Forging the Runes (34 page)

Iliach looked genuinely surprised at that. "Your pardon, Prince Ardagh, but what has the past to do with the here-and-now?"

"Forgive me. I had almost forgotten how . . ."
devious
. . . "practical our politics can be."

Tathaniai took the smallest step forward, the faintest hint of color in her pale face. "Prince Ardagh, listen to us. It was no easy thing for us to open a Portal into this Realm, particularly in secrecy. We cannot hold it open for much longer; it is too Powerful a thing not to attract attention."

"And you certainly don't want to be trapped here."

Lord Iliach sighed ever so softly, ever so dramatically. "This Realm has changed you. It would be so wrong, so terrible for one of the Sidhe, for a prince of the Sidhe, to be lost to . . . humanity. Come back with us, Prince Ardagh. You need make no promises. Only come back with us to your rightful Realm and then we will have sufficient leisure for more graceful speech."

Oh yes, there would be a good deal of leisure for me in my brother's prisons. If he didn't slay me outright this time around.
But Ardagh said nothing, and after an awkward moment, Iliach continued, "Surely you see that we're offering you your only chance to come home. You cannot return on your own. Think of it, Prince Ardagh. Perhaps your mind has been permanently altered so that it may not retain that one vital spell."

Powers, no!
But then Ardagh noted Iliach's careful wording and smiled thinly, refusing to show the surge of terror he'd just felt. "Perhaps. Anything may be 'perhaps.' "

But what if he did return with them? What was there to say he couldn't outwit them? Once back in his rightful Realm—

What then? Act against these would-be traitors? Eirithan would thank him sweetly and simply cast him back into exile; his brother had already implied as much in their last meeting. But to act against Eirithan—

Then I really would be an oathbreaker.

"Shoo," he said suddenly, making whisking-away gestures with a languid hand. "Go play somewhere else. I won't join in your games."

"I fear," Iliach said, smiling ever so urbanely, "that you have little choice. This Realm, we've noted, is disgustingly lacking in Power. But there are, after all, three of us—"

"Yes, yes, I know how the rest of that melodramatic line goes, 'and only one of me.' Try me, my lord, if you think me so weak. Try me."

It was bravado. He could feel their threefold Power, and even though it was ridiculously weak in comparison to what any one of them could work in the Sidhe Realm, still, it was, perforce, three times stronger than what he could wield.

Cursed if I'm going to meekly surrender!

Ardagh slipped a hand into the pouch containing his makeshift runes—

Ae, hot! And hot, too, the little amulet he used for far-speech—reacting to the rousing Power, yes, and to the nearby Portal, and for all he knew there would be an out-and-out magical explosion if he tried to even—

"Now I don't know what's going on here," a familiar voice said in Gaeilge, "but I don't think I care for the odds."

Cadwal!
"Come join the party, my friend," Ardagh called in relief. "And bring your nice shiny sword!"

"Already have."

The iron blade blazed out, bright as a brand to Sidhe eyes. Ardagh, used to such things by now, never blinked, but his would-be abductors flinched back in alarm, faced for possibly the first time in their long lives by this deadliest of metals. "See, my lords?" the prince drawled. "I have sunk so low. Yes, this human is my friend, and yes, he does bear iron, and yes, I have no fear of it."
As long as it stays in Cadwal's keeping.
"Can you say the same?"

Of course not. And of course they weren't about to admit it. Their faces masks of inhuman rage, the three noble Sidhe spat out, "Live here, then! Live among the humans and rot!"

They turned and fled, managing, Sidhe that they were, to make it look like a graceful, voluntary pace rather than a rout. Ardagh raced after them, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to see the Portal,
feel
it, know if it would somehow miraculously let him pass. There it was, there ahead of him, glistening and shimmering in the night. The three Sidhe leaped into it and were gone, and Ardagh leaped and—

Someone was shaking him. Someone was calling his name. Ardagh forced his eyes open to find himself lying sprawled on the forest floor in the middle of true night, a frantic Cadwal at his side. The prince slowly dragged himself up on one elbow. "What . . . happened?"

"Damned if I know! One moment you were racing after those—those folk. The next: hell, I don't know how to describe it. There wasn't anything that I could see, but something somehow threw you aside as though you didn't weigh a thing." Cadwal shook his head, clearly remembering. "I was sure you were dead."

"Not quite." Ardagh forced himself dizzily back to his feet, not quite staggering. He warily stretched his arms and winced. "Bruised, definitely, but not broken."

"But
what happened?
"

"Ae, Cadwal. The Portal . . ." But even with his Sidhe will, he couldn't get that all out in one steady breath. "It . . . rejected me. It simply would not let me pass." The bitterness would not let itself be repressed. "It let them go. Those would-be traitors may pass as freely as they will—but I, I who have kept every oath I swore, I cannot!"

Cadwal never flinched, even though, judging from his expression, Ardagh must not have looked even remotely human just then. "I see," the mercenary said after a moment. "That does have a foul reek to it, yes."

