Kieran dreaded even trying. If he said no, Toryn would probably have guards come with a stretcher. The humiliation and vulnerability of being carried by Leas scared him worse than the stairs.
“I’ll manage.”
#
Alban lay on the couch in his parents’ sitting room, feeling ridiculously like a badly behaved child sent away for a nap. Maybe he could convince his father that he had overextended himself by accident? Embarrassing, but better than the truth that, once he made connection with Kieran, once he realized the extent of the damage to his ankle, once he touched mind-to-mind and felt the warmth and trust of his reciprocal answer, Alban had lost all healer’s objectivity and could do nothing but spare his friend to the last scrap of his strength.
It had frightened Alban, the extent to which Kieran gave over to him, the extent of the compatibility of their minds. Lacking experience with this sort of link, the bard must not know how unusual such an easy, close joining was. Exhausted and with a throbbing head besides, he didn’t want to think about the implications right now.
Nor did Alban want to think about how hard it had been to walk away and leave Kieran to his father’s care. He closed his eyes and drifted into a restless half-sleep until his father’s voice jerked him awake.
“I swear, Alban, my life would be much simpler if your stray Scathlan had broken his neck rather than his ankle when he fell from that horse.”
Alban sat up abruptly, heart pounding. “Father?”
His father dropped into the chair opposite and buried his head in his hands. Alban waited, worry mounting with each passing second. When his father looked up, his face was bleak, anger simmering in his eyes.
“The damnable thing is, the Scathlan hasn’t even done anything I can blame him for. Other than wandering into our territory and getting himself hurt badly enough to require sanctuary in the first place. And wasting a whole lot of time prevaricating.”
“Prevaricating?”
Father sighed deeply. “Apparently he thought he was in trouble for being in the library alone. He was trying to avoid implicating you for leaving him unguarded. I never thought I’d be engaging in a verbal duel with a Scathlan trying to shield my own son.”
Alban sat up straighter. “He did that?”
Should he feel touched, amused, exasperated? Oddly, he did not feel surprised.
“I told him he was a guest, not a prisoner,” Alban said.
Father scrubbed his face with his hands. “Apparently Trodaire was under a different assumption. I’d like to disbelieve the Scathlan’s assertion that the only provocation was his presence in the library. But it matches too closely Trodaire’s own story. Though he couches it in terms of the Scathlan using the knowledge in our libraries for his own evil ends.”
Alban shook his head. “Do you know what Kieran has been doing?”
“Honestly, I don’t care.”
“I showed him that ancient book on combining healing and bardic magic. The one we could never figure out. He’s become obsessed with it. He thinks he’s making some progress.”
His father responded with a skeptical scowl, a sure sign of his foul mood. Normally he’d be intrigued by the news.
“I knew having a Scathlan around would be trouble. Too many of our people have too much reason to hate him on sight. And, of course, if I had any hope of getting rid of him before spring, I’ve lost it now. Trodaire, ironically enough, has seen to that. I’d have never sent him to the library for a book I needed if I knew that your stray was there without you. I thought you had enough sense not to leave him wandering the castle alone. You know how others might react to a Scathlan.”
“Usually no one else uses the royal library. I thought it safe enough.”
Alban decided to omit the argument with Kieran that had provoked him to stalk out. It didn’t make Alban look any better, and it made Kieran look worse.
“How bad is it, really?” Alban asked.
A bard that couldn’t walk and ride wasn’t quite as bad as a bard that couldn’t harp, but his life would not be easy.
“There’s still a chance he’ll mend without permanent damage. Though he’ll need daily healing to accomplish it. Trodaire has managed to unintentionally foil any hope I had of separating the two of you.”
“I still don’t understand why—”
“Don’t play the fool, Alban. Your Scathlan does it better. I may have been occupied with setting bones, but I saw how he turned to you for comfort without thinking, and how you gave it.”
“I’m a healer, I—”
“If you cuddle all your patients like that, you’ll have their spouses after you with a broadsword, prince or no. And I would have had to be dead not to notice that what happened in the library went far beyond a simple healing bond.”
“I don’t think he knows the difference, Father. I hope he doesn’t.”
Bad enough to know he was being a fool over the Fool. He didn’t want to face Kieran’s amusement over the situation. Worse still, his pity. Or, at the very worst, his discomfort, knowing that the one he relied upon for healing desired him.
“Alban, you know that it isn’t the fact that he is male that I object to. Yes, it could cause problems with the succession, but there has been precedent, and there are contingencies. A surrogate or, if you can’t face that, adoption.”
As much as Alban wished to crawl under the couch to avoid this conversation, he felt relief as well. He had never felt for a maid what he felt for Kieran, and he doubted that he ever would.
“Because he’s a Scathlan, then,” Alban spat out bitterly. “For all that you’ve brought me up to believe we were one kindred, even if divided by war.”
