Limits of Power (29 page)

He brought his conclusions to Mikeli at lunch, where he found Aris serving the table for them both, looking a little wary as he did so. “You're mostly right, Cam,” the king said. Then, to Aris, “Thank you, Aris; you may eat now. Sit there.” And back to Camwyn. “This afternoon, I want you and Aris to go to the library and see that the maps are ready, correctly labeled, and that the carrying tubes are long enough for them. If any of the buckles or straps are worn, make a note and let one of the servants take it to the saddler for repair. I have a list of the maps I'll need—I had them copied onto smaller sheets.”

By the time they set out two days later, Camwyn felt stuffed with new knowledge. His hands had not lit up again, and Aris had not asked any more questions, as they had not been alone long enough to discuss anything serious.

To his delight, his own clothes for the journey included the mail Mikeli had worn some years before—not a perfect fit, but—as Mikeli said—it was no use changing the fit while he was growing so fast. By midday, however, he felt much less gleeful about wearing real mail. It was both heavy and hot, and as the morning heated up, he wished he'd followed Mikeli's advice to wear it around camp in the evenings for a while.

He told himself to ignore it, and that proved easier than he'd thought as they neared the edge of Mahieran lands and ventured into unknown—for Mikeli at least—territory. Ordinary-looking fields and orchards and pastures and patches of woodland … but ones he'd paid little attention to, riding in a carriage with Lady Verrakai and Egan, then his new best friend on that long-ago trip to Verrakai. Now, riding his own horse, he tried to notice everything. On their left the Honnorgat rolled on, sometimes near enough to see long-necked wading birds prowling the shallows fishing, sometimes screened by a field, a hedge, a fringe of trees. On their right, the land rose to distant hills, clearly arranged in some kind of pattern.

They made little progress that first day, as people lined the road on either side, waving flowers, branches, kerchiefs. Riding behind the king, Camwyn remembered his instructions: smile, nod, or bow as rank suggested and maintain suitable demeanor—something the palace master of ceremonies had gone over repeatedly. He tried not to sneeze or cough as the king's spirited stallion, impatient with the slow pace, fretted, jigged, and even pitched a few times, tossing dust in Camwyn's face. As a result, Camwyn's mount did the same, and he needed both hands on the reins until lunchtime.

Those first few days were all delight, with new sights at every turn of the glass. The first evening they camped, Camwyn was thrilled to see the royal pavilion rise on the chosen meadow. He and Aris watched and even lent their weight on the ropes as it went up. They ate at the king's table outdoors, food that tasted much better for having been cooked over a fire-pit. Camwyn had wondered if the curtains that divided room from room and moved slightly in the breeze would keep him awake, but he fell asleep quickly and woke only when the camp commander blew the morning signal.

The third night under canvas changed everything.

C
amwyn woke before the turn of night to the unwelcome reality of his magery: his hand was brightening from a soft glow already. He stuffed his hand back under the blanket. Light leaked out through the weave, brighter every moment. Bright enough to see that Aris, on the other cot, was sound asleep on his back like a tiny child, mouth open, one arm flung out as if it had no weight and just rested on the air.

Please,
he begged a deity who so far had not cooperated.
Don't let this happen. Please.

The light stuttered like a candle in a breath of air, like a cool draft blowing through the tent, when someone … lifted a curtain. He turned toward the draft, dread chilling his body more than the air. Mikeli's face in that haunted light looked monstrous, terrifying. The face of someone who might kill him now, this moment.

“You're not asleep,” Mikeli said quietly.

The light in his hand went out, plunging them both into darkness. Now he could see beyond Mikeli, through the two opened curtains between his chamber and Mikeli's, the faint glow of a candle, fainter by far than his hand had been, lighting nothing.

“Come,” Mikeli said. “Now.” He stood there, outlined from behind by that distant candle, while Camwyn struggled out of the tangle his bedclothes usually made, trying to keep quiet so Aris wouldn't wake.

Excuses tumbled through his mind, but he knew it was too late for excuses. He stubbed his toe on the leg of the camp bed and managed not to make a noise. Mikeli stood aside to let him out and then dropped the curtain behind him. Then he felt Mikeli's hand—a man's hand, larger than his own, harder-callused, stronger—on his arm, moving him into Mikeli's side of the tent.

As his eyes adjusted to the fainter light of the real candle, he could see Mikeli's camp bed, the camp chair with its leather seat and back, the table with folding legs, the footstool.

“Sit there,” Mikeli said, pushing him toward the stool.

Camwyn folded himself onto it. The candle flame fluttered as Mikeli dropped the curtain to the passage and then sat in the chair. It should have been ludicrous, Camwyn thought, a king in his nightshirt, bare legged and barefoot … but there was nothing amusing about Mikeli's expression.

Mikeli leaned forward, putting his face a mere handspan from Camwyn's. “And just
when,
Brother, were you planning to tell me about
that
?”

No use to pretend he didn't know what “that” was.

“And do not try to tell me this was the first time.”

Camwyn had already rejected that excuse. “I hoped it would go away,” he said instead. “I asked Gird to stop it. I knew it was wrong—”

“You weren't trying to make it happen? Wanting to know if you had magery like Beclan?”

“No! I wasn't … but … I dreamed.”

“Dreamed?”

“Voices. And—maybe it was my fault.”

“How?”

Camwyn's voice seemed stuck in his throat, but he got it out bit by bit.

“The
crown
called you?” Mikeli's face, in the dimmer light of the flickering candle, had seemed slightly less frightening, but now it hardened again. “Was that why you asked to see the treasury? Were you lying to your tutors and the steward as well as me?”

