A Tale Of Two Swords Part 8

"Let her manage it later," Alcuin interrupted. "Cook is bellowing for hands to carry in the wedding feast." He looked pointedly at Gil and found himself cuffed quite enthusiastically by Lanrien.

"Dolt," Lanrien said, "he's the bridegroom."

"And the king," Tirran added.

"Which neither of you are," Alcuin groused. "Come help me."

Mehar waited until they'd left before she looked at Gil. "Will he ever show you any deference?"

"He'll muster up a bit of bobbing and sc.r.a.ping when others are about," he a.s.sured her. "But other than that, we can count on him treating me as just Gil the Ordinary."

Mehar looked at him, with his terrible beauty, his eyes that contained the shards of sky and water, his face that held secrets she wasn't sure she was ready to know, and thought him anything but ordinary. But she didn't say as much. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him, easily, as if she'd been doing it all her life-in spite of the fact that the very act of it made her heart feel as if it would never again regain its proper place in her form.

"I suppose," she said pulling back, "that you'll need someone about you to remind you you're merely a man when you begin to take yourself too seriously."

"And you won't?" he asked, c.o.c.king his head to one side.

She shook her head. "I am your warp threads, my liege, ever fixed in my affections. Let someone else correct your pattern. My task is to wrap you in peace and comfort, not strip you of it."

He smiled, reached out, and put his hand to her cheek. "I thank you for the safe harbor. Come, and sit by me, that we might enjoy that peace."

While we have it, was what she heard him add, though he didn't say it aloud and she suspected he wasn't talking about insults from his cousin. But she sat next to him just the same, cut his meat as if she'd been his page (and that over his vociferous protests), and listened to Alcuin and his brothers drag out instruments and sing several ballads that she'd never heard, though she was certainly not one for the recognizing of such given her lack of presence in her own father's hall.

After supper, Gil rose. His brothers were conspicuously silent, his cousin as well, until they had been left a safe distance behind. Then all manner of suggestions were called out. Gil stepped past the threshold, uttered a single, sharp command, and the doors slammed shut behind them with a resounding bang.

"Did you shut them in there for the night?" Mehar asked.

"Aye," he said with a superior smile. "I also filled the hall with a collection of terrifying wildlife that will keep them busy for most of the night."

The curses that immediately began to stream out from under the doorway were proof enough of that. Mehar shook her head, put her hand in her love's, and walked with him to the bedchamber he'd given her in the beginning.

And after their night's work was done, she fell asleep in his arms, wrapped in the bit of weaving that she'd once upon a time sent him to ease his heart.

She'd never imagined it might cover them both.

THE morning came and brought with it an abrupt end to the peace and quiet she'd wished for, though she wasn't surprised and Gil seemed even less so. She washed and dressed without fuss and walked with him quietly to the great hall where an array of grim-faced men awaited their king.

She looked about the circle at the men who had come uncalled to Gil's need. There were men of Gil's father's house who had straggled back from the battle: Ingle, the steel-smith; Laverock, the apprentice keeper of records; Tagaire, his master; Hirsel, the stable master; and Wemmit the Grim, the swordmaster. Others sat there as well, men who had no t.i.tle and no names that they would offer.

Lords of other kinds had come as well, seemingly in the night. A dwarf with piercing black eyes and a long, slender nose sat across from Gil, caressing the curve of a small knife as he listened. There was another man who sat apart, long-fingered like Gil, but shorter in stature and quite old. He had a jolly face, but she sensed something beneath his worn exterior that bespoke great power.

And then off to one side, quite aloof, but so desperately handsome that she could scarce look at him without s.h.i.+elding her eyes, sat a stranger. If the man hadn't reminded her so much of Gil with his aura of power, she might have felt a little disloyal in the way she couldn't seem to stop herself from staring at him. She finally leaned over to whisper to Alcuin, who sat next to her, silent and watchful.

"Who is that?" she asked.

He grunted. "b.l.o.o.d.y elf. Don't see much of them, as they don't usually leave their giltedged halls. They must be worried."

She looked at him. "Are you?"

"Never." He smiled a rather fierce smile. "You haven't seen Gil annoyed. Lothar bested him last time; he won't again. I think Gil took pity on him, in some small fas.h.i.+on, because Lothar is his uncle."

She blinked. "His uncle?"

"His great-grandfather's brother."

"Indeed."

"Second thoughts?" Alcuin asked hopefully.

"None."

"d.a.m.n," he whispered, but it was lacking in conviction. "That's why Gil's fey, you know. That magic from Wychweald. He has it a hundredfold, by some bit of fate, and that says nothing of what he has from his dam. That magic is something his brothers got little of. You'll notice they aren't exactly overendowed with that look that makes you want to rub your arms and try to get warm."

