Chapter 2

Once they were on board the ship, Aneirin was conscious of allowing Ebañy time alone in their cabin for his dweomer work, knowing how his lover feared a break in his meditation routines, but the sea voyage seemed to put Ebañy in a good mood and he spent part of each day entertaining the ship's crew with tricks and tales during their rest time, along with the other passengers.

As Ebañy stood gazing out across the water one day, Aneirin slipped his arms around him, resting his chin on his lover's shoulder. 'You seem to be enjoying yourself.'

Ebañy turned his head so that their cheeks touched. 'That I am.' He sighed. 'I've missed it, in a way. I truly did always love performing, and there's just summat about delighting a crowd of strangers, holding them in the palm of your hand…' He turned within the circle of Aneirin's arms, laying his hands on the other man's shoulders, his eyes bright. 'And you know, oh steely-eyed warrior of mine, I was thinking of some of the simple things our troop used to do – simple for them, not so much for me – and I was thinking with you to help, the tumbling routines could be a good deal more impressive.'

Aneirin cocked his head, then shrugged and kissed him. 'I'm willing to try.'

Every day, they worked at it until they were both sweaty and exhausted, and their many failures seemed to amuse their fellow voyagers almost as much as Ebañy's more polished, if less ambitious routines. One none-too-calm day, as the ship's heaving caused Aneirin to lose his balance for the fifteenth time with Ebañy collapsed on top of him before rolling clear, Aneirin grumbled,

'It's all very well for you – you're not the one getting the wind kicked out of you by some great clot of a barbarian landing on your belly.' He winced. 'And other places.'

'I'm sorry. I suppose I'm not as light as I was, truly.'

'It's not that. My bruises are just giving me an ill temper, that's all. But can we try again when the sea's a bit calmer?'

Many bruises later, by the time the sandy shore and rising cliffs of the Bardektinnian coastline came into view, Ebañy was confident that, on land, he could at least do a handstand on Aneirin's shoulders, if not yet the double somersault.

When the Great Wizard Devaberiel and his wild barbarian warrior Calonderiel stepped off the ship in Myleton, Ebañy was the consummate performer, all smiles and bows, exhorting everyone they met to come and see the show. Alone in their inn chamber, however, his anxiety was palpable, and as they sipped wine from fine glass goblets, he twisted his fingers so tightly around the stem Aneirin almost offered to take it away from him for fear he might snap it.

'Have you seen signs of trouble?' Aneirin asked.

Ebañy shook his head. 'I confess I've been preoccupied with rather more personal matters. You recall I left behind five children when I took little Zandro back to the Westlands all those years ago?'

'You don't know whether they live, and you don't know whether you want to find out.'

'You see right through to my very soul, as always, my love.' He hunched his shoulders. 'But if there's dark dweomer about I don't want to risk making them aware of my presence, as our wayward friends might be eavesdropping and such-like.'

'Time enough to seek them out when the danger's passed.'

'I suppose you're right, as usual.' He took Aneirin's hand and kissed it. 'Ah well. I'd best be organising for our first show tomorrow. When last I performed in the marketplace here, we just needed to get a permit and agree to hand over a share of the profits, but who knows how much has changed since then?'

While Ebañy went to make the necessary arrangements, Aneirin strapped on the Deverry longsword they'd bought as part of his costume. As he tried walking around their suite, the wretched thing kept banging against him and twisting between his legs so that he almost tripped. Swearing, he adjusted the belt and racked his memory for every detail he could remember of how he had seen warriors move. Some years back, he'd been besotted with a warrior – one of his assumed namesake's band – and had spent much time gazing across fires at – what was his name? But every time he tried to picture how the man had moved, images of Ebañy striking a pose or smiling at some shared joke kept superimposing itself. He gave it up as a bad job.

He'd not worn his long-bladed elven knife since coming to live at Dragon Meadow – though he'd been in a few knife fights like most elves, he had no real taste for it and was happier without it – but the sword was different enough anyway that it felt like learning to wear a weapon all over again. As he paced, he kept adjusting the angle until, as long as he kept one hand on the hilt, he could stride reasonably comfortably.

