King's Son, Magic's Son

by Josepha Sherman

  Gallu nef, the man had tried to kill me! Estmere had warned me that as his brother, I might someday be an assassin's target, but—he had actually tried to kill me!

  Or . . . had he? There was something about the man's blank, uncomprehending eyes . . .

  "Your Highness? Shall we take him for questioning?"

  "No. Wait." I approached their captive, seeing sanity slowly flooding back into his face. The man stared at me with such complete bewilderment that I didn't need magic to know what had happened. "Release him."

  "But, Your Highness—"

  "Release him. He won't do me any harm."

  They obeyed, very obviously ill at ease, now not so much afraid for me as of me (the man who had fought the Devil and won—pw, what nonsense!), plainly expecting to see my attacker struck down by some dark and deadly force.

  The man must have been expecting the same thing, but he faced me bravely enough. "You don't remember what happened, do you?" I asked softly, and his eyes widened.

  "No, Your Highness, I—I swear I don't! Last I recall, I was coming up to relieve Willim here, then the next I know, I'm being grabbed, and I seem to've done something wrong—"

  "Something wrong!" hissed Willim. "You tried to kill the prince, is what!"

  "No! I'd never do a thing like that, never!" He turned pleading eyes on me. "Not after you went and saved my Meg when she was so sick and— Please, Your Highness, I wouldn't ever try to hurt you."

  "I know."

  The other two guards stared at me, completely confused. "But, Your Highness . . ." Willim began weakly.

  "No. I do thank you for your help, both of you. But what you saw was an innocent man used against his will."

  There was a slight pause. Then Willim, a bit quicker than his fellow, asked, "It was drugs, wasn't it? Some coward gave him drugs so he'd attack you."

  "A . . . good explanation." If not exactly accurate. "You shall both be rewarded. But this is my affair, and I will settle it." Imitating as best I could Estmere's regal manner, I added, "You will say nothing of this matter to anyone. Now, leave us."

  They did, and very willingly, too. I turned to their still shaken comrade, trying to remember his name (and, for that matter, the saving of his Meg). But it was one of the missing shards of memory that didn't seem likely to return, so I surrendered and asked, "What are you called?"

  He didn't seem at all hurt that a prince hadn't remembered a commoner's name. "Hugh, Your Highness. Please, it couldn'ta been drugs, I didn't eat or drink anything different from the others. In the name of mercy, Your Highness, tell me what happened to me!"

  "I . . . look you, Hugh, you were bespelled. Och, yes, go ahead, cross yourself; I'm no demon to be hurt by holy signs."

  "But—but—sorcery—" His voice sharpened in new alarm as I raised my arms to his head. "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing to harm you," I soothed, hands at his temples. "No. Stay where you are."

  At first he shuddered under my touch like a frightened horse. But I overcame his fear and resistance easily: too easily. Just as some folk are so susceptible to mead they dare not risk one drink, so are some folk equally susceptible to the force of magic.

  "Now, Master Hugh, I do think I'd best Ward you."

  By now I was reasonably sure none of my spells had been affected by my unpredictable memory loss. I closed my eyes, calming myself, coaxing up the necessary focus of will, summoning a knowledge that wasn't on the conscious level. At last I felt my hand tracing certain Signs on Hugh's brow, and knew without having to look that each glyph glowed a pure, unsullied blue against his weatherworn skin for the briefest instant before vanishing.

  As I traced the last of the Signs, I was suddenly aware that my psychic hold on Hugh was slipping. Fine! That meant my shielding charm had begun to work, even against my own magic, and I opened my eyes in satisfaction. "Wake up, Hugh."

  He blinked and shook his head like a dog shaking off water, then looked at me in confusion. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "You may go, Hugh. You're Shielded now. And don't look so fearful! All that means is that no one can work sorcery on you again."

  "Uh . . . I . . . thank you, Your Highness."

  "Go. Even," I added with a laugh! "to your priest, if you like."

  But as soon as the man was out of sight, I let my mask of good humor fall. For one thing, I was feeling the aftereffects of the energy expended in my magic. For another, it was only now hitting home how narrowly I had escaped death.

