Brona went daily to see her mother, and sometimes she begged him to go with her, saying she could not bear it alone. And so he would wait awkwardly in the shadows while Brona stood before the silent, unseeing queen in the echoing, empty throne room.
Sometimes she would talk about her day as though the queen listened intently and would offer commentary at any moment. Brona always kept the narration light and happy. Sometimes she would reminisce about how her mother sang her to sleep when she was sick, about the times she had brought her mother bouquets of dandelions and her mother had gushed over them and put them in the finest enameled vase she’d possessed.
Painful as the memory of Brona’s false cheer was, he would give all to be back there now. To be healthy, to be home.
He set the harp aside. He was tired from his night of poor sleep. And he was in pain and very sick of staring at the same four walls.
Alban soon arrived, and his cheerful healer’s civility grated his nerves like a farrier’s rasp.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Alban continued when his initial greeting was unenthusiastically returned.
Kieran turned his head to stare out the window, where a few fluffy clouds drifted in a bright blue sky. “I suppose.”
The room was high up in the tower of the Leas castle. According to Alban, their rooms were the only ones on this floor. Alban’s because he chose it for the view and Kieran’s because he was Alban’s special project. His latest stray. Not that Alban was discourteous enough to phrase it that way.
Alban sat on the chair by the bed. “Will you play the harp for me?”
“If you wish it.” He made the civil response into a bitter snarl.
Kieran was being childish, and he knew it, but the knowledge only made his mood fouler.
“Would you rather do something else today? We could play a game of—”
“I would rather be on my horse, on my way to the next village, to learn songs and tales I’ve never heard and play music they’ve never dreamed of. Barring that, I want to be left alone.”
“You act as though your confinement here is some nefarious Leas plot. As though it wasn’t your own blind stupidity that ended you up with a broken ankle.”
So Alban still had a temper. Good. But Alban’s comment was accurate and in line with how Kieran had been berating himself before Alban arrived to take the brunt of his anger.
“Yes. I know.” Kieran ground out. “I am stuck here, more useless than usual, and it’s all my fault. Thank you for reminding me.”
Alban sighed. “You mentioned new songs and new tales. We do have a library, you know.”
“How nice for you.”
“I think it’s time you learned to manage steps with your crutches anyway.”
“Because I have so many places to go and people to see.”
“The library is just down one flight of stairs. Well, and then along a rather long hall. Come on, get up. I think the change will do you good.”
About halfway down the stairs, and cursing every step, Kieran realized that he and Alban were not so different after all. He was learning to use his crutches—well, to use them better—with a bribe of books.
He chuckled softly to himself.
Alban looked at him curiously. “I see your bad mood has broken, at least.”
“Sorry,” Kieran said. “I know I’ve been beastly to deal with this morning.”
“I am usually not in the best temper, either, if I am confined to my bed with injury,” Alban said. “I’d rather be hawking or hunting if the weather is good, or by the fire in the library if the weather is poor. How is your ankle? This is the most you’ve been up and about since you came here. I know moving about can make the pain worse.”
“It hurts,” Kieran admitted. “But I think you were right. I needed to be outside of the same four walls. I feel better now.”
The Leas library was impressive. Books and scrolls from floor to ceiling along three walls, broken only by a cavernous fireplace on one wall and a tall window on another that looked out over a forested valley. The fireplace, Kieran noted, had a generous space of stone around it to keep a stray spark from the precious volumes. Free-standing shelves with yet more books divided the room into separate private reading areas. It smelled wonderfully of old books.
“Look up,” Alban whispered.
The ceiling was painted to look like a summer sky as seen through a forest canopy. Something in the style reminded him of the faded murals in the old section of the Scathlan caverns.
Alban got him settled in a chair and dragged a second chair over for Kieran to put his foot on. Which he did with gratitude, as his ankle had begun to throb. Alban brought over a selection of books, Leas myths and legends, plus a collection some scholar had made of mortal tales.
He set one book with a tired leather cover on top of the stack, its embossing so worn as to be illegible. “See if you can make any sense of that. It predates the divide of our kindreds. The author talks of the convergence of healing magic and bardic magic. My father and I have pored over it again and again, but it refers to other books that, so far as anyone knows, no longer exist.”
Kieran looked at the stack, then back up to Alban.
“The others are to amuse you when you get too frustrated. Who knows, you might find some material to use.”
With that, Alban selected a book for himself and, though the weather was perfect for hawking or hunting, settled down to read far enough away not to be hovering over Kieran’s shoulder but near enough to be available should Kieran need him.
It had become more and more difficult to hate, or even dislike, this particular Leas, and Kieran wearied of trying.
He ran a hand over the cover of the book on top of the stack, then laid it on the table and opened it. Part of him rebelled at taking direction from one of the Leas, especially to do something they might find useful. Yet the faint underlying challenge beckoned. He needn’t share anything with them that he didn’t want to.
Within a few pages, excitement rose in his chest, tingling warmth like those times Kieran knew he was right on the verge of a composition that would be one of the best ever. For years he’d suspected that the old tales of bards that healed people near death and made the lame walk again were not just myths of long-ago, like tales of dragons and giants. Though for that matter he’d seen old, old bones of some huge creature embedded in the stone of a cliffside, and so he wasn’t quite sure about dragons.
When he’d left on his quest to make some difference to his ailing queen and despondent people, even the kindest had laughed behind his back. The less kind had derided him to his face. Even he had doubted; Kieran could scarcely live up to his father’s memory, let alone match one of the healer-bards of legend. Perhaps if his brother had lived long enough to be born, he might have been a bard to meet and even surpass their father’s skill. Instead, he was the only one left to shoulder the legacy.
He had been so very angry when his parents told him he was to have a sibling. In his childish self-centeredness, he didn’t want to share his mother, didn’t see why they needed another child when they had him. In later years, he’d imagined the brother he never knew, a friend and confidant and, more recently, someone to succeed where he failed.
But the author of this book talked about the healing music of legend as though it were something that he had seen, practiced. Something that he meant to teach the reader.
He could aid his people. He could—was it possible?—wake his queen.
“Are you all right?” Alban’s concerned voice broke his reverie.
Kieran’s hands were shaking. He rested them on the desk to steady them. He didn’t dare let the Leas know what he had found, what he intended to do with it.
“I’m fine.” Too obvious a lie, even by understatement. “Just a little tired.”
Alban was at his side instantly. “Can I do something for you? Do you want to go back to your room?”
Kieran shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine.” He dou
bted he’d be allowed to take so valuable a book from the library, and he couldn’t bear to be parted from it so soon. “To be honest, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to brave the stairs again just yet.”
Which was true enough, and so he would not feel guilty about the frown of concern on Alban’s serious face. He smiled deliberately, trying to coax an answering smile from Alban, but the other narrowed his eyes as though trying to determine whether to believe his false cheer.
“Can I get you something?” Alban said after a moment. “Some refreshment? I’m afraid I can’t offer you more painkiller, not unless the pain is truly unbearable. It can be unhealthy to take too much for too long. Though it’s perfectly safe as we’ve been giving it to you.”
The rushed reassurance brought a huff of amusement from him. “Yes, I’ve figured out that you’re not trying to poison me. I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid. You’ve had too many opportunities, if that was your intent.”
Alban’s smile seemed as forced as his own, masking worry, not deceit. “I can bring you a light meal, if you wish. Some tea, maybe?”
He had a lovely smile, even when—especially when—he was smiling over his concern.
“Thank you.” Those words came easier all the time. Only common politeness, after all, and he and the Leas were stuck with each other for a while to come.
It felt like less of a burden than he imagined to have Alban in his life. But at the moment, he wanted to be left alone to read.
Alban disappeared after one last backward glance at the door to see that he was truly well enough to be left alone. Kieran dove back into the book with growing excitement, skimming over theory to find the methods, , ,
And swore in frustration. It was just as Alban had said. The book made reference to other works it assumed the reader knew. Without those references, the book made no sense.
He went back to the beginning, reading every word carefully, determined to puzzle it out. When food appeared at his elbow, Kieran ate absently and without tasting what he put in his mouth.
Without meaning to, the damned Leas had devised the perfect torment. To have the answer so close, and yet hidden from him.
“I didn’t mean for it to worry you so.” The voice buzzed on the edge of his awareness. “Kieran?” Louder now, sharp with worry.
“Hmm?” He looked up. “No, I’m fine.”
“I only hoped it would prove an interesting diversion for you,” Alban said. “Truly, it is of no consequence.”
No consequence? It was everything. But Alban couldn’t know that, and he refused to enlighten him.
He managed a smile. “This is nothing. You should see me when I can’t get the right bit of ornamentation on a tune I’m composing.”
“It is near to dinner time. My mother and father will expect me at the table. You are welcome to join us, if you would rather not dine alone in your room.”
Though he may be sheltered under his enemy’s roof, Kieran couldn’t bring himself to share his table. “Thank you, no.”
“Let me see you back to your room. The book must stay, as it’s far too old to leave the library, but you can select another to take with you for company.”
Kieran picked the book of mortal tales, figuring it would be least likely to contain variations on themes he already knew. Alban neatened the remaining stack but did not put any away, though he tucked the maddening book in the top drawer of the desk Kieran had been using.
“There. Everything will be waiting for you tomorrow.”
Going upstairs was less scary than going down, but a lot harder. His ankle throbbed, demanding stillness and elevation. By halfway up, his arms ached with the unfamiliar use of crutches and, when he raised his eyes, the distance to the top seemed longer than the entirety of his journey from Shadowed Lands. He fantasized about sitting down and declaring that he could go no farther.
He supposed that Alban could go for his father’s servants to carry him, but he’d prefer to avoid that final bit of humiliation. And so he shifted his weight onto his crutches, brought his good foot to the step above to pull himself up. Followed with the crutches, shifted his weight again—
And slipped.
