A Tale Of Two Swords Part 6

"Look at his hand, Father," she cried.

Dougla.s.s had his look, then shrugged. "New scars. Freshly healed. They'll fade in time. Lost the use of it as well, lad?"

Gilraehen put his hand behind his back and inclined his head. "For the moment. It will heal."

"It will heal," Dougla.s.s agreed dismissively. "Come, Tiare, sit. Perhaps there is drinkable wine in this place today. Used to be. Can't say what we'll find now that young Gilraehen is master here. Any wine left below, boy, or have your men sucked it all up?"

Tiare dug in her heels. "I will not wed with him," she announced. "I simply will not."

"Aye, you will," Dougla.s.s said.

"You'll have to bind me and bring me to the altar. And even then I will not agree, no matter the times you beat me, or stick me with a blade. I will not. I simply will not." She gave Gilraehen a withering look. "I will not wed with a dirty, bedraggled oaf who is so weak he leaves his hall to be overrun by ruffians and so feeble he can't guard even his own hand. Are you to wed me to this, Father? This man who cannot even see to himself? This man who likely left his sire to die on the field so he could escape?"

At that moment, though he suspected it was just a rewishing of things he had wished so many times he'd lost count, Gil heartily wished that she would find someone else to ply her flaying tongue upon and leave him in peace.

Dougla.s.s eyed him with disfavor. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, lad, did you hear that? Wouldn't put up with that kind of talk myself."

"And what is it you suggest I do, lord?" Gil asked. "Beat her?"

"I would."

"I wouldn't."

"Well," Dougla.s.s said in disgust, "there is where you've gone wrong."

"I don't care what either of you thinks," Tiare said archly. "I will not wed with a man of his . . . his . . . ilk," she spat. "Bad enough that he's mad as a loon and fey as a sprite. That he should be so ... so ..." Words seemed to fail her at this point. She glared at Gilraehen as if his injury and all the other unsettling things that surrounded him were entirely his fault. "I will not wed with a sorcerer." She turned her glare on her sire. "You cannot make me, Father."

"You'll do what I tell you-"

"I'll kill myself first. See if I don't."

Dour Dougla.s.s looked unimpressed.

"He has nothing to give you anyway," Tiare said scornfully. "Look you at his hall. If he could afford my bride price, I would be greatly surprised."

Gil imagined she would be surprised by a great many things, but he refrained from saying as much.

"I have to agree with her about the bride price," Dougla.s.s said. "You cannot have the gel for free, and you can't take her dowry then turn about and give it back to me as payment for her. You'll have to buy her with aught of your own, and it doesn't look as if you have aught of your own to spare. At least nothing of this world," he added.

He looked at Gil and Gil supposed it was only vast amounts of self control that kept the man from making some sign of ward against him.

"And then there are the rumors surrounding your father's demise," Dougla.s.s continued. "Those are above and beyond the rumors that surround your own self. And I've heard aught about darkness and danger in the north and east, fell, unwholesome things that are coming your way. Perhaps 'tis well that my daughter not be near you, if that is the case."

Gil blinked in surprise. "Are you casting me aside, my lord king?"

"Aye," Dougla.s.s said without hesitation. "But serve me some of those fine-looking victuals first, boy. What you can sc.r.a.pe back onto a plate, of course. I daresay I'll need my strength for the journey home." He cast Tiare a quick look before he relieved Gilraehen of the platter he had just picked up and retrieved his own meal from what lay scattered on the table.

For herself, Tiare seemed more interested in fleeing the hall than in shoring up her strength.

Gil wondered wryly what it was he would do without Tiare's dowry of brencara. He gave that some thought as he sat on the edge of the table and swung his leg back and forth. He continued to ponder the problem as Dour Dougla.s.s plowed through all the victuals he could manage, burped heartily in kingly fashion, then slapped something down at Gil's elbow before he nodded to him and left the hall.

Gil looked down at the small pouch. He opened it, then laughed to himself. Crushed bits of brencara lay therein, surely enough to serve him should he need it in the near future. Perhaps Dougla.s.s felt sorry for him; perhaps he felt sorry for himself. Perhaps he had his eye on a richer prize than the kingdom of Neroche. Gil didn't care. For himself, he felt nothing but relief.

Immense, soul-searing relief.