His matter-of-fact manner was more comforting than any gushing words of sympathy. "Forgive me," Ardagh told him. "I tend to forget that you're enduring your own exile."

"Hey now, at least I'm still living in my own
world!
"

That struck a sore spot all over again. What if Iliach's half-veiled suggestions were true? What if Eirithan really had lost control of the throne and the land? What then? Civil war? Chaos? Remembering the many eddies and undercurrents of ambition forever swirling in his brother's court, Ardagh shuddered. What of the land? What of the magical heart and fertile soul of the land? There must be a ruler, one ruler, one just, strong will who could guard the land and those upon it. Eirithan just barely fulfilled that role, but if he fell . . .

Not me. It can't be me. Even if it were so, even if I were the one foolhardy enough to take up the burden—I cannot leave this cursed human Realm!

Watching the prince—and probably, Ardagh realized, guessing the gist of his thoughts fairly well—Cadwal pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Tell you what. We get back to Eriu, we really do get good and drunk!"

The deliberate coarseness of that forced a shaken laugh out of Ardagh. "Thank you. I never thought I'd see the time when I'd be gladder of human friendship than of Sidhe, but—thank you."

"Helpful, that's me."

"Don't belittle yourself." Ardagh slipped a wary hand in among the runes. Still almost uncomfortably warm, runes and amulet both. Odd reaction. But then, no one had ever tried mixing Sidhe and runic magic before and—

Powers. He was on the edge of something. Shivering anew, Ardagh thought that if this weird mix of Sidhe magic, runic spell and Eriu amulet could actually produce enough force to be felt, so much force just by accident, then it just might be the key he'd been seeking, the key that would unlock the doorway home. . . .

No, he corrected wearily. Not that easily. This was all very new, very theoretical. He wasn't going to achieve anything without a great deal of wary experimenting. After all, the heat was also a warning of magical wildfire that had almost been released.

And yet, and yet—no. Time enough for serious study when we are back in Eriu. I can wait till then. For . . . there is hope. For the first time in . . . however long there is hope.

"Still going after Osmod?"

Ardagh, startled back to the present, grinned sharply. "To coin a phrase, my mercenary friend, damned right I am! Powers willing, at least
something
in all this strange adventuring is going to have a satisfying ending!"

Complications
Chapter 34

Alone in his bedchamber with no one to see him—no one save for innocent Leofrun, and she hardly counted—Egbert rubbed his hands wearily over his eyes, then suddenly threw back his head with a cry of alarm and frustration, hastily choked off

What was happening? What was the matter with him? It was one thing to dream of conquest, of glory. Any king worthy of his throne now and again harbored such imaginings.

But this was something more.
These
dreams, these so very aggressive dreams, these visions of war and victory and domination, had started intruding on his waking life. They insinuated themselves into his mind whenever he wasn't on his guard and, Egbert thought, it was only purest luck that they hadn't actually interfered with his duties.

So far. And the damned things aren't even enjoyable!

He shuddered. As a boy, Egbert had idly poked into a great pile of autumn leaves, only to find his stick stabbing into a dead and rotting dog underneath. The sickly bitter, sickly sweet stench had haunted him for days.

And these dreams have something of that same falsely sweet foulness. It's not just the glory of expanding an empire, no, it's the—the gloating in victims' pain and misery . . . The dreams
couldn't
be mine, I
couldn't
be conjuring such things!

Yet who else could he blame? Egbert had done some discreet investigations, never letting anyone know exactly why. Let them all think this just another level of kingly caution; nothing odd about that since everyone knew there were such things as sorcerers and dark spells. But nothing had come of those inquiries. Who cared, save perhaps the Church, that two of the kitchen help knew a few tiny charms against scalding or that one of the weavers just might be a pagan? No one in the entire royal court was found to be working anything as terrible as sorcery at all, let alone any sorceries aimed against him.

Evident sorceries, at any rate—bah, he was beginning to sound like poor, confused Leofrun.

Egbert ran his hands roughly through his hair, trying to focus his thoughts. God, he couldn't tell a soul about these dreams. That was all a new king needed:
Listen, everyone, I'm being haunted by unpleasant dreams and just may be going slowly mad, but don't worry about it; I can still rule—

"Bah," he repeated aloud.

A soft hand touched his arm. Egbert sprang to his feet, whirling, snatching blindly for a weapon—

"Leofrun." It was a sigh of relief. "Don't startle me, woman. You know better than that,"

"Osmod," she said softly.

"What?"

"Osmod," Leofrun repeated, moving softly to his side, her long, sleep-tousled hair tangled about her naked body: graceful, Leofrun, lovely as a swan-maid for all her dullness of mind. "Osmod is bad."

"Nonsense."

"Osmod," she insisted, "Osmod, Osmod, Osmod."

"Stop that, Leofrun!"

But she continued in blank, stubborn determination, totally oblivious of her nudity, "Osmod, Osmod," until at last, exasperated, Egbert slapped her.

He'd never struck her before, