"Why yes, Sir Verrin," I said fiercely. "Since things are the way they are, I will see how my brother's mind really stands. Perhaps I will see if I can change said mind about remarrying. I may even help you find a 'proper' bride." There, that was devious enough to keep them wondering. "But remember this, all of you," I added with my most sorcerous glare, gratified to see most of them flinch. "Whatever I do, I do for Estmere's sake, not yours."
Triumph flashed in Sir Randal's eyes. "We can ask no more, Prince Aidan."
CHAPTER XXVI
DUELS
That unexpected and rather ridiculous meeting with his advisors had kept me from watching Estmere at his royal work: in this case, interviewing that ambassador from the court of King Wencin of Norrusk, one of our northern neighbors. Estmere hadn't actually requested my presence, so I didn't need to feel guilty about not having been there, but I generally enjoyed watching the game of diplomacy (even though that usually meant standing for hours at the side of my brother's throne or, if I was lucky, sitting on a formal but uncomfortable chair in an overcrowded room). There was something fascinating about those delicate maneuverings managed by folk without the use of magic.
There was nothing delicate about Wencin, though. An aged monarch, he, just a touch worn in the wits, with mental meanderings enough to infuriate my brother. A stubborn man, Wencin, too, with a stubborn ambassador whose temper couldn't have been improved by his party's having to wrestle their way along roads heavy with spring mud.
It must have been a fiery meeting. But now I found the great audience chamber empty of all but a few busy servants and a psychic residue of anger and impatience, and went in search of Estmere.
I caught up with him in his private chambers. The guards gave me a somewhat uneasy glance, but they stood aside to let me enter; apparently their king hadn't quite commanded he not be disturbed.
I paused just inside the room as the door was shut quietly behind me. "Estmere?"
"Yes, yes," snapped an ill-tempered voice. "Come in."
He was slumped in a high-backed chair, legs outstretched, hands steepled, eyes dark and brooding.
"As bad as that?" I murmured, and Estmere glared up at me.
"I can't keep anything hidden from you, can I?"
"Don't take out your anger on me. I can hardly not sense that you're blazing with frustration."
He sat bolt upright at that. "Ahh, yes! Aidan, he is so hopelessly stubborn!"
"King Wencin?"
"Of course King Wencin! He just cannot or will not see that signing a pact of nonaggression doesn't mean he's signing away his freedom."
"And that fox-faced ambassador—what's his name? Gern? Master Sly-eyed Gern can't be helping things."
"He dares humor me." It was a growl. "As though I was still a boy in my minority. By my faith, were he not protected by his ambassador's status . . . But he is, and there's an end to it."
"And of course you can't let your temper loose."
"No! That would be the end of any hope of a treaty."
"I . . . don't suppose I could be of any help?"
Estmere raised a brow. "With your magic, you mean? Don't think I haven't considered it. But no, you know I can't have it said I use unnatural means of persuasion. Damn the man!"
"Gern or Wencin?"
"Does it matter? They've both earned me time enough with Father Ansel."
"Because you've ill-wished them? That's only human, Estmere."
He shot me a fiery glance. "That's also a mortal sin!"
"Why," I mused, "then Wencin's son must either be already damned, or a remarkably saintly man."
Estmere gave a sharp bark of a laugh, then winced, hand going to his head. "Or a remarkably patient one," he added in a subdued voice. "I will have that alliance, God willing, with enough patience. If only I can hold my temper long enough!"
That last outburst made him wince again, and me with him; the radiations of his pent-up fury were beginning to make my own head ache. Moving to my brother's side, I put my hands on his temples. Estmere started to flinch away from me, which hurt, then in the next instant changed his mind and stayed so rigidly still it hurt me the more.
Damnio, brother, how I'd love to leave you to your own devices!
But, healer that I am, I couldn't turn away from someone in pain, so I set myself to finishing what I'd started, and willed calmness into him, feeling that dangerous, inward-turning fury slowly fading. . . .
