Where Light Meets Shadow (17 page)

He had promised his father,
promised solemnly and in all sincerity. Kieran the Fool might be his lover, but
Kieran the Queen’s Bard remained a potential enemy. Had there been time, he
might have negotiated a more appropriate time and place for a meeting, and with
less secrecy. Had there not been an undercurrent of urgency in the request, it
might have been easier to resist. Whatever Kieran had in mind, it went beyond a
lover’s tryst.

Would it be a betrayal of his
father’s trust to meet with him and find out what he wanted to tell him? Could
he leave Kieran waiting for him in a dark and empty garden?

Kieran sat on a marble bench in
the overgrown tangle of a garden, harping as he waited, trying not to feel the
cold of the stone seeping through his breeches as the last echoes of the
twelfth bell faded into the darkness. The distant moon, perfect in her
fullness, was his only companion.

Perhaps Alban would not come. He
had seemed so remote since that first moment in the receiving hall. Had there
not been that moment during
Heart’s Solace
when their eyes had met, he
wouldn’t have had the courage to attempt the link. He might have imagined the
emotion in Alban’s gaze during the song, but what he felt in the link could not
be mistaken.

He started to play the song again
and, as if conjured by the tune footsteps trod along the winding path between
the trees. His heart leapt. Then Alban came around the last bend and into view,
pale hair silver in the moonlight. Kieran set aside the harp and rushed across
the clearing, pulling him into an embrace.

Alban stiffened in his arms.

Stunned, Kieran pulled back to
look at him, though he couldn’t make his hands leave his shoulders. “Have I
offended you in some way? I know you didn’t want me to leave, but Alban, I had
to.”

“Because your loyalty is to your
people. As my loyalty is to mine. I’m not sure I should have come.”

Kieran squeezed his shoulders.
“Maybe we can find a way for our loyalties to our peoples to not be a division
between us. Alban, I’ve told the queen how I could not have wakened her without
your help. It took a while for her to listen, but today, just before dinner,
she finally heard what I had to say. She wants to meet with you—”

Alban frowned. “She had every
opportunity to talk to me at dinner.”

“She wants to meet with you
privately.”

Alban pulled back, shaking his
head. “I will not go behind my father’s back. Too many times already I chose
you over the duty I owe to him.”

True enough, and it hurt Kieran
to know the pain he’d caused, but this, this was different. This meant a chance
for them not to be enemies.

“No, please, it’s not like that.
She only wants a chance to know you as I do, as Alban, not as Toryn’s son.
Please, she is waiting right now in the pavilion just down the path.”

Alban stepped back. “You brought
me here under false pretenses.”

“Name of Grace, Alban, can you
really believe I’d do you harm?” Hurt resonated in Kieran’s voice, and anger
too, as he grabbed Alban’s hands and held them to his chest. “Link to me then,
damn you, and see the truth of what I say.”

#

Alban formed the link, more
forcefully than he should have, and Kieran yielded before him, drawing him in
so that he spiraled down to the core of Kieran’s soul, until he saw what Kieran
had not yet admitted to himself, saw how Kieran loved him as he loved Kieran,
saw that his beloved Fool remained unchanged and steadfast in his feelings. Saw
the absolute sincerity of his desire for peace between their peoples so that
there could be peace between the two of them, peace if not something more.

He opened his eyes and saw tears
running down Kieran’s face.

How could he have doubted Kieran,
having known him so well? His thoughts went briefly to the carved wooden rose
Kieran had left behind, a gift of something precious and irreplaceable to show
Alban what he had meant to the bard.

“Do not cry, beloved Fool. What
will your queen say, when we go before her, if she sees I have made you cry?”
He squeezed Kieran’s hands, and sent through the link all the desperate love he
felt for the bard.

As Alban’s words registered,
Kieran gave a brilliant smile.

Did he break with his father’s
trust? Not
really.
. .well, maybe. What else could he
do? It was not just for Kieran’s sake, but for all their sakes, Scathlan and
Leas together. The hope of peace was so fragile; this might be the only chance.