Idly, he picked up the silvered brass mirror and glared at his reflection. He bared his teeth slightly and tried to imagine how else an angry barbarian might look. So engrossed was he that he didn't even hear the door open.

'I hope I'm not the target of such naked aggression, my vicious barbarian war leader!'

Aneirin jumped. 'Er, well, just practising.'

Ebañy grinned. 'I can see! That sword looks much more fitting on you now.'

'Actually, it's a cursed nuisance.'

'A sword so often is.'

'You know, all this time I've been thinking of summat else we could be doing.' Aneirin unbuckled the sword belt.

'Oh really?' Ebañy arched an eyebrow. 'Well, now, my banadar!' he said, holding out an imperious hand.

Aneirin took it and bowed. 'Well now, my most esteemed bard.'

As Aneirin's touch set him on fire, Ebañy could forget about everything else for a while.

Ebañy stretched languidly and kissed Aneirin awake. 'Come, my beauteous barbarian banadar, we've a show to put on!'

'Wretched bard,' he muttered, but he smiled as he watched his lover slide out of bed and begin to dress, slipping scarves and various other small items inside his voluminous robes with practised ease.

'Now. I've ordered us summat to eat, so you get dressed and I'll put on some finishing touches.'

Aneirin had assumed these 'finishing touches' were for the Great Devaberiel, but Ebañy had other ways of bringing the barbarian warrior Calonderiel to life. He motioned Aneirin to sit, and opened a small ebony case to reveal an assortment of small pots and brushes which he proceeded to apply to his lover's face.

Ebañy turned Aneirin's chin gently from side to side with one long finger. 'Perfect,' he pronounced, holding the mirror up for Aneirin to see.

His mouth dropped open. A stranger stared back at him. Though he could detect no trace of powder or paint, a scar now ran across his left cheek, and another across his brow. His face was somehow more angular, his eyes and mouth harder. 'It's like dweomer!'

Ebañy laughed. 'Just practice. It was Alaena who first introduced me to it, but Keeta and Marka between them turned it into an artform. Would you mind holding the mirror for me a moment?'

He quickly added a touch of paint to his own face, making his eyes appear larger and mysterious, and a hint of colour to his lips and otherwise pale cheeks.

'You just want the crowd lusting after you.'

He nodded. 'Not out of vanity, mind – it's just good business. The greater your audience's desire to bed you, the more likely they are to be generous with their coin.' He grinned. 'Though I'll admit it doesn't ache my heart to see the lads and lasses swooning in the audience! Now don't go touching it or it'll smudge, and my fine banadar will dissolve like a painting left out in the rain. No doubt we'll mess it all up after the show, but let's at least try and make it last until then.'

Aneirin grinned. 'No doubt.'

The show went off without a hitch, Ebañy drawing in the crowd and keeping them spellbound as he recited fantastical tales of far-off Deverry while juggling double rings of his rainbow-coloured balls, or made silk scarves appear to knot themselves in thin air while wailing Elvish war chants. At times, Aneirin struggled to keep a straight face as Ebañy declaimed bawdy tales in Elvish as if they were magical formulae to make various small items appear and disappear at his command. To Aneirin's great relief, no-one seemed to see Aneirin the carpenter and trader behind the mask of the barbarian warrior. It was actually rather exhilarating, having the crowd oo and ah, even if it was mostly for Ebañy's sake.

The tumbling routines were proving popular, raising a good shower of silver coins as Ebañy tumbled out of his high handstand to land with a wobble that he covered by dropping to one knee before a young woman in the crowd, drawing a silk flower from behind her ear and presenting it to her. As he remarked later to Aneirin,

'The combination is quite rare for a duo, most like. Acrobats tend to travel in larger troupes.'

At that, their grand finale, 'Devaberiel' declared himself too parched and weary to continue. The crowd flung a final scatter of coins their way for the warrior assistant to gather up, and Ebañy sat down with the archon's representative to count out the city's share of their profits.

The Bardekian said, 'You know, you're the first barbarian performers I've seen here, though my predecessor used to babble about some barbarian with one of the travelling shows who put on spectacular shows using incense, powders and black wires. Called himself a wizard!' He snorted. 'So realistic it was, my old friend said, it was almost like real magic.'

