I obeyed as best I could. “Domberk slept there, and it would seem one other, for when Albaric and I broke in, another man burst out and ran. I saw just a dark shape with a hood, but for a moment I thought it was you.” A white lie; he would have discounted anything Albaric had thought. “That was impossible, of course, and with our attention all on Domberk, we let the hooded man go.” I dared a question. “Father, did you and your brothers resemble one another?”
“We were as alike in appearance as we differed in all other ways.” He said it slowly, as if he had to force the words out through clenched teeth, but at last he turned to face me. “That was Domberk’s game, then, that so emboldened him. He hid up his sleeve a fair title to the throne: his pet wolf, Escobar. The pompous fool, he thought Escobar would take the throne and let him live?”
I attempted no answer, my focus mostly on remaining upright, for I was not yet strong.
Wrestling in thought, Father did not notice. “But if Escobar was here,” he demanded, “why did he not kill me and claim the throne? What prevented him?”
“The ring?” I hazarded.
“Bah!” This summed up his opinion of the ring.
“Yet it would seem there has been a falling out between Lord Brock and his pet wolf, Sire, for Escobar has not returned to Domberk.”
His face all in furrows from the strain of the day, he glared at me, daring me to speak on.
So, to prove myself his son, I did. “One of them wanted you dead in the dungeon, and the other disagreed.”
“Bah! Horsefeathers. In no way can you know this.” The king turned his back on me, dismissing me with a gesture, and I was glad enough to go.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH
THE NEXT DAY, and the next after that, men-at-arms and guardsmen and royal retainers rode forth in quest for Escobar or any news of him, but they found nothing. But within a few more days, the matter of Escobar hung in abeyance, for more pressing concerns demanded the king’s attention: it had not rained since before Garth came home, and such drought was frightening, unheard of in Calidon, where one could count on foul weather if nothing else. For the first time in my life, crops were failing, and if supplies of some sort were not laid by, there would be starvation this winter. But the fishing was poor and even the woodlands stingy of nuts; there was no mast for swine to fatten on. Indeed, I felt an inkling that the very soil and soul of Calidon must have gone wrong somehow. But Father made it abundantly clear that his problems were no concern of mine. I was to devote myself to getting well.
Thus it followed that, in the days that followed, I spent most of my time with Marissa. And as Albaric had no particular duties except to take care of Bluefire, he also spent much time with me, finding ways to help me regain my strength. Quoits, for instance. A game I had not bothered with since I was a boy, but now we all played, sometimes even Mother joining us as we tried to toss the leathern rings onto the pegs. With pleasure, I saw how the queen came down from her tower more than ever before and smiled often on the girl who slept on a cot at the foot of her bed. When quoits paled, the four of us tried archery, and Mother showed herself to be master of bow and arrow, to my surprise. But I should not have been surprised. My stupidity again; I kept forgetting my parents had not always been my parents. Mother had been the daughter of the chieftain of an old-fashioned clan; evidently, her education had included some of the warrior arts. Her father had forced her to wed King Ardath supposedly for the sake of alliance, but Ardath had taken opportunity to slaughter her entire family at the nuptial feast.
I kept these thoughts to myself so as not to mar her pleasure in the archery. “This way, Marissa.” Mother guided the girl in drawing the light bow I had found for her, one I had used as a boy, and both exulted when Marissa finally hit the popinjay.
Other times, we would gather flowers—not in the walled garden, but up in the meadows, venturing a little farther each day to strengthen me. One day, as I walked beside my mother, Marissa ran far ahead of us to investigate a distant patch of pink. We both gazed at the darting butterfly figure she made in the meadow, her braids flying out from under the brimmed bonnet she wore to protect her from the sun, her yellow dress fluttering like wings. “With her braids and that absurd headgear, she looks like a little girl,” I remarked, “but be not deceived. She’s no child.”
“Your father and I knew that from the moment she marched herself into the keep—”
“All by herself?”
“Yes. The Domberk men-at-arms waited outside. Marissa came in and faced your father and me with neither fear nor enmity, reciting the words that gave herself in exchange for her father’s freedom. But when we had the guards bring Domberk up from the dungeon, he barely acknowledged his child. He was interested only in trading insults with your father, and in so doing, he insulted his daughter, saying the treaty would be broken if she did not remain a virgin until wedlock.”
“That dirty-minded troll!”
“Yes. Small wonder she wanted only to know where Prince Aric was.”
“Really!” I was surprised; I had assumed she would ask first for Albaric.
“Yes, and it is a good thing she insisted on seeing you when she did; am I right?”
“Very much so. She saved my life.”
“But, my Son, how? I still do not understand what was wrong with you.”
It took me a moment to gather the words, but by now I was able to explain it, and I could speak of it because Albaric was not with us; he had stayed behind to exercise Bluefire. I told Mother softly, “I had lost heart. Father stared deadly arrows at Albaric, and Albaric defied Father for my sake, and I felt certain that the moment I arose from my sickbed, it would all start again, worse than ever.”
Mother sighed and put her hand upon my arm as Marissa came running back toward us, her hands full of pink curlytop and her eyes full of her special gift, a brave joy.
Mother murmured, “Aric, you know, your father still stares arrows at Albaric.”
“I know. But I think even Father is diverted somewhat by our bright-eyed guest. And Albaric feels her regard; it cheers him.”
“You do not mind that she all but worships Albaric?”
“I all but worship Albaric myself. How could I mind?”
“But you seem to—”
“Love her? Yes.”
Then my words hung in the air like the echo of a song, for we could converse no more as Marissa arrived with her usual bounce, giving the flowers to Mother, who accepted them as if they were made of gold. But I made no attempt, then or anywhere, to hide my love for Marissa—a quiet love, like a white coracle afloat on a still blue lake, waiting. I made no attempt, either, to steal any more kisses from her. I felt she had given that single one at some cost to herself, that her feelings for me ran unspoken but strong, much as mine did for her, and that this time, a period of blue and golden days like beads on a string, was our gift to each other.
Always, Marissa spoke with equal courteous candor to me, to Mother, to Father, and to Albaric; she gave attention and smiles to us all; but when her gaze caught on Albaric, her heart-shaped face transformed, foreshadowing the passionately lovely woman she would become.
We saw little of Father. As I grew stronger, I reported to him again, most days. Usually, he waved me away “to play,” but sometimes I stayed with him for a few hours and saw how strangely his kingdom was failing, felled by no visible enemy. The land of Calidon itself seemed stricken. Hunting parties sent out for meat returned empty-handed. Unless something changed soon, this winter there would be naught but carrots to feed peasants, cattle, and castle. Father spoke little, smiled less, and he wore black, black, black. Yet as far as I could see, his temperament remained steady, like a heavy barge on a river that flowed slow but deep. I sensed that beneath his calm surface lurked trouble even worse than drought and the specter of Escobar combined, but I did not know his thoughts.
Only once, he said to me, “You do not mind that Marissa is ensorcelled by Albaric?”
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��She’s smitten with him, Father, as any girl with eyes would be. I assure you no sorcery is involved.”
“So you do not mind that she follows him about like a bleating lamb?”
Unfair, for Marissa never bleated, nor did she accompany Albaric, unless he was with me. But I did not argue the point. “I have no claim on her heart, Father.” Merest truth, no matter how I loved her.
“Well, I mind,” said Father grimly, “for your sake.” And although he did not say it, I knew he was thinking once again that he would like to rid Dun Caltor of Albaric. “Aric, sometimes I wonder,” he burst out, “have you no pride? No mettle?”
That stung. But I took care not to show it. “No jealousy?” I parried. “No dark suspicions of treachery?”
“Bah! Remember Calidon’s precious White King, how his best friend turned against him.”
It startled me that Father knew the tale and guessed how greatly it moved me. “He was a legend, Father.”
“But I am not.”
