CHAPTER V
FAMILY REUNION
King Estmere's lands are broad and fertile: rolling hills and healthy farms, and over all the scent of prosperity. Queen of these lands is the ancient capital, Lundinia, that mighty walled city on the River Taemese. Nine gates has Lundinia, and nine bridges over the Taemese, and all of these are usually well-crowded with merchants and farmers, peasants and nobles, with wanderers and traders and just plain curious visitors from all over the kingdom—yes, even from all over the known world.
Now, in my travels eastward, I had come to consider myself cosmopolitan enough, easily accepting that the folk I met wouldn't be speaking Cymraeth, attuning my ear instead to the clipped sounds of Anglic (no easy thing; no one had ever warned me just how many dialects had arisen from the basic form) and being careful not to mention y Duwies just in case. I had passed through villages and towns in plenty, some of them large enough to make simple Pentref look like a poor little huddling of huts. After the first shock of seeing so many folk living crowded together had worn off, I had become almost blase about such things, sure that Lundinia would prove to be nothing more than a slightly bigger town.
My initial view of the city, from the far end of a vast, grassy field, did nothing to change my mind. At that range, the bridges and the famous stone walls looked scarcely more impressive than the wooden palisade about Pentref.
But as I came closer, the walls began to tower and tower over me till I had to tip my head back to see the top of them. For a confused moment, it seemed that the law governing the proper proportions of things had vanished, and I had shrunk to the size of a cat. Then the confusion cleared, and I realized that the walls really were that tall, and winced at the sheer cold strength of them. Had I blithely thought to trap my dear Ailanna behind that? Overwhelmed by the sudden terror of a wild thing being driven into a snare, I paused nervously by the side of the road, unable to take another step.
This is ridiculous! Do you want to meet your brother or not?
Or not. But I had given my word, and so . . . gritting my teeth, I forced myself forward.
I entered Lundinia by the West Gate, a massive affair fully twenty feet thick and guarded by two stone watch-towers from which guards peered down through narrow arrow-slits of windows. I entered wonderstruck and dazed, gawking like any peasant, the sights and scents and bustle hitting me like a blow.
I have no idea how long I stood staring like a fool, eyes dazzled by the colors, reds, blues, golds, flashing bravely in the bright sunlight from cloaks and gowns and banners, ears ringing with shouts and laughs and the squawking of chickens, nostrils filled with the scents of cinnamon and roses, horse sweat and human sweat and dung. But I was shaken from my trance by the curses of the driver of a wagonload of vegetables, telling me in no uncertain terms what he thought of idiots who blocked the road, and I set out to find the palace of the king.
My brother.
Westgate Street is broad and smoothly paved with cobblestones, swept reasonably clean. Faced on either side with houses of wood and plaster two and sometimes even three stories high, some of them with ground floor shop-fronts unfolding out onto the street to catch the eye and narrow the roadway, it slopes gently up into the city to the great marketplace, the true hub of Lundinia, with the nine main streets radiating from that vast open square like the spokes of a wheel.
And here in the market I was temporarily lured aside from my mission, fascinated by the riches for sale: not just the wealth of forest and field so familiar to me, but silver and gold and gems (flash of ruby, glint of pearl), thick piles of furs blue-black or dull gold from the chill northern lands, perfumes with the memory of a hundred springtimes in them, even carved ivory and rare silks almost fine as Faerie weave—and almost as costly—from the lands that lie so many months' journeying to the east.
And the people! In the space of perhaps twenty heartbeats, I noted broad-faced farmers in sensible brown homespun, sharp-eyed, gaily clad merchants, northerners thick-bearded as bears, dark-skinned southerners, supple and quick to laugh or curse: a true tangle of humanity. In the air clashed such a jangling of tongues (a flash of Cymraeth here and there to make me homesick) as was a confusion to the ear and a bewilderment to the mind. The wild variety of human essences beat dizzyingly against my senses till I slammed shut every psychic wall I could muster, understanding in that moment why my mother had chosen to live in solitude.
