Limits of Power (11 page)

Camwyn went off to his supper thinking about all this and wondering who else could have known about the Kostandanyan king's letter and its contents—and who would have talked. He knew he hadn't mentioned it. Only later, as he lay in bed, did he think of magery. Someone with magery might have known … or could magelords know what others said—or thought? Mikeli had told him that Duke Verrakai claimed the mysterious crown she'd brought spoke to her. Did it speak to anyone else? If Duke Verrakai knew things about the Kostandanyan princess … would the crown know what she knew, and could it tell anyone else?

Or what about elves or their dread cousins the iynisin? Iynisin had killed the elven queen … but no one in Tsaia had reported anything like that. He lay in the dark, imagining what it might be like to be an elf, master of strange magicks, able to shape growing things … or an iynisin, able to kill with a spell. Or a magelord … able to make light.

He put up his hand, staring at it in the faint light from his window. What would it look like if he could make light with it? Would there be a flame flickering from his fingertip? Or would it look like a hand held before a flame, with that red glow through the skin? Or would there be light around it, like the pictures of paladins? Or more heat than light, like the dragon? Would there be a smell, a forge smell?

He fell asleep wondering about all that and woke sometime later, wide awake, as if startled, but he heard no noise. He felt too warm and threw off his covers.

Only then did he notice the dull glow, like a dying coal, moving in the dark not far from him. He gasped, rolled over to the opposite side of his bed, clutching the covers as he did, and stared where it had been. Nothing. He licked dry lips and stared around the room. What? Where? Slowly, he let the covers drop and backed toward his door. His heel hit the rack where his sword and practice armor hung; he reached for the armor, and a blur of dim red caught his gaze.

He stared. When he moved his hand, the glow moved. He relaxed suddenly. He knew what it had to be. Some fungi glowed in the dark. He had touched those mushrooms, and though he'd washed since, he knew he'd done so hurriedly. He brought his hand nearer his face to smell his fingers. His one finger. It glowed from the knuckle to the tip … surely he hadn't rubbed his finger on the mushroom that far down.

As he looked, the glow strengthened. Now it lit the rest of his hand. Fear returned; he felt an icy chill down his back … though his hand, as he brought it closer yet, warmed his face.

Was this what had happened to Beclan? Did it mean some dire threat was near him? An evil mage? An iynisin? Was someone fooling him, making him think he might have mage powers when he didn't?

Mikeli would be so angry. So would the Marshal-Judicar. And that reminded him of Gird, who had made the law against magery. He thought then he should pray, but the only prayer that came to mind was the Ten Fingers, not really a prayer. He recited it as fast as he could. The glow did not disappear, nor did it brighten. “I'm sorry, Gird,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn't do it on purpose.” Whatever it was. But so often things he hadn't done on purpose still earned him blame.

He shook his hand, hoping the glow would disappear. It didn't. He thought at it:
Go
away.
Nothing happened. Well, if it wouldn't go away, could he make it brighter? He stared, concentrating. Nothing for a time, then it brightened for a moment, enough to light the way from where he stood near the door to his bed—to the window beyond.

The window—Gird's cudgel, someone might see the light and wonder why he was up! He scrambled to the bed and stuck his hand under the covers. It brightened again, an obvious light showing through the fabric. And it was hotter. He put his knee up, holding the covers away from his finger lest they catch fire. He couldn't sleep like this. And what if it stayed lit until morning? What would he do then?

He imagined himself being sent away, forced to live with Duke Verrakai … But no, it was worse than that. Beclan had been only the king's cousin. He was the king's brother. What would they do to Mikeli if he were found with light on his finger? Would anyone believe it came from Gird?

Just how hot was his finger? He thought about that for a moment, then touched it to the wick of the candle in the stick by his bed. After a moment the wick caught, and simultaneously the light in his finger disappeared.

That was easy. He fell asleep in the instant of that thought, waking only in the gray dawn with the bedside candle burnt down to a puddle of wax. His hand looked perfectly normal. “Thank you, Father Gird,” he said. “I will never do that again.” Whatever it was he'd done, since he had no idea how he'd done it.

He cleaned the puddled wax out of his candlestick and off the chest beside it, so no one would accuse him of leaving a candle burning, and put the wax in the bowl used for such scraps. As he was dressing, he heard his friends gathering out in the passage. He was late for his early morning hauk practice already.

That morning's practice went badly; he could not keep his mind on the more complicated patterns, and after dropping a hauk the second time—bringing the same angry yeoman-marshal out to scold them—he pleaded bad dreams that had kept him awake and went to breakfast with Mikeli only because Mikeli would expect him. He prayed steadily on the way that his hand would not light up in front of the king.

“What's wrong?” Mikeli asked the moment the servants withdrew.

“I had dreams,” Camwyn said, and stuffed his mouth with a meat pasty. He nearly choked and had to spit out some of it and quickly drink water.

“Bad dreams?” Mikeli asked. “What about? Not the crown, I hope.” He said it almost as a joke, but Camwyn felt his face heat up. “Cam?”

If only he'd had a big brother who ignored him—or was not the king. “Not exactly,” Camwyn said. “I mean—I had been thinking about it when I went to bed—you said it talked to you, and I wondered how, and if it was a kind of magery, who had put it there—but it wasn't in the dream, or I don't think so. I can't quite remember. Just that I woke up sometimes and it was hard to sleep after.” Which was a lie, and lying was, according to the Code of Gird, wrong, so no wonder he still felt the telltale heat of his face. But what could he do? And maybe his hand
had
been a dream—the whole thing.

“You're maturing enough to start dreaming about girls,” Mikeli said. “That can be embarrassing the first time it happens. Finding that in the bed.” He wasn't looking at Camwyn now. “If that happens, don't worry about it. It happens to all of us.”

Camwyn felt his blush deepen. It already had happened more than once, and he hadn't mentioned it to anyone. “So…” he said, hearing his voice waver. “It's not—it's normal?”

“Yes. Uncle said if our father had lived, he'd have explained it. He told me and told me to tell you—so now I have. Was it that?”

“I … guess so.” Partly. But he remembered now that magelords sometimes came to their magery about the same time.

“When I was your age, I started needing more sleep,” Mikeli said. “If you need to sleep later, just let me know so they don't bring breakfast for two. You can tell your tutors—they'll understand.”

“It was hard to get up this morning,” Camwyn said. He applied himself to a plate of stirred eggs. “And some days it's hard to concentrate.”

“I know,” Mikeli said. “It was the same for me. You'll get through this.”

Having Mikeli sympathetic was new and troubling; Camwyn was used to being merely tolerated or in trouble. And he was in trouble … unless the glowing finger really had been just a dream, a very vivid one. He was on his way to his drill session with the armsmaster when he remembered the candle. That puddle of wax had been no dream this morning. He refused to look down at his hand to see if a finger glowed.
Please, Gird: no more of that. I didn't mean to.
No answer. He didn't expect an answer. He hadn't expected the glowing finger, either.

That day's drill and lessons went by without incident; the armsmaster said his strength was growing as fast as it likely could. “The trick's to keep the balance,” he said. “Too much strength isn't good for growing bones, but neither is too little. You're not to go beyond your training until the growth slows—is that clear?”

“Yes, Armsmaster,” Camwyn said. He'd heard that before.

“No playing around with a blade without me present.”

“No, Armsmaster.”

“Well, then, let's see what that extra muscle's done for you.” He nodded to the chests by the wall. “A banda and a practice longsword. Number three.”

Camwyn forgot he'd been tired and worried. As he put on the banda and took the assigned practice sword, he heard the armsmaster refuse the same to Aris Marrakai and Jami Serrostin. “You're not ready yet. And you, young Marrakai, you're muscling up more than you should right now. Do you want to be a head shorter than your brother?”

“That can't happen,” Aris said.

“And you know everything about physical conditioning, I suppose,” the armsmaster said. “Bide you there, lads, while I see how the prince is coming along.”

