A Strange and Ancient Name (29 page)

But the mind behind the tranquil mask was seething.

How could Hauberin still be alive? How could that . . . half-blood be actually surviving iron-poisoning? Ae, she had come so close, she had almost felt the silver crown upon her brow . . . Charailis silently chastised herself for foolish hope, foolish anticipation, but the anger remained.

And if he lives, no,
since
he lives, where does that leave me?

As hopeless as Ereledan—no, the woman thought wryly, not quite. Braggart Ereledan hadn’t even the courage to come this far.

Ah well. The game was lost, at least for now.

Or perhaps it wasn’t. Charailis smiled slightly, decided at last, subtly pulling Power to her, setting an aura of calm about herself so not even the most skillful could catch the way of her thoughts.

Hauberin was still weak, after all. It was just possible the fever, no matter what the physicians swore, had damaged his mind. It was just possible that, drained as he must be, he would be unable to wield Power enough to defend himself. Should he, by some strange mischance, have need to do so.

###

The bedroom was larger than any she’d had back in the human Realm, the walls curved and faintly pink, softly luminescent:
like sleeping in a giant pink pearl,
Matilde mused sleepily. The large arch of a window looked out over land turned coolly mysterious beneath a sky radiant and crowded with stars—the brilliant, many-colored stars of Faerie, glittering with Power and set in patterns strange to her. She should have been afraid, there beneath that alien sky, but there comes a limit to everything, and right now Matilde was just too tired to care about anything much other than that the bed in which she lay (after having been bathed and groomed and cooed over by three friendly little wisps of silver-eyed women-things) was wonderfully soft. And she didn’t have to share it with anyone . . . most particularly not with a husband who had all the warmth and compassion of a log . . .

###

Curled up in a cushioned alcove, Alliar quietly watched the night, golden eyes glazed. More weary of mind and body both than the being would ever have admitted, Alliar was truly glad there wasn’t anything to be done right now. Matilde was tucked away in a cozy bedroom, drifting into dreams. Hauberin, after his brief but blessedly rational waking, was safely asleep once more in the royal chambers, a servant watching over him.

The being sighed. It would have been nice to be that watcher, just in case; one couldn’t be too careful when Charailis was concerned, now that she’d found royal ambition. But for all that this golden pseudo-body was amazingly resilient, there
were
limits. Right now, after all that had happened in the past few Faerie-and-mortal days, there was no strength left to it at all.

The being sagged in the alcove, losing the struggle with awareness. Sighing in surrender, Alliar sank into mind-quiet trance.

###

Hauberin struggled slowly up out of sleep, now nearly awake, now snared by eerie wisps of dream, a nameless sense of peril weighing down his consciousness. Somehow he found his way to the surface, forcing open impossibly heavy eyelids, too drained of strength by that simple act to do more than lie still and try to clear his mind.

Surely there had been an awakening before this? He thought he could remember Alliar’s face, radiant with joy, and another beside it . . . Matilde? Oh no, surely not. Surely the being wouldn’t have brought her here, out of her rightful Realm.

Hauberin’s eyelids slid slowly closed again. But that nameless weight of disaster remained. His arm ached, and his throat was uncomfortably dry, and he forced his eyes open once more, looking about for the servant who must surely be nearby.

A figure stood at the foot of his bed, tall, slim, wrapped in a hooded blue cloak: never a servant. Hauberin made one abortive attempt to rise, then sank back, gasping out, “Who . . . ?”

“You weren’t meant to wake.” A woman’s voice, so teasingly familiar . . .

“Charailis,” Hauberin breathed.

“Charailis,” she agreed quietly, pushing back her hood. “It might be best if you simply drifted back to sleep. There’s no need for you to suffer.”

“Don’t . . . be so . . . melodramatic,” Hauberin gasped, angry at his voice for betraying his weakness. “How did you . . .”