Estmere let out his breath in a long, relieved sigh. "Thank you. I can see why folks are eager to come to you for healing."
I let my hands drop and stepped aside. "I do what I can."
"Yes. That's what we all try to do, isn't it?" He stirred restlessly. "A healer must be a truly good person."
"Ha! I'm hardly one of your saints! Look you, I've tried to explain this before. It's not so easy to put this into Anglic, but . . . if Power is natural to you, illness or injury feels like a—a wrongness grating on your nerves. And you just can't be comfortable till you've done something to correct it."
He was staring at me. "You never seem to get angry."
"Not true."
"Then your control is far better than mine! I don't think I've ever seen you truly lose your temper."
My mind shied from partial, painful memories of Clarissa and that savage, embarrassing assault on Baron Aldingar. "I don't dare."
"Because of your magic."
"Precisely."
He was silent a moment, considering, I suppose, the nightmare of Power burning out of control, then raised a wry brow. "Can you really say you've never used magic against anyone? Never?"
"Estmere—"
"Oh, I don't mean for genuine harm. Still, all those little annoyances of daily life . . . The temptation must be enormous to put down some bully or braggart with a flash of will."
Aldingar, again. "It is."
"So, now! You mean to say you have never, ever yielded to temptation?"
I had to grin. "Well . . . once."
"Aha!"
"When I was very young and very proud of my new Power, a farmer's boy insulted me. And I . . . ah . . . conjured an illusion of worms into his bed. He hated worms. Unfortunately, my mother found out—but you wouldn't know about such things. No one would dare punish the royal heir."
"No?" He gave a reminiscent chuckle. "I might have been Prince Estmere, but my—our—father was King Estmere, and very determined to see I didn't grow up a tyrant." Impulsively, he added, "I wish you could have known him."
"So do I."
For a moment something of our old friendship trembled in the air between us. But then an uneasy Estmere turned from me.
"You didn't come here to share old memories. What would you?"
"The timing is terrible. If I speak my mind right now, I'm going to undo all my work of calming."
"Ill risk it. Come, brother, speak."
"As you will. I know my presence makes you uncomfortable these days."
"No."
"Yes. I . . ." Damnio. Much as I hadn't wanted to mention this, there didn't seem to be any way around it. "There is something I must tell you, and I hope you won't react too strongly. My ordeal during the two months I was missing left my memory . . . damaged. It never has quite recovered."
He looked at me in shock. "I never even suspected— Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I didn't want pity. I still don't. Och, look, it's not that terrible a thing; I can recall most of what I need to know and use logic to bridge the gaps."
"So that's why you looked so blank when I mentioned Baron Bernhart the other day. You didn't remember meeting him, did you?"
"I still don't."
"Oh, Aidan, I'm sorry. . . ."
"I told you, I don't want pity "
"But it must be so frightening!"
I sighed. "Not any more. Disconcerting is more the word."
"And your magic can't help you?"
"No. What caused the damage was sorcerous, not natural." I'd known that alm
ost from the start. Memory loss due to shock generally affects only the patch of time surrounding the injury; these unpredictable blank spots and my headaches when I sought to fill them in could only be the result of Ybarre's failed attempts to steal my Power and break my mind. "As far as I know, there's no spell for— Estmere, please. The only reason I'm mentioning memory loss at all is because, frankly, I can't remember clearly enough about . . . Clarissa . . . to know if you have a genuine reason to be suspicious of me." I saw his face grow very still, and continued wearily, "I'm not using it as an excuse. I'm not trying to buy mercy."
"What, then?"
"Even though I can't prove my innocence, I had hoped you knew me well enough to trust me. I'd hoped that, one way or another, time would lessen your suspicion. But that doesn't seem to be happening. Come, be honest with me. Do you want me gone from court?"
"You're not my prisoner. If you would leave, I won't hold you."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Why is my answer so important?"
