Where Light Meets Shadow

by Shawna Reppert

  “I ask that you not hurt my son.”

  Kieran felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. “Lord, I know you have no reason to believe me, but I would die before I did harm to Alban.”

  “I believe that you would not intentionally hurt him. Alban is no fool, and he would sense in the mind-link if you were not as he believes you to be. But Alban is not as worldly as you are. You have to know where this thing between you would grow if unchecked, and you have to know that any such a union is impossible.”

  No point in denial; Toryn would not believe him.

  “I do know that,” Kieran said softly, voice colored with regret he only now admitted to himself. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin proudly. “I may love freely, but I have never played the rake and would never imply hope where there is none.”

  “I know,” Toryn said. “I think my son would not love you if he did not see honor in you.”

  Love. Kieran hadn’t let himself think that word before, hadn’t wanted to face the responsibility.

  “What are you asking? For me to break off my friendship with Alban? To not mind-link outside of the experiments?”

  “No. That would hurt him too. Nor would he understand,” Regret weighted Toryn’s voice, almost as though he wished for a world where he did not have to keep Alban apart from his first love.

  “What, then?”

  Toryn scrubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t know. Just. . . be careful.”

  “I will do anything I can to shield him from harm.”

  Thirteen

  Learning to meld the bardic and healing magic wasn’t easy, and sometimes Kieran wanted to scream in frustration. Alban complained that bardic magic was too unstructured; Kieran felt it was never going to work if Alban didn’t learn to develop a musician’s sensitivity and timing to flow with the music.

  “Name of the Grace, have you never at least danced?” Kieran shouted one morning, in both words and through the link, only to remember himself when Alban flinched.

  “Sorry,” he said, and through the link showed how his frustration grew from the difficulty of the task, not from Alban. “Here, let’s forget the healing part for a moment. Just hold the link with me and feel how the music moves.”

  Kieran put his hands to the strings once more, and tried to show Alban what the music meant to the musician, what the bardic magic meant to the bard, how the magic and the music wielded the bard as much as the reverse.

  “Beautiful,” Alban breathed. “But I’m not certain how to adapt that to healing magic. A responsible healer must control his magic, or he can harm as well as heal.”

  “Show me.”

  Kieran had thought their other links had been intimate, but Alban took him deeper still until he was enveloped in the shining radiance that was Alban’s soul. If I were ever to love, it would be him. The thought caught him by surprise, and he hoped Alban had not seen it.

  He had not at all been careful, as he promised Toryn he would.

  If Alban noticed the stray thought, he gave no sign. “Look,” he whispered in Kieran’s ear. “See as I do.”

  Kieran saw then, with a healer’s eye, the delicate balance of energy that ran through his own body like a living, gossamer net. For the first time, he knew with a healer’s sense how careful, how precise, must be any touch on that net lest that touch become more like the slash of a broadsword than the deft slice of a surgeon’s knife.

  “I understand,” he said softly, reverently. “And I am even more amazed by you and what you do. But I’m not sure how to reconcile your skills with what I do.” The frustration returned, and he let it edge his voice, knowing that, this deep into the link, Alban would know it was not directed at him. “There has to be a way. The book says it’s possible. Unfortunately, the author seems to think it’s so obvious that he need not explain how.”

  “Perhaps it was that obvious once. When our kindreds lived as one, when bardic magic flourished and friendships between Leas healers and Scathlan bards would be as common as snow in winter.”

  The wistfulness in Alban’s voice made Kieran’s throat ache. He wanted to pull Alban close, and yet could not.

  He thought of the old murals, Leas and Scathlan together. They might have returned to that unity had Toryn Oathbreaker kept his word. In a world like that, maybe he might have grown up different, grown up someone capable of returning Alban’s love. In a world like that, maybe such love would not be impossible.

  But if Toryn had kept his word and married the queen, Alban would not exist. Grace help him, but Kieran could not feel that such a world would be worth the price, though it made him a traitor to his kindred, his queen, and his blood.

  Alban turned him a little so he could see Kieran’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  In the link, Kieran’s thoughts were his own, unless he projected them, but his feelings were open between them.

  “Nothing.” After all, the past was past, and his opinions on it, loyal or not, didn’t make a difference. “I was just being more of the Fool than normal.”

  Alban shifted away a little to stretch, and the link faded to a feather-light touch. “I think we have been at this too long. We both need a diversion. My cousin Sheary, the one you met at the stable, is celebrating his birthday tonight. He said I should bring you, if you’ll come.”

  Kieran stiffened. “Is that a good idea? Why would he even invite me?”

  “You’ll be safe. It’s just going to be some of us young ones. We weren’t even alive for the war, or weren’t old enough to remember it. My cousins know I consider you a friend and will treat you accordingly. They’ve heard me talking about you, and they’re curious. Also, I suspect that Sheary wishes the distinction of having a Scathlan bard playing at his birthday celebration. He asked if you might bring your harp.”

  Kieran smiled. Some things remained the same across cultures. This would not be the first request for services disguised as a social invitation. This time, he didn’t mind so much; he missed playing for an audience. Only, despite Alban’s assurances, being surrounded by a group of Leas for an entire evening, especially being injured and vulnerable, brought up every nightmare of his childhood.

