A Strange and Ancient Name (3 page)

Hauberin, Hauberin, I owe you a debt I can never repay.

No. “Debt” was a cold, hard word. It wasn’t obligation keeping Alliar here, but love. Not, of course, anything like that pleasure gendered folk seemed to take in each other’s flesh; there were some things even a tangible spirit could never understand, physically or emotionally. But this love of friend and friend Alliar
did
know, and it was a wonderful thing, refreshing as . . . swooping down summer skies, comforting as . . . as . . . Ae, useless. There were no wind spirit equivalents for it. Except—joy.

The being stared out into the directionless brightening that meant the coming of dawn in sunless Faerie, and smiled.

###

Charailis stretched languorously, a sleek figure in soft, silky blue, unbound hair rippling down her back in a fall of pale silver. The hour was very late, and she was truly weary after the festivities at the royal palace and the journey in her carriage drawn by matched winged steeds back to her own estate. But Charailis stood at the window of her elegant white bedchamber, too lost in thought for sleep.

What an odd night this had been. Particularly in regard to Hauberin. Charailis, bored with courtly matters, had involved herself for some time with personal magics, personal affairs. But she really had been away from court too long if that unprepossessing boy had had time enough to grow into manhood.

Charailis laughed softly. Who would ever have expected the little mixed-blood creature to become anything of worth, let alone a ruler who had actually held the throne safe for six years? She had underestimated the young one, no doubt of that. So blatant an attempt at seduction would only have amused a subtle Faerie man. But she had been so sure the prince’s human blood would overwhelm him!

Fool,
the woman told herself without heat.
Were he that weak, he wouldn’t have held the throne for a day.

Charailis smiled sleepily. More experiments were definitely in order, not merely because on a purely sensual level she was wondering if Hauberin’s so exotic coloring meant an exotic taste in lovemaking as well. Sexual magic was a powerful force when properly controlled; bind Hauberin to her, mind and body, and who knew where it might lead? Of course, Serein would still need to be removed, and Ereledan (that hulking boor who couldn’t even control his own will). But they were both fools; they shouldn’t pose any real problems. Particularly once Hauberin was hers.

Charailis raised a graceful hand to her head, indulging herself in a moment’s fantasy, imagining a crown there. Naturally, once fantasy became fact, she wouldn’t need Hauberin anymore. But with one of the true Faerie blood on the throne, who would miss one little half-human?

Looking out into the coming dawn, Charailis smiled again.

###

Ereledan hadn’t any intention of rushing off to his home this night. If Hauberin was urbane or foolish enough to offer hospitality to those guests who wanted it, so be it. For one thing, unlike that icy, so-proper Charailis, Ereledan had no pretty little team of winged steeds to whisk him away. For another, after that near-disastrous duel (he didn’t want to think of that too closely), leaving now would have looked like panicky or, worse, guilty flight.

Besides, what better chance, when the nobility was gathered here from all over the land, to do some delicate prying? To see how many folk were discontent and just how many might consider a chance of leadership?

But there’d been nothing but frustration! Even before the duel had spoiled everything, Ereledan still had uncovered no secret plots, no festering hate, nothing on which to build. Though, admittedly, there was a certain simple-minded thrill in meeting here, illicitly, within the walls of the palace, with these his fellow conspirators.

They were his distant kinsmen, actually, related to him in such convoluted Faerie ways that even Ereledan wasn’t sure exactly how. At least, he thought with a touch of wry humor, if he was surprised by Hauberin’s guards despite the faint Warding he’d put on the room, he could always claim this was nothing more than a small family reunion.

The Powers knew these . . . conspirators weren’t good for much else. Ereledan glared at the six of them and thought,
What a lifeless lot!
None had inherited the main stock’s flaming red hair or solid build. They were downright trite, alike in slender height and golden hair and that carefully developed air of world-weariness. As Ereledan paced, they sprawled at their languid ease, watching him from half-lidded, amused eyes.

As though they expect me to entertain them, damn them!

Of course. They were almost surely here out of boredom, not any true hatred for the prince; long Faerie lives led to mischief in those without any depth of mind. However, Ereledan told himself, one worked with the tools at hand.

“You know why we’re here,” he began, and languid Astyal murmured: “Because you have dreams of glory.”