Kieran put the harp in its case
and slung it over his shoulder, then he took Alban’s hand and led him farther
down the path to where the queen waited in the shadowed pavilion.

Leas would not have called
anything with a pavilion and gardens a hunting lodge, but it seemed the
Scathlan did everything in a formal and grand style or not at all. Roses and
lilacs scented the night breeze. As they ascended the steps, the queen rose
from one of the carved stone benches that curved inside the edge of the
pavilion. She smiled, but Alban remembered the touch of her dark, cold dreams
and shivered.

“So you are Toryn’s son,” she
said.

“Yes, your majesty,” Alban
politely used the Scathlan title, though it felt foreign on his tongue.

“You might have been mine.”

He was his mother’s son as well
as his father’s, but he held a diplomatic silence.

“You are very like your father. I
loved him once, so beautiful and so proud, like a soaring hawk with the sun on
his wings.” Remembered fondness warmed her voice for a moment. “I felt you,
joined with my bard, the night he woke me. You are very powerful.”

“Thank you,” Alban said, though
the tone did not make it a compliment.

Beside him, Kieran shifted, as
though he also sensed something wrong.

“People have forgotten, though,
that I, too, am powerful. And I have grown more powerful, not less, during my
long sleep. And now, beloved child of the Oathbreaker, I shall have my revenge.
Leas won the last war, perhaps they shall even win the next. Seeing you, I
almost regret my plan. But nothing, not even my own regret, will prevent me
taking from the Oathbreaker that which is most precious to him.”

#

Kieran saw his queen rise up,
vengeance in her eyes. Backing away in horror, Alban spread his hands in a
gesture of peace.

I didn’t know, Alban, truly I
didn’t.
But without the link, Alban could not hear him.

The queen began to sing, low and
then high, a horrible banshee scream of rage and dark grief and death, with
power behind it, power that had been stored and redoubled over a lifetime.

No one could stand against that
voice.

Kieran backed up until he hit one
of the benches and then he sank onto the cold, unyielding stone. There was no
time to get help, and no one to stop this. His hands went to the only weapon he
had, drew the harp from the case and found the strings.

No. My queen. I can’t!
but
then
Alban, dearest friend, beloved.

The queen was mad. The queen his
father had loved and served and died for was mad. If he did nothing, Alban
would die here. He had unwittingly lured him to his death.

Alban was screaming now, his
sweet voice unbearably harsh with pain, and still the queen kept singing.
Kieran’s hands found the harp strings and wove counter music. Power came to
him, dark and desperate, as wild as the day he’d called the storm, wilder,
threatening to tear him apart. The music spun up and out, wrapping around the
queen. In the blindness of her rage, she did not notice, but sang on and on,
beautiful, harsh terrible, and the song turned in on her. Would it be enough?
She sang on still, her voice and her hatred and will to destroy so very strong
it seemed that nothing would stand against it. Still the harp’s music played,
and Kieran followed; the music took what he had learned when he and Alban
bonded for bardic healing and betrayed the knowledge as no healer ever would,
using it to twist and blacken and kill.

My queen. Brona’s mother. My
queen for whom my father died.
Kieran tried to still his hands, but could
not, not for Alban, and not for all the Scathlan and Leas who had died, who
would die for the overweening pride of one monarch.

The queen’s song ended in a
harsh, awful shriek, and she collapsed, blood running from her mouth and nose,
dark in the moonlight. Not comatose, as she had been, Kieran knew without
checking. Not comatose, but dead. He had roused his queen once to save his
people and had been hailed a hero. Now he had killed her.

Alban’s hand was on his shoulder,
shaking him. “Come on, Kieran, get up. Run.”

I have killed my queen. I have
betrayed my people.

Worse, if he could go back in
time to the moment before he started to play, he would still do the same thing.

He felt cold, so cold, and his
hands were trembling.

Alban took the harp from him and
pulled him to his feet. “My father will shelter you, but we need to leave
now
.”

“You go,” Kieran said. “Save
yourself. Get your people out of here. There was never hope for peace, it must
have been a trap from the beginning.”

“I won’t go without you. They’ll
kill you.”