  Alban must have read the hesitation in his silence. “If there is ever to be a true peace between our two peoples, it can only come if we know one another.”

  “Peace between our peoples,” Kieran repeated. “Do you think it’s even possible?”

  “Before I met you, I wouldn’t have thought so,” Alban said.

  Before Kieran met Alban, he wouldn’t have thought he wanted such a peace. But now. . . Trodaire aside, the Leas were not the demons of his childhood nightmares. A renewal of the old kinship couldn’t come any time soon. The wounds on both sides were too deep to heal quickly. But elves were not as short-lived as mortals. Maybe someday he and Alban could have a friendship beyond this temporary interlude while he healed.

  More than friendship, he could not expect. Too many other barriers stood between them. But friendship and peace. . .a fool’s hope still, but then Alban always called him a fool.

  He smiled at the prince. “You’ll have to carry my harp.”

  #

  The celebration was well underway when Kieran and Alban arrived. The room was dimly lit, only a few lamps hung along the walls. About a dozen Leas crowded around a low table holding platters of fruit, cheese, and sweet delicacies, and large inroads had been made into the offerings. More inroads had been made into the wine, to judge by the volume of the laughter and the barely noticeable slurring of a word here and there in the conversation Kieran picked up through the open door—something about one of the party’s romantic prospects, or lack thereof.

  Kieran’s life as a bard had given him a keen ear for the level of inebriation in a room. He’d have to say that most of the Leas present were well into their cups. Usually, he’d call it a good sign: the audience was lubricated enough to be easy-going without being too far gone to be appreciative. A crowd of mortals in s
uch a state would part more easily with their coin. But being a Scathlan in a room full of Leas with lowered inhibitions presented a special danger.

  With their prince at his side, he’d be safe enough. Wouldn’t he? He glanced back at Alban and opened his mouth to suggest that maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.

  A voice rose above the din. “Look who’s here. The prince and his Scathlan.”

  Too late to change his mind. Kieran hobbled forward, conscious of all eyes on him.

  “Welcome, cousin, honored bard,” said the Leas at the head of the table, the one Kieran had met at the stable.

  Sheary, he remembered. The one whose birthday they were celebrating.

  “Come, I’ve saved seats for you. And my brother now owes me the pick of his bitch’s next litter, for he bet me you would not come.”

  As they sat down, Sheary placed wine cups in front of them and filled them to the brim. “Best get started, both of you. You’re behind.”

  Kieran took a careful sip from the over-full cup. The wine was strong and oaky and complemented well the sharp, tangy cheese Sheary put in front of him.

  “So, I hear from the prince that you can practically harp birds from the sky, and the nightingale is silent for shame when you sing.”

  Kieran flushed at the praise. “I do my best.”

  Alban had done him no favors in setting up the audience’s expectations.

  “I see my cousin brought your harp. I hope you will play for us. After you have had some wine, of course. Wouldn’t want you to go home and tell the other Scathlan that Leas have forgotten hospitality.”

  Kieran would rather play sober and drink after, but all he said was “Indeed, I have found the hospitality here quite generous.”

  “Well, you aren’t the first odd thing that Alban brought home from hunting.”

  Kieran stiffened at the “stray” reference but, as Sheary launched into the story of Alban bringing home an orphaned fox kit, he realized that the Leas prince, not he, was the object of the gentle teasing.

  The story led into other hunting tales, with either Sheary or Alban giving Kieran any necessary explanations as an aside so he could follow the tales of these Leas he didn’t know.

  In a lull, he contributed a story he’d heard at a mortal inn of a hunter so drunk he mistook his neighbor’s prized milk goat for a doe. With the attention now on him, he offered a song, and Alban handed him the harp.

  In keeping with the theme of the tales and the mood of the room, he chose a lighthearted song about hunting, then followed it with a merry tune. The Leas had quieted, listening with rapt attention, so he followed with a soft, sweet air. He finished and looked about.

  “My cousin did not exaggerate,” Sheary breathed. “Are all Scathlan so talented?”

  “Can all Leas heal like your prince?”

  Sheary smiled. “What? All right, yes, it was a silly question. It is only that we know so little about your people. I have always been told that Scathlan are cruel and heartless, but I cannot believe that you could play as you do if you were unfeeling.”

  Kieran ignored the slight against his people to focus on the compliment that was intended. “You are most gracious.”

  Alban contrived to brush against him under the table, swiftly forming a link to send warm approval. Kieran pressed gently against the physical and mental contact.

  “Will you play more?” Sheary asked.

  So Kieran played and, because it was a party and not a concert, he played music that could fade into the background of conversation and tried not to mind when conversation began to flow around him. He relaxed into the music, letting the rise and fall of voices provide counterpoint to the harp.

  Until a new voice joined the others. “I won’t disturb you youngsters long, I just wanted to—”

  Kieran’s hands fell from the harp strings as memories of blood and pain and helpless fear crashed over him.

  “What is he doing here?” Trodaire snarled.