“Because we’ve been ruled by a mongrel too long!” Ereledan snapped. “Because it’s time to put someone of the true blood on the throne.”

“Your blood?” mused slender Sharial. “It seems to me I remember your grandsire’s deposing some time back. Mm, yes, and the elimination or most of your branch of the family.” A cold light flickered in his eyes. “It wasn’t a comfortable time for the rest of us.”

“What of it? The past is dead, and we—”

“Must live in the present,” Astyal finished with a yawn. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard all the platitudes before. We know what you want, Ereledan. Tell us why we should support you.”

Ereledan opened his mouth, shut it, realizing to his horror that suddenly he couldn’t think. Without warning, all his carefully planned reasons had vanished, and what thoughts he had were fluttering frantically about in his mind. Ae, Powers, he must say something, anything: “Hauberin has seemed to rule well so far.”

“Well, indeed. The land prospers.”

“Yes, but . . .” But
what?
Desperate, Ereledan forced out, “But that won’t last, it can’t. We all know what humans are like: flighty, animal, easy to control—”

“Like you?” Sharial murmured maliciously.

“No! How dare you—”

“We saw that duel, that ridiculous outright attack. What happened, kinsman? Were
you
controlled?”

“No! That’s impossible, I—”

“Then you simply lost control. While the prince, that ‘flighty animal,’ did not.”

“It was a fluke, an accident.”

“An accident that just might happen again.”

“It won’t—I won’t—wait!”

But his kinsmen were getting smoothly to their feet. Astyal gave him a flat, polite smile. “We, too, would prefer one of true Faerie blood on the throne. But so far, save for his . . . unfortunate taint, we have no reason to quarrel with the prince. Perhaps he will, indeed, reveal a weaker nature someday. Till then: Your branch of the family once nearly destroyed us all. Why should we endanger ourselves for you now?”

By the time Ereledan could find an answer, he was alone. And, for the first time in he knew not how long, afraid.

What was happening? In all his long life, he’d never been so confused! Arranging for this ridiculous meeting, then forgetting what he’d wanted to say—Powers! It had almost felt as though someone else had rummaged through his mind, then discarded him.

But that’s impossible! No one has such magic!

Despairing, Ereledan sank to a chair, head in hands.

###

The slave had fallen asleep long ago (or was feigning sleep), her long green hair fanned out across the pillows. But Serein remained awake, staring blankly up at the smooth golden ceiling of his bedchamber, fear a cold weight within him.

Ae, ae, what was wrong with him? When Hauberin had accused him of attempted assassination, he had smiled and denied everything, and prayed he had sounded convincing—because he couldn’t remember a thing!

It hadn’t been the first time. These frightening moments of blankness, these empty gray patches in his memory—could it be Hauberin’s plot? Was that little animal working some bizarre revenge? No. Cousin Hauberin was far too moral, too human, for that, damn him.

I’ll have his throne, and him as my pet.
But the familiar litany failed to soothe. He had made this vow often enough, yet somehow had never seemed to do anything about it.
This time it will be different. When my plan begins to work . . .

If the emptiness allowed it.

All at once Serein found himself remembering Ysilar, the long-dead sorcerer brooding over his envy and empty plots till at last his sanity fled. Maybe he, too, had begun by losing memory—

No! I’m not like him!

The room was freezing. Shivering, Serein glanced at the slave, aching for her to wake, to hold him in her arms and let him be a child again (but childhood had been a cold, sharp time, no weaknesses permitted), to let down his guard and for once be sheltered, safe . . .

But the slave continued to sleep, face turned from him. Suddenly furious that she was so peaceful while he suffered alone, Serein shouted at her: “Wake up!”

She started, blinking in confusion. “Wh-What . . . ?”

“Wake up, you lazy bitch!”

The slave stifled a scream as he slapped her, and tried to squirm away. Serein caught one slender arm and pulled her roughly back.

“Go ahead,” he gasped. “Fight me. Fight me!” His last bedmate had fought splendidly, savagely. Serein’s lips peeled back in a fierce smile as he remembered. How the creature had hated him, right up to the night when she had actually tried to kill him! Of course he had destroyed her, but with sincere regret. But this timid little thing—“Fight me!” he ordered, slapping her again. “Come on, fight!”

