Where Light Meets Shadow

by Shawna Reppert

  Alban sent him warmth and compassion and understanding through the link. I am here for you if you need to talk. I will be waiting when you are ready.

  The click of the wine ewer against his cup startled him. Sheary met his eyes as he finished pouring the wine and gave a sympathetic, knowing smile.

  How much had he seen or guessed? The thought didn’t worry him as it might have. Sheary would not cause trouble for Alban or for himself, and somehow having him know or suspect made Kieran feel less alone in his exile.

  That night Sheary poured a particularly strong, heady wine and kept everyone’s cups full, so that none of them knew how much they were drinking. He kept Kieran playing and singing too and, by the end of the night, most of those present were clapping in appreciation for his music, having forgotten for the moment that he was an enemy, a traitor, and a killer.

  He acceded to Alban’s request to walk him back to his rooms—the prince was tipsy enough that he thought it might be a good idea—and he let Alban pull him in for a goodnight kiss in the shadow of the door. Although he gently turned down the offer to stay the night, he had enough wine warming his own blood to dream as he returned to his own lonely rooms that the day might come when he could accept.

  #

  The summons from Toryn came far too early in the morning. Though not quite hung over, he could have done with more sleep and a little breakfast to absorb some of the lingering effects of Sheary’s wine. He owed Toryn a great debt, owed him his life really, and so he pulled on respectable court clothes, brushed back his hair, and waited for the servant who had come for him to announce his presence at Toryn’s door.

  “Come,” Toryn told him and, when he had closed the door behind him, “Sit.”

  A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine. A bard usually did not sit while his patron stood. A look at Toryn’s face deepened the chill.

  “A message has come via mortal courier, a message from the Scathlan. They have offered us a means of avoiding all-out war—if we surrender you to their justice.”

  Kieran closed his eyes. “I understand.”

  Even among elves, there could be only one punishment for regicide.

  Grace help him. He had a bard’s skills; he could play at bravery, at least, even if he could find none within himself.

  “What do you think you understand?” Toryn growled.

  Startled, Kieran looked at him. “I understand sums. I understand how little the life of one Scathlan bard measures against the weight of all those, Leas and Scathlan, that would die in a war.”

  Toryn drew himself up. “Do you think I am a butcher to trade in lives?”

  Kieran swallowed. “I think you are a good lord and will do what is best for your people.”

  “And you think it best for my people that they buy their peace with innocent blood? Should we turn so far from Grace?”

  Oh, how he wanted to take the escape Toryn offered him. But Toryn was not the only one who had to live with himself.

  Kieran made himself meet Toryn’s gaze steadily, so that Toryn would know his sincerity. “I already have one death on my conscience. How many more do you think I can bear?”

  “There is more depth to you than I gave you credit for,” Toryn admitted. “But if your people force war over the justified death of their queen, the blood is on their hands, not yours. I honor the sacrifice you offer, but I cannot accept it.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Enough!” Toryn shouted. And then more softly, “Do you think this is any easier for me? But if a lord does not have some values he will not compromise, if a people do not have some boundaries they will not cross, they will soon be lost to Grace forever. I almost didn’t tell you of this. But my council had to know, and I’ve no doubt that others will hear. And it was your right to know.”

  #

  It was Sheary who told Alban about the Scathlan ultimatum. He had overheard Trodaire complaining about Father’s decision not to turn over Kieran. By the time a month was out, a Scathlan army had marched on their borders, and the Leas were preparing to join battle at dawn.

  Alban, while not exactly surprised, was gratified that his father had not sold Kieran out, despite pressure from many of the Leas. What was wrong with his people? Didn’t they understand that Kieran had saved his life?

  He wasn’t as naïve as Kieran thought him to be. He saw how the bard was being treated, but he also recognized that Kieran did not want him to intervene. It hurt him to see his reckless Fool so somber, so isolated.

  Late that night, lying awake and thinking of Kieran, he heard footsteps in the hall, and then a soft knock on the door. Without a word, he let Kieran into his room and into his bed. Kieran’s mouth, hungry on his, stopped all questions as Kieran’s hands stripped away his nightclothes. His own hands freed Kieran of tunic and breeches, desperate for the touch of skin on skin, mind to mind, soul to soul. Overwhelmed by sensation, the pleasure of their joined bodies and the searing of their joined hearts, he lost himself in completion.

  Sated, eyes closed, drifting to sleep in his lover’s arms, he felt the gentlest brush of lips on his forehead and a whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  What did Kieran think he had to apologize for?

  He was too tired to work it out. They’d get it sorted in the morning.

  But when he woke, Kieran was gone.

  #

  Kieran made good time on the borrowed Leas horse, passing the overlook long before the sun was up. Borrowed horse, except he didn’t think he’d have the chance to return it. Perhaps his people would have the honor to do so for him.

  He left his harp behind. He didn’t think he’d need it again.

  Had he been kind or cruel to want that one last night with Alban? Truth was, he’d needed it to steel his courage. Alban would never understand, but Kieran did this for him. For all the Leas and Scathlan that should not die on their kindred’s swords, for all the children who should not grow up orphans. So that no Scathlan elf and no Leas would be left embittered and twisted by war as Trodaire had been. For Toryn, who should not have to choose between his people’s lives and their souls.

