chest. He made gold and silver bells (respectively), and attached them to gold and silver satin straps that he tied around their throats, their elbows, their wrists, their waists, their knees and their ankles. Also to these straps he attached the sheer scarves and added more, also of silver and gold. The dance changed from a flash and jangle of living metal to a streaming, jingling flow of bells and scarves. Sean thought he was going to melt. It wasn’t as though the magic was so difficult, but it was extremely delicate.
Sean couldn’t focus on the dance anymore. He was having trouble keeping both eyes pointed in the same direction.
Larry stepped around in front of him. “Sean, stop, stop.” He grabbed Sean’s face.
For the life of him, Sean couldn’t hold his friend’s face in the center of his view.
Larry gripped Sean’s face and started to call his name. “Sean, Sean…”
It all faded. Everything faded. It was not quite fainting, nor was it falling asleep; it was more like an old movie fading to black and Sean was unable to resist it. The last he heard was someone giggling and someone else sobbing.
It is said that sleep is most restful when the sleeper is dreaming. Sean didn’t remember dreaming. He just remembered floating in limbo with the occasional nudge, bump or twinge. Sometime after he was carted off to a bed, a priestess of the White House of Healers arrived. The first Sean knew of her was feeling her magic.
Instinctively, he tried to throw it off. It was healing, but he hadn’t identified it as such; it was just magic, and magic cast at him was to be deflected. His feeble efforts were batted down, leaving him feeling like a squashed bug. He twitched. That was his first real awareness of anything since the dance, and it was his desire to rebel that sparked it – if he could just figure out how he was supposed to rebel – if he could remember why he wanted to rebel in the first place.
He began to toss and turn. The dreams he had were fitful, disjointed and ugly. They took the form of something similar to a slide show that made him wince away from them, or at least that’s all he remembered about them.
One day/night, he rolled into some hands. It was the first obstruction he remembered running into, and it caught what there was of his attention. He wedged his eyes open and focused on a round face he didn’t recognize.
“Lie still,” she said. “You’re not going to sleep well unless you lie still.”
He wanted to ask her who she was, but composing the entire question and then ordering his mouth to ask it, was more than he could manage. He gave it a valiant try, though; he managed to stay awake for almost a whole minute. The question never made it past his lips.
Mindlessly, he started to roll over again, but she stopped him. His blankets were tied in knots and he was chilled. He tried to warm up the room, but she suppressed his magic. He tried to push her away, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded.
“Must I shut you down?” she asked. “Stop using your magic, at least until you can lift your sword again.”
My sword, I haven’t finished my set. He reached out for his swords with some unformed intention of doing just that.
‘Shut down’ is an odd feeling. He’d been using magic freely for only a few months, and he clearly remembered his first struggles, but he wasn’t aware of the other changes that came along with opening to magic. Suddenly, everything seemed two-dimensional – dim – quiet. He puzzled over the feeling for a whole moment, then tried to roll over again.
“Well, that went over better than I thought,” she commented as she prevented him from rolling over once again.
Someone pulled the blankets straight then added another one before climbing in beside him. “I’ll keep him still, mistress,” said a soft voice at his shoulder.
His effort to see who the new person was carried him onto his side. He curled up around her and drifted off to sleep without ever identifying her.
Once again, his sleep was fairly dreamless. Later, dancing girls wove their lovely curves through his dreams. They were slow dances and they were likely sparked by the fact that he had this good smelling soft body to curl up around and another one curled up around him at his back; he was pleasantly warm and cozy.
He was more aware of himself by now, and he knew that he still rolled around, but he always found someone to curl around, no matter how often he turned, and with this pleasant distraction from his uglier nightmares, he slept.
While he slept, Ferris and Elias tried to manage the affairs Sean had scarcely been able to touch. There were security matters, governmental matters, matters within the palace, and without. A major swath of the country had been torn up and was now in utter upheaval. A million things had to be taken care of.
When Sean’s body had recovered enough for his mind to remember that fact, the thought brought him upright abruptly.
Cézanne reached up and tugged at his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, as soon as he realized who she was. “I thought you were still at the tent.”
She stopped her tugging and trailed her nails around his back. He squirmed with pleasure. “The priestess brought the rest of us here as soon as she learned who you were and where you were. We’ve been here for nearly a week now.”
That brought him around even faster. “A week! I’ve been sleeping for a week?” Sean made a fair approximation of jumping out of bed, and found out that a week of tossing and turning in bed was not the same as, say, walking. He managed to keep his feet, though, at least long enough to reach a chair, which fortunately wasn’t far away.
Cezanne corrected him shyly. “Well actually, you collapsed ten days ago.”
“What?”
His raised voice brought in others from outside. Larry and Cordan were among them, but the face that caught his attention was the round one he remembered seeing before – then came the realization that she was female – then came the realization that he had no clothes on and the blankets were several steps away.