Let them.
But they would
kill Alban too. Alban would not leave without him.

Kieran allowed himself to be
pulled to his feet. He watched numbly as Alban packed the harp in its case with
as much care as haste would allow.

Leave the damned thing. I
never want to play again.

Alban slung the harp case over
his own shoulder and took Kieran by the hand, leading him out of the garden and
away from his dead queen.

Alban had no time to worry about
Kieran’s passivity as he pulled him along the path to the entrance nearest the
Leas’s quarters. One of the Scathlan would surely be along soon to investigate
the sounds coming from the garden. That no one had yet, even considering the
distance from the lodge that somewhat muted sound, told him all he needed to
know about the complicity of the rest of the Scathlan court in the attempt on
his life. They had expected killing magic that night; they just had not
expected their queen to fall.

Had Kieran known? No, his
sincerity had been too clear in the link. The queen had used him as a lure, but
she had underestimated his integrity.

When he got to his father’s door,
he knocked frantically and, when his father answered, he explained as swiftly
as he could what had transpired, stressing Kieran’s innocence and how Kieran
had turned against his own queen to save him.

“And what were you doing out in
the garden in the first place at this time of night?” His father stared past
him to where Kieran stood passively behind him, staring at the floor, trembling
slightly. “Oh, of course. He called and you came. You couldn’t have possibly
stopped to consult with me, no matter what you promised.”

“Father, I—”

His father reached around him to
grab Kieran by the front of his tunic, pulled him in, and shook him like he was
a recalcitrant hound. “You! I’ve half a mind to slit your throat and save your
own people the trouble.”

Alban tried to step between them,
but his father shoved him off.

Kieran raised his head, exposing
his throat. “Do it, then.”

He spoke not with defiance, but
with bleakness, as though his life had ceased to matter to him. Alban shivered,
wanting to link with him, to comfort him, but there was no time.

His father shook Kieran again.
“We will take you in because you saved my son’s life and because, frankly, we
don’t have time to argue about it. But if you
ever
put my son in danger
again, you’ll wish I had left you to be executed.”

“Father!” Alban protested.

“I understand,” Kieran said quietly.
“For what it’s worth, I thought—”

“You don’t think,” Father
interrupted. “That’s your problem. And you are encouraging the same trait in my
son.” He turned away in disgust.

“I’ll wake the rest our party,”
Father said with cold efficiency. “We need to leave now.”

“But if we run, we’ll just look
guilty.”

“I don’t think they’ll stop for
explanations, nor will they need them. They tried to kill you. This was
obviously a trap from the beginning.”

Alban suspected as much, but to
hear his father confirm it sent cold sluicing down his spine.

“I’m sorry,” Kieran whispered. “I
didn’t know.”

“Get him on a horse,” Toryn said.
“Take my spare. That gray mare of his isn’t fast enough. The only advantage we
have is a head start. I’ll not squander it.”

By the time they were saddled and
in the courtyard, they could hear the commotion in the Scathlan quarters that
told them the queen’s body had been discovered. They rode like the wind.

At the first overlook, they could
see the pursuit distant in the valley below. The Leas bred better horses. They
would maintain their lead and increase it until they reached safety, but it
would be a long, hard ride.

His father’s spare horse was a
sorrel gelding, a half-brother to Alban’s own mount, swift but smooth-gaited
and docile. Kieran sat it passively, letting it keep its position in the middle
of the Leas. Alban kept his own mount beside the sorrel to look after his
silent friend.

Kieran had spoken no words since
they left the hunting lodge. He ate what food was put into his hands and
dismounted as the others did when they stopped to rest the horses. On those few
breaks, Kieran limped badly. His injured leg was still weak, and he had to be
in pain, but he shrugged off Alban’s concern. There was no time for healing,
anyway.

He made one request the evening
of the second day, when they stopped at a friendly mortal village to rest the
horses. Father acquiesced to his wish to send a letter to Brona via mortal
courier, explaining what had happened.

“For all the good it will do
you,” Father said.

“I know,” Kieran replied. “I
don’t expect her forgiveness or understanding. But she is—was—my best friend. I
owe her this much.”

