Where Light Meets Shadow (12 page)

Learning to meld the bardic and
healing magic wasn’t easy, and sometimes Kieran wanted to scream in
frustration. Alban complained that bardic magic was too unstructured; Kieran
felt it was never going to work if Alban didn’t learn to develop a musician’s
sensitivity and timing to flow with the music.

“Name of the Grace, have you never
at least danced?” Kieran shouted one morning, in both words and through the
link, only to remember himself when Alban flinched.

“Sorry,” he said, and through the
link showed how his frustration grew from the difficulty of the task, not from
Alban. “Here, let’s forget the healing part for a moment. Just hold the link
with me and feel how the music moves.”

Kieran put his hands to the
strings once more, and tried to show Alban what the music meant to the
musician, what the bardic magic meant to the bard, how the magic and the music
wielded the bard as much as the reverse.

“Beautiful,” Alban breathed. “But
I’m not certain how to adapt
that
to healing magic. A responsible healer
must control his magic, or he can harm as well as heal.”

“Show me.”

Kieran had thought their other
links had been intimate, but Alban took him deeper still until he was enveloped
in the shining radiance that was Alban’s soul.
If I were ever to love, it
would be him.
The thought caught him by surprise, and he hoped Alban had
not seen it.

He had not at all been careful,
as he promised Toryn he would.

If Alban noticed the stray
thought, he gave no sign. “Look,” he whispered in Kieran’s ear. “See as I do.”

Kieran saw then, with a healer’s
eye, the delicate balance of energy that ran through his own body like a
living, gossamer net. For the first time, he knew with a healer’s sense how
careful, how precise, must be any touch on that net lest that touch become more
like the slash of a broadsword than the deft slice of a surgeon’s knife.

“I understand,” he said softly,
reverently. “And I am even more amazed by you and what you do. But I’m not sure
how to reconcile your skills with what I do.” The frustration returned, and he
let it edge his voice, knowing that, this deep into the link, Alban would know
it was not directed at him. “There has to be a way. The book says it’s
possible. Unfortunately, the author seems to think it’s so obvious that he need
not explain how.”

“Perhaps it was that obvious
once. When our kindreds lived as one, when bardic magic flourished and
friendships between Leas healers and Scathlan bards would be as common as snow
in winter.”

The wistfulness in Alban’s voice
made Kieran’s throat ache. He wanted to pull Alban close, and yet could not.

He thought of the old murals, Leas
and Scathlan together. They might have returned to that unity had Toryn
Oathbreaker kept his word. In a world like that, maybe he might have grown up
different, grown up someone capable of returning Alban’s love. In a world like
that, maybe such love would not be impossible.

But if Toryn had kept his word
and married the queen, Alban would not exist. Grace help him, but Kieran could
not feel that such a world would be worth the price, though it made him a
traitor to his kindred, his queen, and his blood.

Alban turned him a little so he
could see Kieran’s face. “What’s wrong?”

In the link, Kieran’s thoughts
were his own, unless he projected them, but his feelings were open between
them.

“Nothing.” After all, the past
was past, and his opinions on it, loyal or not, didn’t make a difference. “I
was just being more of the Fool than normal.”

Alban shifted away a little to
stretch, and the link faded to a feather-light touch. “I think we have been at
this too long. We both need a diversion. My cousin Sheary, the one you met at
the stable, is celebrating his birthday tonight. He said I should bring you, if
you’ll come.”

Kieran stiffened. “Is that a good
idea? Why would he even invite me?”

“You’ll be safe. It’s just going
to be some of us young ones. We weren’t even alive for the war, or weren’t old
enough to remember it. My cousins know I consider you a friend and will treat
you accordingly. They’ve heard me talking about you, and they’re curious. Also,
I suspect that Sheary wishes the distinction of having a Scathlan bard playing
at his birthday celebration. He asked if you might bring your harp.”

Kieran smiled. Some things
remained the same across cultures. This would not be the first request for
services disguised as a social invitation. This time, he didn’t mind so much;
he missed playing for an audience. Only, despite Alban’s assurances, being
surrounded by a group of Leas for an entire evening, especially being injured
and vulnerable, brought up every nightmare of his childhood.

Alban must have read the hesitation
in his silence. “If there is ever to be a true peace between our two peoples,
it can only come if we know one another.”

“Peace between our peoples,”
Kieran repeated. “Do you think it’s even possible?”

“Before I met you, I wouldn’t
have thought so,” Alban said.