"Because you're my brother. Because you were my friend."
"I still am!"
"Are you?"
His eyes glittered. "I've warned you before: don't play games with me."
"See now, there it is. You back away from answering me."
"If you want to go, go! If you want to stay, stay! In the name of God, what more do you want of me?"
"Pretentious as it may sound, I want you to be happy. I want me to be happy. Do you want me gone from court?"
He stared at me, frustrated. "Sometimes I find it very difficult to believe we share any blood, because sometimes I swear I don't understand you at all. Why do you persist?"
"Because I need an answer. Do you want me gone from court?"
Estmere let out a wordless, maddened cry. "No, dammit, I do not want you gone! Whatever you might have done, you are still my brother! And you are still the only person in all this castle who dares be honest with me, the only person I can trust, and I—I need you by my side. Now let the subject drop!"
He had no way of knowing he'd just hurled the very words of my vow back at me. Now I was truly bound. "So be it."
"God's blood, man, you look as though I'd just sentenced you to death! Didn't you really want to stay?"
"I must. And pray don't ask me to explain, because I won't."
Estmere shook his head. "Why do I feel as though I just participated in some arcane rite? Clarissa would have said—"
He broke off abruptly, and I winced. "You still can't speak of her without pain, can you?"
"No." His tone warned me I was treading on perilous ground. "What of it?"
"Nothing. It's just that I know what it's like to lose a loved one."
"Ah. Your mother." His glance flicked to mine, flicked away almost guiltily. "Of course."
I studied him warily, unhappy at what I'd seen in that moment's contact, unhappy at what could still be felt. And I said, very delicately, "I also know that even when that first terrible anguish of loss fades, it doesn't quite go away. But, brawd, surely after six months, the edge of grief must be at least a little blunted. Y Duwies—all right, then, the Creator, whatever Name you prefer, That One never meant for us to bear more than we can endure."
"What's this? Turning priest? I get enough words of comfort from Father Ansel."
I grit my teeth. "Very well, then. I'll be blunt. And if the truth hurts, I'm sorry for it."
"Go on. I never yet executed a man for speaking truth."
"Estmere, Clarissa is dead. I regret it for her young sake and yours. But regret isn't going to change things. She's dead and you're alive, and it's time to stop using grief "as a shield against—"
"Don't." There was a world of warning in the word.
"Look you, I said I didn't want to hurt you, and I don't. But you know I'm telling the truth."
He turned angrily away, but I moved to face him again. "Listen to me! I'm sick of being used as an excuse."
"Now what does that mean?"
"Would you imprison one of your people on a charge of It Might Have Been?"
"Of course not."
"Exactly! You'd suspend judgment till you had some tangible proof of guilt. But—dyri Uffern, you're not showing me the same justice! I told you, I don't know if I could have prevented Clarissa's illness, I may never know—Duwies glân, you don't know how often I've prayed for proof that I didn't abandon her!" I stopped sharply. "That wasn't what I meant to say."
"What was?"
"Och, brawd, be honest with yourself! You're uncomfortable with me not because you think I'm a—a criminal, but because I remind you of your own guilt—"
"No!"
"—about Clarissa and—"
"Enough!" Estmere's eyes blazed into mine. "How dare you speak like this?"
I froze, choking on pity and rage. Rage won. I could argue with my brother, not with the king. Remembering how he had flinched from my touch, I said something under my breath that would have shocked prim Sir Verrin, bowed my most formal bow and, in defiance of all courtly etiquette, turned sharply to leave.
"Wait." A heartbeat later, most surprisingly, "Please."
"Well, my liege?"
"Stop that. I know you don't mean to hurt me. And I don't mean to hurt you, either, truly I don't. But before God, there are times when you infuriate me!" But the fire of royal anger was already fading, and all at once Estmere gave the ghost of a chuckle. "I do suppose it's good for me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"As Father Ansel says of you, no matter what you may be, you do keep me from the sin of pride."