  "May the Darkness rend his soul!" I muttered in Cymraeth, and didn't mean poor Hugh.

  Bremor.

  By now his spies must surely have told him I was alive and reasonably recovered, and that Estmere wasn't going to war with him over me. But Bremor didn't know I wouldn't—I couldn't!—move against him myself, and so, damn him, he didn't dare let me live.

  I suddenly realized I was gripping the edge of the rampart wall so fiercely that my hands hurt, and forced myself to let go, rubbing cold, reddened fingers as I began to pace.

  Why hadn't Bremor tried a standard form of assassination?

  No. The poisoned cup, the sly dagger, all that was so very chancy. If his assassin should fail and be caught, and be forced to confess all . . . Such an overt act against the king's brother, virtually in front of the king, would certainly be grounds for war. And Bremor had as good as told me he wasn't yet ready for that. Instead, prudently waiting till Estmere was away, he had chosen a safer way to be rid of me, one that, win or lose, would leave no tangible evidence.

  But . . . with Ybarre dead, how had Bremor managed any magic at all?

  I stopped short, stunned, horrified, vaguely remembering Bremor boasting . . . saying . . . yes, saying he would rend my mind apart if need be to leam all I knew. Could he. . . ? Gallu nef, could he, somewhere in that dark, empty time, have done just that, torn the knowledge of magic from my brain? Was that the reason my memory couldn't heal?

  Och, surely not. Any such violent rending of my psychic defenses wouldn't have merely damaged my memory, it would have left me quite mindless. . . .

  My hands were shaking. Angrily I clenched them to keep them still. Of course Bremor hadn't stolen any magic from me! He had simply made use of some foul text or other left behind by the late, unlamented Ybarre.

  And why couldn't Bremor have read the spell wrong, and blasted himself.

  But such ranting was foolish. At least it had been a clumsy attack, a wild snaring of the first mind he could reach, just what one would expect from a rank amateur.

  Yes. Of course. And it had very nearly worked. The next time—but there wasn't going to be another time! Promise to Ailanna or no, I was not going to wait meekly for Bremor to try again.

  I stormed to my tower, rage hot within me, refusing to admit just how shaken I still was. Working to channel my raw anger and shock into useable Power—no easy task, because it means holding fast to those emotions even as you're trying to keep yourself calm—feeling that Power burn like fire through me, I set the guarding Signs at door and windows, then brought mirror, brazier and certain herbs to the center of the room I used as my study.

  "Y Duwies aid me in my work," I murmured in perfunctory prayer, then set about tracing in the proper sunwise manner, east to east, three concentric and precisely spaced circles about the items and myself. As I reached out with my will, blue fire blazed up briefly along the traced lines and as briefly was gone, and I nodded. The circle was complete, its Power activated, the vital aid to help me focus my magical sight. Considering the distance involved, it was going to take some focusing, indeed.

  I started my brazier to burning, then cast onto it those herbs that intensify Sight, homely tansy and lavender and others I won't list here. It wasn't done without a qualm; that combination always leaves me with an aching head. But it would be well worth the headache to see what Bremor was about.

  And, gradually emptying my mind of thought, emotion, everything but the memory of that one hated face, breathing in the mingled sh
arp and sweet scents of the burning herbs, I looked into my mirror. For long and long I saw nothing but grayness. . . .

  Tnen, quite suddenly, quite sharply, I saw Bremor, seated alone at a table of dark, heavy wood, a great book, most certainly Ybarre's grimoire, lying open before him.

  But Bremor wasn't reading. No, his head was thrown back against the high back of his chair, his eyes were squeezed shut, and on his face was a look of such intolerable anguish as to almost—almost!—move me to pity. But among my fragmented memories I could remember, far too well, chains and darkness and sophisticated, sorcerous torments . . . and at the sight of him, y Duwies forgive me, hot, savage joy raced through me.

  "Fool!" I shouted, though of course ne couldn't hear me. "You fool who thought you could control Power!"