“Get out of here,” Sean yelled as he tried to preserve his modesty.
Larry guffawed and Cordan smiled widely, but other than that, no one left. The woman was unfazed; she came directly over to him and set a hand on his forehead. “You seem to be well on the way to recovery. How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough by far,” he said, resenting her presence hugely as he hunched over in the chair with his arms across his lap.
“Then you were aware of the passage of time. I never would have thought…”
“No,” he retorted. “Cézanne told me how long it’s been. Would you leave now so I can get dressed?”
“No, the first thing you’re going to do is take a bath.” She waved at Larry and Cordan who retreated, still snickering. Then she pulled a blanket off the bed and handed it to him while Cézanne dressed herself. “Now tell me what you remember,” she said, as she drew a chair up in front of him.
Sean looked at her. “Who are you?”
She smiled. “My name is Hélène. I am a priestess of the White House of Healers. A runner came to inform us that dancers had completed the Dance. I was sent to confirm the outcome. In nine months, you will be the proud father of four children. Three of them will be boys and one of them will be a girl.” She let that sink in for a moment. “When I learned that you were the man who was displaying th
e White Star banner all over the country, and that you were here, I brought them here myself. You had already collapsed.”
“Can you tell me why I collapsed? I know I was tired, but…” he waved his hand vaguely.
“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to use your magic yet,” she countered. “Who taught you what you do know?”
“Cisco, mostly, until I found out that she really worked for Ludwyn. I stopped listening to her then.”
“Well that explains some things. I’ve heard of some other examples of her work. There are vast gaps in your education, but I’ll start by answering this question; you collapsed because you were tired. From what I understand, you had been drugged extensively, badly injured and not treated except by yourself as far as you could, then injured again almost fatally, and again you managed to draw strength from another in order to keep yourself alive. All of this hard on the heels of a whirlwind ride that covered thousands of miles, then the Soul Dance to its ending. You are not super human. Fortunately, you are young and strong. You are also the culmination of two very strong bloodlines. That, and only that, is the reason you are still alive. Now, answer my question. Why haven’t you reached for your magic? You could have dressed yourself in a blink instead of resorting to this.” She waved at the blanket Sean had in his lap.
“I seem to remember you telling me to leave my magic alone until I could lift my sword. I think I’ll do that. I’m curious to see just how much of my skill with my sword is due to my magic. I would prefer they were separate.” I hadn’t thought of it specifically before, but it’s illogical for my swordsmanship to be dependent upon my magic.
“This is really amazing,” she said. “Don’t you miss it?”
He thought about it for a moment. “It’s different, to be sure, and it’s real handy, but I can’t claim to miss it. How did you manage to shield me after all? No one else could do it.”
“Many patients need to be shielded because they become dangerous when they are ill. Those of us who are strong enough are taught how to shield. I think, in your case, you may have allowed it too; I’m not sure I could have done it otherwise.”
There was a tapping at the door and Larry stuck his head in. “Water’s hot,” he said. “Fernand said he would have something for you to eat as soon as you come down.”
Speaking of eating…etc. “How did I eat for the last week?”
Hélène just smiled.
“Or do I want to know?”
“Go, get into the bathtub,” she said. “I’m going to be here a while. I’ll do my best to see that you learn everything you should know about your magic.”
Dark Reaches
Sean came down to find his grandfather’s armor back on its rack along with the shoulder piece he had acquired from Mattie’s grandmother. He could see there was a difference in the wear, but other than that, the design and the coloring were the same. He was willing to bet that if he were to look for the maker’s mark, they too would match.
The rack had been moved to stand beside the throne. He supposed Elias had put it there to stand in for him while he slept – or perhaps that’s where it had been kept originally. Looking at it, he felt underdressed. He began to put it on. He buckled the heavy belt around his waist, and even put on the gloves his aunt Marinda had given him. Leaving off the helmet, he moved to the middle of the floor.
In honor of his old teacher, Master Mushovic, he did a dozen push-ups, finding the physical action easier than he remembered. In an effort to improve his strength and speed, Master Mushovic had him wearing full heavy armor for most of his lessons. Being free of the encumbrance during the tournaments had made a marked difference in his speed and reflexes. Stiff muscles across his shoulders and down his arms distracted Sean from thoughts of the past, and he turned over to do a few sit-ups, but the floor was too hard for too many of those in any kind of armor.
After a few stretching exercises to loosen up, he drew the twin swords with a long-armed flourish and began a simple routine. These swords were each heavier than his Uncle Clayton’s one long sword. From the heavy ball on the end of the hilt, he could picture them being used for some backhanded work as well, so, just as he had sought to figure out how to use two swords in the first place, he now sought to figure out how to work those clubs into his routine.