But it was the citizens of Lundinia who disturbed me the most. Many of them would glance casually at me, then glance again, sharply, almost staring. I would read puzzlement in their eyes, then comprehension and alarm or, sometimes, what might have been amusement. And yet I had done no magic, drawn no attention to myself, and though the city folk tended towards blond or reddish hair, there were enough black-haired foreigners about for me not to be outstanding.
Then why in the name of Power are they all staring?
Almost, I decided to catch myself a townsman, to ask him pointblank what he found so amazing about my appearance, and if he refused, to put a truth-telling spell on him! But no, that wasn't a wise idea. It seemed that wizardry was frowned upon in these more . . . modern lands. I had discovered it the hard way during my travels, having nearly gotten myself burned at the stake by some terrified villagers for passing the time of day with someone's cat. I certainly didn't want these folk thinking their king's brother was in league with Evil!
The amusements of the marketplace had palled. I pulled up the hood of my cloak to hide my face and put an end to staring, and set out once more upon my quest.
The royal castle of Lundinia stands on a high, craggy hill overlooking the River Taemese. And a fine, proud, forbidding old fortress it is, all curving towers and sharp-angled walls, home to who knew how many generations of kings.
And now home to one King Estmere.
There is a custom at the royal court old as the castle itself of once a month allowing into the royal presence anyone, noble or peasant, who would petition the king. And I, who'd chanced to arrive on that very day, saw here the easiest way possible to meet my brother.
Short of magic, of course.
Getting myself admitted into the castle was no problem. I merely followed the crowd up the steep ramp, across the wide moat, past the heavy, brass-bound doors and under that alarming, spear-pointed contraption known as a portcullis, then made eye contact with a guard and willed him to let me pass into the great audience hall beyond.
"Your sword."
"Eh?" I turned, startled.
"Surrender your sword." There was no emotion on the guard's weatherworn face; he had plainly been through the routine countless times before. "Look, man, you didn't expect to go into the royal presence armed, did you?"
"Oh. No. Of course not." Reluctant though I was to part even temporarily with Ailanna's gift, I obeyed. "Be careful with it." And I put just the smallest touch of Power behind the words.
"Heathenish-looking thing," the guard muttered, eyeing the crescent-curved hilt. But I saw how gingerly he was handling it, and I smiled to myself. While undergoing a quick, professional search for concealed weapons, I asked the man:
"How long do you think it will take before I can speak with the king?"
"How should I know? Don't you see the crowd ahead of you?"
He couldn't have seen much of my face, not with my hood so far forward, but he must have belatedly responded to the uncertainty in my voice, because he added, not unkindly, "Don't worry. If you really need to see him, you'll see him. Our king may be young, God bless him, but he cares about us common folk. Just like his father, God rest him." Then, brusquely, "Hurry up, now. There's others behind you."
The hall was vast indeed, the sharply peaked roof so high overhead its color was hidden by shadow, its timbers supported by rows of tall, slender stone columns. The furthest end of the hall, like the roof, was shadow-shrouded. In fact, the entire room was shadowy, poorly lit by window slits set high in the walls and by a profusion of torches that sputtered and swayed in the occasional breeze. The air reeked of smoke and too many not quite cleanly folk crowded in together. By peering over the heads of the throng ahead of me, glad of my height, I could just make out the shape of a tall, richly dressed young man, golden crown glinting on golden hair, though I was still too far from him to make out detail.
Estmere, I thought, and then, of course it's Estmere, you idiot! Who else would be wearing a crown?
I was nervous, no denying it, and dizzy from the massed emotions surrounding me, the petitioners' unconscious sendings of fear, hope, desire. I turned my mind inward, silently repeating disciplines for calm, succeeding so well that it was a shock to realize time had passed and there was no longer anyone ahead of me.
So I came before my brother like any other petitioner, going down on one knee as I'd seen was proper. A strong, clear young voice bade me rise, and I did, rather bemused at hearing curt Anglic turned into something more pleasant by a melodic, aristocratic accent. My hood was blinding me, and I quickly pushed it back out of my way.