  His spell had been broken, after all; in Bremor's inexperience he'd lost his hold on Hugh even before I had gotten to my feet. And it was obvious the man knew nothing of the Threefold Law, because now he was suffering all the torment of unspent magic recoiling on him. Would it kill him, ahh, would it?

  Bremor must have screamed, though I heard nothing, for suddenly there were servants about him. Even knowing painfully well of the sorcerous miasma fogging that castle, I was shocked by the terror and hatred burning in their eyes. What they might have done to their king with him so helpless before them, I don't know. But just then another man entered my limited field of vision. Judging from his richly bejewelled tunic and the respectful bows he was receiving, he was of high nobility. No. Of the Telessian royal family itself, surely. A cousin, perhaps? His face was fuller, more mature, but there was a definite resemblance to Bremor.

  He had saner eyes, though. Surprisingly sane, because his life could not nave been an easy one, not with Bremor's fear of trusting anyone, let alone a relative. Presumably only the king's need for an heir kept this obvious kinsman alive and unimprisoned.

  Well, whatever rank he might be, the man was ordering Bremor to be taken from the room, presumably to the royal bedchamber, though the impulse must have been almost overwhelming to have him tossed from the nearest window instead. I drew back from the mirror, feeling pain already nagging at the edges of my mind. But I nesitated a moment more, wondering if there was anything more to be learned from this other, plainly honorable, member of Telessian royalty.

  Then we both cried out in shock, he quickly crossing himself, as Ybarre's grimoire suddenly, spontaneously, burst into flame. I lost my hold on the scene, and the mirror instandy became no more than a mirror. But it didn't matter; I had seen enough. Quickly I broke the circle, discharging what energies might still be swirling within it, emptied the contents of the smoldering brazier into the fireplace, then collapsed gladly into a chair.

  But despite a truly monumental headache, I was laughing.

  Ybarre obviously hadn't trusted his master. He had set a Guardian Spell on his book to destroy the thing should anyone but he try to use it.

  I leaned back in the chair, trying to summon enough will to banish the headache. But it was difficult to concentrate when all I kept thinking was:

  Bremor, poor Bremor, your pretty book is gone! Poor fool, after that one moment of Power, you're nothing more than a poor, magickless little man again.

  But in that moment of my mockery, trumpets blared, golden arrow of sound that pierced right through my aching head. Again they blared! telling all the world King Estmere had returned.

  So much for my brief triumph. I set about in earnest banishing my headache, and this time was successful.

  And with that, I once more took on the problems of everyday life, and went down from my tower to greet my brother.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  WINTER DARKNESS

  As the year turned to an early, snow-filled winter, Estmere combatted the grief of his loss with revelry. The court rang out all that season with song and merriment, bright, shiny-green holly branches and fragrant pine boughs pinned up where once wedding banners had hung. And if Father Ansel thought that these winter revels touched a little too much upon paganism, the sorrow behind the mirth in Estmere's eyes must have moved the priest to pity, for he kept his silence.

  What of me? Och, I went through the motions of enjoying myself, at least at first. But being joyous with my brother smacked too much of hypocrisy, particularly since Estmere resolutely pretended nothing was wrong between us even while he burned with unvoiced suspicions of me that I, with my maddeningly faulty memory, could do nothing to disprove.

  Besides, that winter I had my own demons to fight.

  They roused themselves into life the day a wagon overturned on the icy cobblestones, and crushed one of the castle laborers, a friendly, inoffensive man I knew only as Matt, beneath it. As I bent over him, heartsick, his eyes, wild with pain, met mine, trusting, pleading, and I—I took one look at that poor, mangled body and knew there was only one mercy I could grant him. As Father Ansel (who, to give him credit, had come running almost as swiftly as I, with no thought at all to this being only a commoner beneath his dignity) performed the necessary rites of his faith, I gently bespelled away Mart's pain and heard him sigh softly with relief.

  And then, just as gently, I stilled his heart.

  When I got slowly to my feet, the feel of Matt's death aching within me, Father Ansel was watching me. He could only have known what I had done, and I straightened, nerves taut, thinking that if he said one word about murder . . .