But the slave went limply submissive instead, whimpering, mossy-green eyes dark with pleading. Her meekness enraged him, aroused him, and suddenly he threw himself on her, forcing her thin legs apart, taking her savagely, frantic with the need to prove himself alive and real and in control.

At last, exhausted, he rolled aside, drenched with perspiration. The slave’s muffled sobbing annoyed him, and Serein snapped, not looking at her, “Go on, get out of here.” He reached out blindly to give her a rough shove. “Go on! Get out!” Still sobbing, she scrambled up and out.

Serein hardly noticed. Terror as sharp within him as ever, he lay amid the crumpled bedclothes and stared bleakly into space.

III

THE MIND OF A CHILD

It was not yet halfway into the next moon-cycle after the celebration of Hauberin’s Second Triad, and gifts and polite congratulations were still pouring in from neighboring lands, but the royal court was in session once again; festivals or no, life must go on.

Hauberin, by this point totally weary of ceremony, had refused any elaborate court robes. His silky gray tunic and cloak, simple of design but soft and comfortable, were close enough to royal silver to pass, and the beautifully curved silver circle of the everyday coronet was a relatively lightweight burden on his brow. But he couldn’t avoid the chair of state on its slightly raised dais; his people insisted on some splendor.

Splendid the chair undoubtedly was, silver wrought in elegant little ripples like the waves of the sea. Unfortunately, though, it had been all too evidently designed more for style than comfort.

His discomfort wasn’t eased by the half-finished Word of Power, lacking only the final syllable that he was holding in his mind. It was a traditional means of royal self-protection, the theory being that a ruler could complete and shout out the Word faster than any would-be assassin could move. But it was also a prickly thing to hold, prodding at his thoughts for completion, uneasy as a mental itch.

So Hauberin sat within the spacious council hall with its shining walls of amber and nacre, struggling not to fidget, surrounded by sages and courtiers and the merely curious, and tried his best to keep his patience.

Before him stood the co-complainants
(combatants, is more like it,
thought the prince): Lietlal, Lord of Cyrran, and Ethenial, Lord of Akalait, grand titles for two whose bordering lands could be walked from end to end in a day. Old rivals, Lietlal and Ethenial, though they could just as soon have been brothers to look at them, nearly alike in youthful-seeming hawk-fine features and silvery hair. Only their slanted Faerie eyes betrayed their age, dry with too much life, too much boredom.

And so, out of boredom, they fought. In fact, they had been fighting over land, over horses, over whatever excuse came to mind, for longer than Hauberin had been alive. But this time the quarrel had turned bitter. Hauberin leaned forward in his elegant, uncomfortable chair and asked Ethenial bluntly, cutting into the man’s flowery, empty speech: “Did you kill the man?”

Ethenial blinked, offended. “My prince, the land is mine. Any who enter onto it without my permission trespass and—”

“Yours!” Lietlal interrupted. “That land has been mine since before the days of—”

“Yes, yes!” shouted Hauberin before they could start their argument all over again. “But did you kill the man?”

“I am not a murderer, my prince.”

The prince took a calming breath. “Lord Lietlal has brought complaint before me that you slew his servant.”

“A slave. Only a foolish old hu—” Ethenial broke off sharply, fair skin blanching, and Hauberin guessed that the unfinished word would have been “human.” “Only a slave,” Ethenial finished lamely.

“A life.” Hauberin’s voice was cold. “Which neither you nor Lord Lietlal can restore. Now, one last time, my lord: Did you or did you not kill the man?”

Ethenial hesitated, as though hunting for an excuse. Then his proud head drooped ever so slightly. “It was an accident,” he murmured. “I meant only to frighten him away. No one dreamed he would prove so fragile.”

“Ah.” Hauberin sat back again, thanking the Powers for innate Faerie truthfulness; without it, this case might have dragged on for days. “Then I order you to pay a bloodfine of—”

Neither lord was listening to him. “What are you laughing at?” Ethenial hissed at his rival.

“You, you land-thief.”

“Land-thief! That land is mine!”

“Impossible! My father drew the lines himself!”

“Your father couldn’t have drawn a true line if his magic hung on it!”

“At least he wasn’t a treacherous land-thief!”

As they argued back and forth, voices growing shriller and fiercer by the moment, Hauberin slumped in his chair, fingers steepled, glaring darkly down at both of them. There were so many other matters demanding his attention—not the least of them Serein—but he couldn’t do anything about anything while he was trapped here. Yet if he dared complain, the prince knew he would get nothing but mild contempt from those around him, not, this time, because of his human blood but because of his “youthful agitation.”