Our eyes met for the first time.
And what a shock that was! Now I knew why the city folk had stared. For though Estmere's hair is gold, his eyes sky-blue, while mine are, as I've said, black as night, the likeness between us, feature for feature, was so strong that anyone who saw us must name us kin.
There was a long silence during which we were both too stunned to speak. But then Estmere found his voice. My brother's first words to me were a stumbling, "I—I didn't know—I did not know my father had . . . wandered so far afield."
"Don't blame him for that!" I felt a sudden irrational need to protect the man I had never known. "It was a full year after your royal mother's death that he met my mother, and him full of grief and lonely. . . ."
My words trailed off. Again we stood staring at each other, awkward as two young stags come face to face in a forest. At last Estmere said, "An audience hall is a poor place for . . . kin to talk. Have you any belongings?"
"My sword."
"It will be brought to you."
He signalled a little page, who took me away from the court's buzzings of excitement to rooms within the castle where I could bathe and change into fresh clothing. Princely clothing, I suppose, but truth to tell, my mind was so awhirl I couldn't have described it.
Estmere, King Estmere. "Fy brawd," I said experimentally in Cymraeth, and then again, in Anglic, "my brother."
Duwies, yes! My brother, no denying that.
But. . . Estmere. Until that brief meeting in the audience hall, he had been only a name to me, hardly more real than someone in a tale. Now I had to face a living, breathing man, one about whom I knew nothing save our relationship by accident of birth. Yes, the vow had forced me to come. But was I right to upset my brother's life, and my own?
It was on these troubled thoughts that Estmere entered. Alone. Which wasn't quite as trusting as it sounds: I was still weaponless, and of course guards were right outside the chamber door. I hesitated, uncertain, then started to bow. Estmere waved that off.
"There's no need, ah . . ."
"Aidan," I supplied. "Aidan ap Nia."
"Aidan ap Nia. Why have you come here, Aidan ap Nia?"
I couldn't, by the wording of the vow I'd sworn, tell him about that vow. "I wanted to see what you looked like," I said, which was, when I thought about it, quite true.
He gave an involuntary little laugh. "So! I trust you approve of what you see?"
"Yes." It wasn't empty flattery, because I was looking at him with magician's eyes, and my gaze was going beyond the physical. "I see a young man as honest and just as is wise for him to be." The rest came tumbling forth without conscious thought; a magician engrossed in true-sight can't always control his words. "Ahh, and I see the strain . . . the strain of never daring to trust . . . hiding honesty for diplomacy's sake . . . keeping to justice and never, never yielding to the endless seduction of power."
He certainly hadn't expected such an answer. For perhaps two heartbeats' time Estmere was too surprised to hide his emotions. I read loneliness there like a quick cry of pain—how very alone he was!—and a weariness of spirit that didn't belong in so young a man. Shaken by sudden fierce pity, I almost said that aloud, too. But Estmere had turned away. "You speak strangely, Aidan."
Didn't I know it! "I'm unfamiliar with court speech," I hedged. "I didn't mean to offend you."
"No offence taken." He shot me a wary little sideways glance. "Are you always so . . . blunt?"
"I fear so! You see, I grew up in Cymra, and the—Folk I know there just—do not lie."
"And now that you've satisfied your curiosity about me, what will you do?"
What, indeed? I stared at him blankly. "Frankly, I'd made no plans beyond this point."
"I see." Estmere studied me, eyes guarded, and this time I could read nothing of his emotions. "Well, Aidan ap Nia of Cymra," he said suddenly, "it would be a novelty to have someone at this court who just—does not lie." It was an excellent imitation of my voice, Cymraeth accent and all. "Will you stay?"
Was that kindly meant? Or did he simply want to keep this unexpected and potentially perilous relative safety under his eye? "If you will it," I answered cautiously, "I'll stay, ah—I fear I don't know what to call you."
The boyish flash of his grin surprised me. "Look in your mirror, man. Call me 'brother,' of course!"