A Tale Of Two Swords Part 3

"Well," he said at length. "Apparently you have a gift. I daresay you have it from your mother."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Camanae is a matriarchal magic. If your dam had it, then so would you. Do you have sisters?"

She looked up at him. "Aye."

"Then they have it as well, unless they're completely dim-witted."

"I'll have to think on that," she said. "I tried a spell of un-noticing on them and it failed miserably. I thought it was because I'd woven it poorly, but perhaps they merely possessed the wherewithal to see through it." She smiled, chagrined. "I never credited them with any skill at all beyond the ability to attend to their potions and beautifiers for great stretches of time. Perhaps I misjudged them."

"Perhaps, or they might be totally lacking in any imagination at all," he conceded. "In which case it would take a great need to awaken whatever magic is in their blood. Have they any great needs?"

"None beyond accurate looking gla.s.ses," she said dryly. It was quite an extraordinary thought, though, to imagine that her sisters might have inherited something from their mother besides her perfect beauty.

It was also a marvel to find herself tracing lines on a table, beautiful lines that looked as if a wizard had done the like, yet they had come from her humble, work-roughened hand with its chipped fingernails and cracked skin.

"Well," she said, finding herself at quite a loss. Then she looked at Gil and found herself traveling even farther down that uncharted path to complete bewilderment.

How could she have known two weeks ago that a fortnight pa.s.sed in fear would find her sitting in the palace at Neroche, at the high table no less, sketching bits of magic on that royal table and having it come to her hand as if it found her pleasing to its purposes?

"I think I like this," she said finally.

He smiled. "I imagine you do."

She gestured at the table. "My lines are better than yours."

He laughed. "Aye, and so they would be, for my magic is not of Camanae, lady. And that is a good thing, else we would have no ... else we would be-"

She watched him squirm as he found himself pinioned quite thoroughly by a lie he was obviously not equipped to spew forth.

"Magic? You have magic?" she asked politely. "What kind? Educate me, good sir."

He pursed his lips. "I inherited a few bits from my sire."

"A little prevarication, that," she noted.

"And a bit more from my dam."

She waited patiently.

"All right," he grumbled, "a great bit from both parents, but I'll not tell you more until you tell me why a woman of your beauty travels alone to the king's palace on a horse Angesand himself would salivate over, with a book of magic that dark mages far and wide would kill her for, and she hides her name as if revealing it to a soul as trustworthy as myself might endanger her to just those sorts of villains." He looked at her crossly. "You tell me that first."

Beauty. Had he said beauty? Mehar found herself with an alarming redness creeping with unnerving speed up her throat and onto her cheeks.

Gil nodded in satisfaction. "I agree. 'Tis quite embarra.s.sing when one realizes that one is being unnecessarily stubborn."

"I told you there was a price on my head," Mehar said evenly, her blush receding at the thought, "and how do I know you wouldn't find it a sum worthy of your attention? It isn't as if you're dressing yourself in embroidered silks and reclining upon cushions of uncommon softness with covers woven of cashmere."

He looked at the table and traced her pattern with his own. The lines faded after his pa.s.sing, but they didn't disappear. Instead, they glowed a deep blue, shot with silver.

That was an uncommon magic, his.

But then he brushed his hand over the wood and the lines disappeared. He looked at her.

"There is no sum that I would consider to be worth your head."

"Are you so rich?" she asked.

"Nay, I am so honorable."

She pressed her hand flat on the table, over the place where they'd both woven her mother's spell, but found no adequate reply to his words.

"And if you would learn them from me," he continued, "I can teach you a spell or two of ward, another of strengthening whatever weapon you have to hand, and perhaps one or two that might aid you when someone is set to come upon you."

"Where did you learn all this?" she asked. "You, a simple peasant."

He smiled at her and a dimple appeared in his cheek, a mark of such easy charm that she found herself quite enchanted. It was with an effort that she looked away from it.

"Haimert of Wexham, the court mage, wasn't always about the king's business," he said. "When he had a free moment, I bribed him for knowledge with Cook's most easy-to-carry pasties. It seemed to us both a fair trade."

"Do you have great power?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, and smiled at her. "Enough for my purposes, and telling more would tell you all-" He stopped and looked up as Alcuin came into the hall and walked quickly over to the table. "Aye?" he asked.

Mehar watched Alcuin's gaze flick to her and back to Gil. Gil turned to smile at her.

"Perhaps you would care for a bit of peace," he offered, "in that luxurious chamber I promised you."

She was tempted to tell them she would rather stay and listen, but she forbore. "I'll leave you lads to your plotting," she said as she rose, "though what two peasants would have to plot about I can't imagine, unless you're bent on making off with the king's finest silver in which case I should likely put a stop to it. Are you planning thievery?"

Alcuin snorted. "Nay, we are not."

"Nay, nothing untoward," Gil a.s.sured her.

Well, it was obvious they had business together, and as she just couldn't believe anything foul of Gil truly, her first impressions aside, she left the grand hall with an untroubled heart. Soon deep whispers were sliding along the walls to either side of her and rising up to flutter against the ceiling, whispers that carried the hint of subterfuge.

There was more to those peasants than met the eye.

She threaded her way through the rubble in the corridor, wandering down pa.s.sageway after pa.s.sageway, becoming hopelessly lost, but she suspected that had less to do with Gil's directions than it did with her own distracted state.

She had woven a spell from her mother's book and had it fall easily from her hand.

She felt as if she had just put her foot to a path that had been laid out before her all along; she just hadn't been able to see it. It was, on the whole, a vastly unsettling feeling, but even that had an air of familiarity that sent chills down her spine.

She paused before the door she thought might be the correct one, then eased it open and peeked inside. The chamber was empty. She entered it, then slowly shut the heavy door behind her. The ruin here was not so terrible as it was in other places. The tapestries, for the most part, were still intact. The furniture was merely overturned, not destroyed. She pushed away from the door and wandered about the chamber, putting things to rights. She sat on the bed and wondered just whose chamber she was in. The king's, perhaps?

But nay, there were no kingly trappings, no gilding, no banners with his crest, no furs and luxurious silks hanging on the walls. But the colors on the rugs, the hangings, and the bedclothes had been dyed with difficulty and at no doubt great expense.

There was a bench sitting under the window, and next to that a chair sporting quite worn cushions, as if it had seen much use by one who sat and stared out the window to contemplate deep thoughts. She stared at the chair for a moment, then realized what struck her as odd. There was a blanket draped over its arm, as if it had been just recently used and not quite put away properly. It was a cloth she recognized.

She likely should, given that she'd been the one to weave it.

She floated over to the chair, feeling as if her legs were no longer beneath her. She lifted the cloth and held it to her cheek, remembering vividly the weaving of it.

It had been for the eldest of Alexandir the Bold's sons, a gift sent to comfort him after his mother had been slain. Fey, that eldest prince had been rumored to be, fey and wild. People tended to make all manner of signs to ward off any stray spells or whatnot when they spoke of him. Mehar had imagined that he was less strange than sorrowful, and it was for that reason that she'd woven her gift for him.

She sank down into the chair, set her book onto the nearby bench, and pulled the prince's blanket over herself. She had one of her own, something her mother had woven for her the month before she'd died, but hers had been destroyed along with everything else. She fingered the cloth. It was frayed in places, faded by the sun in others, missing bits of the fringe she had painstakingly tied. She leaned her head back against the chair, closed her eyes, and spared a brief thought for the prince who had obviously used this often.

Had he died alongside his father, or had he been alone? Was he in a better place? She'd often wondered where a man went when his task here was finished. Her mother had told her, with her eyes full of its vision, that she saw a land far beyond the eastern deserts, where the air was cool and the waters clear, and there was no more suffering.

She hoped, as she rubbed the prince's soft blanket against her cheek, that he had found such a place. Perhaps he now sat at table with his mother who had gone before him. She closed her eyes and wept, not daring to hope that such a place existed, or that she might one day feel her own mother's arms around her yet again, smell the sweet scent of her, feel the gentle caress of her hand on her own hair.

She wept until the wool was damp and began to disturb her. She sat up, folded the blanket over the arm of the chair, then winced at the brightness of the setting sun streaming through the window. She turned away from the window and watched the motes of dust dance. They glinted and sparkled as they swirled and slid toward the floor.

Then other things began to glint.

She blinked at the sight of something sparkling beneath the bed.

She rose from the chair, then dropped to her hands and knees and peered more closely under the wooden railing. She reached in and drew out something quite unexpected.

A crown.

She put her hand under again and drew out, with quite a bit more difficulty, a sword.

She stared down at the treasures before her and wondered why they found themselves under this bed instead of upon the king's head and by his side where they should have been. Had the king left them behind? The crown, she could understand. It had to get in one's way, when one was trying to avoid having his head cut off in battle. Though with the gems that encrusted that substantial circle of metal, she was surprised the king hadn't worn it in hopes that the glint of gemmery would have blinded his enemies and won him the day by its virtue alone.

The sword was a deeper puzzle. That the king should have left that behind was unthinkable. Gil had said he was a servant of the king, so perhaps he had brought his liege's sword back from the field of battle for him, that he might give it to one who might in future times come to claim the kingship.

Odd, though, that they should find themselves here.

She returned both the sword and the crown to their places, then turned her mind from the king's gear to things that concerned her more closely.