"Aye, I did notice. Why is that?"

Alcuin shrugged. "Who knows why magic chooses the course it does? Maybe Gil was fated to be king. The lads have enough magic to reign, should it come to that, I suppose- and Lanrien more than Tirran- but it would be a far different kingdom."

She nodded, but found herself distracted by the terrible talk flowing around her, talk of Lothar of Wychweald and how to go about defeating him.

The dwarf promised a cage of steel and rare mined stone if Gilraehen would be so good as to strengthen it with a bit of his magic. Several men agreed with that plan, vowing to search out lads to build another army, if Gilraehen would lead it. There was talk of seeking out ancients from the schools of wizards to strengthen those armies and build a force that Lothar couldn't best.

The old man with the weathered face suggested patience.

Gil's brothers vowed revenge.

The elf with the terrible beauty and sparkling eyes cleared his throat and even Gil lifted his gaze to look at him. Mehar understood completely. She could hardly take her eyes off him.

"I think," he said, in a melodious voice that made her wonder if she croaked like a crow when she spoke, "we should consider his deeper purpose."

"And that would be?" Gil asked. "Tell me, Ainteine, what deeper purpose he has than to ruin us all?"

"You know it already, Gilraehen," Ainteine said. "Have you not seen him single out certain races and hunt them until they're gone?" He looked at Mehar and she felt as if her soul had suddenly become transparent, that he saw all that she was in one glance. "You've wed a wife of Camanae out of love, and you also promised her safety, and that out of love as well. Perhaps destiny has had a stronger hand in it than you realize, given her dam's fate."

Alcuin leaned over to her. "Quite fond of destiny, that lot." Mehar found herself feeling quite cold all of a sudden.

"Why do you speak of my mother?" she asked Ainteine. "Did you know her?"

"We know all of Camanae," Ainteine said, "for you are more like to us than other men."

"Are they?" Mehar asked, hardly able to believe it. "I mean, are we?"

"You are," Gil said, smiling at her gravely. "Many generations ago, Sgath of Faerie wed with Ealusaid of Camanae and thus the line of Camanae was begun."

"That is true, Gilraehen," Ainteine said smoothly. "And you will find yourself, as did Sgath, watching your children bear your lady's magic and searching doubly hard for ways to thwart Lothar that he does not touch them."

Mehar blinked. "What do you mean?"

She felt Gil take her hand. "What he means is that he believes most of your mother's line has fallen to Lothar's hand at one time or another."

"Your mother's was a powerful magic, one that Lothar loathes above all else, but desires likewise," Ainteine said. "Gilraehen was wise to wed you, for he alone has the strength to protect you and the children you will bear him." He looked at her gravely. "Watch yourself, Mehar of Neroche. You will need all the skills you can learn from your lord, as well as many you will only learn from yourself, to survive."

"Well, this is all fine and good," said the crusty old man, "but that hardly solves the larger problem of ridding ourselves of him for good."

Alcuin elbowed her in the ribs until she leaned his way. "Gil's mother's father, Beachan of Bargrenan. He's not much for elves or anyone else who doesn't like to get his boots muddy. We'll move on to practical matters now."

Mehar wasn't sure she wanted to move on to practical matters. She wanted to know if Ainteine had spoken to her mother, if he knew her grandmother, or her mother's grandmother, or all the other women she had never had the chance to know. She wanted everyone to pause until she'd had the answers she desired.

But it was a council of war, not a bit of a chat during supper, so she held her peace and pondered what she'd learned. And she wondered, if there truly was blood from Faerie running through her veins, why Ainteine could be so beautiful and she so not beautiful. Too much of her father in her, she supposed with a sigh.

She leaned her head back against her chair and waited out the discussions, which, true to Beachan's apparent schedule, moved along quite quickly; they adjourned for supper at a most reasonable hour. Mehar picked idly at her food, too overwhelmed by what she'd learned, and what she thought she'd learned, to eat.

She was almost relieved when Gil took her hand, excused them from the table, and left the hall. She was certain Alcuin was going to fill the company in on all of Gil's faults (he apparently didn't like snakes and there had been a full complement of them in Gil's annoying army the night before), but she had little desire to stay and defend her love when she thought he might be heading for the stables and a bit of freedom.

"Is it safe?" she asked, looking at him as he reached for his horse's gear.

He stopped his movements, then looked at her. "Nay, it likely isn't. But I think I can keep us safe enough for a bit of freedom."

She didn't doubt he could. She only wished, as she saddled Fleet and led him out behind Gil's horse, that she had some kind of weapon herself.

Just in case.