Youth. Though of course they showed few overt signs of age, none of the men or women about him had been young for . . . Powers, who knew how long? Most of them had served his father, some his grandfather, some of them might even have served—

Hauberin tensed in sudden alarm. Magic—The two idiots were arming spells against each other! The prince sprang to his feet on the narrow dais, completing and shouting out the Word of Power he had been holding in his mind, just barely tempering it in time to keep it from killing force. Even so, the Power was enough to slash through the half-formed magics, dispelling them, and send Lietlal and Ethenial staggering back as though he’d slapped them with all his might, stunned into silence.

Hauberin blazed out at them: “How dare you bring battle-magic into my court! You’ve already killed one man over that barren strip of land. How many more were you planning to add?” Their guilty glances only fed his fury: They hadn’t even stopped to consider the risks of war-spells in that crowded hall! “By the Powers, I should seize that land as Crown property!”

The prince looked sharply about, hunting a scribe to take down his decree.

No . . . wait. He had a better idea.

Hauberin whirled to face the two lords again, smiling fiercely. “You are so eager to fight for that land? So be it! You
shall
fight, one moon-cycle hence, at a site of my choosing: one to one, alone, with no one to aid or interfere.”

They stared. “Do you mean . . . death-spells, my prince?” Ethenial asked nervously.

“Whatever it takes. One way or another, my lords, the matter shall be settled!” With a deliberately dramatic swirl of cloak, Hauberin settled back in his chair. “You have my permission to leave.”

As the chastened lords slunk away, a wary voice asked, “But is this wise, my prince?”

Hauberin turned his head to see Sharailan at his side: Sharailan, oldest of the royal sages, so old no one could remember him as other than he was now: his fair skin still smoothed and unmarked, his back straight, but seeming somehow so brittle he would shatter at a touch. Even the once-bright hair and eyes had changed, their color faded under the weight of untold ages. A truly wise man, Sharailan. Also, unfortunately, literally a royal nuisance, devoid of wit and spontaneity.

“Why, yes, Sage,” Hauberin replied. “I think it is. Do you really believe those two want to give up their cherished bickering? No. They’ll ponder awhile, come up with some excuse not to duel, and go right back to their quarrels. Only this time they will be more careful of what they do.”

“But, my prince,” Sharailan insisted, “are you sure?”

“I am.”

“Yes, but—”

“I said, I am!” All at once at the edge of his patience with Sharailan and the whole tedious day, the prince sprang to his feet once more. But he couldn’t just go storming out of there, not without leaving condescending whispers in his wake. In a pretense of proper princely duty, Hauberin snatched at random the scrolls the startled sage had been holding for his signature. But then the prince glanced down at what he held, and stifled a groan. He wasn’t going to escape with anything so simple as a signature with
this
thing. Still, he could hardly stuff it back into Sharailan’s hands!

“I did promise to work on this spell,” Hauberin admitted. “And so I shall. Now. Outside. Alone!”

###

Hauberin, his crown sent back to the royal treasury, his cloak abandoned in this soft weather, sat out on a palace terrace in the warm afternoon light, inhaling air sweet with hay and flowers, and tried to concentrate only on the spell-scroll spread out on the small stone table before him.

It wasn’t easy.

Powers . . . what if he had been wrong about Lietlal and Ethenial? What if they did fight, and killed each other? Maybe Sharailan was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have acted so rashly. Maybe—

Hauberin exhaled sharply, angry at himself. Alarming though the fact sometimes seemed, even after these six years of rule, he
was
the prince. While he might listen to his advisors as much as he pleased, he must not let anyone else make his decisions for him.

Besides, I was right,
Hauberin told himself.
They will not duel.

He hoped.

Ah well, to the scroll. Hauberin studied it for a long while, frowning. And gradually he became engrossed in the problem despite himself, plotting out the steps he would need to take . . . Decided, the prince set to work.

Some sage in ages past had inscribed a basic wheat-fertility charm on the parchment, the Powerful symbols twisting elegantly about each other. Hauberin, delicately untangling and widening the twists, was attempting to widen the charm’s narrow application by including his own magical additions.

