Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) (17 page)

Kerri bit her lip. “He didn’t stop because he didn’t see a Tyr and a Celae woman,” she said.

I stared at her. “What?”

She made an effort not to smile, but couldn’t quite bring it off. “He saw an Isgardian farm woman and a dog,” she said, and blushed.

Cullin burst into startled laughter. “A dog,” he chortled. “A dog. That’s magnificent! Superb!”

I boggled at her. “What?”

She held up her hands in a resigned gesture, and the smile twitched at the corners of her mouth again. “It was all I could think of on short notice,” she said helplessly. “Forgive me, Kian. I used a small masking spell as they rode past. You probably didn’t notice because the warlock’s magic was so strong.”

I remembered the sudden intensifying of the itch on the back of my neck. “I noticed,” I said. “But you’re right, I thought it was the warlock.” I shivered, then became angry. “You used magic on me without asking me first?”

“There was no time—”

“And you called the Maeduni arrogant,” I said indignantly.

“So we’ve established that you do have magic,” Cullin said quietly, giving me a look that shut me up quickly. “Tyadda magic and royal Celae blood.”

“And I carry a Rune Blade,” she said. “I was trained to use it starting at the age of five.”

“What about me?” I demanded. “What do you think I have?”

She looked at me again. “Both, Kian,” she said quietly. “I think you have both, too.”

I was
sitting guard duty, wrapped in my cloak for warmth. Within the ruins of the cottage, Cullin and Kerri slept. The fire on the hearth had burned down to embers and very little light glowed through the door which hung askew on its hinges. Only part of my mind was alert and watchful as I sat huddled on a moss-covered stone, my back to the cottage wall which still retained some small residual warmth  from  the sun. Kerri had given me a lot to think about, and I was not having an easy time sorting it out.

The door opened behind me and Cullin stepped out into the wash of moonlight. He crouched down to sit on his heels, placing his back against the wall beside me.

“Could she have the right of it?” he asked, his voice troubled in the dark. “Could you be this lost prince of hers?”

I shook my head. “How could I be?” I asked. “She said the princeling would be twenty-six or twenty-seven. By your own reckoning, I’m twenty-three, almost twenty-four.”

He smiled. “Being a long-lost prince could be troubling, I suppose,” he said.

I gave a harsh grunt of laughter. “Being a long-lost nephew was hard enough to get used to,” I said. “But it was enough for me. I’ve no ambition to be a prince.”

He picked up a twig and made abstract little designs in the earth between his feet. “Twyla might have been Celae,” he said. He looked up at me thoughtfully. “I never thought of it before, but she had the eyes. So do you.”

“And the magic?” I asked and shivered. “Did she have the magic?”

He shook his head. “I never saw her use it. The Healing, aye. She used it several times, but no other magic. And Leydon never once said anything about journeying to Celi. He spoke of travelling the continent, but never of Celi.”

“You told me you thought my mother was Saesnesi,” I said.

“I did think so,” he said. “Her hair was that pale, flaxen yellow you see in many Saesnesi, ye ken, not dark gold like Kerri’s hair. Or her father’s, either, for that matter. They look to be typical of the Celae who mixed with the Tyadda.”

“Kerri says she thinks I have magic,” I said. I shook my head. “But I’ve none. Only the Healing. And I
hate
magic.”

“Then I think it more likely she may be right in thinking that you may be able to lead her to the princeling because of the sword.” He shook his head again. “Who knows? I dinna ken what to think, to be truthful.”

“I don’t want to be a Celae prince,” I said vehemently. “It’s enough for me to be who I am. Just Kian dav Leydon ti’Cullin. It’s enough to be your foster-son.”

He laughed and tossed away his twig, getting to his feet. “You may have a job convincing Kerri of that,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll relieve you in two hours.”

He went back into the cottage and I sat there, remembering the night we met, and remembering the night two years later when he’d offered me the highest honour a Tyr could give any man. That night was much like this one. Mountains close. Stars in a clear sky overhead. But there was a fire burning on the ground and a merchant train camped nearby then.

