CHAPTER VIII
THE ACCIDENT
The sound of swordplay in the early morning air drew me to the balcony rimming the small courtyard. I looked down at a small swarm of courtiers and their servants, bright as so many spring butterflies, cloaks and tunics rich reds or blues or yellows, gems gleaming. To one side of the smoothly paved yard clustered some of the little royal pages, colorful enough themselves in their red and gold livery. They were fosterlings of noble blood, of course, learning the proper ways of the court, but those here now didn't look like anything but the children they were, all wide-eyed and chattering with excitement.
Understandably. In the middle of that courtyard, laughing, their king duelled with one of his men. Most simply clad was Estmere in white tunic and dark hose in the warm air of late spring, and his hair blazed splendidly in the morning sunlight.
I leaned on the stone balustrade, more interested in swordsmanship than fashion. The shieldless form of duelling my brother was practicing was all the rage in the land. It had only recently reached this kingdom, I'd been told, brought here across the Eastern Sea from the lands to the southeast, but it looked remarkably familiar to me, requiring as it did a much slimmer sword than the old cut-and-slash blades, one with a true point to it, and a different stance and quicker footwork. In short, it reminded me very much of what I had learned from Tairyn.
Estmere was quick on his feet, supple and graceful and clever, a credit to what had been the finest course in weaponry in the kingdom.
I rather pitied his opponent. The guard was no mean swordsman himself (presumably why Estmere was duelling with him, rather than with the Weapons Master; if you're to be any good with the sword, you must practice against as varied a group of opponents as possible), but the combination of worries—that he might accidentally hurt his king or (horrors!) defeat him—was working against him. Now Estmere was forcing him back, back . . . and suddenly the duel was over as my brother lunged in what would have been a killing thrust had they been fighting in earnest. The nobles instantly broke into polite applause, and I saw a quick spasm of annoyance cross Estmere's face: he knew his opponent had been duelling under a handicap. But my brother saluted the man in good-natured jest, and the guard, grinning in relief, bowed low and hurried off as soon as everyone's attention was away from him.
Estmere must have felt my gaze on him. As a courtier solicitously draped a cloak over his shoulders, he looked up, brushing back damp strands of golden hair from his face, and saw me leaning on the balustrade. He gave me the same joking salute he'd given the guard.
"Good morning, brother! Come and join us."
Well? I thought. Why not?
Maybe we hadn't yet been able to find a nonalarming way to show the court my magic; it wasn't the easiest of subjects after all. I could at least prove to these pretty butterflies this uncouth Cymraen knew which end of a sword was which. Estmere was waiting, smiling, as I hurried down the stairway to the courtyard, his sword still in hand. Handing the cloak back to the courtier, he asked me, "Care to try?"
"Do you expect me to let you win? I shan't, you know."
His smile broadened. "I know. And it will be a welcome change. Raulf is a fine swordsman, but he just will not believe I won't have him executed if he defeats me! Come now, let's see how they duel in Gymra." His eyes glinted with mischief. "No magic, though!"
"No magic," I agreed, taking a sword from a respectful servant, testing the weight and feel of the blade, adding in surprise, "No edge!"
"God's blood, I should think not! Don't worry, Aidan, these blunted swords can still deliver some painful bruises if you're careless." He stared at me. "Where did you get the idea we would use edged blades."
I shrugged, embarrassed. "From the Folk who taught me."
"The—oh. That Folk. They really don't use practice swords? Not even for training? You must have been a remarkably quick learner, brother!"
I grinned ruefully. "Believe me, if you don't soon . . . ah . . . get the point, you get the point."
Estmere raised a brow. "A sharp remark," he countered, "and a keen and cutting wit." As I winced, he added, "Come, let's to it."
And—that duel was fun. Does the word sound too frivolous? It was fun, the two of us moving up and down that small yard like a pair of well-rehearsed dancers, so evenly matched for strength and speed and size that we couldn't so much as touch each other, our two styles of swordsmanship matching remarkably well. At last Estmere, laughing and panting, called a halt, lowering his sword.
"Else we'll be at this all day, and—"
A shrill scream cut into his words. We both whirled, he with a startled, "What in God's name . . ."
It was the pages, the children, and when I saw what had happened, I threw down my sword and raced to them, a trail of excited courtiers in my wake.
The pages were armed after a fashion, of course, everybody wears a dagger for this chore or that. I imagine the children had been imitating us, scuffling as youngsters do—
And one little boy had stumbled and fallen on his knife.
He was still alive, y Duwies be praised, and mercifully too stunned to feel pain yet; pain would be slow in coming to such a wound. But his eyes were wide and wild with terror, and his bewildered thoughts twisted and curled away from my touch like smoke. For a moment I longed for night, so that I might use the Faerie sleep charm on him. But as soon wish for the moon in my hand, so instead I set my will on the boy, overcoming the untrained resistance of the child mind, catching it with mine, soothing, soothing, till suddenly he was limp and unconscious in my arms.
The knife was still in the wound. Good. If the boys had pulled it free in their panic, he might already have bled to death. Now I could at least staunch the steady ooze of blood by delicately expanding the focus of my will, but what internal damage the boy might have suffered, I couldn't tell, not here.
The courtiers were all gathered round, fascinated as people seem to be by disaster. As I bent over the child, I could sense them all about me, too close, I could feel their curious minds beating against mine, eating away at the concentration I must keep whole for the boy's sake. And my angry Power responded, raw, unshaped, sweeping them back from me. I didn't dare turn from the child to see what I had done, but I heard the excited clamor of their voices rising to fever pitch till Estmere sharply commanded:
"Silence!"