  But he must have seen from my face that just then I was dangerous as a wild thing, very close to losing control. And he said nothing.

  All that day, the memory of poor Matt's trusting, anguished eyes haunted me. Even though, rationally, I knew there was nothing else I could have done, I couldn't stop mulling over what had happened, wondering if I had acted too quickly, arguing that surely there must have been some other course, finding none.

  It wasn't as though I hadn't seen patients die before, even here at Estmere's court. The first thing any healer must accept is that he or she is not divine; there will always be illnesses too severe, injuries too terrible for even magical healing. Lalathanai—poor lost thing, there'd been little of her left, and no feel of her death to echo within me. But this time . . . Duwies glân, I had never taken a life by magic before!

  Now, while I'd been recovering from Bremor's torments, I'd been very proud of myself for banishing nightmares, for blocking all thoughts of that dark, half-remembered horror: foolishly proud. It's an unfortunate fact that torture victims who seem fully recovered from their ordeal may be hit by the darkest despair long after the time of torment is past.

  It had never occurred to me that I, too, might be such a victim.

  But the night after Matt's death, the dreams began once more. And this time they refused to be banished. Ah, and they were dreadful things, distorted shards of darkness and pain, of hopelessness so strong it carried over into my waking hours. I began to wake each morning in despair, dreading the day, dreading my own inner night.

  The healer in me knew that if I ever wanted my mind to recover, I should ignore missing memories, let them return if and when y Duwies willed it. But even so, I fought again and again to regain that lost time, somehow convinced that if I regained all my memory, despair would be vanquished, even though the struggle made my head ache fiercely. Even though the few memories I did regain were hardly those I would have chosen:

  Ybarre's spells tearing at my mind and body, wrapping me in arcane fire that left no physical trace yet seared my every nerve while I lay chained in darkness, unable to fight, unable to move, unable to do anything but endure, endure, endure—

  Ah, Duwies.

  As the days grew shorter, as all my magic seemed powerless to shield me, I slid deeper and deeper into the darkness of my despair, afraid to sleep lest I dream, afraid to leave my tower, staying barred, alone, refusing food, refusing rest. . . .

  Why didn't I go to Estmere? What could he have done? Clapped me on the shoulder and told me it was all in my head? Of course it was all in my head
! But knowing this trouble was all of my own, overwrought brain's creating didn't help me to deal with it.

  Why didn't I call on Ailanna for help? I don't know. I was past all logic by that point, convinced my Power was empty and unreal, convinced that any effort to save myself was futile.

  And despair nearly won. For the first time in my life, I found myself considering ending that life. Body aching, eyes burning from lack of rest, I stumbled about my tower room wondering which potion might be quickest, surest, most fatal.

  But before I could take any insane action, my legs betrayed me and let me fall. Exhausted and struggling against the darkness, I slipped helplessly away from consciousness. . . .

  Someone was calling me. Someone was pulling me from true sleep into trance. I felt that careful mental touch that meant someone was opening a vision pathway between us, and murmured in vague confusion:

  "Ailanna . . . ?"

  "Hardly."

  Tairyn. As the vision slowly firmed and grew clear, he stood before me in that dream-reality, as elegant and contemptuous as ever, hair a sleek fall of silver, cool, smoky green eyes looking me slowly up and down.

  "Now, isn't this a ridiculous sight!"

  For an instant he took what was left of my will from me, forced me to see myself through his eyes: unshaven, unwashed, clad in the same tunic I'd been wearing for . . . y Duwies knew how long. A flicker of anger stirred within me. Once . . . once before I had kept him out of my mind, and now I remembered Power enough to break his hold again and—

  Yes. My will was my own again, and I snapped, "I'm pleased to see you, too!"

  "Ah. He still retains some wit."

  "Where were you? Where the heU were you?"

  "Meaning what?"

  "Why did you abandon me?" It was a shout of raw

  pain. Maybe my memories were shaky in all other things, but this, this I remembered. And there was no stopping the anguished flood of words. "I had just done your work for you, helped that child to live and that poor, poor woman to die! Why did you let me be lost after that? Was I no more than a tool? Why did you abandon me?"