By the beginning of the third
day, all sign of pursuit had dropped off. “No doubt they’ve realized that they
cannot catch up with us,” his father said. “And have gone back instead to
prepare their army for war. Which is what we must do as well.”

“Do you see no hope for peace?”
he asked bleakly.

His father shook his head.
“Whoever was part of the queen’s attempt on your life is determined to see war.
The queen’s death will not end it. I’m certain that most of the Scathlan will
hear that you, with the aid of the traitor bard, murdered their queen at what
was to be a peaceful negotiation.”

“Kieran will not ever be able to
go home,” Alban said.

His father shook his head. “Not
and live to tell about it. I thought you should be glad that you get to keep
your stray.”

“Not like this.”

#

Kieran sat staring into the dying
fire, thinking about his father’s sword. He hadn’t worn it the night he’d
brought Alban to meet his queen—why would he have?—and there had been no time
to get it. Perhaps it was more fitting that he didn’t carry his father’s sword
into exile with his father’s enemies, but still he felt its loss.

With the exception of the
sentries at the edge of the camp, all the Leas were asleep, as he should be.
Tomorrow would be another long hard ride into exile.

He wondered how Brona was doing.
Did she believe him a traitor and a cold-blooded murderer?

Would he ever stop seeing his dead
queen every time he closed his eyes?

Nights were cold, even in early
summer. The damp seeped into his weak leg, making it ache all the more. He
rubbed the muscles, trying to get some relief.

“Does it pain you much? Your
leg?”

Toryn’s voice behind him made him
start.

“I can keep up.”

The only thing worse than living
out his life an outcast among the enemies of his people would be to live
abandoned among the mortals, a hardscrabble existence of begging and playing
for food until some Scathlan found him and put an end to him. Better to have
stayed and faced execution with dignity.

Toryn walked around the fire,
stopping just beside him. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

Kieran shrugged. “It hurts when
I’m tired. When it’s cold.”

As soon as he’d caught Alban watching
him, Kieran did his best to hide his limp. Early in the flight, there had been
no time for healing, and now he was almost accustomed to the pain. He didn’t
want to cause any more problems between Alban and his father, and he didn’t
need any more problems with Toryn himself.

Toryn crouched down beside him.
“You forget that my son is not the only healer in the family. May I?”

At Kieran’s wary nod, Toryn
helped him remove his boot—a task made difficult by the swelling—and rolled up
the leg of his breeches. He held as still as he could while Toryn probed, only
occasionally drawing a sharp breath when he hit an especially tender spot.

“The bones are healed,” Toryn
said. “Though I suspect when you’re older, they may ache with the damp. The
muscles are still weak from all the time you spent in a splint. You have not
had time to regain full strength. I can help with the knots and the swelling,
if you will allow.”

“Please.” What had happened to
the angry lord who had been half-ready to kill Kieran? He didn’t dare question
the change, lest Toryn recall his anger.

The healing magic felt sublime to
his tormented muscles, though he missed being
inside
the healing. Missed
the mind-link. Missed Alban. But Alban was asleep on the other side of the
fire, and Kieran was glad he didn’t know how badly off he was. No point in
worrying when they had no choice but to continue the journey, pain or no.

“There,” Toryn said when he was
done. “You’ll find tomorrow’s ride a bit easier.

“Thank you,” Kieran said. “What
will happen to me now?”

Toryn sighed. “I suppose I’ve
just acquired a court bard.”

“I’m sorry,” Kieran whispered.

“Why? Many courts have bards. I
shouldn’t think it so bad a fate.”

The idea of Toryn and humor
seemed so foreign that it took a moment for Kieran to register the attempt at a
jest.

“Your people will not accept me.”

“They will not harm you, either,
while you are under my protection. That is a start. The rest is up to you.”

“I have heard what your guards
are saying. They are not careful about me overhearing. They say that one who
kills his own queen cannot be trusted.”

“You were loyal to your queen for
as long as you could be in conscience. And when your queen made it impossible
for anyone with a conscience to follow her, you did the right thing. I would
rather put my faith in moral courage than in blind loyalty.”