Before Kieran met Alban, he
wouldn’t have thought he wanted such a peace. But now. . . Trodaire aside, the
Leas were not the demons of his childhood nightmares. A renewal of the old
kinship couldn’t come any time soon. The wounds on both sides were too deep to
heal quickly. But elves were not as short-lived as mortals. Maybe someday he
and Alban could have a friendship beyond this temporary interlude while he
healed.

More than friendship, he could
not expect. Too many other barriers stood between them. But friendship and
peace.
. .a fool’s hope still, but then Alban always called
him a fool.

He smiled at the prince. “You’ll
have to carry my harp.”

#

The celebration was well underway
when Kieran and Alban arrived. The room was dimly lit, only a few lamps hung
along the walls. About a dozen Leas crowded around a low table holding platters
of fruit, cheese, and sweet delicacies, and large inroads had been made into
the offerings. More inroads had been made into the wine, to judge by the volume
of the laughter and the barely noticeable slurring of a word here and there in
the conversation Kieran picked up through the open door—something about one of
the party’s romantic prospects, or lack thereof.

Kieran’s life as a bard had given
him a keen ear for the level of inebriation in a room. He’d have to say that
most of the Leas present were well into their cups. Usually, he’d call it a
good sign: the audience was lubricated enough to be easy-going without being
too far gone to be appreciative. A crowd of mortals in such a state would part
more easily with their coin. But being a Scathlan in a room full of Leas with
lowered inhibitions presented a special danger.

With their prince at his side, he’d
be safe enough. Wouldn’t he? He glanced back at Alban and opened his mouth to
suggest that maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.

A voice rose above the din. “Look
who’s here. The prince and his Scathlan.”

Too late to change his mind.
Kieran hobbled forward, conscious of all eyes on him.

“Welcome, cousin, honored bard,”
said the Leas at the head of the table, the one Kieran had met at the stable.

Sheary, he remembered. The one
whose birthday they were celebrating.

“Come, I’ve saved seats for you.
And my brother now owes me the pick of his bitch’s next litter, for he bet me
you would not come.”

As they sat down, Sheary placed
wine cups in front of them and filled them to the brim. “Best get started, both
of you. You’re behind.”

Kieran took a careful sip from
the over-full cup. The wine was strong and oaky and complemented well the
sharp, tangy cheese Sheary put in front of him.

“So, I hear from the prince that
you can practically harp birds from the sky, and the nightingale is silent for
shame when you sing.”

Kieran flushed at the praise. “I
do my best.”

Alban had done him no favors in
setting up the audience’s expectations.

“I see my cousin brought your
harp. I hope you will play for us. After you have had some wine, of course.
Wouldn’t want you to go home and tell the other Scathlan that Leas have
forgotten hospitality.”

Kieran would rather play sober
and drink after, but all he said was “Indeed, I have found the hospitality here
quite generous.”

“Well, you aren’t the first odd
thing that Alban brought home from hunting.”

Kieran stiffened at the “stray”
reference but, as Sheary launched into the story of Alban bringing home an
orphaned fox kit, he realized that the Leas prince, not he, was the object of
the gentle teasing.

The story led into other hunting
tales, with either Sheary or Alban giving Kieran any necessary explanations as
an aside so he could follow the tales of these Leas he didn’t know.

In a lull, he contributed a story
he’d heard at a mortal inn of a hunter so drunk he mistook his neighbor’s
prized milk goat for a doe. With the attention now on him, he offered a song,
and Alban handed him the harp.

In keeping with the theme of the
tales and the mood of the room, he chose a lighthearted song about hunting,
then followed it with a merry tune. The Leas had quieted, listening with rapt
attention, so he followed with a soft, sweet air. He finished and looked about.

“My cousin did not exaggerate,”
Sheary breathed. “Are all Scathlan so talented?”

“Can all Leas heal like your
prince?”

Sheary smiled. “What? All right,
yes, it was a silly question. It is only that we know so little about your
people. I have always been told that Scathlan are cruel and heartless, but I
cannot believe that you could play as you do if you were unfeeling.”

Kieran ignored the slight against
his people to focus on the compliment that was intended. “You are most
gracious.”

Alban contrived to brush against
him under the table, swiftly forming a link to send warm approval. Kieran
pressed gently against the physical and mental contact.

“Will you play more?” Sheary
asked.

So Kieran played and, because it
was a party and not a concert, he played music that could fade into the
background of conversation and tried not to mind when conversation began to
flow around him. He relaxed into the music, letting the rise and fall of voices
provide counterpoint to the harp.