The world dropped out from under him as he fell backward, losing one of the crutches as he flailed—
And was caught by strong arms, supported against a lithe body that staggered just a little as momentum crashed Kieran against him.
Alban was stronger than he looked. Quick reflexes too.
Closing his eyes, Kieran leaned into Alban’s hold, panting for just a few moments and waiting for his heart to settle back into his chest.
“All right?” Alban asked.
Kieran nodded, still gulping air.
Alban steadied Kieran on his remaining crutch before reaching for the one he’d dropped.
“Can you make it the rest of the way?” Alban asked.
“I think so.” His voice shook though, and even he wouldn’t be fool enough to believe anything it said.
Alban, no fool at all, hovered no more than a step behind him the rest of the way up the stairs.
The room that had seemed an unbearable prison earlier in the day now welcomed him as a haven. Exhausted, Kieran accepted the indignity of Alban tucking him in and fluffing pillows for his ankle. He was already drifting off as Alban left, and must have slept through a servant’s arrival with his dinner, because when he woke a covered tray waited for him on the bedside table.
He ate a little, his mind still twisting and turning around the book on bardic healing, stopping to rest every now and again on the memory of Alban warm against him. The Leas prince had been born after the war, so he had to be younger than Kieran, but not by much. Not enough to matter. Was he experienced? Kieran would wager not, though he couldn’t say what gave him that impression. Or, for that matter, why he was speculating. As a prince and a Leas, Alban was both beyond Kieran’s touch and beneath his consideration.
Only idleness brought him to wondering what it would be like to inform that innocence.
Six
The days followed a similar pattern. With Alban’s assistance, Kieran would make his way down to the library and work feverishly on deciphering the book. Alban read nearby and made sure that Kieran ate and drank at some point.
“Are you sure you don’t want to work on something else for a while?” Alban said on the third day when he put a slice of bread and cheese in Kieran’s hand. “You’re exhausting yourself. Does it matter that much?”
Had Alban divined his true intent? Was he trying to interfere?
A look at Alban’s face, gentle with concern, told him that no, the Leas truly only worried about his enemy and patient.
How had he ever thought that face cold? Alban was warm as the pale spring sunshine and considerably more reliable. His face gave away his feelings readily, whether he was worried for Kieran, vexed by him, or amused by him.
Kieran liked the last best. He sometimes went out of his way to amuse Alban just to watch how his quick smile brightened his face like light flashing on gold. Alban was too somber and serious by far, but when he smiled, it transformed him completely.
“It’s only that I have nothing else to do at the moment,” he reassured Alban. “A situation for which, you need not remind me again, I am entirely to blame. I should think that you would be happy that the book at least keeps me quiet. It’s the chief fault of bards, that if we’re not playing or singing, we’re talking.”
“I like hearing you talk,” Alban said. “When you’re not being angry or sulky, anyway. And I love to hear you play. I imagine I would enjoy hearing you sing.”
“Have I not sung for you? Surely I have.”
Alban shook his head. “A brief snatch of some light mortal song. No more.”
“Come to my room tonight then and I shall.”
Kieran’s words sounded tremendously flirtatious, and he hadn’t meant them as such. At least not with any forethought.
Kieran turned his attention from the Leas who was,
he reminded himself, an enemy and beyond his reach besides, and focused on the book. Whispering of hope for his people and his queen while still keeping its secrets locked away, the book tantalized him. He asked Alban about the books referenced, but not only were they not currently in existence, neither Alban nor his father nor any of their scholars ever heard mention of the titles.
That didn’t make sense. If they were so well-known in their time that the author made casual reference to them, then surely some mention of them would remain. Leas were nearly as well-known for booklore as for healing.
As the light in the window faded from reds and golds to dusky purples, Alban again repeated his invitation to dine with his family. Kieran, as always, declined.
A servant brought Kieran’s dinner to his room. Roasted venison, fresh, soft bread, a pear compote served with cream. He could not fault the Leas in their feeding of prisoners. Guests. Whatever he was.
As Kieran ate, he thought about what he would sing for Alban. No songs about the war, certainly. Or any war, to be safe. He wanted to please Alban, not make him uncomfortable.
And why was that so important to him? A bard’s instincts to satisfy the audience? Although a bard could and did use words as a weapon more readily—and in his own case, far more effectively—than a sword.
The Leas prince had been more than hospitable to him. It would be churlish not to respond with equal civility. A bard might be difficult, even uncomfortable to be around, but a bard should never be churlish.
He began to tune his harp. So, no war songs and no songs in praise of Scathlan royalty—too easily read as pointed, especially given the hostility he’d displayed toward the Leas when he’d first arrived. Songs about wind and water, deep forests and bright summer meadows, those would be safe. Both their peoples shared a love for the natural world. Given Alban’s own hunting tales, he’d probably enjoy the funny one Kieran had picked up a few villages back about the boastful hunter who lost his hounds, his horse, and his way. Love songs? No. Yes. He was singing for the Leas prince, not to him. Some of the best songs in his repertoire were love songs. He refused to get all shy and nervous like some callow virgin before his first love.
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