“Get in here? Oh, my dear, it was simple. Your people have been celebrating your most miraculous recovery. Their resistance is low: not even your so-proud Kerlaias felt my suggestion-spell; not even he suspected the woman he saw leaving the palace was only air and ice, illusion; not even he suspected the woman who entered here was anyone other than a servant. Enough delay, Hauberin. You haven’t the strength to fight me, or simply call for help.”

True enough, Hauberin thought darkly.

In the next instant, he felt the surge of Charailis’ Power, and knew he hadn’t a chance of defending himself.

###

Jarred from sleep, Matilde found herself on her feet, heart pounding painfully, without the faintest idea of where she was or what had awakened her. Hauberin! Hauberin was in dire danger, and as Matilde was surrounded by startled servants crooning at her, trying to coax this bewildering human back to her proper place, she saw and heard and felt nothing but the prince:
Oh, I won’t let you die, not now, not after all this! I will not let you die!

###

Alliar uncoiled with serpentine speed and strength, landing lightly on the other side of the room in the one bound, spirit-mind instantly cleared of trance. Matilde?

Was that Matilde in such fierce distress? And—ae, Hauberin!

The being raced grimly for the royal chambers.

###

As Charailis’ Power engulfed him, crushing at mind and heart, Hauberin fought back as best he could. The magic was there in his blood, the defensive spells were whole in his brain—but he just didn’t have the strength to use them, and so, struggling for breath, he was going to die . . .

But a sudden, lightning-sharp touch against his mind roused him, sending new Power, new strength, new life surging into him: borrowed Power, unshaped and raw, from some unknown source, but right then he hardly cared. Too dazed for subtlety, Hauberin hurled magic up about himself in blue fire, Shielding himself with all his renewed will just as Charailis hurled her Power, cold and gray as despair—

Magics crashed together in one white-hot blast so fierce it destroyed every shadow in the room and blazed out into the night. Terrified, half-blinded, Hauberin lost the edge of his will and felt the Shielding slip.

But it had held just long enough. Uncontrolled Power surged back like a wave against a rock, recoiling upon the one other living target in the room.

Charailis stood transfixed for an endless moment, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream as her own Power destroyed her. Then, graceful to the last, her elegant, lifeless body sank slowly to the floor.

Borrowed strength vanished, Hauberin collapsed back against the pillows, shaking with shock. Whatever Warding spells Charailis had placed upon the room had shattered with her death, and guards came rushing in.

“You’re . . . a bit . . . late.” Hauberin managed to put enough sarcasm into the gasp to make the abashed Kerlaias wince.

“My prince!”

That was Alliar, brusquely shoving guards aside. Supported in the circle of the being’s arms, a slight figure sagged in total exhaustion. Hauberin caught a trace of familiar aura and stared in weary wonder.

This was the one who had sent him that incredible surge of Power, the one who had saved him once and yet again: Matilde.

XXIII

PUZZLES AND PROBLEMS

Still dazed and uncertain after nearly two days of healing sleep, Matilde stopped in the wide doorway, staring. Beyond lay what could only be the royal study, a light, airy room lined with intricately wrought shelves of wood and silver like branches of a delicate, fantastic forest. A priceless forest: In her Realm, only the wealthy owned more than two or three books—the costly, hand-copied things—but here were so many volumes (copied, no doubt, by magic) she ached with frustration at not being able to read.

Hauberin, clad in a wine-red robe, a thin silver coronet holding back sleek black hair from a still almost-gaunt face, and a silken sling supporting his wounded arm, was perched in one of the two arched windows, examining a scroll as best he could with only one free hand. He looked so unquestionably
royal
that Matilde hesitated, suddenly feeling absurdly shy.

Idiot.
He
hasn’t changed, even if he’s wearing a crown now.

Besides, she could hardly go on just standing here like a silly little girl, so Matilde gave a polite cough.

“Don’t hover in the doorway,” Hauberin said without looking up. “Enter.”

“Ah . . . it’s me. Matilde. You asked to see me.”

