A Tale Of Two Swords Part 2

She ran her hand carefully over the leather cover. "It was my mother's."

"Is it a tale about her life?"

She studied him for a moment before she answered slowly. "Nay, 'tis a book of spells."

He blinked. Books of spells were rare and guarded jealously. "Are they interesting spells?"

"I don't know. I can't read them."

"Then 'tis for that reason you sought the king's mage?"

"Aye, but now I find that my journey was in vain."

He hesitated. To reveal his skill with magery was to reveal his own ident.i.ty and he found himself with a sudden desire to be, for a day or two, simply Gil and not the fey Prince of Neroche. It wouldn't hurt to let this woman believe him to be less than he was and allow his skill with spells to lie fallow, would it? He found the plan to his liking and proceeded with its implementation without hesitation. Ordinary, unremarkable conversation was to be the order of the day.

"Well," he said, "at least your journey was made on a fine horse."

"Aye," she agreed.

He waited, but she offered nothing else. "Is he yours?" he asked.

"He is now."

His eyebrows went up of their own accord. "Did you steal him?"

She smiled briefly and the sight of her faint smile did something to his heart, something he feared he might not recover from anytime soon.

"Steal him?" she asked, then shook her head. "I wouldn't call it that. I needed to flee an unsavory betrothal and Fleet was the fastest way to do it."

An unsavory betrothal? That was nothing unusual, but fleeing it on such a steed certainly was. "And how will your sire feel about that?" Gil asked.

"I've no doubt it inspired him to put a price on my head for the deed."

He was surprised she seemed so at ease with that. "Who is this sire who is so ruthless?"

She shifted on her seat. "No one of importance."

"I'm curious."

"I fear you'll need to remain so."

He smiled to himself; her lack of deference was quite refreshing. "Then I don't suppose you'll give me your bridegroom's name, either, will you?"

"I don't suppose I will."

"Was he young or old?"

She smiled briefly, without humor. "Old enough to be my sire, and quite cruel."

He pursed his lips. Somehow the thought was one that seemed particularly loathsome in regards to the woman before him. She deserved sunshine, youth, long days spent searching for flowers for her table, not a cold existence in some dotard's mean hall devoid of even the smallest comforts.

The mystery of her was becoming unsettlingly compelling. "What is your name, lady?" he asked. "Might I have that at least?"

"And what would you do with that name, if you had it?"

"Use it," he said simply.

She looked into the distance for so long, he began to wonder if she had forgotten his question. Then she sighed suddenly and looked at him. "I am trusting you with more than just my name, if I give it to you."

He nodded seriously. "Aye."

She put her shoulders back and took a deep breath. "Mehar. My name is Mehar."

"Mehar," he repeated. "A beautiful name. An unusual name." One he desperately wished he recognized, but there were, as he could personally attest, a staggering number of unwed maidens in his kingdom, so not being able to fix a place to a name wasn't unthinkable. Perhaps it would come to him in time.

"And what of your name?" she prompted. "Cook called you Gil-"

". . . bert," he supplied promptly. "Gilbert. Or Gilford, if you like better. My father never could decide. Gilford was his favorite hound and Gilbert was a mighty rooster that pleased him and so he had a goodly amount of trouble selecting what he thought would suit ..." He trailed off with a shrug, wondering if he was lying well.

She only stared at him suspiciously.

Apparently he wasn't a good liar. "Call me Gil," he finished.

"Gil," she repeated. "Is that your name?"

"It will do until you trust me enough to tell me who your sire is."

She smiled and seemed to thaw just a bit. "Very well. For now, Gil, who may or may not be named after a mighty fowl, favor me with an answer or two. Why do you find yourself in this ruined place?"

"I was born here," he admitted.

"Did you serve the king?"

"Aye, that as well."

"What happened to his kingdom?"

"He gathered his army and went to battle Lothar of Wychweald."

"In truth?" she asked, surprised. "I thought the black mage of Wychweald was long dead by now."

"Oh, nay, he is very much alive," Gil said, pushing aside the vision of Lothar's fathomless black eyes and the mocking smile he'd worn as he'd watched Gil pay the price for daring to battle him. "I daresay the king grew tired of losing his people to Lothar's service. Lothar does that, you know. Presses innocent souls into serving him. By the time he's finished with them, you wouldn't recognize them as human."

She shivered. "I daresay. Then did you go to battle as well?"

"Aye, with my father. But my father did not return."

"I'm sorry."

"Aye, I am as well."

She stared at him for a moment or two in silence, then she sighed and stood. "Thank you for your name, and the pleasant conversation, but I should now be about seeing to my charges, so I can earn my supper."

He watched her look for a place to put her book. "I could hold that," he offered. "I could also help you with the horses."

"Are you a stable's lad, then?" she asked.