“Not even that, though I admit I’d be concerned. They don’t think of love and marriage as we do. For them, it’s all duty and honor. But if I though it possible for him to renounce his people and stay here with you, I might support it no matter how much trouble it caused, no matter how much I worried that you both would come to regret the decision. But Alban, Kieran is committed to his people. You know he thinks of us as the enemy. Maybe if you were not the prince, not the product of a union that he considers an act of war, maybe he would forgive you for being who you are, though I’d hate to see anyone live that kind of life. As it is, it cannot be.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Alban said with the pain he hadn’t let himself feel until that moment. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. He doesn’t believe in love. I suppose it’s better that way.”
His father came to sit beside him on the couch and pulled him into a hug. Alban closed his eyes and allowed himself to be held as though he were a small child.
“I’m sorry, son. Truly I am. I wish it were different for you.”
Nine
Kieran slept most of the day. Toryn had drugged him well in the library and, before he left, had also brushed his mind with a suggestion of sleep. Kieran hadn’t fought the touch, knowing it was a kindness.
He woke in the darkness, not sure what time it was. The fire had burned down to coals, so it must be late. The profound stillness seemed to ring in his ears. He listened hopefully for some sound of movement in the next room, but none came. Alban was surely asleep.
The pain had returned, an insistent throbbing in his leg that made him want to weep. To keep his mind from it, he played tune after tune in his mind, but that only distracted him for so long. Carefully—every movement brought new hurt—Kieran reached for his harp, and played it softly, so as not to wake Alban.
But it wasn’t long before the door opened, and Alban came in bearing a lamp and a cup, the light from the lamp warming his pale hair to gold.
Kieran set the harp aside. “I woke you. I’m sorry. I was trying to be quiet.”
Alban smiled and took the chair beside the bed. “I could tell. But I slept much of the afternoon.”
“I shouldn’t have let you exhaust yourself like that.”
“And how were you to stop me? I’m the prince here.”
&nb
sp; “Your father is the lord, and I think he wasn’t happy.”
Alban sighed. “No, he was not. But that is my problem, not yours. Are you in pain?”
“Some,” Kieran admitted.
“Some?”
“A good deal, actually.”
“Drink this.” He handed Kieran the cup. “I would have brought it earlier, but you were sleeping when I looked in.”
Kieran sipped at the drugged wine, the bitter taste improving none with familiarity.
“In the library, you did more than take my pain away,” Kieran said after a lengthy silence.
Alban’s face took on an expression Kieran couldn’t quite read before he looked away. “I couldn’t take all the pain, but I knew if I could push you toward something like sleep, you would feel it less.”
“Thank you,” Kieran said. “It was. . .nice.”
Nice. What an inadequate word. And he a bard.
What Kieran really wanted was to ask Alban to do it again, only he didn’t know the etiquette for such a request, if there was any, nor precisely what he was asking for.
Another long quiet fell, growing more awkward. When Alban started to speak, Kieran expected it would be to bid him goodnight.
Instead, Alban asked, “Would you like me to do it again?”
There was only one possible answer for Kieran. “Please.”
#
When he woke again, early in the afternoon, all the books he had left on the desk in the library were stacked on the table by his bed, the maddening ancient volume on top.
#
Alban opened the door to Kieran’s room quietly. If the bard was sleeping, he’d leave the cup with the painkilling drug on the table and go. At first, he thought Kieran must be, since he was leaning against the headboard with his eyes closed, the detritus of his studies all around him. But his drawn face and his harsh breathing told another story.
He would have to ask his father if it would be safe to increase the dosage of the painkiller, or at least the frequency of administration.
Kieran opened his eyes when he sensed Alban’s presence and forced a smile. Alban would hate to see circumstances in which the bard didn’t have even a fake grin to give.
Kieran took the painkiller with relief. Between sips, he talked about his progress in tracking down songs, becoming less pained and more animated as the drug took effect and the topic distracted him. Alban pretended to listen, even though some of it made little sense and his mind kept drifting to how beautiful Kieran’s face was when it lit up with excitement, how beautiful his mind had felt meshed with his own. When his imagination started to offer ideas about what it would be like to conjoin bodies as well as minds, Alban jerked his thoughts back.
Entertaining such fantasies came perilously close to violating a healer’s ethics. Although, would Kieran even mind, given his free and easy attitude toward sexuality? It was a good thing that the joining of mortal and elf produced no issue, or there would be a string of dark-haired bastards from the black mountain to the white.
Alban had always imagined that his first sexual experience would be inspired by mutual love and commitment, but then he’d never imagined he would form a mind-link so deep and effortless with someone outside the marriage bond.
How did one go about approaching another for a meaningless tumble in the sheets? Not that Kieran was in any shape for physical relations. And not that Alban was fool enough to set himself up for the pain involved when only one of them had an emotional stake in the proceedings.
“I have to take a look at your injury,” he explained, “change the dressings, and see how it’s healing.”
Kieran nodded his agreement.
No hint of infection showed where the flesh had been torn by the ends of the bones. No more swelling than could be expected. All good signs, yet Alban had a hard time even looking at the injury.