“And the others?”

“It will not be easy for you. But
you are not without friends. Eamon is fond of you, as is Sheary. I think you
know in what regard my son holds you.”

Kieran ducked his head, lest the
extent of that regard show on his face.

Toryn took a deep breath and then
let it out. “I would ask, however, that you consider how close you are to my
son, that you be careful of the public face of your friendship. It will do
neither of you any good if my people see his support of you as a sign of
infatuation.”

Kieran winced. “Yes, my lord.”
And then, when the silence between them weighed so heavy that even the most
awkward truth would be more comfortable, “I made a mess of things. I thought I
could end the hostilities between our peoples. I was foolish. Arrogant. I let
myself be swayed by what I wanted to hear. Now my queen is dead, I nearly got
Alban killed, and the two kindreds are about to go to war.”

“You would be arrogant indeed to assume
that all of that was your fault,” Toryn said. “I may have been— No, I
was
too harsh with you that night. I was angry at what had almost happened to
Alban, and yes, angry that he ignored a promise he made me.”

“I’m sorry. It was my—”

“It was not entirely your fault.
He had a part in the decision. And when I was his age, I might have done the
same. Especially if his mother was involved.”

The comparison between Toryn’s
relationship with Alban’s mother and his own relationship with Alban made him
blush. He rested his head on his knees to hide it. Sweet Grace, did Toryn know
about that last night before he left Leas lands?

“Do not judge yourself so harshly
for believing in your queen’s good intentions. She was your monarch, and you
loved her as such. Of course you would not suspect her of treachery. For what
it’s worth, I was taken by surprise as much as you were. I would not have come
to the meeting, let alone brought my son, did I not believe she could be taken
at her word.”

“But you would not have agreed to
an isolated meeting, far from witnesses.”

Toryn smiled. “No, I would not
have. But that is where age and experience comes in. Which is why I would
prefer Alban heed mine that he might live long enough to develop his own.”

Kieran tried to answer his smile,
but his heart wasn’t in it. “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t
awakened the queen.”

“True enough. But you had no way
of knowing. Even I, who knew her of old, did not expect this end. I hoped, as
you hoped, that her waking might bring a beginning of healing between the two
kindreds. I respected her once, enough to offer a marriage of alliance. Her
long period of sleep must have undone her mind.”

Hard to reconcile this open,
compassionate Leas with the one who had been half-ready to kill him a few
nights back. Hard to trust the change, and yet there was one thing he had no
one else to talk with about. Alban could not understand, he hoped Alban would
never understand, because that would mean he had faced it himself.

“I— Can I ask? In the war, did
you.
. .did you ever take a life?”

It was a stupid question on the
face of it, and he cringed to hear it coming from his own mouth.

“Too many. We all did.”

“Does it ever become easier?
Remembering? Knowing what you did?”

“I wouldn’t say easier. It should
never be easy, even if I had no choice, as you had no choice. But it fades.”

One more confession and, no
matter how dangerous, he had to say it. “It’s not just that I killed. That I
killed my queen. But I did something no Leas would do, even in the heat of
battle. I used the knowledge of healing that I got from Alban, from when we
were healing, and I used it to kill. I twisted the power of life itself.” He
hid his face in his arms, awaiting judgment.

Toryn sighed. “Alban thought you
might have. Even when you are not linked, the two of you are attuned, and you
must have been projecting incredible power.”

“How can he bear to look at me?
Why did he not leave me there to be killed?”

“You saved his life.”

“But I did it by corrupting
something that should never be tainted!”

“Yes. You did. But you have taken
no healer’s vow. And if I had been there, if I had the choice of breaking my
healer’s vow or watching my son die. . .I can only say that I’m glad to not
have faced that choice. My son lives. I cannot condemn you for that.”

“I feel like I have lost the
Grace,” he whispered. “And I will never find her again.”

Toryn rested a hand on his
shoulder. “The Grace is all around you, always. You just can’t feel her for the
pain. But the pain will ease. Try to get some sleep, now. We have a long ride
ahead of us tomorrow.”