I forced a smile. "You mean the man actually said something complimentary about me?" Which was, of course, doing the priest an injustice, but at the moment I couldn't think of anything sensible to say.
At any rate, it got a true laugh. "Believe it or not, he likes you. Albeit reluctantly."
Silence fell. We stood looking at each other for what seemed a very long time, and I think we were both aching to be as we once were, though neither of us knew how to take the first step.
But then we were distracted by a most respectful servant, most tactfully reminding his king that the royal presence was overdue in the Council Chamber.
And with a quick, almost apologetic, glance at me, his king left.
CHAPTER XXVII
FEARS AND DREAMS
That wasn't the end of it, of course. The next day brought a visit to my tower rooms from a bemused Estmere.
For some time, my brother roamed through my study, which just then, flooded with sunlight as it was and green with pots of herbs, couldn't have looked less magical. I saw his restless gaze go from herbs to my shelves of salves and potions to the mirror I use for my scrying (I think he was disappointed to see only his reflection in it)—in short, acting very much like a man not at all at his ease.
"Estmere? Nothing here bites, I assure you."
He gave an embarrassed little laugh. "No. I hardly thought so."
"Let's see now, how do the proper phrases run? Hmm . . . you do me great honor, my liege, in gracing my humble abode with your royal—"
"Oh, no more of that, Aidan, if you please."
"Less formally, then, how is it a king comes to a prince rather than the other way around?"
"There's more privacy here," Estmere said frankly. "Men may eavesdrop even at a king's door. No one dares spy on a magician."
"Save another magician. Wait, I'll guarantee our privacy."
I set my guarding Signs at door and windows, very much aware of a not quite comfortable Estmere watching me.
"I thought you said magic wasn't easy."
"What, that? That takes no more energy than bolting a door. I traced the initial Signs the first day this tower became mine, so that by now all I have to do is touch them with my will to spark them into life. Of course, if I was setting High Wards instead—but you can't possibly know what I'm talking about. Brawd, what did you come here to say?"
My brother turned un
easily away, pretending to study the lush greens of the herbs. He touched one plant with a gentle forefinger. "Vervain?"
"Vervain. Good for treating headaches and fevers. Also for magical purifications, among other things. Estmere . . ."
"I've been thinking of yesterday's debate." His voice was very carefully neutral. "You claim I've been using my bereavement as a shield. Suppose you tell me against what."
"You know I wouldn't spy on you."
"You're hedging. Tell me what you see in my heart that I presumably can't see for myself."
"Fear," I said bluntly, and he started. "Fear and . . . loneliness."
"Now what might that mean?"
How could I answer? How tell him—
"Aidan, come! What would you say?"
That Clarissa wasn't the right mate for you, and, somewhere within you, I think you know it, too.
No. I couldn't say that.
That underneath it all, so deeply buried it's almost impossible to read, you're secretly relieved to be free. And your guilt over that relief is what's making grief all the sharper.
Och fi, I certainly couldn't say that!
And all this while, my poor, tormented brother, the gentle, romantic self so rarely revealed cries out in the night for What Should Have Been. . . .
No, no, no, I couldn't say any of what I was thinking! Instead, I tried for once to take the tactful way out. "Deny this as you will, fy brawd, but you deeply need someone at your side: a wife. A true, loving wife."
Maybe it wasn't so tactful at that. My brother's eyes lost whatever softness they might have held. "So. And here I thought you were just genuinely trying to be kind. You've teen talking to Verrin, haven't you?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Stay away from his politics. They don't become you."
"I couldn't care less about Verrin's politics! I don't like the man! But, much as I hate to admit it, he has a valid point about the need for your remarriage."
"God's blood, it's only been six months! The official period of mourning is scarcely over."
Exactly what I'd tried, and failed, to argue with the advisors. "I know. I'm sorry." I hesitated, studying him, all at once wondering, "What do you fear so much?"
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