  Kieran’s crutches were propped against the wall, and he sat in a corner, hampered by his harp and the table and hemmed in by Leas on all sides. Trodaire stalked forward, rage contorting his scarred face.

  Sheary stood. “He is here because I invited him. He is harping for us. Or was, before you interrupted.

  Alban pressed against Kieran, mind wrapping around his, promising him safety and protection.

  Trodaire shook his head. “You’re too young. You can’t know what monsters Scathlan are.”

  “Was there a reason for your visit, Uncle?” Sheary asked.

  “I came to wish you a happy birthday.” Trodaire’s tone held nothing of good wishes.

  “I thank you, Uncle, for your kind felicitations.” Hurt trembled under the coldness in Sheary’s voice.

  Trodaire nodded tersely, turned on his heel, and left.

  Kieran shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn’t have let Alban talk him into coming.

  “Perhaps I should leave,” he suggested quietly.

  Alban put a hand over his. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Kieran cocked his head.

  “In case Trodaire lingers. I will go with you, of course, if you insist on leaving. I think Trodaire’s anger would not take him so far as to defy me directly by harming you in my presence. But I do not think it would be a pleasant encounter for anyone.”

  Sheary topped off Kieran’s half-full cup, then filled Alban’s and his own. “There. You can’t leave now, it would be a waste of wine.”

  Although he usually kept his drinking to a minimum when he performed, Kieran picked up the cup and drank deeply before returning to his harp strings.

  Fourteen

  Kieran slept in late the next morning and was still fuzzy-headed when Alban rushed into his room the next day, putting down the breakfast tray with a clatter that made Kieran wince and looking entirely too cheerful for someone who had been up just as late as Kieran had. But then, Alban hadn’t drunk quite so much.

  The morning sun came too bright through the window, glaring off the white walls of the room. How had he ever thought the effect cheerful?

  “I was watching you play last night,” Alban started.

  “Yes, I rather noticed.” He didn’t mean for that to sound as flirtatious as it did.

  Alban just glared at his facetiousness. “My point is, your harping, you have to be very precise. The right strings in the right order and the right tempo.”

  “Of course.” Alban had been in his head often enough to know this long ago, and wasn’t it obvious to anyone who’d ever been in the same room with a harpist?

  “So your music is every bit as precise as my healing.”

  “Yes, but once you learn the instrument, you don’t have to think so hard about it. It’s like— It’s like a baby learning to talk. They have to think hard about the words, how to form them, what they mean, how to put them together. But when we grow up, we’re not concentrating on the words and how to pronounce them when we have a conversation. We’re just thinking about what we want to say.”

  He looked at the breakfast tray, then decided that the scones looked innocuous enough. Kieran knew from experience that he would only feel worse if he didn’t eat something.

  “Your healing.” He bit into a scone, chewed and swallowed with an act of will. “Do you still think about each and every part of the process, or do you think more about what you want to have happen?”

  Alban developed that endearing little crease between his eyebrows that showed he was thinking hard. Kieran couldn’t remember now when he had first noticed it, nor when it first made his breath catch.

  “A little of both, actually.” Alban said. “But it’s different when we factor in the bardic magic. I’m not controlling the direction with that, and if I let the healing just flow with the music as you are creating it, it could do anything.”

  Kieran finished the scone, then dared the tea. Chamomile, this morning. Had Alban requested it specifically, knowing the state Kieran’
s stomach was likely to be in?

  “There has to be a way.” The chamomile felt good in his stomach, so he took another swallow. “Unless the author of the book was delusional, and we are following the rantings of a madman.”

  “The music is instinctual to you. The healing almost that for me. But unless we each have the other’s instincts, I don’t see how this can work. Deep as the mind-link is, it’s not deep enough.”

  A thought came to Kieran then, too dangerous to voice.

  Until Alban voiced it himself. “Maybe we could take the link deeper.”

  “Is that possible?”

  Was it wise? They had already bonded more closely than Kieran thought possible. What would it be like when they could no longer be part of one another’s daily existence?

  “One way to find out,” Alban said.

  Alban was supposed to be the sensible one, and Kieran the reckless fool. Yet Alban slid over to sit behind him on the bed, cradling him against his chest, as had become their habit, far closer than needed to facilitate the link. Alban’s mind touched his, and Kieran accepted the touch, letting their minds join together like the interlaced fingers of clasped hands.

  Relax, Alban thought at him. Let me all the way in.

  The words were so similar to those uttered by the first man who Kieran had let take him that he stifled a nervous laugh, hoping that Alban didn’t catch the thought.

  And then they were linked deeper, past the entwining of hands and into something far more intimate; souls joined as the bodies of lovers joined, so that one could not move without affecting the other.

  This time Alban definitely caught the image, though Kieran tried to banish it swiftly. Kieran felt the heat of Alban’s blush.

  You should have enough experience with the feeling of joining with another, then.

  He sensed Alban’s disapproval and tried to chase its source, but the Leas turned him away firmly. Focus on why we’re here.

  Ah, probably just annoyed at his tendency toward flippancy. Yes, O Prince of Light. Why don’t you try a healing, and I’ll see how much of a difference there is. My headache, for example.