CHAPTER XXI
WARNINGS
A half week of rest, and I began to feel more nearly human, though my memory remained disturbingly vague, tormenting me with vicious headaches whenever I tried to sharpen it, and my nights were often filled with confused visions of horror.
But then my stunned Power began to revive. Though, maddeningly, I still couldn't focus my will long enough to contact Ailanna (Duwies diolch, Goddess be thanked, whatever else I might have forgotten, I remembered her!), at least magic could destroy nightmares and speed my healing—particularly, I thought with a touch of vanity, the healing of those ugly chain scars circling my wrists; I most certainly did not like looking like a felon.
A full week of rest, and I was bored to distraction. And worried: I was beginning to wonder uneasily if I ever would regain full use of my magic. The worst of it was that I still couldn't focus properly to reach Ailanna.
Please let her be watching me, somehow. Please let my poor love know I'm still alive!
At least I was on my feet again, albeit over the protests of the very subdued physicians, albeit with an annoying tendency to stagger like a newborn fawn. But if I was to go down into the rest of the castle, I must wear something appropriate to the royal period of mourning. I had no idea what was proper; we didn't wear mourning in Cymra. Besides, the circumstances were a bit . . . awkward. The servants I summoned finally dressed me in a tactful compromise of a costume: an ankle-length tunic of deep, dull blue under a long black surcoat cinched in by a black leather belt.
Good enough. Even if it did make me look, what with my black hair and eyes, two months' pallor and gaunt-ness, like one of the less appealing creatures out of the Hollow Hills. There was, after all, a limit to what even magical healing could restore.
As I made my not quite steady way down from my tower into the castle proper, I couldn't help but notice servants and courtiers alike recoiling from me, and not just because I looked so Otherworldly: everyone at court was debating whether or not I was still politically "safe," wondering what the relationship might be now between their sadly bereaved king and the magician-prince.
The magician-prince was wondering the same thing—and half afraid of the answer I might receive.
No matter. There was something I must do, of honor.
The shortest way to the royal chapel took me along the balcony overlooking the small courtyard where—how long ago it seemed!—Estmere and I had once had our friendly duel. The sound of clashing swords caught my attention, and I glanced over the balustrade, my faulty memory giving me flashes of the past so that for one confused moment I expected to find time turned back.
But those weren't grown men duelling down there, only boys. I recognized Arn by his wild yellow hair. The other boy, stocky and brown-haired . . . I knew him . . . if only I could remember . . . Gerin, was it? Yes. I found that little memory with relief. But there was something else about him . . . something . . .
Ah. He had been one of poor Clarissa's pages.
But what do the young idiots think they're doing? They know they're not supposed to handle swords without the sergeant-at-arms!
It wasn't any boyish prank. The two of them were fighting in silent earnest, the air about them fairly rippling with anger, making up in ferocity what they lacked in skill. I glanced about, looking for someone to stop the duel before it got too perilous, seeing only servants scurrying on their way, pretending they noticed nothing. Wasn't anyone going to stop the boys? Wasn't anyone of sufficient rank?
No. Of course not. There were always noble folk wandering about, save for this moment; Dame Fortune is a perverse lady.
I don't need this, I really don't need this.
My body was already protesting the exercise. All I wanted was to visit the chapel, then stagger back to my tower and bed. But if I abandoned the boys . . . as I might have done to Clarissa . . .
No. I wouldn't think of that, I couldn't.
I wasn't Estmere, to regally call out, "Hold!" Nor, frankly, did I have the breath to spare. But a small summoning of will sent a flash of illusionary blue fire crackling down about their blades. Both boys yelped, dropping their weapons and crossing themselves, then whirled to face me. I must have looked singularly sorcerous, because even Arn gasped, and both boys went down on one knee before me in a reverence more suited to a king than a prince.
I swept slowly and grandly down the stairway (the only way to keep both footing and dignity in that ankle-length tunic) and stood for a moment looking down on Arn's yellow head and Gerin's brown one, letting them worry. Then: "Up!" I commanded shortly, and the boys scrambled to their feet, red-faced with exertion and embarrassment, still shooting looks of fury at each other. "Stop that, both of you! Are you fools?"
"My prince," Arn began tentatively, "the swords weren't edged."
"I know that!" I snapped, and he winced. "I also know that even unedged blades are dangerous weapons in the hands of half-trained, hotheaded boys!"
They stirred resentfully, but of course neither dared retort. After a moment, Arn asked, very warily, "But . . . even if we did get hurt, more than a—a scratch, I mean, couldn't you—"
"Piece the bits of a shattered arm or elbow back together like a potter mending a broken jar? Yes, I can heal wounds," I added sharply to forestall him, "but there are limits. Do either one of you would-be heroes really want to end up crippled? Well? Do you?"
"No, Your Highness," murmured two subdued voices.
"Now, what was this foolishness about?"
Arn and Gerin exchanged quick, hot glances, daring each other to be the first to speak. Then Arn said resolutely, a stalwart knight facing a hostile king, "It was . . . only a quarrel, my prince. Pray forgive us for disturbing you."
A quarrel. Gerin, my uncertain memory told me, had adored his queen with the wholeheartedness of a boy in love for the first time. I sighed. Judging from the hating looks he was flashing at me . . .
"Gerin, you blame me for the queen's death, don't you?"
He started. "How could you know?"
"And you, Arn, decided to defend my honor. Whether or not it needed defending."
That was too much for my staunch protector. "He called you a murderer, my prince!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Enough!" I shouted, and they fell silent, watching me like frightened puppies. "Och fi, you two make my head ache. Gerin, no matter what you think, I did not murder anyone." At least, I prayed not. "Arn, the next time you decide to defend me, ask my permission first. Now, get out of here, both of you!"
They scurried away. But then Am stopped and said shyly, "It's good to see you up and about again, my prince."
Before I could answer, he hurried off. And I—I was suddenly aware of eyes upon me: now, of course, there were courtiers aplenty. They and their servants were pretending to studiously go about their business, but I knew only too well, as I started my slow way off to the chapel once more, that half the court was watching me. And how many of them, as well, thought I was a murderer?
Was I? My memory stubbornly refused to give me an answer.
My footsteps on the chapel's marble floor sounded very loud to me. The last time I could clearly recall being in here was for my brother's wedding (no, I wouldn't think of that), but I was no more at ease now than I ever was, glancing about nervously in the dim blue light as I always did, staring at the glorious stained glass windows, blindingly red and blue in the sunlight, at the tall columns and beautifully arched roof, at the splendor of the altar with its golden screen, at all the very, very alien surroundings.
It was going to get worse. I needed to visit not the chapel itself, but the royal crypt below it. I had been down there once before with Estmere, to pay my formal respects to my father's tomb. At the time, the smell of age and death and the faint whispers of ancient griefs had torn at my nerves till I was thankful for the return to the world of light and life. I doubted it would be any pleasanter for this second visit.
The guard o
f honor, resplendent in their royal red and gold, looked at me somewhat askance. But I had, after all, every legal right to be there, so one man unlocked the great bronze gate then stood aside so I could descend. I climbed down the chill stairway, very much aware of the guards' wondering stares. For a moment I hesitated on the last few steps, darkness and the smell of cold stone jarring a terrifying flash of memory (a dark, cold cell, chains . . . ) but then I lit the torches at the bottom with a determined flash of will, and made my wary way past the seemingly endless array of stone monuments to long-dead folk whose names and regal titles meant little to me, even though they were my ancestors. Halfway my ancestors.
Now normally, I have no fear of the dead, no more than does any other Cymraen who knows his body will rest peacefully in earth and his spirit in the arms of y Duwies till the time for rebirth. But here the dead were kept from the earth and the proper order of things. The heavy, somber silence and residue of ancient sorrow once more pressed in upon me till I found myself struggling for breath and shivering convulsively, the healer in me wondering at the wisdom of being in this chill place so soon after my illness—
But here was Clarissa's tomb. And och, it was a piteous sight! She had died so suddenly, so unexpectedly, the stone carvers must have been impossibly rushed. But there the young queen lay, her marble effigy still shining with the newness of its cutting. I saw the dates of birth and death, and winced.