He was just getting into the groove when he heard a flute. Nothing against the music, but it jangled all wrong against his nerves; music and swords just don’t go together. He stopped and looked up to see the flutist, whose name he never caught, and his two dancers, Gold and Silver; they looked much better in silks and bells. Apparently, it was time for after-breakfast entertainment, or perhaps they’d spied on him and came out when they thought he was bored. Many stories he’d read said that servants were expert spies.
“No,” said Sean. “Leave me. I will send for you when I need entertaining. If you wish something of me, you may petition just like everyone else. Now go.” Sean grimaced to hear himself; his words sounded so very formal. The girls looked heart broken as the flutist ushered them from the room.
With them gone, Sean returned to his exercise. He flexed his right hand. Though no longer discolored, the muscles all up his arm were stiff and sore; his pushups had done little to alleviate it. Though he didn’t have a very clear memory of it, he was pretty sure both of his shoulders had been dislocated and probably broken, but he couldn’t remember anything happening to his forearm. He leaned his swords against his legs and massaged the muscles in his wrist.
Hélène appeared from around a column. “Is your arm still sore?”
He looked up and noticed for the first time that she had a faint mark between her eyebrows. Hélène was a child of the Dance. She’s probably a cousin or something too. Her presence here couldn’t be only because she’s a strong healer. “Yeah, I can understand my shoulders being sore, but my forearm really hurts.”
She came over and smoothed the ache away with a touch. “It was broken in three places. I’m not at all surprised that it aches.”
Sean wasn’t either after hearing that. He wondered how his forearm had been broken. It had to have been something Ludwyn had done; he just couldn’t remember it happening. He flexed his hand, then took up his swords again as she moved off.
He was soon immersed in the rhythm and weight of his grandfather’s swords. With the rhythm, his mind filled with scenes of a battle. The pillars in the vast chamber became scattered skirmishes. People were fighting and dying all around him. His people. The battle for the narrow mountain pass had been going on for days with only brief pauses during the darkest part of the night.
This was their last stand; it was win this pass or die trying. His commanders and their men were doing their job, but he had just been unhorsed and his men were beginning to falter as their ranks were whittled apart. Sean yelled a rallying cry to bring his units together and close the Hand. “Ruhinídain, ruhinídain, ahāa mí akēa!” The call was taken up and it began to echo. A new surge followed. He called again, then sounded the horn hanging from his shoulder. At the sound, many of the enemy turned from their fight and came at him. His battle cry, and now the horn, identified him as the leader – the self-proclaimed king of a country that didn’t yet exist. With him dead or taken, the battle would be theirs, along with his fledgling country. I cannot allow that; I will carve this land into my kingdom and I will hand it down to my sons! My sons, they are still so very young and so very close behind me down in the valley. No, I will not fall.
His Hand converged on their young king’s position and the enemy fell into his trap. He and his commanders – four brothers – the four fingers of a hand – his closest friends – with him as the thumb and fifth member of the hand, they crushed their enemy into surrender. By the time the sun sank below the far horizon behind them, the last of the pockets of resistance had been cowed and the pass was theirs.
Sean dropped his points and turned to view the battlefield around him. The act of pushing away a visor that wasn’t there woke
him from his pseudo-dream. Standing there in front of the throne was a tall man in heavy armor. In one hand, he held a sword that looked heavier and longer than anything Sean had ever seen before, exempting one six-foot monster back at his aunt’s farm. From his shoulder hung a long horn that looked to have been dropped in red paint, he had his helmet under his arm and his short gray hair was plastered to his skull with sweat. His heavy gray mustache stretched with his smile and his brown eyes crinkled as he nodded, then he faded.
A heavy hand batted Sean’s armored shoulder and he turned to see another tall man in armor. Gray marked his curly dark hair also. “You’ve done better than me. You actually won a smile from the old bastard.” He turned and walked into a pillar. Others followed; some made some small comment, but most of them just punched at Sean’s armor in some manner or clasped his arm and hand. They all smiled before fading into one or another of the pillars supporting the tall ceiling.
The last in the procession was much younger than the rest and an insolent twinkle still lingered in his eyes; he didn’t look older than thirty, if that. He punched Sean square in the chest with his gauntleted fist, then rested his heavy hand on Sean’s shoulder and curled his fingers around the back of Sean’s neck. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said, as he gave Sean a little shake. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to have your son surpass you.” He reached up with his other hand and ruffled Sean’s hair. “Just like your mother’s.” His eyes went all sad at the mention of her, but then he smiled again and with a final shake, he too disappeared into one of the pillars.
Sean stood in the center of the floor. He was utterly astounded. Elias was the first person his eyes found. He was leaning against the wall behind the throne, to one side of the banner that hung there. “What was that?” he asked.
The Making of a Mage King: Prince in Hiding Page 25
