Where Light Meets Shadow

by Shawna Reppert

  Kieran was the first to drop his gaze. “You aren’t going to give up on this, are you?”

  Alban smiled, tasting victory. “I am not.”

  “You’re a bully, you know.”

  “Only when it’s in my patient’s interest.”

  They decided to venture down to the stables, so Kieran could check on his mare. Alban assured him that she was fine, if a little over-plump from lack of work, but he understood why Kieran would want to see for himself.

  “It’s a lot farther than the library,” Alban cautioned.

  “Good thing we have all day, then.”

  Indeed, it was a good thing, as they had to stop several times for Kieran to rest on a bench or window seat. Kieran apologized repeatedly for his own weakness. It couldn’t be easy for one used to riding and walking all day from town to town to struggle just to get to the stables.

  Occasionally they met with a courtier or servant going about their business. Alban tried to keep between Kieran and the other Leas, shielding him from the hostility of their glares. He realized that only respect for his person and his father’s command kept the Scathlan safe, and was disappointed by his people.

  “Don’t worry yourself.” Kieran read him far more easily than he should have. “It would be much the same for a Leas in my home. Worse, for I doubt we’d shelter and heal one of your kind to begin with.”

  Once, Kieran might have spoken in defiance. Now, his words echoed with a sorrow that reflected Alban’s own.

  #

  Kieran’s mare whickered at him in greeting. He scratched her neck, finding the itchy spot under her mane. She brought her head around to breathe against his face.

  She was, as Alban had promised, fat and happy and clearly well-cared for. He hadn’t really doubted. The Leas were, after all, elves. Whatever their feelings toward Scathlan, they wouldn’t take them out on an innocent animal.

  It did feel good to get out of the castle proper, to breath the fresh, cold snow-scented air that blew in through the stable’s open doors to mingle with the combined aromas of horse, leather, and sweet hay. It reminded him of many days that began with a stable yard and the anticipation of fresh adventure and ended with a warm fire and appreciative audience.

  The throbbing in his ankle and the ache of muscles now unused to even a climb down the stairs told Kieran that those days were not anywhere in his near future. And that the journey back up the stairs would not get any shorter for delaying it.

  The clatter of hooves and the yapping of hounds in the stable yard warned him that maybe he had delayed too long already. A Leas hunting party returned from its morning hunt, faces flushed with exercise and cold and boots splattered with mud. Kieran shifted on his crutches, ready to leave as quickly as he could to avoid confrontation, but Alban had already called out a greeting to the newcomers.

  What was he thinking? Likely he wasn’t thinking, and these were his people, his friends.

  “Alban, I think we should go back.”

  “Are you tired? Of course, just a moment.” Alban turned back to the Leas who had handed off their horses to the grooms and now swarmed into the stable. “Cousins, how went the hunting?”

  “Well enough,” replied the foremost elf. “Though we have not yet found ourselves a prize to rival your stray.”

  Kieran flinched back. Would Alban not get them out of there? He dared not leave alone, not with armed Leas all about.

  “Sheary!” Alban reprimanded with a laugh, before turning to Kieran. “He means to tease me, not to insult you. But my cousin could learn to choose his words more wisely.”

  “Indeed,” said Alban’s cousin with a slight bow. “I would not insult the guest of my prince. Nor insult a bard, for fear that my name be immortalized in a way that would make my descendants blush in shame. Alban has much to say of your skill.”

  “Your prince is very kind.” Kieran at last found his tongue and his manners. “And it is an honor to meet one of his kinsman.”

  The other hunters had gathered around, most with their hoods still up so that he could not read their faces or their moods. Several hounds pushed forward, intent on investigating the stranger, bumping his crutches and forcing him to hobble for balance.

  Another of the Leas, one who looked older than the cousins, called the hounds off with a sharp command. He stepped forward, revealing a limp.