Until a new voice joined the
others. “I won’t disturb you youngsters long, I just wanted to—”

Kieran’s hands fell from the harp
strings as memories of blood and pain and helpless fear crashed over him.

“What is he doing here?” Trodaire
snarled.

Kieran’s crutches were propped
against the wall, and he sat in a corner, hampered by his harp and the table
and hemmed in by Leas on all sides. Trodaire stalked forward, rage contorting
his scarred face.

Sheary stood. “He is here because
I invited him. He is harping for us. Or was, before you interrupted.

Alban pressed against Kieran,
mind wrapping around his, promising him safety and protection.

Trodaire shook his head. “You’re
too young. You can’t know what monsters Scathlan are.”

“Was there a reason for your
visit, Uncle?” Sheary asked.

“I came to wish you a happy
birthday.” Trodaire’s tone held nothing of good wishes.

“I thank you, Uncle, for your
kind felicitations.” Hurt trembled under the coldness in Sheary’s voice.

Trodaire nodded tersely, turned
on his heel, and left.

Kieran shifted uncomfortably. He
shouldn’t have let Alban talk him into coming.

“Perhaps I should leave,” he
suggested quietly.

Alban put a hand over his. “I
don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Kieran cocked his head.

“In case Trodaire lingers. I will
go with you, of course, if you insist on leaving. I think Trodaire’s anger
would not take him so far as to defy me directly by harming you in my presence.
But I do not think it would be a pleasant encounter for anyone.”

Sheary topped off Kieran’s
half-full cup, then filled Alban’s and his own. “There. You can’t leave now, it
would be a waste of wine.”

Although he usually kept his
drinking to a minimum when he performed, Kieran picked up the cup and drank
deeply before returning to his harp strings.

Kieran slept in late the next
morning and was still fuzzy-headed when Alban rushed into his room the next
day, putting down the breakfast tray with a clatter that made Kieran wince and
looking entirely too cheerful for someone who had been up just as late as
Kieran had. But then, Alban hadn’t drunk quite so much.

The morning sun came too bright
through the window, glaring off the white walls of the room. How had he ever
thought the effect cheerful?

“I was watching you play last
night,” Alban started.

“Yes, I rather noticed.” He
didn’t mean for that to sound as flirtatious as it did.

Alban just glared at his
facetiousness. “My point is,
your
harping, you have to
be very precise. The right strings in the right order and the right tempo.”

“Of course.” Alban had been in
his head often enough to know this long ago, and wasn’t it obvious to anyone
who’d ever been in the same room with a harpist?

“So your music is every bit as
precise as my healing.”

“Yes, but once you learn the
instrument, you don’t have to think so hard about it. It’s like—
It’s
like a baby learning to talk. They have to think hard
about the words, how to form them, what they mean, how to put them together.
But when we grow up, we’re not concentrating on the words and how to pronounce
them when we have a conversation. We’re just thinking about what we want to
say.”

He looked at the breakfast tray,
then decided that the scones looked innocuous enough. Kieran knew from
experience that he would only feel worse if he didn’t eat something.

“
Your
healing.” He bit into a scone, chewed and swallowed with an act of will. “Do
you still think about each and every part of the process, or do you think more
about what you want to have happen?”

Alban developed that endearing
little crease between his eyebrows that showed he was thinking hard. Kieran couldn’t
remember now when he had first noticed it, nor when it first made his breath
catch.

“A little of both, actually.”
Alban said. “But it’s different when we factor in the bardic magic. I’m not
controlling the direction with that, and if I let the healing just flow with
the music as you are creating it, it could do anything.”

Kieran finished the scone, then
dared the tea. Chamomile, this morning. Had Alban requested it specifically,
knowing the state Kieran’s stomach was likely to be in?

“There has to be a way.” The
chamomile felt good in his stomach, so he took another swallow. “Unless the
author of the book was delusional, and we are following the rantings of a
madman.”

“The music is instinctual to you.
The healing almost that for me. But unless we each have the other’s instincts,
I don’t see how this can work. Deep as the mind-link is, it’s not deep enough.”

A thought came to Kieran then,
too dangerous to voice.

Until Alban voiced it himself.
“Maybe we could take the link deeper.”

“Is that possible?”

Was it wise? They had already
bonded more closely than Kieran thought possible. What would it be like when
they could no longer be part of one another’s daily existence?

“One way to find out,” Alban
said.

