A Tale Of Two Swords Part 7

"What of Penrhyn?" Tirran demanded.

Gil shrugged. "She decided she didn't want me."

"Tiare pitched you?" Lanrien asked in astonishment. "What'd you do to her, Gil, tell her that her face matched her wine?"

He shook his head with a smile. "She didn't care for the new look of my paw."

"Daft wench," Tirran said, shaking his head. "At least you aren't weeping over it."

"I'll survive."

"Any new prospects?" Lanrien asked, studying his brother with a grave smile. "Vast armies of la.s.sies of all ages coming to vie for the attentions of the new king?"

"Nay."

Tirran leaned forward. "Then why are you so b.l.o.o.d.y cheerful? Gil, the future of the realm! The continuation of your line, an heir for the throne!" He waggled his eyebrows. "Think on your duty, brother."

Gil thought about that duty and decided it was perhaps time to see to it. He cuffed Tirran affectionately on the back of the head and rose. "If that's the case, then our parley can wait. I've business in the stables."

"Don't tell us you've fallen for a stable wench," Tirran said in disbelief.

"A horse breeder's daughter, actually."

They were silent long enough for him to gain the pa.s.sageway leading to the kitchens.

"Who?" Lanrien bellowed.

"Gil, wait!" Tirran shouted.

He continued on his way, smiling. His brothers were alive. Could his life improve?

He suspected it could, so he quickened his pace.

He entered the stables and paused in the shadows where he could watch Mehar stroking Fleet's nose. Whatever else might be happening to his realm, whatever horrors awaited him in the future, whatever deep waters he might need to swim in before he reached peace and stability, he didn't care if he could just stand there and look at her for a moment or two more.

For he was, as he had noted earlier, free, and he was the king.

Which surely meant that he could choose his bride where he willed.

He stood there for so long, thinking on that happy prospect, that he failed to notice when exactly it was that Mehar turned to look at him. She was leaning on the stall door and staring at him solemnly.

"My liege?" she queried. "Did your meal not sit well with you?"

"Best one I've had in years," he admitted with a smile. "I was just now lost in thought."

"The weightier matters of the realm?"

"I was considering choosing a bride, actually."

Had her smile faltered? He looked closely, searching for a sign that it had. Unfortunately, all he could decide was that perhaps a bit of dust had floated up and tickled her nose.

"I wish you good fortune," she said, sounding perfectly content that he might be about his choosing and not in the least bit interested that he turn that choosing in her direction.

He decided to take matters into his own hands. It was one of his father's most useful traits and he'd inherited a goodly quant.i.ty of it. He walked across the hay-strewn floor and paused a pair of steps away from her and a.s.sumed a like pose of leaning with his elbow atop the railing. He stood there and admired her dark gray eyes, her riotous hair that had yet again escaped her plait, and her hands that were cracked, worn, and wearing a fine layer of dirt and other stable-ish kinds of things.

Ah, but what a woman this one was.

Indeed, he was so intent on admiring her that he completely forgot his hand until he saw her gaze fall upon it. But she only looked at it, then looked up at him, neither pity nor disgust on her face. Gil straightened and put his hand behind his back.

"I came to see if you might be willing to aid me," he said formally, all thoughts of proposing a union suddenly gone from his mind. Angesand's daughter she was, and therefore she might have her standards in a husband. King though he might have been, he certainly had flaws enough.

"Aid you?" she repeated. "How, my liege?"

"You called me Gil this morning."

"I'm feeling formal."

"I'm not wearing a crown."

She smiled briefly. "Then how may I aid you, Gilraehen the Fey?"

He wondered why the sound of his name from a woman's lips without a charm or ward attached should please him so much. He dragged his wandering thoughts back to the present with an effort. "I came to discuss wedding you, but perhaps you would prefer to learn a bit of healing so you might see to my brothers."

She blinked.

He did as well, when he realized what he'd said. He was tempted to curse his tongue-for he'd certainly intended a more flowery proposal, one in which he laid out a thorough inventory of his virtues-but perhaps his tongue had things aright where he didn't.

Then Mehar laughed. He supposed he should have been affronted by it, but he couldn't seem to muster up any kind of serious frown.

"Wed me?" she echoed. "Who, you?"

"Is the thought so ridiculous?"

She finally had to sit down, the thought was apparently so ridiculous. He did find an appropriately displeased expression, but that only made her laugh the harder. He finally sat down next to her on an una.s.suming bale of hay and waited until her mirth had subsided. She sighed finally, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Wouldn't that be something?" she asked. "Me, wedding you."

"I cannot decide if I should be insulted or not."

She shook her head. "Nay, lord, I am surely not high enough for the likes of you."

"I am king," he said loftily. "I can decide who is high enough for me and who isn't. And perhaps you don't realize your father's place in the kingdom. I may have the crown and the t.i.tle, but his power and wealth are easily equal to mine."

She blinked. "In truth?"

"Mehar, what have you been doing all your life?"

"Weaving upstairs and avoiding royal guests below."

He took her hand, then suddenly he saw that hand in another place, weaving a blanket to slip around the shoulders of a young prince who had lost his dam. He saw her with a shuttle in her hand, saw the tears that fell from her eyes as she wove love and pity into the plaid of a cloth that would go around him in the dark of night and bring him ease. He took that hand, that tender hand, and held it against his cheek.

"Your gift," he said. "The mourning cloth."

Tears sprang to her eyes. "You used it."