It must have been he in the sudden stunned quiet who helped me to my feet, the boy gathered in my arms. I don't know for sure; I was too absorbed by then in keeping the young heart beating.
There was a room, a bed: not the boy's own room, of
course; the pages were lodged in a communal hall. But I couldn't have cared where we were. I sent a respectful manservant for clean water, then bent over the boy, thinking, Duwies glân be with us now.
Closing my eyes, I willed away all the outside world,
dismissing sight, sound, scent, bringing my mind as
quickly as I could to the most intense focus of
concentration. . . .
No vital organs pierced, praise be, but it was a nasty wound. Abdominal wounds are always nasty, too easily poisoned, too often leading to painftd death. There had been one horrid accident back in Cymra when I was still a child, when a woodsman had fallen on his axe and his family had waited too long to call my mother. The only mercy left had been to grant him a swift, quiet passing.
But that wouldn't happen here if I could help it.
I dared not leave the boy to a surgeon's care if I really did mean him to live; I'd seen too much already of barbaric ways such as leeches and filthy knives. But as I studied the wound again, a sly whisper of doubt made my concentration slip a moment. Yes, I had healed injuries before, but never one as bad as this. Could I?
I must.
What I did can't be so easily put into words. I was no longer the green boy who had nearly killed himself healing Elin-the-baker's burn, but as it had then, my Power stirred within me, rising up in thrilling waves, tingling through my fingertips to the boy's skin. Once again I felt that near-anguish, near-ecstasy as I attuned myself to him and began delicately closing layer after slow layer of nerve and muscle, mending that ugly wound with all the careful magic at my will. I could dimly feel my body reaching the limits of its strength, but now there was the wonder of new, healthy flesh weaving together, and I could dare push myself a little further . . . just a little further . . .
I have no idea how long it took. But at last I forced myself back into myself and straightened, letting the servant clean boy and bedding. I was done. In more ways than one.
I gave the awed man instructions, telling him to call me at once if there were any changes in the now peacefully slumbering boy's condition. Please, please, let there not be any changes! And then I staggered out of there. A bench was in the hall outside, fortunately, or I would have ended up on the floor. As it was, I landed on that bench so hard my spine quivered, and simply slumped, head down, drained.
But there was someone . . . Estmere. I knew that without having to look up. Estmere, and the inevitable crowd of courtiers, all of whom he was sending away with an imperious wave. Good. I didn't want to be ogled.
"Aidan? God, you look on the verge of death."
"No. Unig blin." That didn't sound quite right. Prodding my foggy brain, I tried again in Anglic: "Oinly tired."
I felt Estmere sit beside me. "The boy . . . died, then?'
"What? Ah. No." I hesitated, my mind insisting only on Cymraeth. "The wound is cau—och, closed, as far along to complete healing as I could manage. Bachgen's asleep. He didn't . . . lose more blood . . . than a healthy child should be able to . . . replace." I stopped to catch my breath. "With the will of y Duwies . . . and the . . . cryfder . . . ? Grym . . . ?"
"Resiliency?' Estmere suggested, and I nodded.
"The resiliency of youth, he . . . should be all right."
"Amen," my brother added sincerely, and I looked at him in surprise.
"You really care, don't you? Is the bachgennyn, the little lad, some special favorite?'
"No." Estmere smiled sheepishly. "I'm ashamed to admit I didn't even remember till this moment that his name is Arn. I . . . let's just say I hate waste."
"Mm." Kings don't like to be caught showing softness. I frowned as a sudden fact penetrated my haze of exhaustion. "That's not what you were wearing before. . . . What part of the day is it?"
"Early afternoon."
The accident had happened in the early morning. "Och fi! No wonder I'm weary!" I sagged against the wall, head back. "Don't ever let anyone tell you magic is easy."
"I didn't think it was."
"No matter what barddi say . . . can't just wave my hands and mutter a few words. Gallu, Power, magical energy has to come from somewhere . . . usually from a magician's own life-force . . ."
There was a long silence, during which I nearly drifted off to sleep. "You could have killed yourself," Estmere murmured, and I started. "Saving that boy, you could have exhausted yourself right into death."
"There is always that danger, yes. Using Power for healing is . . . intoxicating. It's all too easy to squander strength."
There was another pause. Then Estmere said hesitantly, "Take some of mine."
"What?'
"I didn't spend all morning saving a boy's life. I have plenty of strength. Take some of mine."
That brought me sharply back to myself. "You don't know what you're saying. If I wanted to, I could . . . kill you like that, drain you dry."
Sheer horror flashed in my brother's eyes, but all he said was a quiet, "You wouldn't."
For a moment I couldn't find anything to say. "Thank you."
"Oh, Aidan! I'm not being a trusting fool. If you wanted to harm me, you would hardly warn me, now, would you?"
I blinked groggily. "I suppose not. Och, don't worry about me, brawd. I'll be all right. Really. All I need is rest."
He got to his feet, looking me up and down. "And a bath. And a complete change of clothes. Can you stand?"
I could, albeit unsteadily. Estmere chuckled.
"At least now we don't have to worry about introducing your magic to the court. My, but that was spectacular: a great flash of light, and all of us blown back like so many leaves before the wind. The stories are already starting to circulate. Don't worry," he added, grinning at my dismay. "I'll see that the more . . . ah . . . diabolical aspects are quenched."
"I didn't stop to think—I didn't hurt anybody, did I?'
"No." The grin was still there. "Though you did dump some of the more pompous souls right on their dignities." Estmere linked arms with me as I swayed. "Come, brother, let's get you to bed." His chuckle this time sounded very much like Tairyn's speculative what-can-we-do-with-you laugh, but I was too weary to worry about it. "I do think life is going to be a good deal more interesting with you around!"