The dark head jerked up in surprise. Hauberin flashed her a quick, embarrassed smile. “Sorry. My psychic senses are still off a bit.” His eyebrows rose as the language she’d used registered. “They’ve taught you our tongue, I see. Magically, of course.”

“When I was . . .
an
. . . when they thought it was necessary.”

“When you were
ainathanach,
you mean. I’m sorry about that; I have no idea why I placed that burden on you.”

A long, awkward silence fell. Then Hauberin gave a sharp little laugh.

“This is ridiculous. How can we be wary of each other after all we’ve been through?”

“I . . . never really had a chance to see you as a prince before.”

“Oh, come, the crown doesn’t change me into a monster, does it?”

She had to grin. “Hardly. Oh, but how do you feel?”

“Fragile,” Hauberin admitted, “but viable. Though yes, the arm does still hurt. Iron-wounds, I’m discovering, take a cursedly long time to heal. But at least they will heal, thanks to you. Matilde, you saved my life twice over.”

She could feel her cheeks reddening. “I couldn’t very well just let you die, could I?”

“All. Well.” Hauberin glanced down at the scroll he still held, then gave a small, wry laugh, shaking his head. “I keep forgetting I’ve only been away a very short time; I’m always expecting to find piles of work waiting for me.”

“A short time . . .”

“Oh, yes. Alliar brought us back here the same day Li and I left.”

The scroll slipped. Hauberin moved too quickly to catch it, and struck his arm a glancing blow against the wall. Eyes shut, face gone pale, he muttered something short and sharp. “I am forever doing something stupid like that,” he said tightly.

Not knowing what else to do, Matilde murmured, “That . . . uh . . . word wasn’t part of my language lessons.”

“Nor is it going to be.” Hauberin opened his eyes, not quite managing a smile. “Forgive me.” The words were just a bit clipped with pain. “We’re a pampered folk, used to healing wounds with just a concentration of will. This nonsense,” he indicated the sling, “is growing . . . tedious. At least Serein had the . . . good taste to wound me twice in the same arm.”

Hauberin’s voice faltered. Matilde reached out a nervous hand, and the prince deposited the scroll into it. “If you’d just drop this onto the table . . . Thank you.”

“Are you—”

“There’s a very pleasant wine in that ewer, with a restorative spell added to it. It might be a nice idea for both of us. If you’d be so kind . . .” He touched his sling. “Pouring is a bit . . . inconvenient just now.”

Matilde hastily handed him a filled goblet. Hauberin sipped from it in silence. The color slowly returned to his face; after a bit, he saluted her with the goblet. “Kerlein’s potions are a wonder.”

“Kerlein?”

“The Lady Kerlein. My physician. Go on, try your wine.”

“The blue-haired lady? We’ve met,” Matilde said wryly and took a cautious sip from her own goblet. Oh, wonderful: warm and cool at once, sweet and sharp, sending a surge of strength through her . . . “How could you stand to drink what Gilbert and I served?” she burst, out, and Hauberin laughed.

“Manners are everything. Ah, but I’m forgetting my own. Come, sit.” He added as she settled herself, “I hope you’re not finding all this”—the sweep of arm took in the whole land—“too overwhelming.”

“Not quite,” she retorted. “Bewildering, yes; if I gave you my list of bewildering things we’d be here all day!”

“Oh, really? Name one thing, then.”

“Well . . . since this is the royal palace, I expected to see a city around it, or at least a town.”

He smiled. “We aren’t much for the crowding of cities. Remember that when we feel the need for a market or any other gathering, we can . . . ah . . . create whatever temporary buildings we need. And the palace is the town; you haven’t had a chance yet to realize how big it is. My ancestors were a flighty lot, adding a tower here or deleting a walkway there . . .” His gaze was suddenly abstracted, and Matilde thought with a flash of amusement that he, too, wasn’t free of the urge for architectural tamperings. “It was a wonderful place in which to grow up,” the prince added, “full of strange nooks and hiding places.”

Some of which Alliar had found. “But if there aren’t any cities, where does everyone live?”

“Some do live here in the palace. Others have their farms or estates or what-have-you. Forest groves, caves; not all my subjects need or want houses.”

“Oh.”

Hauberin grinned. “It’s not all so amazing. Come, stand up again if you would. See that wisp of smoke, there, to the west?”

Wondering how, with no sun for reference, he could tell west from east (some mystic sense basic to Faerie, she guessed), Matilde obediently leaned out the window. “I see it.”

“That’s from the chimney of a perfectly human farmer.”

“A—what?”

“Oh, yes. As solid and steady a fellow as you’d like. He fell through a rift between Realms one day, saw how fertile the soil was, and settled down. With a pair of buxom woodsprites, I might add. They like his human beard, I’m told. And other things.”

She gave a scandalized giggle. “You’re inventing all this.”

“No, really! He sends me a tribute of vegetables every autumn. A loyal subject. Speaking of which . . .” Hauberin’s voice was suddenly formal, very regal. “I understand that certain of my courtiers have harassed you.”

Matilde remembered those beautiful, casually cruel faces, those lazy, sensual eyes promising delight and pain.

Fighting down a shiver, she murmured, “It was nothing,” not wanting to make enemies in this alien land. “It happened right after we knew you were going to live. They were overcome with excitement.”

“It will not happen again.”

She dipped her head in thanks, then glanced at him skeptically, noticing, now that she was standing this close, the underlying pallor of the olive-dark skin. “Should you really be up and about so soon?”

He started to shrug, then clearly thought better of it. “My arm may be sore—mostly because I keep doing clumsy things to it, as you saw—but I’m no longer ill, thanks to you.” Hauberin paused. “Matilde, it was a brave, foolhardy thing you did, feeding me your strength in that burst of Power. Oh, believe me, I appreciate it! But you could have killed yourself, drained the life-energies right out of yourself.”

She hadn’t realized that. Chilled by what might have been, Matilde slowly sank back into her chair. “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just stand back and let that—that traitor murder you.”

“Thank you,” Hauberin said simply. “Eh, how do
you
feel?”

“Not as weary as before I drank that wine, but I’m—Oh, Hauberin, I’m afraid.”

“Surely not of those courtiers. I told you, they won’t—”

“You don’t understand. I c-cast Power.
I felt
what people were feeling . . . I looked into Charailis’ eyes and saw what she was truly like, inside I mean . . . that poor, treacherous,
empty
woman . . . and I—I didn’t kill her, did I?”

The prince shook his head. “All you did was help me Shield myself. The death-magic she loosed recoiled on her. In effect, she killed herself.”

“But I don’t know how I—what I—Oh God, what’s happening to me?”

Hauberin’s eyes were gentle. “Don’t be frightened, please don’t. It’s nothing to harm you, only that Faerie is doing what it does to all with latent magic: it’s enhancing your innate Power.”

Matilde stared in horror, seeing herself as witch, demon, no longer human . . . “Does that mean I can n-never go home?”

“Why, lady!” the prince exclaimed. “Here you are only newly arrived in my lands, and already you want to leave them?”

“Please. Don’t mock me.”

He sighed. “No. If you return to human Realms and refuse to use it, your Power will dwindle back into latency.”

“Then you can send me home.”

“At the moment,” Hauberin murmured, “I doubt I could transport you across the room, let alone to another Realm. Stay here as my guest for now, Matilde.” His dark eyes were glowing, Powerful. “You will enjoy my lands, I promise.

“But . . .”

Hauberin’s face was suddenly closed, alien. “Enough, lady. As for your returning home . . . we shall discuss that at a later time.”

###

The prince held himself regally straight of back till Matilde was gone. Then he sagged in the window seat, furious at his body for its lingering weakness.

“Alliar.”

“My prince.”