"Endlessly." He kissed the palm of her hand. "Perhaps 'twas when I first touched it that my heart was given and 'tis only now that the strands of fate have woven us together at last." He smiled at her. "I can be grateful your father was so foresighted as to have hidden you away that you might be mine."

"I'm certain it wasn't for that reason," she said dryly.

He rubbed his thumb over her hand, stained as it was from dye and work, then met her eyes.

"Can you not love me, Mehar with the price on her head?"

She looked down at his hand surrounding hers, then nodded slowly. "I could, Gilraehen of Neroche. But about that price on my head-"

"What will I have to sell?"

"What won't you?"

He laughed. "Tell me of it as we wed."

"My father will be furious when he learns," she warned.

"That I wed you, or that I saved him from having to pay someone to deliver you to him?"

"That he wasn't consulted," she said. "But point out to him the gold it saved him and he'll likely toast you with his finest."

"I'll send Alcuin to him to give him the tidings and let him brave both your sire's wrath and his wine. As for you, will you not come with me and let us be about our business whilst the day is yet young?" He didn't wait for an answer, but pulled her to her feet and along behind him for several paces until she dug in her heels so firmly that he was forced to stop and look at her. "Aye?"

"You've said nothing of your heart, my liege."

"Why do you think I was so relieved to see Tiare go?"

"That's hardly an answer."

He pulled her into his arms, kissed her thoroughly, then looked down at her with a smile. "My heart is full of you, Mehar of Angesand. Is that answer enough? It was full of you the moment I saw you. I've spent a completely inappropriate amount of time over the past several days wishing Tiare of Penrhyn would take herself and her sharp tongue and go home so I could wed where I willed."

"Have you?" she asked wistfully.

"Aye," he said, "I have."

She looked down at her hand in his, then met his gaze. "Then I am content."

He led her back to the hall, content as well. Later that day there would be time to talk to his brothers, to face the heavy reality that was his and now would be Mehar's, but for now, for the next few hours, he would put it aside and be glad of a woman who loved him for himself.

It was indeed enough.

Chapter Seven.

In Which Mehar Solves the Mystery of Her Mother From a Most Unexpected Source . . .

MEHAR sat across from her newly made husband near the fire in his grand and glorious hall and wondered if she could possibly manage what it was he asked of her. His brothers sat on either side of him, healed and well, and watching her expectantly. Her healing of them had gone quite well, but admittedly their wounds had been minor ones. She wasn't sure she could take confidence from her experience with them.

Alcuin sat on her right, making noises of impatience that were so distracting she finally had to glare him into silence. Then she took Gil's hand in hers, held it gently between both her own, and looked into his shattered blue eyes. "I don't think this will hurt."

"I daresay it will."

"How can it? My magic is supposed to be a gentle one."

"Aye, that is the rumor, but the truth may be quite a different thing. But I will bear the attempt." He smiled at her briefly, then nodded once, and closed his eyes.

Mehar looked down at his hand; it was red, twisted, laced with angry weals as if he'd thrust it into a fire full of teeth. She traced her fingers over his skin, felt him shiver. Well, there was no use in waiting. She took a deep breath and started to weave the simple spell of healing Gil had taught her from her mother's book.

She found it difficult to concentrate. The events of the day, leading up to where she now sat, clamored for her attention. She wasn't completely convinced that she wouldn't wake and find herself back in her own cold tower room, buried under blankets that her mother had wrought, and wishing that her future might be other than it promised to be.

That morning, after she'd come back to the palace with Gil, Alcuin had taken her under his wing until all was made ready. His grumbling had been continual, beginning with his reminding her that he was but Gil's cousin ("never will see the d.a.m.ned throne myself"), though captain of his army ("never will see one of those of my own either"), dispenser of marital vows ("are you certain you wish to wed with this oaf here, or did he persuade you unfairly?"), and questionable placer of crowns upon the heads of uncrowned kings ("how does it look on my head? Better than Gil's, don't you agree?"). He had concluded with an expectant look she'd laughed at, which had incited yet another round of grumbling that had taken her through a hall which had been filled with twinkling lights she hadn't been able to determine the origin of.

"He is fey, you know," Alcuin had reminded her. "I'd think twice about wedding him, were I you."

She had known, and she didn't have to think twice. She had crossed the floor in a gown of Gil's mother's, placed her hand in the hand of her king, and wed him without so much as a breath of hesitation.

Gil's hand twitched and she came to herself, realizing that she had stopped speaking. She looked at him and smiled apologetically.

"Regrets?" he asked.

"Oh, aye," she said with a small laugh. "I'm sure I'll live well into my old age wishing I'd put my hand down to be crushed under Hagoth's heel instead of into yours to be brought close to your heart."

"Will you listen to that?" Alcuin grumbled to Gil's brothers. "I think the girl likes him, poor wench."

Tirran punched Alcuin in the arm. "You just wish she were yours, but you haven't Gil's charm, so shut up."

"It wasn't his charm," Lanrien offered, "it was his sweet temper and handsome face that so resembles my own handsome face that won him the day."

"Not to mention his murky reputation," Mehar added with a smile at her husband of five hours.

That launched an entirely new discussion of Gil's murky reputation and how that might affect the affairs of the realm in the near future. At least they were talking about something else, and quite loudly, too, so she could concentrate on what she was doing.

When she was finished, she looked critically at Gil's hand and her heart sank. "I don't think there's any change."

"It was a very powerful spell that wrought the damage," he said easily. "It will take a spell equally powerful to fashion the healing. You'll manage it-"