Obliquely he referred to his father, his brothers, his mettle that had won him the throne, and I dared not speak. He had killed a kinsman, and this one thing I had never been able to understand about him, the chasm between us that I had never been able to cross, once more gapped between us, parting us so far that we could not talk.
Fervidly I wished he would wear any color other than black.
That night, in my chamber, with the bed canopy closed around us and the manservants dozing on their pallets, I whispered to Albaric, “My brother, I fear our Sire aspires to go down in legend as the Black King.”
This was my poor attempt at a jest, for I hated to tell Albaric old news, harsh and hopeless, when I knew how his life had brightened since Marissa’s arrival.
Albaric stiffened. “What do you mean?”
I sighed. “I sense he may yet do something dire and desperate.”
“Why do you say so?”
I spoke very softly. “Because he made it plain to me today that he thinks Marissa favors you, and he resents it for my sake, he says, even though I have no claim on her. And as I refuse to cross swords with you, he may take it upon himself—”
Albaric groaned and turned his face to the bolster. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.
I kept silence.
“I can no longer hope that things will ever change between me and the king,” Albaric whispered after a while. “But perhaps if you could tell Lady Marissa to cease her attentions—”
“But you deserve every moment of adoration Marissa gives you.”
“No, I do not, my brother, for I cannot return it!”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down.”
He did so, murmuring, “Even if she wanted me—that way, which she does not—nothing could come of it. Mortal lovemaking is beyond me.”
“No getting rambunctious for you?”
“No such inclination.”
This did not surprise me, knowing him as I did; his were the passions of spirit, not of body. He wore flesh lightly, like a mask.
He said, “I can never give her the love she deserves. Moreover, she is meant for you!”
“According to whom?”
“Fate! I feel it!” He lowered his voice. “Ask the ring.”
“It would make more sense to ask Marissa.”
“She isn’t ready! Right now, she cherishes both of us, don’t you see? As innocently as if we were a brace of gazehounds, she makes pets of us, and if it were not for the king’s jealousy, it would not matter, would it, Aric?”
I touched his hand. “No. It does not matter.”
“But it does matter, for she is yours. Ask the ring.”
“The ring,” I retorted in a whisper, “does not speak Erse.” Nevertheless, I drew the thing out. We both studied its circle of wispy light, pure lamb white pulsing like a heart. Once more, it seemed to swirl, toward Albaric, then me, then Albaric, then back again.
Deciding what I must do, I slipped it off its leash and onto the finger nearest my heart.
“My brother!” whispered Albaric, aghast. “Take it off!”
“Not until morning. It is trying to tell us something,” I explained, “but we cannot understand. Perhaps it can better tell me in my dreams.”
“But what if it—seduces you? Takes you in thrall?”
“No Queen of Elfland has commanded it to do so.” Only my eyes admitted that I shared his unease. “Yet, in case I’m wrong—you still have your mother’s hair, do you not?”
“Yes, but. . . .” I felt his horror and answered the question he could not ask.
“Should it get the better of me, wrest it off, if you love me. At the point of the sword, if you must. But my will is to remove it myself.”
“You swear that you mean to remove it in the morning?”
“I swear by all the troth between us, my brother.”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH
WHAT I LEARNED, if it had been told to me in plain Erse by anyone, even Mother, even Albaric, would have frightened me senseless—yet it made utter sense as revealed in the images, the symbol-language of dreams. It exhausted me in mind, heart, and soul, but afterward I slept deeply and in peace.
I awoke late to find Albaric dressed but anxiously watching over me. Without comment, I got up, slipped the ring from my finger, and tethered it once more on the leather thong around my neck.
“Are you all right?” Albaric asked, despite the plain evidence of his eyes that I was. “You trembled in your sleep and panted like—like a woman in childbirth.”
“Albaric, you’ve never even seen a woman in childbirth.”
“But what was happening? What did you see?”
I shook my head, gave him a wry smile, and reached for clothing. “I’m hungry.”
The way he rolled his eyes reminded me of Father. “All’s well, then, if you’re hungry.”
So I ate, and for the next few days, I never missed a meal, playing at the stick and ball with Marissa, sparring with Albaric to regain my strength as a swordsman, gathering hedge myrtle for Mother, all the time letting my mind encompass what the ring had shown me, eddying in the circles of it, until the right day dawned.
The fairest of days. A sea breeze had swept the sky so clean that in the east at dayspring, the very earliest dawn, it gleamed pellucid white. “Albaric.” I woke him. “We are riding out to the meadows, you and I and Marissa, quickly, before anyone can say us nay. Get dressed; I will go to send a maidservant for her while I pack us something to eat.”
“What! You will wait before eating your breakfast?”
But already I was out of the chamber door, hurrying about my self-appointed tasks.
Before either Father or Mother was up, I was ordering the gatekeepers to let us out, I on Valor with a cloth-wrapped pack fastened behind the saddle, Albaric on Bluefire without saddle or any other harness, and Marissa on her gentle white Cherub with her brown hair flowing, rippling and shining like a brown river, down her back. It was the first time I had seen her without braids—there had been no time to plait them, I suppose—and she quite nearly took my breath away, for I saw not a girl but a damsel, a maiden, a royal beauty riding a steed like a throne, for a fringe of Domberk green decked Cherub’s reins, and across the front of his saddle hung a drapery of Domberk tartan that swept down, nearly dragging on the ground, to cover Marissa’s stirrups and feet.
“A modesty defender?” I teased her, and her answering smile rivaled the sunrise; it lighted my world for me.
“This thing?” She tugged at her pony’s drapery and rolled her eyes. “It is a dustcatcher.”
Indeed, due to the drought, we kicked up dust aplenty on the road through the village between the fields and hedges, even though Albaric and I restrained our big horses to keep pace with Marissa’s little ambling palfrey. But once we reached pastureland, Albaric called, “Free!” and let Bluefire gallop in a wide circle. Marissa cried, “Oh! I have never been allowed to gallop!”
“It’s a marvel they’ve let you ride.”
A palfrey, a woman’s horse, had different gaits than a man’s; it ambled but did not trot. “Do you think Cherub knows how to gallop?”
“I am about to find out.” She leaned forward, applying her heels to the pony’s flanks. “Cherub! Run!”
Tucking his chin and arching his neck, he lifted at once into a lovely, lilting canter.
“Watch for rocks and holes!” I called, trotting alongside.
“I am not a dolt and this is not a gallop. Cherub!”
The white palfrey reached with his head and lengthened his stride to shoot forward. Marissa’s hat blew off and her loose hair flew like a pennant, an oriflamme, a falcon’s backswept wings. Letting her go, I stopped to retrieve the hat, a bonny brimmed thing the hue of a shy violet. Amazing, how my heart swelled just because I held her wee soft hat in one hand.
I rode Valor straight up the pastureland and beyond, to explore the meadows where some brave wildflowers yet bloomed. Marissa slowed Cherub to walk beside me, patting and praising him. Albaric slowed Bluefire for a moment to join us. “Where are we going?”
“Right there, I think.” I pointed toward a massive, spreading oak offering much shade and soft mossy seats between its wide roots.
Once beneath its overhanging boughs, I set the pack on the dry ground, stripped Valor of his trappings, and let him go graze on what was left of the yellowing grass. “If we give Cherub freedom of the meadow,” I asked Marissa, “do you think he will stray too far?”
“My angel steed! Never,” she said indignantly, only to add, “but if he does, Bluefire can find him.”
We all laughed, pulling the draperies and saddle off Cherub and turning him loose. Then we gathered under the oak. I untied the cloth bundle I had brought, spreading it out to reveal much what one might expect of me: cheese, apples, oat scones, hard-boiled eggs, milk in a flask. With good appetite, we began to eat, but after a single scone and a hunk of cheese, I stopped. Comfortable on a seat of moss, with his back against the great oak, Albaric studied me.
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