The being must have been just outside the door, appearing so suddenly Hauberin started, jarring his wounded arm.
Oh,
damn,
not again!
The nagging stab of pain made him snap irritably, “How could you be so thoughtless?”

“I . . . what?”

“Matilde! How could you bring her here?”

“I should think you’d be glad I did,” the being drawled. “Without her . . .”

“I wouldn’t be here. Yes, I know, but—”

“At the time, there wasn’t much of a choice,” Alliar continued. “I had you in my arms—dying, for all I knew—and guards were rushing down the stairs at us. Would you rather I’d abandoned the lady to Baron Thibault’s mercies?”

Hauberin held up his free hand in surrender. “No. Of course not. But . . . she wants to go home, Li. When she pressed me, her eyes bright with despair, I couldn’t answer her. Instead, I placed the smallest of persuasion-spells on her to keep her here, content, an easy thing now that she’s no longer repressing her Power so fiercely. I couldn’t bear to tell her the truth.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, Li, I
can’t
send her home. If I made the slightest miscalculation of time or space—particularly of time—it would kill her!”

The being shrugged. “She seems to like Faerie well enough. Keep her here, then.”

“As what? My—pet?”

Alliar’s eyes flickered with impatience, but the being said only, “Charailis’ estates have reverted to the crown, haven’t they? Why not give them to Matilde? She’s a capable lady, my friend. She’ll make a place for herself.”

“I hope so.”

Alliar paused, considering, head to one side. “It’s not just Matilde’s well-being that’s worrying you.”

“Ae, no. There’s the little matter of the succession.” Hauberin laughed without humor. “My heirs don’t seem to be having much luck, do they? First Serein, then Charailis—and now that the stalemate of Charailis is out of his way, what are we going to do about Ereledan?”

The being snorted. “Ereledan. All brave red-and-bluster, sitting safely at home so no one will think he had anything to do with your poisoning. I don’t think we have to worry about him.”

“Not worry. Just watch.”

“The succession, though . . .” Alliar sighed. “I never was happy with Charailis standing so close to the throne. Now that she’s dead . . . I don’t know. You must have
some
safe kinsman or kinswoman you could name your heir.”

“Who’d be ambitious enough to want the throne, but not so ambitious as to try to take it from me. Ah, I don’t know, either.”

“Problems of succession are hardly anything new to this land. It manages to survive, regardless. And there’s still something else bothering you.”

“Yes.” Hauberin slid to his feet, leaning back against the wall. “Serein. Can he really be dead this time?”

“As dead as I could arrange.” Alliar’s eyes glittered. “Hauberin, my aim was good. No one, not even he, recovers from an iron-knife through the heart.”

“I . . . almost wish you hadn’t slain him.”

“What!”

“Don’t shout. The fever hasn’t made me soft-minded. But if you could somehow have brought him here—yes, I know, you literally had your hands full—if you
had
been able to bring him, I just might have gotten the truth out of him about his curse. If it really
is
his.”

“Eh well, the thing could have died with him. You haven’t had the dream since—” The being stopped short. “What do you mean,
if
it was his?”

“When I was down in Thibault’s cellars, with Serein doing his best to keep me alert,” Hauberin absently touched the iron-burn on his forearm, “he didn’t show anger or triumph or any other emotion you’d expect from my dear cousin when he had me in his grasp. He was terrified. And I suddenly realized why: it hadn’t been him doing the transferring from body to body at all.”

“Oh, but—”

“No, wait. All along it didn’t make sense: Serein suddenly wielding magic he couldn’t know, placing a curse against the Rules, working a spell previously known only in myth. But when you accept that none of it was his doing, everything fits. Serein, somehow, found himself a powerful, alien ally. But by the time we were in the cellars, that ally, for whatever arcane reason, had decided to totally abandon him. Serein was trapped in human Realms in the middle of human politics, with nothing but the one fragile human body between him and the unknown—ha, no wonder he was terrified!”