“I wanted to see if I could … find it. I never saw the chest before; I didn't know what it looked like. If I could find it, then … then maybe I could open it. It wants to be free, Mikeli—sir king.” He knew he was crying only when the tears dripped down his face.

“And you blame the crown?”

“No—not that—it's my fault. I could have—could have stopped—”

“Did you break into the treasury?”

“No!”

“Softly. Were you
thinking
about breaking into the treasury? Was that why you went up on the roof?”

“Yes, sir king.”

“Does anyone else know about this? Aris?”

He saw now, when he knew he should have seen earlier, that truth was the only road open. “Yes, sir king. When we went out on the north roof—”

“The time you fell.”

“I … caught Aris. And I couldn't have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was sitting on the ridge, kind of scooting along, and he slipped, behind me. It was my fault—he thought I was teasing him about being afraid, but really I told him to stay because I thought I'd be faster alone and I wouldn't have to worry about him. So he stood up fast and he slipped, and I was facing the wrong way and all bent up, and when I tried to move—” His voice failed then; a sob wanted to burst out. He fought it back.

“What happened?”

“I—I caught him. And he said ‘You're flying,' and I saw I must have—none of me was touching the roof. Then I fell down onto it, but we didn't slide off.” Camwyn swallowed and told the rest. “And then on the ladder my feet cramped and I nearly fell, and … my hand lit up so I could see where the rungs were.”

“And Aris saw.”

“Yes, and I asked him not to tell anyone about it, even you, because I would. But I was afraid—I know I'm supposed to be willing to die in your service, but … but I don't want to. Yet. But I'm your brother, and if I have magery, you have to kill me—”

“No, I don't,” Mikeli said. He sat back a little, elbows on his knees. “Cam, think: I didn't kill Beclan Mahieran, and he's only my cousin. Even though many men—many good men—died because of him and his magery, I did not condemn him. You're my brother. You're right; your having magery is a problem—and it couldn't happen at a worse time, with High Marshal Seklis in the next tent—but you're my brother, and I'm not going to kill you. Not for that, anyway. I'd sooner kill you for lying. For that you
will
be punished.”

Camwyn wanted to ask how but did not dare. “You sent Beclan away; you made him change his name.”

“Yes. And I cannot do that to you without risking my own rule. Enough tongues wag already.” Mikeli heaved a sigh that seemed to rise from his bare feet. “I thought you'd lit a candle—a dozen candles—in there and were up to some mischief. That's why I came to see. Tell me, does it happen more than once a night?”

“Not … usually,” Camwyn said. “But I never know when or for how long.”

“Can you light candles with it?”

“Yes, and that helps it go away. Sometimes I light one over and over.”

“Try.” Mikeli handed him an unlit candle.

Camwyn put out his hand to the wick. One finger burst into brilliant light; a flame rose from the wick. His finger hardly dimmed.

“I don't suppose you can use it up by some other magery,” Mikeli said. “Flying, perhaps?”

Camwyn hesitated before answering and realized he was now on a level with Mikeli, whose mouth dropped open. “I don't know—” he began, and then he fell, bare feet thudding on the rug first, followed almost at once by the rest of him crumpling in a heap with a loud thump. His hand held no light now, and ached as if he'd plunged it into the winter river. He lay, too tired to move. The candle he'd lit went on burning.

“Sorry,” Mikeli said. “I didn't really think—”

“Is everything all right, sir king?” came a soft voice from the passage, along with approaching footsteps.

“Yes,” Mikeli said. “Prince Camwyn and I are just talking; I knocked over the stool. We were both restless. Don't be surprised if I light another candle.”

“Something to drink? Eat?”

“No need,” Mikeli said. “Thank you.”

The footsteps receded. Camwyn felt himself sinking into sleep; as the darkness closed over him, he felt his brother's strong arms lifting him, settling him in a bed.

When he woke, he was in Mikeli's bed and Mikeli was nowhere in sight. His head ached. He rolled over. A pillow and blanket were on the rug … but across the passage, he heard a man's snore and a boy's lighter one in the chamber that had been his. Outside, he heard a horse neigh, and then another one. The camp was waking. Soon the horn would blow, and servants would come.

Camwyn rolled out of the bed, tossed the blanket and pillow back atop it, and eased the curtain back. No one in the passage. Across to the other chamber … he moved the curtain back and forth. Mikeli's snores stopped.

“Cam?”

“Yes. It's morning.”

“It feels like the middle of the night.” Now more noise from outside, muffled sounds from men and completely unmuffled sounds from the mules. “Let me get back to my side,” Mikeli said. “We'll talk later.”

Outside the sky was already light, the grass heavy with dew. Camwyn and Aris had their assigned chores, readying the tent's contents for the wagons. Shaking out the bedclothes, folding them; folding up the beds, the tables, the stools and chairs; carrying the lighter things out to the assigned wagon.

At breakfast in the open air—deliciously fresh and smelling of spring—Mikeli said, “You will not ride with me today, either of you. I believe you know why.”

“Yes, sir king,” Camwyn said. Was he being sent back? He stuffed a bite of sausage and bread into his mouth to keep from pleading.

“You will ride in the last supply wagon today, the next to last tomorrow, and so on. I expect a complete tally of everything in the wagon you're in each night. You may use tally sticks, but you will write the tally neatly for me to read when we stop for the night. If you do this faithfully, you may ride with me again when we come to Harway.”

Camwyn's heart sank. Day after day in the hot wagons at the dusty end of the procession? And not even free to sit and watch the countryside pass by, but digging about in the wagon to note what was in it? And yet … at least he wasn't being sent back to Vérella in disgrace.

“Yes, sir king,” he said.

“Go on, then,” Mikeli said as his own squires approached. “I see you've finished your breakfast.”