So very young, indeed. My poor, fearful Clarissa, if only I'd had the sense to realize you were just barely sixteen!
I knelt at the side of her tomb in the fashion of Estmere's folk, intending to say some sort of prayer, wondering vaguely what might be suitable. But instead, to my utter and complete astonishment, I found myself weeping.
From guilt?
I don't know, I don't know, I can't remember!
At last, spent, I dried my eyes as best I could. Too weary to rise, I huddled where I was, struggling once more to remember . . . to remember . . .
A voice behind me said, "Aidan."
I shot to my feet so sharply I nearly cracked my head on the side of the tomb. "Estmere!"
He caught me by the arm as I staggered, steadying me, thougn to his watching courtiers it must have seemed no more than a brotherly greeting. "All right?" he asked softly.
"Yes. Thank you."
Estmere nodded curtly, releasing my arm so quickly I had to wonder if he really didn't like the idea of touching me. "What are you doing here?"
He plainly hadn't known I'd been weeping. The cold wariness in his voice stung me. "Gallu nef, you can't think I was planning to despoil my ancestors' graves! Or cast some foul spell on poor Clarissa's remains."
His courtiers all quickly crossed themselves at that, and Estmere's eyes glinted angrily. "This is no place for such jokes, Aidan."
I sighed, very much aware by this point that it was only my first day back on my feet, wanting nothing so much as to be in bed. "I was paying my last respects. Nothing worse."
He glanced back at the courtiers, who had moved tactfully just out of hearing, giving us as least the illusion of privacy. "I had planned to discuss this with you later. But perhaps now . . ."
His voice trailed off as he studied me, and I surprised an uneasy flickering of sympathy in his eyes. Perversely, it annoyed me.
"I'm not about to collapse. Say what you would."
"Are you aware of the mood at court?"
"About us, you mean?" I thought of Arn and Gerin, and bit back a sharp laugh. "How not? I'd have to be mind dead not to feel the cracklings of emotions. Some folks are with me, some claim I'm demonic, but no one is sure how things stand between us now. I'm not so sure of that myself."
His glance flicked away from mine. "So. I think it time we crush some rumors."
"How?"
Estmere's face was a mask once more. "You will be seen in public in my company, my very obviously friendly and unsuspicious company, for the next few days. That should keep any hotheads from using you as an excuse for plots."
So instead you would use me, eh, brother? Bitterly I asked, "Are you that good an actor?"
He shot me a knife-sharp glance. "What does that mean?"
"What do you think?"
"Don't play games with me. Most certainly not here. Either obey me or leave me."
I was past the point of caring much what I said. With a sweeping, unsteady bow, I told my brother, "Yes, your majesty. Of course, your majesty. At once, your majesty."
Estmere stared at me, furious. But after a moment's keen tension, he said only, "You've been ill. I won't blame you for this unseemly mockery."
With that, he gave me leave, for all the world as though nothing unusual had passed between us. And I went.
It was only afterwards, alone in my tower rooms, slouched moodily in a tall-backed chair, that I could acknowledge the pain that had flashed in Estmere's eyes at my words. And even through my anger, my conscience smote me.
How could I have forgotten? He was the king, he just could not be as familiar as other men, not in public. Duwies glân, I'd heard him use that regal tone on me before; it didn't mean anything more than that his courtiers were listening.
Ah? Then why had his eyes been so cold?
From grief, surely. He hadn't yet been able to come to grips with the tragedy. And because the affairs of state were always staring him in the face, Estmere couldn't afford a common man's luxury of simply breaking down and—
"Dyri Uffern!" I snapped. This was ridiculous! I couldn't even stay angry with Estmere without starting to feel sorry for him.