'Like real magic, you say?' Ebañy said blandly. 'Now that would be something to see. Alas and alack, my humble show makes use of more mundane abilities.'

'You wouldn't have known him, I suppose. Too young. Then he grinned. Although I suppose there's no reason why one barbarian would know another, any more than all Orystinnians know one another.'

'True spoken. I'm sure there's many a barbarian entertainer I've not had the pleasure of meeting.'

Their first performance was officially a success, although not, as Ebañy later lamented, nearly as successful or spectacular as when he had used real magic.

In the common room of their inn, after he'd washed and changed his robe for a clean shirt stiff with just as much embroidery, Ebañy insisted on standing his assembled admirers a round of wine. Aneirin blinked at how much of their coin was disappearing. Irritation flashed as his lover flirted outrageously with pretty women who hung on his every word. To his consternation, though, Aneirin found himself the recipient of admiring looks, and several patrons tried to engage him in conversation. Out of desperation – mostly because he could hardly follow what they were saying – he responded with non-committal monosyllables, but far from putting them off, his aloof warrior act seemed to make them more curious. With all the distractions and his exhaustion, he couldn't keep track of Ebañy's chatter. It felt like hours later when Ebañy stood and announced,

'Well, good people of Myleton, I hate to disappoint such splendid company as yourselves, but the Great Devaberiel is greatly wearied from his humble performance, so my warrior bodyguard and I must retire from your illustrious presence. I fear we've an early start to make on the morrow.' The women he'd been flirting with sighed in obvious disappointment.

'But if the gods of both our peoples smile upon us, we shall see you again at the conclusion of our tour of your glorious islands. Farewell!'

Aneirin rose with relief to follow him, though he planned a few stern words about the coin and women both as they mounted the stairs.

As soon as he entered the chamber, Ebañy flung himself face down on the bed.

'I was half-surprised you didn't invite some of those lasses to join us,' he said acerbically in Elvish. 'And ye gods, Bañy, how much coin-' but he broke off as he saw Ebañy's shoulders shaking. In an instant he was sitting beside his lover on the bed, placing a gentle hand on his back.

'Here, beloved, I'm sorry! I've not seen you like that before, and I got wretchedly jealous. Forgive me?'

When Ebañy turned to face him, his face paint was heavily smudged, and he brushed tears from his eyes.

'Oh love,' Aneirin said softly, gathering Ebañy into his arms. 'I didn't realise.'

Ebañy tried to smile. 'I tried to put it all out of my mind and focus on us and the now. I'm happy to be here with you, my love, truly I am, but looking out into the crowd I saw her face, watching me as she did the first time I ever laid eyes on her, and then walking the slack wire, then Kwinto learning to juggle, and Tillya… I betrayed them all.' Aneirin could only hold him, helplessly, until he was done.

When Ebañy took a last, heaving breath and sat up, Aneirin wordlessly soaked a cloth in the basin of water on their nightstand, wrung it out, and handed it to him. As Ebañy wiped his face, Aneirin was glad to see he kept his mask off.

'It truly doesn't ache your heart, that I mourn her still?' Ebañy asked quietly.

Aneirin was silent for a minute as he sat beside him on the bed. 'No, it truly doesn't,' he said at last. 'How can I be jealous of a woman who's been dead half as long as I've been alive?'

'A first love is peculiar thing.'

'Not Alaena?'

'Yes.'

There was something there, Aneirin thought, but his mind skittered away from it. He sighed. 'I could wish that I were the only one in your heart, but it would be a selfish wish, and unlikely to be fulfilled at our ages. I suppose I am a mite jealous, but mostly of the fact you've had so many whom you loved, and who've loved you.' There was a bitterness to his smile.

'You've been a bit more guarded with your heart than I. And by every god, sometimes I wish I had been.'

'Nah nah nah, what's that saying about loving freely and generously?'

Ebañy quirked an eyebrow. 'If you mean the poet Amanaendariel, I think he had a different meaning of loving in mind.'

Aneirin rolled his eyes. 'You know what I mean.'

'I do. I'd not trade those years with Alaena and Marka for anything. Nor would I trade one minute of our time together, however long it may be.'