"I have spent my share of time here," he said.

She hesitated, looked at him carefully a moment or two more, then handed him her book. "I'll see to the horses. You look a bit soft."

He spluttered before he realized she was teasing him.

"If you flee with my book, Fleet will hunt you down," she added. "You would regret it."

Gil didn't doubt it. He accepted the book with what he hoped was a look of trustworthiness and sat down with a manly grunt on the hay. He turned to the first page, fully prepared to find some obscure village witch's spells, scribbled in an illegible hand.

Instead, he found a hand that was learned; the characters were neat and precise, with a flowing script that pleased the eye. He read through several pages, his wonder growing with each until he finally stopped halfway through the book, closed the halves together slowly, and stared off into the stable's gloom thoughtfully.

The spells were of Camanae. He was so surprised to find something of theirs in his hand, he hardly knew what to think. There were few of that particular school of magic left in the world.

They being one of Lothar's preferred targets.

He knew none of them personally. By reputation, he knew them to be mostly wizardesses. There was the occasional mage who'd been gifted his mother's power, of course, when occasion required, but for the most part they were women, keepers of a surprisingly strong magic. If the magic he had inherited from his sire was full of ruling, Camanae's was full of healing, of protection, of restoring after the ruling hand had done its brutal work.

He looked at Mehar thoughtfully as she groomed her horse and wondered if the genealogy kept by the court mage would aid him in discovering the ident.i.ty of her mother. Unfortunately, he feared that Tagaire of Neroche was dead, which meant that he himself would be the one doing the searching. He had a brief vision of Tagaire's terrifyingly unorganized chamber, with stacks of paper, pots, and sundry falling off tables and spilling out of shelves, and decided that he would let the search alone.

For the moment.

He watched Mehar for a bit longer, before he rose and took over her tasks. He groomed the rest of the horses, feeling her eyes on him, and finding his hands fumbling much more than they should have.

A very unsettling feeling, on the whole.

But an hour later, the tasks were done and he was walking with her back to the palace.

"I think I can aid you with a spell or two," he offered casually.

"You?"

He smiled at her disbelief. "Aye, me. I'm not completely ignorant of things magical." Though Camanae was not his own magic, his schooling had demanded that he learn the languages of all the schools of wizardry. He could not only decipher Mehar's book, he could likely weave a spell or two from it.

A dreadful hope bloomed in her face. "Could you?"

"I could." That hope touched a place in his heart he'd been sure Lothar had incinerated along with his hand. He had to take a deep, steadying breath before he could speak again. "I could also see to your hand, the one you favor. A bad burn?"

"From Alcuin's rabbit."

"A high price to pay for something that probably took him all morning to catch."

"I paid him well for that hare."

Gil grunted. "Trust him not to say as much. Come, then, and let us find you somewhere more comfortable to stay than a mean sc.r.a.p of floor in Cook's domain."

She walked with him along the ruined path, holding tightly to her book. "Where? In the roosting place of some fine n.o.ble perhaps?"

"Nothing less. When the king is out, peasants shout."

She smiled. "Did you make that up yourself?"

"This very moment."

"Then you'd best hope none of the king's relations return, or they'll have your head for the shouting you've done in the hall."

"I've tried to tidy up the place as best I could."

"Hmmm," she said, sounding quite unconvinced. "Well, perhaps some of the king's people will come back and see to things."

"Aye," he said, but he found himself less distracted by the thought of his people returning to see to work he could manage with a slight bit of effort himself than he was by the sight of Mehar-of-someplace-she-wouldn't-name- with her riotous hair and her serious gray eyes.

Which was so completely inappropriate considering who he was and what his future held that he could only shake his head at himself.

But that didn't stop him from inviting her and her book to come with him to supper where they might all become better acquainted.

Poor fool that he was.

Chapter Three.

In Which Mehar Finds More Than Dust Under the Prince's Bed. . .

MEHAR sat at the high table in the palace's grand hall and watched as a long-fingered hand followed the words written on a page, then traced a pattern on the wood of the table, showing her how the spell should be woven. It was a spell of protection.

Mehar didn't wonder that it was the first spell in her mother's book.

She did wonder, however, how it was that a mere peasant, his youth spent in the king's palace aside, should know how to weave such a spell with such unfaltering confidence. She looked up at him, met his searing blue eyes and felt herself being woven into a weft that seemed like threads of a destiny she'd never antic.i.p.ated.

"Here," he said, nodding toward his hand, "watch again, then copy me."

He traced the pattern again, a simple pattern that seemed suddenly to make perfect sense to her. Mehar copied his motions, then stared in astonishment as silver lines appeared where she had traced, as if she'd written with ink that shimmered and glittered and was slow to fade.

She looked at Gil. He was staring at her in astonishment.