But that just in case didn't seem to be waiting for them. Not that it would have mattered if it had been, given the way Gil was riding. Whether he was simply living up to his name, or whether too much talk of things he couldn't yet master had driven him to a strange mood, she couldn't have said. Fleet was the better horse, and she no poor rider, but she was hard-pressed to keep up with her love. It was a cold, crisp day, and there had been no rain in the night. The ground was bare and dry, and the chill seemed only to suit their mounts. Mehar found herself quite glad of Gil's mother's cloak, which now found a home about her own shoulders.

And then she found herself not glad at all.

Everything happened so fast, she hardly knew how to sort the events out and make sense of them.

One moment Gil was on his horse, the next he was on the ground and Fleet was lifting up to leap over him. She wheeled Fleet around and raced back only to have her horse, fearless beast that he was, pull up, and shudder.

Gil crawled to his feet, dazed.

And then, out of the shadows of the trees, came a man.

Mehar knew without being introduced that this was Lothar. He looked, oddly enough, a great deal like the Prince of Hagoth, but Mehar supposed she was beginning to lump all the horrible men she knew into one ma.s.s that wore the same sort of face Hagoth and the bounty hunter had.

Hard. Cold. Cruel.

And then, quite suddenly, not a face anymore.

What sort of creature Lothar had become, she honestly couldn't say, but he was no longer a man and just the sight of him made her want to bolt.

But Gil didn't flee. Where he had stood now hovered an enormous bird of prey, its beak outstretched, its terrible, razorlike claws reaching out to shred the beast before it.

And that was just the beginning.

Mehar lost count of the changes, of the nightmares come to life, of the curses that were hurled, the threats that were spewed, the taunts that Lothar gave and Gil ignored.

And then, just as suddenly as before, Lothar was a man again and in his hand was a sword that flashed in the sunlight. It flashed again as it struck out like a snake. Mehar watched in horror as it bit into whatever disjointed ma.s.s of creature Gil had chosen in his wrath to become; the creature bellowed and suddenly there was Gil, writhing on the ground with a sword skewering his leg.

Mehar didn't think. She dug her heels into Fleet's side, but that was unnecessary. He was a mount fit for a mighty warrior and he did what her sire had trained him to do long before she'd stolen him and bid him to be her wings. He leaped at Lothar, slas.h.i.+ng him across the face with a hoof as he jumped.

Lothar screamed, but pulled her from the saddle by her foot just the same.

As she fell, she wove her spell of protection.

Over herself.

Over Gil.

Over Fleet.

Lothar glared at her as she lay sprawled on the ground before him. He clutched the torn side of his face and spewed forth curses at her. Mehar quailed, but her spell, the simple, blessed thing that it was, held true. Lothar took a step back.

"I will find you," he said coldly, "and when I've taken your magic, I will kill you."

Mehar didn't dare answer him.

He vanished, but his last words hung in the air.

Just as I did your mother.

Mehar crawled over to Gil. He was white and he'd lost a great deal of blood. She hardly dared pull the sword free, though she could only imagine the foul spells it was laced with. Her lord husband looked at her with wonder and sorrow mingled in his eyes.

"I feared that," he said quietly. "About your mother."

"How . . . how did he ..."

Gil shook his head. "I don't know. She may have kept him from Angesand so thoroughly that he resorted to having some simple soul poison her." He grasped her hand. "All I know is she protected you. As will I."

She clutched his b.l.o.o.d.y hand with both hers. "I need a sword, Gil. Even if your hand was whole, even when it is whole, I'll need some way to guard your back. To guard my own if you're guarding our children. I could weave things into it."

He looked at her quietly for a moment or two, then nodded. "As you will, love. But you'll use none of this metal here. Can you pull this accursed thing free?"

"You'll bleed."

"Better that than have his magic crawling up my leg as it is presently."

"But Gil, how will I-"

HAROLD blinked, then realized his father had stopped reading. He was whispering behind his hand to one of the men in his merchantry business. Then the man departed and his father stood.

"Wait," Harold said, sitting up suddenly, "you can't stop there. What happened? Did she pull the sword out of his leg? Did Gilraehen survive? And what about her sword? The magical sword she made? The Sword of Angesand?" Harold gave his father his most potent look of pleading. "Father, you cannot leave me at this point. Finish before you leave, I beg you."

His sire hesitated, then sat back down. "Very well," he said, "I will humor you. Briefly. Though you've heard this tale a hundred times at least."

"Once more?" Harold asked hopefully.

His father sighed, but it was without irritation. "Once more," he agreed, taking up the book again. "It says here that Gilraehen and Mehar managed to get themselves atop Fleet and let him carry them back to the ruined palace, with Gil's horse following, where Cook nourished them with all useful herbs and fine stews. Then our goodly Queen Mehar-"