In fact, he was so relieved, he walked around the table, sat himself down, and set to his own breakfast with vigor and a light heart. He ate, chortled, ate some more, and contemplated how he might arrange his future to suit himself now that he was free.

Then he looked up.

Mehar had just walked into his hall. She hesitated, looked about her, then walked over to the table.

"What happened?" she asked. "The Princess of Penrhyn fair ran me over in her haste to reach her chamber. Did the meal not suit her?"

"I didn't suit her."

She blinked. "You didn't?"

"I didn't."

She brushed crumbs off the table and sat sideways on its edge so she could look at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she cast me aside."

"But why would she do that?" Mehar asked. "You're the king, for pity's sake."

He slipped his damaged hand under the table before he thought better of it. Perhaps Mehar shared Tiare's revulsion. "Well," he said finally, "apparently the crown didn't make up for my other flaws."

"I understand from Alcuin that you have many."

"He has more. Come, sit, and I'll tell you of them while you eat." He helped himself to a bit more veg under sauce. "Cook never makes this for me. I should ask her to."

She came around the table to sit next to him. "You eat like a man in a great deal of anguish."

"I imagine I feel much as you felt when you fled your home on that winged steed of yours."

"Happy, happy, happy," Mehar murmured.

"Aye, quite," he agreed. He didn't look at her, for he wasn't sure he wanted to look for more in her eyes than he might see.

But he sat next to her just the same and felt happier than he had in days.

He was free.

And he was king.

And he supposed that since his former bride didn't want him anymore, he might be free to wed where he willed- and if that meant looking toward a woman with a price on her head and a hand with beasts that even Angesand himself would admire, then so be it.

"How much would that bounty your sire wanted for you be, do you suppose?" he asked, absently toying with his knife and watching her from under his eyebrows.

"That depends," she said, helping herself to his ale, "on how much of this he'd been drinking, how long his ire had burned, and how fiercely. And how light his purse was feeling."

He shook his head. Angesand bred magical steeds in his stables and grew gold in his garden, or so the tales said. The man was also notoriously stingy, and exacted exorbitant, though quite deserved prices for his horseflesh. Gil shuddered to think how high a price Angesand would have put on his irritation with Mehar.

Though it was a price Gil would gladly pay. As well as the bride price and whatever it would take to satisfy the jilted bridegroom. He had wealth enough, a.s.suming the vaults under the palace hadn't been plundered. He promised himself a good look in the treasury the first chance he had.

"Who was your betrothed?" he asked. No sense in not knowing all the damage at once. A pity Tagaire wasn't still alive. Along with the realm's genealogy, he kept a running tally of who was betrothed to whom, the odds of the union being finalized, and the possibilities of decent children to come. When Mehar didn't answer right away, he supposed that perhaps she might not be eager to say, perhaps for shame that such a man might be less than worthy.

"Hagoth," she said finally. "And no doubt he's put a price on my head as well."

"Hagoth?" he echoed, dumbfounded. Hagoth was notorious for choosing young, exquisite brides with vast sums of money to their names and accomplishments to match. "Hagoth," he repeated. "I wouldn't have thought-"

"I know," she interrupted. "Me, of all people." She rose suddenly. "I think I have horses to tend. By your leave, my liege?"

And with that, she turned and walked away.

He stood up. "I didn't mean . . . that is, I never meant to imply ..."

She turned at the doorway. "Don't you have business of the realm to attend to?" she asked briskly.

He paused, considered trying to explain himself, then caught a full view of her glare. He winced. Perhaps the kitchens were the safest place for him at present. "I suppose there are always dishes to wash," he conceded.

She didn't laugh. Instead, she curtseyed to him with all the grace of any of the young, exquisite ingenues who came to present themselves to him, and left the hall.

"d.a.m.n," he said to no one in particular.

He almost went after her, but he suspected that anything he might say would go unlistened-to. Perhaps if he gave her time to cool her temper, he might attempt an apology later. So, as penance, he gathered platters and forks, then made his way to where the washing tub resided.

He contemplated his apology as he prepared to be about his task. He could offer to teach her magery. Not just the reading of her mother's book, but the whole business. Spells, changings, the long and ill.u.s.trious oral tradition that made one anxious to go back out and work with the sword. That might take a very long time. Perhaps years. And perhaps at some point during those years, she might grow to have fond feelings for him.