Alban was supposed to be the
sensible one, and Kieran the reckless fool. Yet Alban slid over to sit behind
him on the bed, cradling him against his chest, as had become their habit, far
closer than needed to facilitate the link. Alban’s mind touched his, and Kieran
accepted the touch, letting their minds join together like the interlaced
fingers of clasped hands.

Relax
, Alban thought at
him.
Let me all the way in.

The words were so similar to
those uttered by the first man who Kieran had let take him that he stifled a
nervous laugh, hoping that Alban didn’t catch the thought.

And then they were linked deeper,
past the entwining of hands and into something far more intimate; souls joined
as the bodies of lovers joined, so that one could not move without affecting
the other.

This time Alban
definitely
caught the image, though Kieran tried to banish it swiftly. Kieran felt the
heat of Alban’s blush.

You should have enough
experience with the feeling of joining with another, then.

He sensed Alban’s disapproval and
tried to chase its source, but the Leas turned him away firmly.
Focus on why
we’re here.

Ah, probably just annoyed at his
tendency toward flippancy.
Yes, O Prince of Light. Why don’t you try a
healing, and I’ll see how much of a difference there is. My headache, for
example.

The spark of amusement, and the
bright fondness that it kindled, came from Alban; confusingly, it felt like his
own.

There is debate among healers
on the ethics of saving a patient from the effects of their own stupidity. Some
feel it only encourages unhealthy behavior.
In the link, Alban could not
even pretend the sternness such a thought implied.

Saving me from my own
stupidity was how this all started.

And, oh, the rush of—love, Grace
help him, there was no other word for what Kieran felt from Alban, the joy at
having this thing between them, whatever it was, however fleeting it must be.
The sense of preciousness for how easy it would have been for them to have
never met at all.

Deep as the link went, Kieran in
that moment could not say whether the surge of love within him merely came from
Alban, from the link, or whether some of it, maybe an even half of it, was his.

And in that moment, if Alban had
said
let me in
in a different context, Kieran would have said
yes.
And meant it forever.

But Alban, Grace bless his practical
soul, focused on the headache Kieran had nearly forgotten in his dangerous
bliss. Kieran, mind conjoined to his, saw the healing, knew the healing, in
that moment as easy and as instinctual as breathing and as focused as a ray of
light through a lens that could kindle a warming fire or burn through flesh. He
knew what healers hid, perhaps even from themselves. Realized how
constrained the Leas
had been in the war, because this power
could be turned into a deadly weapon.

Never
, Alban said through
the link.
It is anathema.

Knowing in that moment what it
was to be a healer, to touch and to cherish the power of Grace, of life itself,
Kieran understood that no healer would ever commit the acts of destruction he
knew to be theoretically possible, because in doing so they would destroy
themselves utterly.

You see,
Alban thought to
him.

Yes,
came not as a word,
but as a wordless, all-encompassing affirmation.

He called Alban Prince of Light
as a jest, but he truly was. Made of light. Blessed by Grace. Life informed not
by the rigid rules of honor, as Kieran had been raised, but by Grace itself.

“It is not
so
easy as that,” Alban said, slipping from the bond that had become too intense
to sustain. “When I am healing, yes, then I feel the Grace in my soul. As you
do sometimes when you play, I have seen it. But in the ordinary, in the
everyday, it is not always so easy to discern between the Grace’s will and my
own. We, too, have rules for that reason, though we do not believe in holding
to them over the pull of the Grace. For instance, rules about not leaving an
injured person out in the snow to die slowly, no matter that he is an enemy. No
matter how arrogant and difficult he might be.”

Kieran laughed.

“I was too annoyed that day to
hear the Grace,” Alban admitted. “But the rules were enough.”

“I was fortunate then.”

“We both were.”

Enough of the link remained for
Kieran to know how Alban felt about having him in his life. Too strong a
feeling for how impossible and fleeting anything between them must be.

Alban had banished his headache
and the nausea, but Kieran felt drained.

Alban slid away and stood. Kieran
felt cold where Alban had been pressed against him, but he felt a strange sort
of relief as well.

“I have to go,” Alban said.
“I...”

Kieran saw he was fumbling for an
excuse. “I understand. This morning was a bit,” he fought for a word that
wouldn’t address things they both would rather not face. “Tiring.”

“Yes, tiring,” Alban echoed.

Without meeting Kieran’s eyes,
Alban slipped out of the room.

#

Inside his own room, Alban closed
his eyes and leaned against the door. They had made progress toward merging
bardic and healing magic, he was sure of it. Kieran would want to continue.