When a healer becomes emotional, he loses his effectiveness. Alban had seen worse than this, but somehow he could only think about the fact that it was Kieran. That it might not have happened had Alban not lost his temper and left Kieran alone. That it could have been much worse if his father hadn’t come in when he did.
Pull yourself together.
“I need to do a healing,” he told Kieran.
“Can you go into my mind? I mean, while you do that?”
As if Alban weren’t already too close, too compromised. “It’s not necessary to the healing.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean...”
Kieran clearly didn’t even know what he was apologizing for.
Alban sighed. “I shouldn’t have snapped.” How could he explain that he felt more for Kieran than he should, to the point where it impacted his work? “Why did you want me to?”
“I’m curious how it feels. Healing from your end of things.” He flashed a grin. “It might even help me figure out that book if I understand the healing process better.”
Kieran’s reasoning made sense, but Alban would have yielded to that grin regardless.
“Besides,” Kieran added, “I like the way your mind feels against mine.”
Oh, and that made Alban want the link all the more, even if it made it less advisable.
He took Kieran’s hand. “Physical contact makes it easier to establish the bond.”
Kieran brushed a thumb over the back of his hand.
Closing his eyes, Alban reached out with his mind, and instantly Kieran greeted him, thoughts warm, affectionate, and enthusiastic for this new adventure. Alban squeezed his hand and sent fondness through the link.
Alban slid his hand lightly down Kieran’s side until he rested a feather-light touch over the injury, then brought his other hand to the opposite side of the leg. He pushed away all distracting self-consciousness regarding the eavesdropping Kieran and reached for the sweet light of healing, smiling when he sensed Kieran’s awe, so like his own feelings regarding Kieran’s music. Then he let the energy flow into the injury, strengthening the natural ability of bone to knit and flesh to mend, quieting the pain.
When Alban had done all that he could for one session, he moved away and slipped out of the link. For a moment, he could feel Kieran’s mind trailing after his, as though reluctant to lose contact.
When he looked up, Kieran stared at him with shining eyes. “Do you have any idea how amazing you are?”
Alban looked away. “I am an adequate healer, is all. When it’s an unfamiliar art, it seems more special than it is.”
Kieran shook his head. “You are amazing.”
Alban imagined what it would be like to lean in for a kiss. He savored the thought for a long moment.
Then he stepped away from the temptation Kieran presented. “I should leave you to your rest.”
Kieran frowned a little. It was early still, and it was obvious that he expected Alban to stay and keep him company a while longer.
Turning his back on the bard’s disappointment, he left.
Ten
Loneliness had a sound, the high-pitched, keening sound of wind moaning through the narrow, barren gorge above the Scathlan’s underground dwellings.
Kieran knew that he was dreaming, knew the sorrow and rage he felt was not his own. Still he woke gasping and sobbing.
“I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’m doing everything I can.”
Knowing sleep would not come again, he lay awake in the dim light of morning, waiting for the solace of Alban’s company.
#
One of the maidservants, not Alban, brought Kieran his breakfast. As usual, she answered his smile and friendly greeting with narrowed eyes and stiff shoulders. He contemplated a more outrageous flirtation just to see what reaction he’d get, but he found enough trouble without seeking it deliberately.
Had he offended Alban in some way? The Leas had reacted oddly when Kieran suggested the mental bond, but once within the link he seemed fine. More than fine. Sublime. If Alban had been upset in those moments, surely Kieran would have sensed it.
Why
had Alban left so abruptly, then? And where was he now? He’d said last night that his father had cleared him from other duties so he could focus on healing Kieran’s new injuries.
And possibly, though he hadn’t said as much, on keeping Kieran out of trouble. Which he couldn’t resent, seeing how trouble seemed to find him whether he looked for it or no.
With a sigh, Kieran reached for the book, trying to remember what he sensed about the healing process and forget his frustration with the healer himself.
He made no progress from that angle, so he went back to analyzing the songs the book referred to, all the while tapping his fingers through the scales, a nervous habit that tended to drive anyone in the room crazy.
The lack of protest only reminded him that he was all alone.
The author kept referring to duets but, for most of these works, Kieran had only heard solo versions. Not that he was particularly surprised. He had never heard of bardic magic being performed in duet.
He set aside the book, refraining from throwing it across the room only out of respect for the age of tome.
Could bardic magic be done as a duet? His father would have known. The inadequacy of Kieran’s training ate at him.
He picked up his harp and played something martial and angry, feeling the magic stir around him as it looked for an army to inspire into battle.
When the maidservant who had brought breakfast came in with lunch, he only spared her a glance as he continued to play. Instead of looking at him with cool disdain, she regarded him with something approaching terror, leaving the tray and backing out with the remains of his largely untouched breakfast.
Bardic magic. Healing magic. Duets. None of it made sense, and yet he could almost hear the answer, just out of reach, like a distant tune caught on the breeze. The music changed, pulling him with it and turning wilder, deeper, a barely recognized variation of the original theme.
The sky turned dark, and wind battered against the panes.
“Kieran! What do you think you’re doing?”
Where Light Meets Shadow Page 8