And perhaps he would learn to check what he planned to say before he said it and avoid any more of the kind of looks he'd received from her after he'd expressed in not so many words his doubt about Hagoth's choice.

d.a.m.n it anyway.

Soon, he was deep into his work, his head full of visions of himself with his newly acquired perspicuous and proper tongue contributing to a very happy and unoffended Mehar of Angesand. He had just finished envisioning how she would receive his proposal of marriage when he looked up from the scrubbing of his pots to see his two younger brothers walk into the kitchen, just as they'd done countless times over countless years, seeking something to filch before supper.

"Well," Lanrien said with a laugh, "here we find our good King of Neroche. Up to his elbows in suds."

Tirran laughed as well, s.n.a.t.c.hing a hot cake off the cooling racks and cursing as he juggled it in the air. "He's no fool when it comes to filling his belly or locating the most drinkable ale."

Gil stared at the two men who were currently pestering Cook for things to eat and thought his heart might burst. They were battered and bruised, with rags wrapped about various parts of their forms, but they were whole. Tirran, his dark hair mussed and his bright blue eyes twinkling, looked as if he'd just come in from a ride. Lanrien, fair-haired like their dam, with deep green eyes that held secrets he didn't often share, looked worse for the wear, as if the journey home had been more difficult than he cared to admit. But they were home. Gil could scarce believe it.

They soon left off tormenting Cook and turned to him. He was quite happy for a bucket of suds beneath his hands. It made the tears that fell into it as his brothers hugged him much less noticeable than they would have been had they been dripping with great splats onto the floor.

"You great idiots," Gil said finally, dragging his sleeve across his eyes, "where have you been?"

Tirran shrugged. "Scouting."

"We supposed you didn't have the lads for it," Lanrien added, "what with only Alcuin at your heels."

Gil looked at them unflinchingly. "I ran."

Lanrien returned the look. "We did as well. We had no choice. At least you destroyed most of his army as you left."

"Aye, we just scurried around the side and wished you the best," Tirran agreed cheerfully.

"So I see by the condition of your clothes and yourselves," Gil said dryly.

"Well, at least your hands are clean for the tending of our hurts," Lanrien said pragmatically. "Though you aren't really much on the healing part of it all, are you?"

Gil scowled. "You would think I was the only one in this keep capable of muttering a spell. Why didn't you work on each other?"

"Didn't want to attract attention," Tirran said easily. "And you know we haven't any decent magic. Not for that kind of thing. And, since we haven't bled to death yet, waiting a few more moments won't hurt. Cook, my love, what is it you're creating in that fine copper pot? It smells like heaven."

"It's lunch for Penrhyn and his get," Cook said tartly, "so keep your grubby paws out of it. Your Highness," she added with a nod.

"I'll just taste-"

Gil laughed. His brothers were alive. Somehow, that made it all more bearable. He shook water off his hands, reached for a towel, then realized his hand wasn't working. Still.

Silence fell. He looked at his brothers, realizing what they'd seen. He put his hand behind his back. " 'Tis nothing."

"Gil," Lanrien said in a low voice, "what happened to you?"

"I put my hand into a fire and scorched it. Which is what will happen to you if you're not careful with Cook's pot. And Cook, Penrhyn and his get have departed."

She looked at him hopefully. "For good?"

"For good."

Cook looked pleased. His brothers looked shocked. For himself, he could only smile.

"Come, lads, and let us repair to the hall where we can talk peacefully. We've much to discuss. Did you bring anyone with you, or is it just you two who wafted back to the palace like a bad smell?"

"Ingle the smith," Lanrien said, "and Tagaire as well."

"In truth?" Gil asked, surprised.

"He wields a mighty pen," Tirran said, chewing industriously on something else he'd poached from Cook's table. "Poked several lads with it that I saw. And there are a few others coming along shortly who might be necessary to the running of the keep."

"Then let's have a parley," Gil suggested. "But later, after you've eaten. Follow me and bring food with you."

His brothers followed, and, fortunately for them, chose to make no more comments. He wasn't sure he could have borne any more discussion of his wound, or how it might come to bear on his kingship.

Or on his ability to weave the spells necessary to keep that kingship intact.

He sat down at the table, grateful beyond measure for their companionship and not a little surprised at how he'd grieved unknowingly for its lack. He watched his siblings eat as if they'd been starved for weeks and was content.

Or at least he was until the questions began.