Caliel attempted to organize a company of players from available talent among the nobles, but after a few weeks everyone was thoroughly bored with each other. Cut off from the ladies of the town, most of the older boys made do with serving girls again. Zusthra was betrothed to a young duchess, but no marriages could be celebrated during the first months of official mourning.
The female pains troubled Tobin more often now, no matter what the moon’s phase was. Usually it came on as a fleeting ache, but other times, especially when the moon was new or full, he could almost feel something moving in his belly, the way Aliya’s child had. It was a frightening feeling and worse for having no one to talk to about it. He began to have new dreams, too, or rather one dream, repeated night after night with variations.
It began in the tower at the keep. He was standing in the middle of his mother’s old room there, surrounded by broken furniture and piles of moldy cloth and wool. Brother stepped from the shadows and led him by the hand down the stairs. It was too dark to see; Tobin had to trust the ghost and the feel of the worn stone steps under his feet.
It was all very clear, just as he remembered it, but when they reached the bottom of the stairs the door swung open and suddenly they were standing at the edge of a high precipice above the sea. It seemed like the cliffs at Cirna at first, but when he looked behind him, he saw green rolling hills marching into the distance and jagged stone peaks beyond. An old man watched him from the top of one of the hills. He was too far away to make out his features, but he wore the robes of a wizard and waved to Tobin as if he knew him.
Brother was still with him, and drew him away to the very edge of the cliff until Tobin’s toes hung over the edge. Far below, a broad harbor shone like a mirror between two long arms of land. By some trick of the dream, he could see their faces reflected there but his was the face of a woman and Brother had turned into Ki. In the way of dreams, it surprised him every time.
Still teetering precariously on the brink, the woman she’d become turned to kiss Ki. She could hear the stranger on the hill shouting to her, but the wind carried his words away. Just as her lips met Ki’s the wind pushed her over the edge and she fell—
It always ended that way and Tobin would wake to find himself sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding and an erection throbbing between his legs. He had no illusions about that anymore. On those nights when Ki stirred in his sleep and reached out to him, Tobin fled and spent the rest of the night wandering the palace corridors. Yearning for things he dared not hope for, he pressed his fingers to his lips, trying to recall the feel of that kiss.
The dream always left him low-spirited and a little scatterbrained the next day. More than once he caught himself staring at Ki, wondering what it would feel like actually to kiss him. He was quick to squelch such thoughts and Ki remained oblivious, distracted by the more tangible affections of several welcoming servant girls.
Ki slipped away with them more often now and sometimes didn’t come back until dawn. By unspoken agreement, Tobin did not complain of these sorties and Ki did not brag of them, at least not to him.
One windy night in Klesin, Tobin was alone once again, pondering designs for a set of jeweled brooches for Korin’s mourning cloak. It was a stormy night and the wind made lonely sounds in the eaves outside. Nik and Lutha had come by looking for him earlier, but Tobin was in no mood for company. Ki was off with Ranar, the girl in charge of the linens.
The work allowed him to escape his racing thoughts for a while. He was good at sculpting, even famous for it. During the previous year’s royal progress, pieces he’d made for his friends had caught the fancies of their hosts. Many had since sent gifts, along with precious metals and jewels, requesting a bit of jewelry to remember him by. The exchange of gifts was not only acceptable, Nikides had observed, but held the possibility of connections of other sorts being made later on. Who wouldn’t want to be thought well of by the future king’s beloved cousin? Tobin had read enough history to appreciate the wisdom of this advice and accepted most commissions.
Nonetheless, it was the work itself he really cared for. To bring an image in his head to reality in his hands pleased him in a way nothing else did.
He was nearly finished with the first wax carving when Baldus brought word of a visitor.
“I’m busy. Who is it?” Tobin grumbled.
“It’s me, Tobin,” Tharin said, looking in over the page’s head. His cloak was rain spattered and his long, pale hair windblown. “Thought you might like a game of bakshi.”
“Come in!” Tobin exclaimed, his dark mood falling away. It had been weeks since the two of them had had a quiet moment alone. “Baldus, take Sir Tharin’s cloak and fetch us wine. And send for something to eat—a dark loaf and some cold beef and cheese. And a pot of mustard, too! Never mind the wine. Bring us ale.”
Tharin chuckled as the boy ran off. “That’s barracks fare, my prince.”
“And I still prefer it and the company that goes with it.”
Tharin joined him at the workbench and examined the sketches and half-finished carvings. “Your mother would be proud. I remember when she gave you that first lump of wax.”
Tobin glanced up in surprise; Tharin seldom spoke of her.
“Your father, too,” he added. “But she was the artist of the pair. You should have seen him working on that toy city of yours. You’d have thought he was rebuilding Ero full scale, the way he labored over it.”
“I wish I could have shown him these.” Tobin pointed at three miniature wood-and-clay structures on a shelf over the bench. “Remember the Old Palace he made?”
Tharin grinned. “Oh, yes. Out of a fish-salting box, as I recall.”
“I never noticed! Well, these aren’t much better. As soon as the plague bans are lifted, I’m going to talk to real builders and ask to learn their craft. I see houses in my head, and temples with white columns and domes even, bigger than anything in Ero.”
“You’ll do it, too. You’ve a maker’s soul, as much a warrior’s.”
Tobin looked up in surprise. “Someone else told me that.”
“Who was that?”
“An Aurënfaie goldsmith named Tyral. He said Illior and Dalna put the skill in my hands, and that I’d be happier making things than fighting.”
Tharin nodded slowly, then asked, “And what do you think, now that you’ve done both?”
“I’m a good warrior, aren’t I?” he asked, knowing that Tharin was probably the only person who’d ever give him an honest answer.
“Of course you are! But that’s not what I asked.”
Tobin picked up a slender triangular file and twirled it between his fingers. “I guess the Aurënfaie was right. I’m proud to fight, and I’m not afraid. But I am happiest messing about with all this.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
“Would my father say the same?”
Baldus and two servers bustled in with bottles and trays and laid a table for them by the hearth. Tobin sent them out again, and poured the ale while Tharin cut slices of meat and cheese and set them to warm on thick slices of bread by the fire.
“This is almost as good as being home,” Tobin said, watching him work. “It’s been a long time since you and I have sat alone by a hearth. What made you think of it tonight?”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to. But as it happens, I’ve had rather an odd visitor today. A woman named Lhel, who claims to be a friend of yours. Yes, I can see by your face you know the name.”
“Lhel? But how did she get here?” Tobin’s heart turned to lead in his chest as Iya’s warning echoed in his memory. What would she do if Lhel had told Tharin his secret?
Tharin scratched his head. “Well now, that’s the odd part. She didn’t so much come to me as appear. I was reading in my room and heard someone call my name. When I looked up, there was this little hill woman, floating in the middle of the room in a circle of light. I could see the keep behind her, clear as I see you now. To be honest, I thought maybe I’d dreamed it all until just now.”