  “I apologize, bard. I don’t know which has worse manners, my hunters or my hounds. And since my prince has not seen fit to introduce us, I am Eamon, master huntsman of the Leas. Though we have met before, it was not under the best of circumstances, and we were never properly introduced.”

  “You were with the prince when he found me,” Kieran guessed.

  He remembered that evening well, including the mix of bravado and stupidity with which he had resisted the hunting party’s efforts to help him.

  “You were lucky we did,” Eamon commented, not unkindly.

  “I was,” Kieran acknowledged. “Even if I didn’t realize it at the time.”

  “What in the world were you thinking?” Eamon asked.

  “I wasn’t.” He gestured with a crutch. “As you can see, I am paying the price.”

  “Be glad it didn’t cost you your life,” Eamon said firmly.

  Alban interceded. “You needn’t be so grim, Eamon.” To Kieran he added, “He’d lecture me just the same if I ever did anything so reckless.”

  Kieran smiled. “I’m sure you never would.”

  Eamon chuckled. “You haven’t known our prince as long as I, nor as well.”

  “Really? Sounds like a story there,” Kieran said.

  “Which we do not have time for at the moment,” Alban said quickly. “I thought you were fatigued and wished to return to your room.”

  “Another time.” Kieran bowed to Eamon, who returned the courtesy solemnly, but with a glint of mischief in his eyes that sparked a kindred feeling in his soul.

  Really, he doubted that Alban had ever done anything truly wild and irresponsible in his life. But the prince’s embarrassment over whatever small transgression he may have committed was enough to amuse.

  #

  Kieran was thoroughly exhausted by the time they reached his room, and his ankle throbbed. Alban fussed, helping him into bed, propping up his leg with pillows and fretting that the outing had been too much, until Kieran caught his hand and met his gaze, silently asking him to bond with him.

  Through the link, he assured Alban that, yes, he was tired, but it was a good tired, and that he felt better for the outing.

  “I was worried that my cousins and the hounds might have overwhelmed you,” Alban said aloud.

  Kieran sent a flash of humor through the link—the hunting party had been quite a swarm, especially against the backdrop of his recent near solitude. “It was a pleasant contrast to meet Leas who aren’t after my blood.”

  Alban sent disapproval through the link, accompanied by images of his father healing Kieran as Alban took the pain, of his mother giving Kieran her harp.

  “Oh, hush,” Kieran said. “You know what I meant.”

  Alban read to him that afternoon. Kieran enjoyed his voice and his company—the expedition to the stable had worn him out. He had no idea he had lost so much of his physical conditioning in so short a time.

  “It happens more quickly than you would think,” Alban told him when Kieran said as much. “Too, your body demands much of your strength for the healing process. And you are using different muscles when you go about on crutches than you would without. Still, we should start working on getting you built back up so you can travel again once you are healed.”

  They both knew that his stay here, and this undefined thing between them, could not last. And yet usually they avoided talking about it.

  “It’s a cold day,” Kieran said. “Are you not cold? Come sit beside me for warmth.”

  Alban did not mention that, although the day was cold, the hearth fire was warm and more wood could be added to it if either
of them were chilled. Instead, he shifted onto the bed, sitting against the headboard with Kieran spooned in front of him, leaning against his chest. Almost without will they slipped into the link, and Alban began to read once more until it was time for him to go down for dinner.

  “Will you be all right here alone while I go down to my parents?”

  Alban had not forgotten his worry then.

  “I’ll be fine.” Kieran sent a hopeful image of himself curled up with the book Alban had promised to return.

  Alban sighed. “I did promise. Only, try to be sensible? As sensible as you can be.”

  “I am a bard, after all.” Through the link, he sent his somber promise, on the music and on his father’s blood in his veins.

  The answering warmth of Alban’s trust settled around him like a blanket. Alban squeezed his hand, then slipped from the link to get the book and Kieran’s notes.

  Kieran spent the evening reacquainting himself with the book. The question of duets still teased at his thoughts, but the enforced time away had given him a calmer frame of mind.