Enough. Forget him for now. I rose, stretching weary muscles with a groan. No one was likely to enter "the magician's roost" without the magician's permission, but just the same I took the precaution of tracing my usual guarding Signs at door and windows, then returned to my chair and closed my eyes. I would test my will one more time . . .
It was quite a struggle at first to keep from simply drifting oft to sleep. But all at once, to my immense relief, I felt my Power doing what I wanted it to do, and sent my consciousness soaring out from that tower, out and out till it finally touched another, most familiar, most wonderfully welcome mind.
"Aidan!" It was a psychic scream. "Are you all right? Where are you? Where were you? What happened to—"
"Gently, love, gently! Yes, I'm fine."
"You don't feel fine! What's wrong? Are you still ill?"
" 'Still?" You have been watching me, then?"
"As best I could. At—at least when I could find you. . . ." She murmured a word in the Faerie tongue that means despair and pain and dying hope all in one. "I knew you were trapped, in torment, I knew there was nothing I could do to help you, nothing—" Ailanna broke off with a gasp.
"Hush, cariad, dear one, that's over now. Come, let me see you."
Our merged wills created a vision landscape, a copy of a very real forest grove in Cymra, just now very beautiful with the coming of autumn, touched with bright reds and golds and russets.
And my lady stood before me, or so it seemed. Lovely, so lovely she was in a simple gown of all the autumn colors, and one red leaf caught in the silken fall of pale golden hair! I must confess I nigh broke my vow then and there, nigh went flying home to her—
"Don't be foolish," she said.
"Foolish!"
"Dishonorable, would you rather?"
"No, I most certainly would not rather! Ailanna, I'm no oath breaker, no matter how strong the temptation. And och, cariad, the temptation is very strong!"
"Don't you think I miss you, too?" Just for an instant her mind touch burned with passion, then slid, just as quickly, back into quiet. "But there's no getting around the fact of your vow. No matter how Estmere may think he feels about you, or you about him, you must, of honor, stay where you are till it is fulfilled."
"How?" I snapped. "How can he possibly 'need me by his side' when he thinks I killed his wife!"
"Did you?"
"Ailanna!"
"Wel
l?"
Cursing Faerie pragmatism, I told her, "Duwies, no! At least . . . I . . . don't think so."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm . . . not quite myself yet. Nothing to worry you, cariad. Come, tell me how you're managing."
She stirred impatiently. "How do you think? This land is very empty without you. Aidan, when you say you're not quite yourself, what—"
"No, what I meant is, how are you living?"
Ailanna paused. "Sweet one, you have asked me that question before, remember? You do remember?"
A little chill ran through me. "I'm sorry," I admitted, "I . . . don't." There wasn't any way to avoid the truth. "I . . . have empty patches in my memory these days."
Mind-linked as we were, there was no need to explain why. Where a human might have gushed with pity, Ailanna merely . . . looked. But the intense love in those quiet Faerie eyes staring into my own spoke volumes. And promised endless misery to Bremor should he ever come within her reach.
But then Ailanna smiled the ghost of a smile and broke the spell, saying a touch too lightly, "No matter. No harm in telling you again: I have friends enough. They helped me build a neat little forest home for myself. And your own forest friends, those little sprites and such, nave been falling over themselves to keep 'the fine Faerie lady' supplied with food and drink. Oh, and of course there's the magic to learn."
"Magic?" I echoed suspiciously.
"Forest magic. Yes, and human spells as well."
"What!"
"I can pass as a human woman when I wish. And the farmwives and their husbands are eager to share all their little folk charms with anyone who's polite and interested. Aidan, it's all so fascinating!"
"Is it?"
"Yes! It's so different from Faerie spells that I—why, Aidan! I think you're jealous!"
"I am not!"
"You are!" She laughed in delight. "If you can worry about me passing the time with human men, you can't be that badly hurt!"
"I'm not. But Ailanna, don't—"
King's Son, Magic's Son Page 18