And, oh, so did
he
. Wanted it so badly that he knew it was a bad idea.
Because he was already far too attached to Kieran, and this was only going to
make it worse.

Kieran would insist they
continue, and Alban could not deny him.

So they continued, day by day, while
the days grew longer again. Practiced until, while in the link, Alban knew
where Kieran would take the music the moment he did, and Kieran thought with
Alban’s knowledge of healing. Practiced until the two arts twined first, then
merged.

 They spent occasional
evenings with Sheary and his friends, until Kieran relaxed among the Leas and
they ceased to consider him an oddity. Rarely, they encountered Trodaire in the
halls—tense moments, but otherwise without incident.

#

The remains of his father’s harp
still leaned in the corner where one of the Leas had left it that first night.
He avoided looking at it; his stomach hurt every time he saw the splintered
pieces.

It was time to accept the
finality of the loss.

When Alban came to check in on
him after dinner, he must have read something in Kieran’s face, because he
asked instantly what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Kieran said.
“Just—could you help me with something?”

“Of course.” Alban put a hand on
his shoulder, sending concern through a shallow, nonintrusive link.

Kieran took a deep breath. “This
is probably going to sound ridiculous to anyone not a bard but, well, my
father’s harp. The one I had when I came.”

A flow of empathic sadness
through the bond. “You know it probably can’t be repaired.”

“I’ve known it was beyond hope
since that first night in the snow. I may be a fool, but I’m not delusional.”
He took another deep, steadying breath. “It’s time—past time—to let go of the
pieces.”

“We thought it best to let you
decide when to do that.”

“Thank you.” He paused and
nodded. “I’m ready. But I’d like to do it right.”

To anyone who wasn’t a serious
musician, this was going to sound crazy. After all, they were talking about a
hunk of wood with some bits of metal.

“Tell me what you need,” Alban
said softly, gently.

“I—” The words stuck in his
throat. He swallowed. “I’d like to burn it.”

“All right,” Alban said. “Will
the fireplace do, or do you need a bonfire?”

“The fireplace.” He couldn’t
imagine doing this out in the open, where Leas he didn’t know could gather and
mock. “But with the crutches, it would be hard to pick up and carry the
pieces.”

“Take the chair by the fire,”
Alban said. “I’ll bring it to you.”

Kieran took up his crutches and
hobbled over to the chair. Alban gathered up the shattered harp in his arms and
brought it to him, laying it down as gently as he could, but the wood still
creaked and pieces scattered across the floor. Kieran picked up the nearest
piece, a six-inch section of what had once been the soundboard. The harp was
finished, and yet it felt like murdering a love to reach out and feed that
first piece to the flames, to watch it blacken and be consumed.

Alban put his hands on Kieran’s
shoulders and formed a one-way link, offering silent support without intruding
on his grief. The best that Kieran had hoped for was for Alban to humor him; he
had known the healer was too kind to mock him outright. But this stolid, somber
sympathy told him that somehow Alban understood what this meant to him.

He picked up another piece, the
top half of the pillar and part of the neck. He touched it to his lips and
consigned it to fire. Piece by piece, he fed the harp to the flames, down to
the last little splinter.

Alban picked up a piece that had
fallen and rolled away when he was moving the harp, a carved and gilded wooden
rose that had once adorned the shoulder of the instrument. “The carving is
intact. It's still beautiful.” He handed it to Kieran. “You should keep it. I
can have someone sand down the rough edges so they don’t give off splinters.”

Kieran closed his hand over the
bit of wood. “Thank you.”

#

Eventually they were ready to
show Alban’s father what they could do, and he agreed to let them try it under
his supervision on a live patient. Finding a Leas willing to have a Scathlan
take any part in his healing proved more difficult, until one of Alban’s
cousins broke his arm in a fall from a horse and specifically asked for them.

Alban had to smile at the look on
Kieran’s face when he learned that they were to do their first real healing. It
perfectly mirrored how he had felt faced with his own first attempt at healing.
He told Kieran what his father had told him then.

“Relax, you’re ready for this.
And if anything does start to go wrong, I’ll be there to put it right.”

His father would be there too,
watching them both, but Kieran wouldn’t find that thought nearly as soothing as
Alban did.

Evoy, arm held to his chest, gave
them a wan smile from his bed as they entered his room. “Ah, I see you brought
his harp,
good
. I’ve been curious about what the two
of you were up to.”