  Perhaps he needed to start by imagining what a bardic duet would be like. Maybe something akin to what it felt like with Alban linked to his mind as he played? Except that a mind-link like the one Alban shared with him needed a healer to initiate it. The only comparable skill among Scathlan was the royal ability to mindspeak, but that compared more to shouted orders or a town crier’s call than an intimate conversation between dearest friends. Bardic magic tended not to respond to orders, sometimes not even the bard’s own.

  He fell asleep early with the book still in his hands, and slept well. Nothing disturbed Kieran’s rest except the faint brush of Alban’s mind that might or might not have been a dream.

  #

  He woke sometime after sunrise. It felt early, too early to expect breakfast any time soon. He reached for his harp and began to play one of the songs mentioned in the book, imagining the touch of Alban’s mind as he played, remembering the touch of Alban’s mind on his own as the Leas healed him.

  Oh, he was an idiot for not seeing it before!

  The bardic healing magic was a duet indeed. Not between musical instruments or even two bards, but between a bard’s magic and a healer’s taking place in the mind-link.

  Twelve

  A soft knock on the door woke Alban, and Kieran’s voice calling his name brought him surging to his feet. He snatched up his robe and rushed to the door, hastily tying the belt as he went. Kieran had never disturbed him in his room before.

  In the doorway, Kieran leaned on his crutches, a little breathless, eyes bright. Was he in pain? Feverish?

  “I figured it out,” Kieran said in a rush. “I probably should have waited—I’m sorry if I woke you—but, Alban, I figured it out!”

  Relieved, Alban waved him in and tried not to think about the fact that the servant who brought breakfast up to the hall each morning would find them both in Alban’s room.

  Kieran explained his discovery. “We could do this! You and I, together through the mind-link.”

  They could try it, and perhaps they could rediscover the ancient technique that joined the strengths of bardic and healing magic. But it would be experimental, and experimental healing magic was dangerous. He wanted to try it, but. . .

  “We will have to tell Father first. And get his permission.”

  “I don’t see why. Alban, please—”

  “I’ve already hidden things from my father for your sake. This is too big, too much of a potential risk. And a deliberate deception. You can’t ask it of me.”

  Kieran looked like he would argue, then sighed and dropped his head. “Very well.”

  “I’m almost certain he will agree to let us try it.” Once he got over his shock and anger, because Alban would have no choice but to let him know the extent and frequency with which Kieran and Alban had been mind-linking. “It will be safer for both of us to have an experienced healer with us in case something goes wrong.”

  #

  After they shared breakfast, Kieran waited in his own room while Alban went to talk to his father. He held his harp in his lap, plucking the strings idly, unable to focus on a tune. Alban had said that his father had wanted the secret of the book unlocked. Surely as a healer, the king would want to discover if this old method of combining bardic and healing magic could be relearned. Unless he realized that Kieran wanted to use the magic to wake the Scathlan queen.

  When Alban returned, his face looked troubled.

  “He said no, didn’t he?” Kieran guessed.

  “He said neither yes nor no. He wants to see you in his study. Alone.”

  Fear washed over Kieran. “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t say. I had to tell him about our mind-linking. He was not best pleased.”

  “I think it’s time you told me about the mind-link. We’ve never talked about it. Maybe I didn’t want to know. But if I’m about to be hanged for it, I deserve to know what I’m being hanged for. What it means. What your father thinks it means.”

  “A superficial mind-link during healing is common enough, and doesn’t mean anything more than what a salve or a bandage might,” Alban explained carefully.

  “I’d say our link is neither superficial nor common.”

  “What we have, the compatibility between our minds, is too rare to have any set meaning. When it occurs, it’s usually among married couples—”

  Kieran closed his eyes. “Oh, sweet Grace,” he breathed. “Your father really is going to kill me.”

  “—but it is not necessarily romantic or sexual. Such compatibility has been known between siblings and, in one legend, between warrior-friends. It is not something one chooses and is considered to be a gift from the Grace.”

