Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Oh, my love,” he said. “I’m afraid to believe this. I keep thinking we’ll wake on the morrow and find it only a cruel dream.”

“It blasted well better not be, after all the trouble I’ve gone to over the shop! Getting it transferred to Ebrua gave me such a headache that I had to take some of my own herbs.”

Nevyn estimated that it would take them about four days to reach the Eldidd border where, or so it had been arranged, an honor guard from the Eldidd court would be waiting for him. Yet on the third night, when they were making camp about ten miles west of Morlyn, a different sort of party came to meet them: Primilla and two young men, carrying quarterstaves. With a shout of greeting Nevyn hurried over just as they were dismounting, and Mael trailed after him.

“What’s all this?” Nevyn said.

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve come with some possibly ominous news.”

“Indeed?” Mael broke in. “Is the court going to want me poisoned?”

“I see the philosopher remembers his old life as a prince very well indeed,” Primilla said. “But I’m not sure if he’s in any true danger. It’s merely that it’s never wise to take unnecessary chances. We came to escort you to a safe place until I’m quite sure we can meet the court on our terms, not theirs.”

“My thanks, then,” Nevyn said. “I haven’t saved the lad’s life from the rope only to lose it to a vial of poison.”

“Don’t worry. We’re going to slip through the woods as sly as foxes, and then—” She paused for a smile. “And then hole up like badgers.”

All week, since the farmers had been bringing in wagonloads of firewood to pay their spring taxes to the Cannobaen light, Avascaen was up and around long before sunset, helping them unload the wood and stack it in the long sheds. On that particular day, when he saw dust coming down the road, he assumed that another wagonload was on the way.

“Here come the lads,” he told Egamyn. “Run and see which shed’s got the most room left.”

With a sigh for the tedium of it all, Egamyn strolled slowly away while Avascaen swung the creaking, complaining gates open. With his hand still on the rusty bar, he froze and stared at the party in the road. Riders—pack mules—that strange woman with the blue hands—and behind them—it couldn’t be—it had to be, gray hair or not. With a shout bordering on a sob, Avascaen raced out into the road to welcome Prince Mael home. When he caught the prince’s stirrup as a sign of fealty, Mael bowed to him from the saddle.

“Look at us, Avascaen! When I rode away, we were both lads, and now we’re all gray and grizzled.”

“So we are, my prince, but the sight of you gladdens my heart, anyway.”

“And it gladdens mine to see you. Will you shelter us?”

“What? Of course, Your Highness. Why, you’ve come at the perfect time. Scwna’s just been airing out your chambers, you see, like she does every spring, so they’ll be nice and clean for you.”

“Has she, now? Every spring?”

“Every spring. We’re like badgers, my prince. We hold on.”

Mael swung down from his horse, grabbed Avascaen’s hand, and shook it hard. When he saw the tears in the prince’s eyes, Avascaen began to feel a bit rocky himself.

“I’m not a prince anymore,” Mael said. “And I count myself honored to call you friend. Here, I’ve got my new wife and son with me, and let’s pray that this time I’m home to stay.”

As the party filed into the ward, Egamyn, Maryl, and Scwna ran out of the broch to greet them. Avascaen gave Egamyn a smug smile.

“And didn’t I tell you he’d be back?”

He had the satisfaction of seeing his bigmouthed son speechless.

After a companionable afternoon and celebratory dinner, Avascaen went out to tend the light. Just as the sky was fading to a pearly gray, he struck sparks from his steel, set the dry tinder burning, then blew on it until the sparks licked round the kindling. He added logs until, at last, the beacon burned strong and sent its warning out to sea. He walked to the edge and looked at the broch, the windows cheerful with lantern light. The prince was home. I didn’t forget him and he didn’t forget me, he thought, just like badgers, both of us. The world was a satisfying place, filled with justice. Later, when the full moon was at its zenith, Mael came up to the tower. Panting, out of breath, the prince leaned against the guardrail.

“You must have cursed strong legs,” Mael said.

“Oh, you get used to it after a bit.”

They leaned side by side over the rail and looked at the sea, the waves foaming silver in the moonlight as they crashed onto the tiny strip of pale beach.

“Did I tell you that I was kept in the top of a tower during my imprisonment?”

“Well, fancy that. So there you were, looking down, and here I was, doing the same.”

“Just that, but this view is a true sight wider than the one I had. I want to stay in Cannobaen for the rest of my life, but that depends on Prince Ogretoryc. The demesne is his to dispose of now, not mine.”

“If he’s got the gall to turn you out of it, then he’ll have to find himself another lighthouse keeper.” Avascaen considered the problem for a moment. “Now, here, my brother’s got more land than he can farm by himself. He’ll take us in if things come to that.”

“My thanks. I can earn a bit as a letter writer, too.”

For a few minutes they shared a companionable silence.

“By the way,” Mael said, “have there even been any ships out here?”

“Blasted few, but you never know when someone will need the light.”

Since Primilla’s strategy lay in portraying Mael as someone utterly unfit for courtly affairs, she urged him to make his letter to his son as blunt as possible, and she was pleased with the result.

“To Ogretoryc, prince of Aberwyn and Cannobaen and my son, Mael the philosopher sends greetings. Although we have never spoken two words together, Your Highness, it behooves a father to be blunt with his own flesh and blood. I know full well that you wish to keep your positions and your honors at the court of my brother the king. I have no desire for anything but to see you do so. I have become a humble scholar, unfit for the duties of war and rulership after my long imprisonment. All I want is to live out the remains of my life in my old country lodge of Cannobaen, or, if his highness prefers, as a common villager. You may send word to me through Primilla, head of the dyer’s guild. I fear for my life in court circles. I have no desire to taste freedom only to taste poison a few weeks later. Your father, Mael the philosopher.”

When she finished reading, Mael leaned back in his chair and gave her a quizzical smile.

“It should do splendidly,” she said.

“Good. You know, it’s a strange thing to be humble to your own son. If it’s not enough for them that I’ve been disclaimed, now I’ve abdicated. Should keep things all nice and tidy, as our Avascaen would say.”

When Primilla returned to Abernaudd, she waited a day before delivering the letter in order to hear the current gossip. The court—indeed, the entire city—was as full of rumors as a wasps’ nest is of stings. The King had indeed sent an honor guard to the border to receive Mael, but they’d found Nevyn the Cerrmor councillor and Prince Cobryn of Cerrmor there instead, telling them that Mael had decided to travel alone. Everyone suspected treachery, but on Ogretoryc’s part, not Cerrmor’s.

“Now, I say they’re wagering on the wrong horse in this race,” Cadlew said. “If there’s treachery, the princess is behind it, not the prince. Some of her loyal men might have taken a warband out after Mael.”

“Indeed? Now, suppose the philosopher isn’t dead. Does anyone have any idea of where he might be?”