Camwyn found the sword lighter than it had been before. He brought it to salute, as the armsmaster, now with his own practice blade, faced him in the middle of the salle.

“Drill,” the armsmaster said. “Distance first: tip to tip. On guard.”

Camwyn moved as the armsmaster moved—forward, back, sideways. He scarcely felt the sword's weight.

“Better,” the armsmaster said. “Now, half speed on my count.” He began the count, and Camwyn responded with the correct parries and combinations. Then he began to feel it in his neck and shoulder and arm. “Halt,” the armsmaster said. Camwyn grounded his blade. “Your wrist has strengthened out of proportion to your shoulder on your strong side. Switch hands and let's see if it's the specific exercises or something else.”

With his heart-hand, Camwyn felt the weight sooner but equal stress from shoulder to wrist. He said so, and the armsmaster nodded. “Good. You're becoming more aware of your body.”

Camwyn felt his face warming again. The armsmaster's expression didn't change. “It's no shame, lad,” he said softly. “And you need to know your reactions to control them. It's no harm to have your wrist strengthening a little faster than your shoulder, but you need to balance it across both hands. You've done well with the hauks—keep it up—but enough with the sword for today.”

After that came unarmed combat, then footwork drills, and then it was time for other lessons. Camwyn told Aris and the others about his brother's suggestion that he sleep later.

Jami Serrostin hooted. “I wish
my
brother would tell me that.”

“I'm not sleepy in the morning,” Aris said.

“You're also two years younger,” Camwyn said. “Just wait. It'll happen to you.”

“Is that why you were dropping the hauks?”

“The king thinks so,” Camwyn said. “He said he got clumsier for a while and needed more sleep.”

“Nobody thinks pages need more sleep,” Teris Konhalt said. “And if I don't leave now, I'll be late for my duties. Pardon?”

“Of course,” Camwyn said. The others soon followed—all had duties in the palace as well as with him. He uttered another silent prayer that Gird would ward him from any further excitement with his hand and went to his own session with the Marshal-Judicar.

Details of the law regarding the way money could be transferred between gnomes and humans seemed to have nothing to do with him, and it was hard not to yawn as the morning warmed. His eyelids sagged.

“Wake up, Prince Camwyn,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “Did you not sleep last night?”

“Sorry, sir,” Camwyn said. “I had dreams and … and other things.”

The Marshal-Judicar looked hard at him and muttered something Camwyn couldn't hear. “I suppose it's natural,” he said aloud, and then, “You need a cup of sib, I daresay. Get more sleep tonight and come tomorrow ready to learn.”

“Thank you, sir,” Camwyn said as he rose and bowed.

His other tutors seemed to have heard something, for all of them gave him an easy time for once. He found that a mug of sib at midmorning, lunch, and midafternoon helped, but he suddenly felt twitchy and wider awake than usual, as if someone had pulled his eyelids up into his head.

“Too much sib,” Mikeli said when they met before dinner. “You're not used to it. Keep it to one or two a day. Best go for a brisk ride or another session with the armsmaster or you won't sleep tonight.”

The extra session with the armsmaster, who made him run back and forth the length of the salle, must have helped, because he rolled over only once before falling asleep.

Only to wake in the dark with his finger once more glowing like a coal in the night. Lighting a candle had turned it off last time—would it this time? He tried it. The candle flared, but his finger did not go dark. Now what?

He stared at his finger, willing it to darken. Instead, it brightened. Well, then … he willed it to brighten, and it flared even brighter. He sat on the edge of his bed, arm propped on his knees, and wondered what he should do now. Clearly he had mage powers from … from somewhere. Clearly that was against the law and imperiled his brother. He needed to not be a mage or … not be.

The thought of that made him cold again, but his finger did not dim with his fear. It glowed on, steadier than any candle. His thoughts stumbled on. If he did not exist, Mikeli would not be in danger because of him.
Should
he die to protect Mikeli? Could he … the thought lay a cold black shadow over his mind … could he kill himself? He'd heard the story now of the old sergeant who had killed himself to save Beclan, but he, Camwyn, didn't want to die. Not even for Mikeli, not this way.