I had been standing guard duty. When relieved, I went back to the fire. Cullin was wrapped in his plaid but awake and waiting for me.

“A messenger came from Tyra,” he said quietly. “Gwynna has gifted me with another daughter.”

I grinned. He loved his two elder daughters, Elin and Wynn, to distraction. There was more than enough love and pride to enfold another daughter. “
Ti’vati
, my congratulations,” I said. “What will you call this one?”

“Gwynna says Maira.” He shrugged, then smiled. “It’s a good enough name.”

“Let’s hope this one looks like her mother, too, rather than her father.”

Cullin laughed. “Oh, aye. A fearful fate indeed, being a woman burdened with this face.” He looked at me. “I had been hoping for a son,” he said softly.

I said nothing. He didn’t often speak of his family, and when he did, the pride he took in his daughters gleamed in his eyes and rang in his voice. I had never once before heard him wish one of the girls to be a son.

He was quiet for a long time. I thought he’d gone to sleep, but finally, he spoke again. “Kian, a man has need of a son.” His voice sounded strained in the darkness. “I begin to doubt Gwynna will bear me one.”

“Three daughters are enough to keep a man content in his old age,” I said.

He chuckled. “Aye,” he agreed. “I shall say, Elin, fetch my robe. Wynn, fetch me ale. Maira, fetch me bread and meat. And they’ll scurry around more to keep me quiet than to serve me well.” His tone changed again. “Kian....”

Cullin very seldom showed his serious side. I had only once heard that tone in his voice, and that was when he spoke of the death of his grandfather. Sensing the importance of what he was about to say, I sat up and faced him. “Aye?”

“Kian, I’ve spent the last two years teaching you how to fight with that sword of yours, and you’ve learned well,” he said. He looked at me, eyes narrowed in the flickering light. “You grew much as I predicted you would. You’re no small man.” He smiled. “You might just as easily be my son as Leydon’s.” He paused again. “Everything a man does for his son, I’ve done for you. I would take you as foster-son, if you will. Make you my heir.”

It left me speechless. It was a long time before I found my voice to accept the honour. So when we had delivered the pack train safely to Honandun, we made the trip back to Tyra where I had undergone the adoption ceremony. Even Gwynna looked pleased, and made it clear she welcomed me as her son, and as a brother to the girls.

I looked up at the stars glittering in the dark sky above the ruined cottage. “I couldna be a Celae prince,” I said aloud. “I do not
want
to be a Celae prince.” And I couldn’t have any magic. Save the Healing, which I had inherited from my mother, I couldn’t have any magic. Not and feel the way I did about it. Surely Kerri was mistaken. She was allowing her need to find this princeling of hers to lead her to see him in me simply because I had accidentally come into possession of what she thought was a Celae Rune Blade.

Wasn’t she?

***

The Watcher on the Hill stood, quiet and still, amid the circle of stones, looking down at me. The breeze that riffled my hair and stirred my plaid did not touch him. My feet planted wide in the white-starred velvet grass, I looked up at him, trying to see what lay under the shadows cloaking his face.

At the sound of a footstep behind me, I turned and drew my sword. The runes along the blade glittered and flashed, sending their own eerie light into the strange, distinctive glow of the sunless sky. A word sparked out at me.
Strength
. It was just the one word out of many, but a deep satisfaction welled up in my chest and I smiled as I raised my sword to confront him.

“We meet again,” my opponent said. He raised his dark sword in a mocking salute. “You can’t defeat me, you know.”

“Your magic has no life here,” I said. “Not against the power of the Dance.”

He laughed. “We shall see who is stronger,” he said, then leapt forward, wrists snapping the sword into a swift, deadly stroke.

Again, I found myself fighting for my life against that sword. It sprayed its own darkness around itself as he swung it. Not only darkness, but cold, too—the deep, dank chill of the grave. He moved lightly, tirelessly, effortlessly, the muscles of his arms and shoulders rippling beneath his bronzed skin. And all the time, his lips drew up into a small, derisive smile that never faltered.