  But mostly, he did this for his Prince of Light. May he forgive him for it someday.

  The Leas could not be tainted by his death if they had no part in the decision.

  #

  Alban dressed and went searching for Kieran. Already the castle buzzed with the news that the Scathlan were pulling up camp and preparing to depart. With a sense of foreboding, Alban went to see his father.

  “He left two letters, slipped them under my door.” His father’s face was grave. “One addressed to you, and one to me. You can read them both if you like.”

  Alban couldn’t speak. He held out a shaking hand. His father put two folded sheets into it.

  Alban read the one addressed to him first.

  My dearest Prince of Light,

  Please believe that I love you always, with all that I have and all that I am, in this life and into the next. Your love and your belief in me give me the courage to do what I must. My only regret, besides how little time we had together, is the pain I know my actions will cause you. I hope that you understand, and may someday forgive.

  Have a good life. Be happy. Find someone to love.

  Your Fool

  Trembling, Alban stumbled back, steadied by his father, until he sank down to a couch. “I don’t understand,” he said, though he feared that he did.

  He didn’t want to recognize what he suspected to be true.

  “Perhaps you had better read the second letter.”

  My Lord Toryn,

  I thank you for the sacrifice you would have made to keep me safe, but, just as you would not have your people stained with innocent blood, I cannot live my life knowing that countless Leas and Scathlan have died when my death could have stopped it. You are an honorable lord, and my blood is not on your hands nor on those of your people.

  By the time you read this, I will be in the custody of my own people, a
nd my fate will be theirs to decide.

  Kieran Korsson of the Scathlan, lately court bard

  Alban let the letters fall to the floor. “We have to stop him. Surely—”

  “A Scathlan guard has already arrived under truce flag to return the horse that Kieran took and to bring an official letter from Riagan who commands the Scathlan armies. As they have the murderer of their queen, they see no need to continue hostilities so long as we take no action against them.”

  “Sweet Grace, Kieran saved my life, and you’re just going to let them kill him!”

  “It was not my choice and, if he had come to me, I would have tried to dissuade him. Would have ordered him not to take this course and sincerely hoped he would obey me. But he has taken the decision from me, and I will not disrespect his sacrifice by starting the bloodbath he would die to avoid.”

  Father sat beside him and put an arm around him. Alban rested his head against his chest as he had when he was a child.

  “I love him, Father,” Alban confessed brokenly.

  “I know. And he is worthy of your love. I would give anything to have this end differently for you, truly I would.”

  Twenty-four

  It was a week later that Sheary insisted Alban come to his rooms and share a meal.

  “Just the two of us,” Sheary said. “I know you’re not up for much company. But you have to get out of your rooms and get on with your life. It’s what Kieran would have wanted.”

  Alban tried, really he did. But the memory of Kieran haunted those rooms. Kieran laughing and singing, Kieran brushing against him under the table so Alban could mind-link them while he played, the sweet, bright touch of his soul that he would never know again.

  When Sheary pointed out that he was drinking perhaps too much and eating hardly at all, he apologized and excused himself. And so he happened to pass through the hall when the commotion at the gate rose up, and he ran to see its cause.

  A slight figure stood bundled in a travel cloak just outside the gate, a weary horse behind her.

  “It’s a Scathlan, Prince,” one of the guards said. “A Scathlan girl, would you believe it? She insists on speaking to your father.”

  The girl saw him and pressed herself against the bars of the gate. “Alban! Tell them to let me in. If you love Kieran, tell them to let me in!”

  He recognized her then. “Open the gate. I’ll take responsibility.”

  He wouldn’t tell them that the Scathlans’ new queen stood before them in muddy riding leathers, not until he understood himself what was going on.

  As soon as the gate opened wide enough, she slipped through, trembling with exhaustion and perhaps some other emotion, and grabbed both his hands as though they were old friends. “Oh, Alban, I thought I’d never make it. My maidservant saw to it that I had a whole day’s head start, but I know they chased after me all the way. And then that beastly guard wouldn’t let me in.”

  He put his arms around her to console her, embarrassed that she could probably smell the wine on him. “Well, your people were only lately threatening war with mine, it’s to be expected. It’s all right now, you’re safe. Let’s get some hot tea into you, and then you can start from the beginning. Have you eaten?”

  If she hadn’t left until Kieran reached the black mountain, then she must have ridden long and hard, a journey even a seasoned huntsmen could be proud of, let alone the sheltered girl he’d last seen in a bejeweled velvet dress. What was she doing here? Who was chasing her? What did this all have to do with Kieran?

  He was healer enough not to press his questions on someone so obviously exhausted and distressed until she had sustenance and a warm chair by the fire, and prince enough to remember that some things should not be discussed in an open courtyard. Yet one question he could not hold back.

  “Kieran, is he, is he still—”

  “He is still alive, or he was when I left.” Brona leaned on him heavily as he led her across the courtyard. “I gave them reason to see that it remains so for the time being. I need your help to make that permanent.”

