CHAPTER IV
THE RELUCTANT PRINCE
"Aidan? Aidan!"
I had been lying flat at the edge of a deep, clear, swift-flowing brook, idly watching the small fish dart about, idly catching the echoes of what thoughts fish may have: simple, halt-formed things of bugs and grubs and the like. But Ailanna's voice pulled me from that silly reverie, and I turned gladly to look at her where she sat comfortably curled in the tall grass. The stirrings of leaves overhead dappled my sweet lady with sun and shadow, changing her cloud of hair now to glowing silver, now to palest, warmest gold, changing her silky gown to a subtle rainbow of blues and grays and greens.
And I, entranced, stared, just stared, even now scarce believing the wonder that had happened between us, even after four years.
Four years. It hardly seemed possible. Surely the time had been much shorter; surely I had only known Ailanna for the barest blink of time. Yet, at the same time, hadn't I known my love forever?
Och, and hadn't I been under Tairyn's unforgiving tutelage not for four little years but for an eternity? The Faerie Lord hadn't been trying to frighten me away with empty words when he had mentioned the rigor of his training, and there hadn't been anything of human gentleness or pity about it. But I had survived, I had learned from him all that haughty lord had deigned to teach me. My body still bore the marks of his blade—Tairyn and his fellows did not believe in wasting precious training time with unedged weapons—and my mind still ached from all the knowledge I'd struggled to assimilate in such a short time. Never in all that time had I won the slightest hint of liking from the Faerie Folk; whether I lived or died meant nothing to them. But at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I'd forced grudging approval from them. I had become reasonably fluent in the Faerie language (blessing the Goddess for my gift for tongues). After those initial painful lessons, I had taken to the sword with an ease that secretly delighted me. And I was at least mostly at ease with Faerie song and magics.
Love and sheer terror mixed together make wondrous motivators!
But then, how could I have been anything but a good student with Ailanna beside me? Ailanna, my heart, my life . . .
Ailanna, who had just now had enough of my calf-eyed gazings. "How pensive you are. For a . . . mere human."
She had mimicked Tairyn's tone perfectly. I sat up in mock indignation. "Such scorn from someone whose own family line isn't exactly . . . untainted." I could imitate the man, too.
Ailanna gave a delicious little chuckle. "I yield! Without some human blood in my veins, I could never endure this lovely sunlight, and we would have only half our already too brief time together." She hesitated, and I saw a softness come into her glowing eyes. "I don't begrudge my mother's mother her humanity, love. Without something of what she was within me, there might never have been so strong a bond between you and me."
For a moment we were both silent. Then Ailanna threw herself full-length in the tall grass, pulling up a stem for dainty nibbling. "I do love this mortal world! The forest with all its secret green life, the downs with all that wide, free space under the golden sunlight—Do you know what daylight is like in the Faerie realm?"
"Only from what the old tales tell: there's no sun, of course, and the light is supposed to 'seemeth always afternoon,' like a perpetual twilight."
"No, it's not like that at all! The air glows, love, full of clear light, so beautiful. . . ." She sighed, then sat up suddenly, smiling, as somewhere in a treetop high above us, a thrush began to sing. "But it's so beautiful here, too. I think I would like to build a little hut right in the middle of the forest, and live just like a mortal woman."
"What, and cook and clean and spin? You'd be bored to tears in a week!"
"Why, then I would go back to Faerie for a time." Ailanna straightened. We could do that, you know. We could live in both our worlds, now this one, now that, and be happy."
"Ailanna, that's a wonderful—no. It's not. You're forgetting the differences between Faerie and mortal time."
"Oh, that."
"Yes, that! I don't want to spend a day in your Realm, then return to mine to find a hundred mortal years have passed and I'm dying of sudden old age!"
"If Tairyn can play tricks with time, matching the Realms, so can we. You wouldn't age a moment more than the norm, I promise." She shivered with excitement. "Come with me, love, come to Faerie now."
Och, I wanted it! To be with Ailanna in a Realm of pure magic—
"I . . . can't. My mother—"
"You don't live with her any more. And she's hardly the sort who needs your care. And besides, she doesn't even know about us!"
"Hey now, that's not my fault, is it? If your so proud and noble Tairyn hadn't put a ban on me, I would have told her everything, and delighted her heart. But no, he wouldn't trust me! And so, every time I try to tell my mother where I spend most of my nights, every time I try to even mention your name, I start gagging and sputtering like some poor, weak-witted fool!"
"Aidan, love, I'm sorry. Please, let's not quarrel. I—I love you so much I ache."
We fell silent once more, gazing deeply into each other's eyes as lovers have done since the Beginning.
"Ailanna," I said, "we belong together, in this or any of the Realms. There's no life for me without you."
"Nor for me without you." Then Ailanna's eyes widened in horror. "What ill-omened words! Say simply, we will stay together."
But not even the Faerie Folk can know what lies ahead. There was sorrow, and great change, though the beginning of it was simple enough: my mother fell ill. It seemed so impossible, my dear witch-mother who was so full of fife, and at first we laughed, and thought it nothing but some small, passing fever.
But as the days passed, my mother grew weaker, while the fever lingered on. As the strength of the year waned, so did hers, while I, heartsick, tried spell after spell, human and Faerie, potion after potion, all without success, refusing to admit that there are some things without cure, refusing to admit the truth:
She was dying.
But at last, when the springtime had come again, and all the world was bright with new life, she called me to her bedside, and I could no longer pretend all would be well.
I looked down at my mother where she lay uncomplaining. Her hair, untouched by time, was blacker than the heart of night, her face unlined and smooth. And yet it came to me suddenly, for the first time—we are so unobservant about those we love—that she was far older than I'd ever realized, that it was only by her magic that she had ever been able to bear a child.
She smiled up at me, eyes tranquil. "Don't mourn, lad."
"But—"
"No. I've lived long, but now y Duwies calls me, and I must return to her. You know that." She sighed. "But there is something you don't yet know. First, you must not stay here in the woodland after I am gone."
"I—"
"No. Hear me out." Her eyes were troubled now. "I've never spoken much of your father. Perhaps I was wrong. But I loved you dearly, my son. I . . . feared I might lose you if you knew the truth."
"Never that!" I said sharply, and she laughed.
"Och, Aidan, so firm, so sure of yourself! Like your father, indeed."
And she told me then what you already know, of King Estmere and my begetting, nor did she stop at my open-mouthed amazement.
"I wanted a child, Aidan. And he was a good, kind man, for all the weight of the crown on him." A ghost of humor flickered across her face. "I do think he wanted to bring me back to court with him. But his ways were not my ways, and we never could have—" She stopped, then added softly, "But he's dead now."
A thought penetrated my stunned brain. "Mother . . . are you . . . surely you're not trying to say I'm heir to a throne."
She laughed, but her black eyes studied me with something of their old strength. "Would you want that to be so?"
"Duwies glân, no!" The words burst from me without thought, but they were true ones, and my mother laughed again.
"Now, that's most fortunate, because there is already a king! You have a brother, a half-brother nigh two years your senior. And he, too, is called Estmere, the second of his line. I've studied him through my mirror, and found him a fine young man and an honest ruler." Almost to herself, she murmured, a dreamy, sensual smile on her lips, "What else, with such a sire?"
But then she roused herself, fixing her gaze on me. "He's lonely, Aidan. It hurt my heart to see young Estmere so in need of a friend. A brother. And you . . . it is in my mind that I've been wrong to keep you here."
"No."
"Yes. Your blood is half of the realm of court and throne, your very name is Anglic in your father's honor, yet you know almost nothing of the ways of the human world! Go to your brother. Offer him your friendship."
No! I wanted to cry. No! Ailanna! Ah, Tairyn, Tairyn, why did you do that to me? Why deny me that final chance to tell my mother of my love? How it would have comforted her to know I wasn't alone, how she would have smiled to see Ailanna at my side—
But Tairyn's will bound me. Faerie pride proved stronger than my merely human Power, and though I fought till my head blazed with pain, no words came.
My mother must have thought I was merely fighting back grief. I didn't argue with her. Duwies glân, I couldn't argue with her, not at such a time.
And in the end she won from me this vow, though it wrung my heart to swear it:
I would go to the royal court and seek out King Estmere, my brother.
I would stay by him till the day came when he no longer needed me at his side.
Now, perhaps you don't understand what a vow means to one of the West Country. It isn't just a light speaking of words. It's a duty, an unbreakable obligation—in short, the sworn word is sacred, it's as simple as that.
Once I had sworn that unbreakable vow, my mother smiled in satisfaction. And then, quite peacefully, she died and I was alone.
Of that time I will not speak.
When all was done that needs must be done, I took up those few possessions I wished to keep, and left forever the hut that had been my childhood home, and sought out Ailanna.
She knew what had happened ere I spoke. I saw my sorrow reflected in her eyes, and we wept together without shame.
After a time, Ailanna asked softly, "What will you do now?"
"I . . . don't know." I did know; I couldn't say the words.
Ailanna was wiser. "You swore a vow, love. You must go."
"Come with me."
"No!" Fear blazed up in her eyes. "That is a world of stone walls and iron!"
"I would shield you."
"How?" she asked fiercely. "Being surrounded by so much of that cruel, cruel metal would kill me, no matter what you did!"
I winced. Iron is, just as the tales tell, most deadly to all Faerie kin. "Forgive me. I wasn't thinking clearly. But—och, my love, how can I ever leave you?"
"You can. You shall." Ailanna suddenly smiled. "What, do you think me a mere human, to be frightened by the passing of a little time?"
"It may be more than a little time."
"What of that? Aidan, what am I to you?"
"Och, Ailanna, you know! My lady, my love, my wife-to-someday-be—my very soul, Ailanna."
"So," she said with wry humor. "After that outburst, are you afraid you might forget me? And I certainly won't forget you, either." She cupped my face in her cool hands. "You'll return when the One wills it, Aidan ap Nia, and I'll be waiting."
The Folk cannot lie. And despite myself, I felt the burden of grief lessen just a bit, and my spirits lift. I was young, after all, and new to the promise of adventure. "So be it. I'll go forth and conquer worlds for you, my lady, like some hero of the sagas."
"Ah, but a hero needs a sword." It was all at once there in her arms, a fine, slim Faerie blade in a scabbard of pale, soft leather. "Tairyn left this for you, when you should be ready for it. But it was forged at my request."
My hand itched to hold it. The hilt, wound about with silver wire to provide a better grip, slipped into my palm as though it belonged there. Wondering, I drew the sword free, seeing now the guard curved towards the blade as sweetly as the bow of the crescent moon. And ah, the blade was fiercely beautiful, not gaudy-bright as swords of mortal forging but sleek and clean and coolly shining, Faerie metal, with runes for strength upon it.
Reluctantly, I resheathed the sword, reminding myself I was a healer, not a warrior. "But this is a princely gift, Ailanna."
"And are you not a prince?"
That gave me pause. "Prince Aidan," I said experimentally in Anglic, "Prince Aidan ap Nia," and had to laugh. "Doesn't sound quite right, does it? Doesn't sound like me." My hand caressed the smooth softness of the scabbard. "But I do thank you for this gift."
Her eyes were all at once strange, very Faerie and farseeing. "It will serve you well," she said in a cool, clear tone totally unlike her norm. But then Ailanna shivered, and the strangeness was gone. She gave an awkward little laugh. "Come, my hero. It's time you set forth."
We both knew I dared not wait. A moment's hesitation more, and I might not be able to keep my sacred vow. So, without another word, she fastened the swordbelt about my waist, as tradition demands human ladies do for their knights.
We embraced.
And then, tearing myself away, not daring to look back, I set out eastward for the world of men.