She had found someone who could help her to understand her mother's book. She had a warm place to sleep and decent food in return for work she could readily do. It was enough, at least, for the moment.

She rose, fetched the prince of Neroche's blanket, then cast herself upon the bed and fell asleep, its softness surrounding her with a quiet peace.

Chapter Four.

In Which Gilraehen Finds Himself Fixed Quite Firmly on the Horns of a Dilemma . . .

GIL had never considered himself a poor horseman, but he found himself quite out of his depth at present. He watched Mehar fly, and he meant that quite literally, over a hedge that any sensible gardener would have trimmed whilst standing upon a ladder. He himself chose quite wisely to direct his own mount around the greenery instead of over it. Mehar's horse, that fleet beast, was truly a miracle, and his rider was his equal in every respect. Robert of Angesand would have been proud to call her his.

Gil hauled back on his reins, then blinked in the manner he normally reserved for the break of day when it came too early.

Was Fleet one of Angesand's beasts?

It was possible.

Was Mehar one of Angesand's daughters?

That was possible as well.

He cast back to the times he'd been to Angesand's hall, but could only bring to mind three daughters; three beauties who were perfectly coiffed, perfectly mannered, and perfectly clean at all times. Not at all like the woman before him who had turned Fleet around and come cantering back his way.

She pulled up and laughed at him. "I thought you were for a goodly bit of speed this morn," she chided, "especially after the past three days you've spent just ambling through the gardens, yet here I find you merely sitting and admiring the divots in the gra.s.s."

Nay, I was admiring you was almost off his tongue before he thought better of it. Aye, admiring her with her hair tumbling down over her shoulders, her clothes splattered with mud, the cloak he'd loaned her also splattered with mud. Aye, and there went her cheek, just as muddy, thanks to the back of her hand brushing away a stray bit of hair.

What he really needed was Tagaire alive and well and pouring over pages of the realm's genealogy so he might answer Gil's question for him. Gil ran through a list of evil dotards as potential suitors for Mehar- the same list he'd been contemplating during those three days spent ambling through the garden with her-but no one came immediately to mind save Uirsig of Hagoth. Hagoth was hardly out of mourning for his fourth wife, so there was little chance he was looking for another. Perhaps Mehar's undesirable betrothed was an elderly farmer with grown children who had looked to her for a bit of pleasure after his own wife's death.

The thought, unsurprisingly, left Gil with a rather strong desire to grind his teeth.

"Come on," she said, turning Fleet back toward the garden. "Keep up, if you can. And given your showing this morning, I very much doubt you'll manage it."

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had spoken to him with such an appalling lack of respect. He laughed just the same and tried to keep up.

And, as she had predicted he would, he failed.

But as he struggled to follow her over shrubbery, around fallen benches, and over large pits in his father's garden, he came more surely to the conclusion that Fleet was no simple horse breeder's finest and Mehar was no simple horse breeder's daughter. He watched in awe as she sent Fleet over another jump that no sensible woman would have attempted and no horse with any fear at all would have dared.

He finally managed to draw alongside her. "You are magnificent," he said simply.

" 'Tis the horse," she said, with a breathless laugh. "He is unmatched."

"As are you. No wonder Angesand was loath to let either of you go."

The blood drained from her face. With a cry of dismay, she wheeled Fleet around and galloped off before he could gather his wits to call an apology after her. He congratulated himself on being right, but that glowing feeling was somewhat lost in the effort it took to chase her. He wouldn't have caught her at all if she hadn't ridden straight for the front door and been stopped by the large contingent of souls loitering there.

d.a.m.nation. He wasn't even going to have a chance to apologize before all h.e.l.l broke loose. Gil sighed heavily. His future had arrived-and far too soon for his taste.

He reined his horse in and squared his shoulders against the frowns of disapproval he was receiving from an older man and a younger woman who sat at the head of the company that blocked the door. He moved next to Mehar. "Allow me to introduce you," he said, inclining his head toward his guests. "His Majesty, King Dougla.s.s of Penrhyn and his daughter, the Princess Tiare of Penrhyn."

Mehar looked at him in surprise. "How would you know?" she asked.

"He would know, you grubby little upstart, because I am his betrothed," Tiare said coldly. "Though at the moment I am having grave doubts about the advisability of wedding with . . ."-at this point words seemed to quite fail her as she raked Gil with a gaze that missed no splatter of mud, no matter how slight- "with . . . with a prince who masquerades as a common laborer. It all seems quite inadvisable."

"Prince?" Mehar echoed faintly. "Prince?"

"No longer the prince," Dougla.s.s said, chewing on his pipe, then removing it and sending Gil a rather steely glance. "He is the king. The mind reels at such a thought, but is it possible, Gilraehen, that the tales are true and your father is dead? Leaving you in charge?"