  Kieran grimaced. “I doubt that your father thinks you to be especially blessed.”

  “I doubt he knows what to think.” Alban put a hand on his shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze. “Go, do not keep him waiting. But trust that he will not harm you for this.”

  That Alban believed his father would not hurt him, Kieran had no doubt. If only he could share that faith.

  “Walk with me to his study?” he asked. “I do not know the way.” Nor did he wish to compound his problems with another encounter with Trodaire.

  Outside Toryn’s study, Alban touched his shoulder and brushed against his mind. All will be well.

  And then Kieran knocked, was told to enter, and hobbled in, closing the door between himself and the only Leas he fully trusted.

  It was a large room, with tapestries of forest scenes on the walls and carpets on the floor woven in forest colors. A window looked out over a steep slope of spruces and pines. Toryn stood by the window, tall and remote and forbidding. “Sit,” Toryn commanded. “I would not make an injured man stand on crutches.”

  He took the seat Toryn indicated. “Thank you, Your M—Lord Toryn.”

  Toryn remained standing. “You are healing well?”

  “Yes, lord. Your son is quite skilled.”

  “And quite attentive, I understand,” Toryn said, voice heavy with disapproval

  Kieran swallowed hard. “Yes, lord.” Safest to answer the bare meaning of the words and ignore the tone.

  Toryn stalked closer. “I understand that the two of you have an unusual compatibility, that you can link quite easily and comfortably.”

  Toryn was harder to read now, and Kieran wasn’t sure what he was expected to say. The king let the silence hang until Kieran scrambled to fill it.

  “I’m sorry, lord, I—”

  “Do not apologize for that which is a gift from the Grace!” Toryn snapped.

  Kieran shrank back into the chair.

  “You were less frightened when you were dragged into my castle, an injured trespasser half-dead from the cold.”

  Kieran decided to try for honesty. “I was too miserable and too angry then to be frightened. And I had less to lose.”

  Toryn gave an enigmatic half-smile. “Ah. What
is it that you feel you have to lose now?”

  “My comfort. My safety. The chance to pursue an area of bardic magic I had not known before.” Your son’s friendship.

  “Ah, yes. The book.” Toryn paced a few slow steps, running a hand across the carved mantel with feigned casualness. “I admit, when my son told me you were studying it, it seemed a harmless enough pastime. I had hoped it would keep you out of trouble.”

  He couldn’t know about the incident with the magic going wild. Alban would have warned him otherwise.

  Toryn’s slow pacing brought him directly in front of Kieran. “But now you want to engage in experimental magic.” He fixed Kieran in his steady gaze. “With my son.”

  Toryn hadn’t raised his voice. Yet.

  “It seems the obvious next step,” Kieran said quickly, daring to meet that implacable gaze before glancing away. “I’m not sure it would work with anyone else. Honestly, I’m not sure it will work, period. But I’d like to try.” He dared a hopeful smile.

  Toryn’s answering smile was cold and all too knowing. “I am not as naïve as my son. I know why you are so interested in the healing magic. You wish to wake your queen. You think that reviving her will save your people far more than any song you could bring back from mortal lands.”

  Kieran wet his lips. “My lord, I—”

  Ice-blue eyes silenced him. “The thing is, I know your queen. Far better than you do. I am not so sure you are right in thinking that waking her would be the salvation you seek.”

  Kieran’s knuckles whitened with his grip of the chair as he tried to formulate a measured response, one worthy of a bard.

  Toryn sighed heavily and sank into a chair opposite Kieran. And in that moment, he transformed from a fearsome king to a man wearied with long-carried burdens and with questions which had no easy answers.

  “I am not certain it can be done,” Toryn said, “and I’m not certain I’d be doing your people any favors should you succeed, but I’m willing to let you try. If you will grant me a favor in return.”

  What could he possibly have that Toryn might want that he could not already take by force? “Name your terms,” Kieran said levelly.