  Alban took a deep breath of the sweet night air, feeling for the first time since that morning he woke to an empty bed that maybe Grace had not abandoned him.

  #

  Kieran curled into himself on a corner of his sleeping mat, pulling his cloak tight around him, trying to keep warm. This far underground, it was uniformly chilly and damp, and the gnawing hunger made it worse. The cell was twelve paces long, twelve paces wide. He’d counted often enough when he still had enough will to pace it. Three rough-hewn walls, oozing moisture, and a door made of bars closed off the space. The scent of mildew thickened the air.

  They fed him once a day at a guess, though he had no way of keeping track of time locked down in the dark. Assuming once a day, if he’d kept track from the beginning, he’d know how many days had passed, but he hadn’t expected to have enough time left to him for it to matter.

  With each day that passed, he felt his courage slipping further and further from him. He at least wanted to go to the death he’d chosen with his head held high. He owed that much to his father’s memory, not to whine and snivel and plead for his life at the end.

  Would it hurt much, when they took his head? Did pain matter, if you didn’t live long enough to remember it?

  His life had been too short, even by mortal standards, let alone elven. He wept sometimes for the music yet unplayed, the passionate nights and lazy mornings with Alban that would never be.

  He wanted to be noble enough to wish Alban future love and happiness, though the thought of him moving on and forgetting what they had been to each other tore his heart to shreds.

  He had caught sight of Brona at a distance in the courtyard when they first brought him in and had not seen her since. Had she not gotten his letter or simply not believed him? Perhaps his explanation didn’t matter to her. He had killed her mother. What words of his could make a difference in the face of that fact?

  The door at the end of the hall clanged open, and the approaching torch blinded him. The guard with the torch and the tray with his meal appeared only as a shadow in the bright light.

  “Tomorrow’s meal might be a better one,” the guard said.

  Dermot, by the voice. Kieran couldn’t tell if he was truly sympathetic or merely mocking. It didn’t matter; it was a voice in the silence.

  “Oh?” he managed, remembering how words worked.

  “In honor of the royal wedding. Queen Brona is to wed the Leas prince to bring peace between the kindreds at last.”

  Kieran set the tray down and stumbled back to his corner. He’d expected Alban to move on, wanted that for him. But so soon?

  Of course, it wasn’t a love match. He and Brona barely knew one another. Did that make it better or worse? He had never imagined Alban marrying for anything less than love. As for Brona, didn’t she deserve happiness after all the sorrow in her life?

  They each could do worse than the other. Both were kind and honorable. Their wedding made political sense. Once, he would have thought that enough. Ironic that Alban had been the one to make him believe in love.

  He would not be petty enough to resent either of them for doing what was best for both kindreds.

  Eventually, hunger drove him to the abandoned tray. Along with the dry bread and small hunk of cheese, there was something else, something small and soft and velvety. A single blossom. He recognized it by its shape and scent. Heart’s Solace.

  Only one person would have sent it, and Alban knew that the love in that ballad did not end well. Was it an apology? A farewell? At least he had not been forgotten entirely. That should matter to him, but somehow he felt all the more lonely and abandoned.

  There in the dark, he fell asleep eventually and dreamed of Alban, only to wake with wet eyes and an aching heart.

  #

  Kieran couldn’t say how much time passed when the door at the end of the hall clanged open once more. It seemed like too short an interval for another me
al, but perhaps he had slept longer than he realized. He had been sleeping more and more lately.

  Cuin came with Dermot this time. Instead of a meal, they brought an ewer of water, some soap, a basin, a washcloth, and a change of clothes. The change in routine made his stomach drop. Was this it then? And did it have to be his childhood friends bringing him to his death?

  For all the times he wished they would get on with it, now he wasn’t ready. Still, he would meet this end with all the pride that he could.

  He washed. Dressed. The guards unlocked the cell and led him out. He walked between them, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. His pulse sounded too loud in his ears.

  They took him to a waiting chamber off the main throne room. They were going to do this in the throne room? Through the slats of the privacy screen, he could see a large assemblage and stepped closer for a better view. Leas stood beside Scathlan in the throne room, all dressed in finery as for a wedding.

  The guard last night had said there was to be a wedding today. Surely they wouldn’t execute him as part of the nuptials? Only he could think of no other reason why he had been brought here.

  In his many imaginings, he had never conceived of Alban being present for his execution. Would he able to hold himself together in front of his lover? He had no choice; it would be worse for Alban if he broke down. How could they make him watch this?

  Someone was speaking in the throne room. Toryn. He forced himself to pay attention.

  “. . . and so I bring my son here today to heal a rift between our two peoples that should have never happened. Will you consent to join my son in marriage, to unite our two houses and thus reunite the kindreds?”

  “Will you and he consent to the joining?” Brona asked in return.

  “We will,” Toryn and Alban answered together.

  Pain ripped through Kieran’s chest, as though he had been stabbed.

  “Does his mother consent?”

  “I do consent.” Alban’s mother beamed as though she were not consigning her son to the sort of loveless marriage his father had fought a war to avoid.