Back and forth across the small arena we fought each other, first one attacking, then the other. If he had weaknesses, I failed to find them, but neither could he find mine. The air rang to the strident bell-sound of steel against tempered steel. The clash and slither of thrust meeting parry echoed off the mountains behind us. Beneath our feet, the crushed grass bled its fresh perfume into the ringing air.

As it had happened before, I became aware that I was tiring faster than he. Time after time, I fell back before his attacks, forced to give ground. And again, there was no hidden well of vitality and stamina, no reserve resources I could find to draw the strength I needed. Remembering the last time we met, I lunged forward, stabbing out at him with the point of my sword. But he laughed and swayed gracefully away.

“It won’t work twice, you know,” he said. “You can’t fool me like that again.”

He spun away from my next thrust, then his sword came in under my guard, straight for my belly. I twisted desperately, barely managed to get my blade down to deflect his. It was almost enough. Instead of ripping through my belly, the tip of the blade sliced cleanly through the fabric of my sleeve and into the muscle of my right arm. My blood splashed to the ground, vivid red against the green of the crushed and trampled grass. The pain lanced like a blast of frigid cold up my arm, into my shoulder.

I stumbled under his renewed attack and fell to my knees. Shifting the hilt to my left hand, I swung backhanded at his ankles. He leapt nimbly up and out of the way, but the tip of my sword caught the heel of his boot. He lost his balance, fell, and came down heavily on hip and elbow. The sword went spinning from his loosened grip and sailed off, vanishing into its own darkness.

Instantly, my opponent was on his feet. He waited until I staggered erect, then gave me an ironic bow.

“For a big man, you’re more agile than I gave you credit,” he said. “Next time, then.” He stepped away and faded into the same darkness that took his sword.

Chest heaving, I turned to the Watcher on the Hill. Safe within the circle of the stone Dance, he looked down at me. Finally, he moved. He raised one hand, but whether it was in benediction or resignation, I couldn’t tell. I put my hand to the wound on my arm and watched as the bleeding slowed, then stopped, watched as the skin drew closed until nothing was left but a thin, white scar.

***

Dawn streaked the sky with pink and yellow against pale azure. Carrying my sheathed sword, I left Cullin asleep by the fire and stepped out into the chill outside the ruined cottage. Kerri looked up at me from where she sat on the moss-covered rock by the wall as I came out, but said nothing. I walked past her down to the water, then followed the small burn upstream until I found a place where a gravel strand had made a clear crescent in the thicket of trees.

Echoes of the dream swirled through my head like wisps of mist. Pushing back the sleeve of my shirt, I looked at the thin, white scar on my arm for a long moment, then drew the sword and held it up to the first rays of the morning sun. The runes flashed and glittered, sparking and blazing in the light. I thought I could make out the word
Strength
on one side of the blade. The skin along my spine quivered slightly. What sort of dreams leave a man with a scar on his arm, and the ability to read something he never before could read?

“I dinna ken what kind of magic you have,” I said, holding the sword up before my eyes. “But I want you to show me now. Now, while I can still fight you.” The sword remained quiescent in my hands. I felt nothing. “If you’re supposed to belong to this lost princeling of Kerri’s, show me where he is. Start leading. By the seven gods and goddesses, start leading now, or I’ll toss you into the burn and leave you there to rust.”

Nothing happened. I had not really expected anything. It was the height of idiocy, standing in the light of the rising sun, speaking to a sword as if it understood, as if it were alive. But I shook the sword in anger and frustration. “I mean it. If you have magic of your own, show me now. Now, or Hellas take you...”

The sword began to resonate in my hands. Softly at first, then faster and faster until it felt alive. I became aware of a high, clear, sweet tone singing in the air around me, like a note plucked from a harp string in the highest register. At the same time, the blade began to shimmer, then to glow. At first, like the musical note, softly and gently. My hands on the hilt tingled and stung, and my whole body quivered like the air just before a lightning strike as the vibration travelled from the sword into me.