A few days back, he had argued that surely an older, more seasoned scholar would be a better choice for this. But the sages had all insisted the spell would have increased potency if the prince himself worked on it, citing the magical correlation between ruler and land. Hauberin wasn’t so sure about that. He was the rightful prince, no argument there, and as far as he knew, his half-human status had no effect one way or the other on his fertility. But it wasn’t as though he and actually sired a child, after all.

Still, Hauberin had to admit that testing his abilities like this (assuming the spell worked and all this wasn’t for nothing) was fun. Besides, there was a limit to the strength or the little field-magics most farmers used, and anything that coaxed the land into greater abundance . . .

The prince gave a dry little laugh. Whenever he turned his talents to some such less . . . fashionable subject, he bewildered his nobles. Why, they wondered, worry about something as plebeian as crops and harvests?

Let those harvests fail, and we’ll see how quickly they learn the answer to
that!
There’s a limit to what magic alone can do. Without the farmers they hold in such contempt, none of us would eat or
—

“Oh, damn!”

The moment he’d released his will from them, the stubborn spell-syllables had curled themselves back up on the page into their original form. Yet again.

Hauberin leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. There was such a thing as being too conscientious. Maybe Alliar was right. Now that he had the fundamentals of the new spell set, he should just turn the whole thing back over to the sages.

The prince straightened, resting his gaze on his lands. The view from here was glorious: a sweep of fertile fields and meadows rich with flowers—solid patches of red, blue and yellow from here—merging into a dark green tapestry of forest folding itself up against the wild mountains beyond, and over all the clear, sunless, achingly blue sky of Faerie and the luminous Faerie light.

Hauberin got to his feet, soft gray tunic whispering silkily at the motion, and moved forward to lean on the terrace’s smooth white balustrade, enjoying the moment’s idleness.

But then his gaze sharpened. There amid the peaceful fields lay Serein’s estate.

Serein. So far there had been nothing but sweet innocence in all the man’s actions. By now, Hauberin could almost convince himself he had imagined the threat in Serein’s eyes the day of the celebration—no. It had been real enough.

And why hasn’t he acted on it?

The law, of course, was in Serein’s favor. Hauberin couldn’t exile his cousin, or slay him, or even hold him as a royal “guest” without some very real proof of treason; his magical folk, being by nature so near to chaos, clung to their laws as the only true stabilizing factor, and not even a prince dared go against them. Hauberin slammed his fist down on the balustrade in frustration.

“Damn you, cousin,” he muttered, “what game are you playing now?”

A mind brushed his, briefly, questioningly, and the prince sighed and answered silently, “Yes.
Come.”

He didn’t actually hear Alliar approach. But then, no one ever did. A flash of motion, and the wind spirit was at his side, at the moment no taller than Hauberin and vaguely elfin in shape, fairly glowing in the clear light, deeply golden of hair and skin and luminous eyes.

Worried eyes. “My prince.” The being swept down in a bonelessly graceful bow, and Hauberin frowned.

“So formal, Li? What is it?”

“Am I your friend? Do you trust me?”

“Yes, and yes. Look you, I’m in no mood for word games.”

“Serein again?”

Sometimes his friend could read him too clearly. “Serein,” Hauberin agreed.

The being shivered “You’re going to have to kill him someday.”

“Alliar!”

“It’s true. For the sake of the realm as well as your own.”

“Ach, Alliar.” Very gently, Hauberin said, “He . . . isn’t Ysilar. You don’t have to fear him, I promise you.”

Anger flickered in the golden eyes. “I don’t fear him. But maybe you should! Wait, let me finish. Serein may be next in the line of succession, curse him—but can you picture him in your place?” Slim hands flew in a quick, fierce protective gesture. “Winds prevent! A fine prince he’d make, for all his fine looks, he, who dares hunger for your lands when he can barely manage his own?”

True enough.
“But he
is
next in line. And aside from the fact that I don’t intend to make things easier for Charailis or Ereledan by removing him, I’m not about to murder my own kinsman. Particularly when I haven’t been able to coax out the slightest hint of whatever plots are hiding behind that pretty face of his.”

“You . . . could use force.”

Hauberin snorted. “How long do you think my people would support a half-blood prince who bent the law for his own use?”

“Ah. There is that. Ay-yi, at least the boy is free of him!” It was said with an ex-slave’s fervor.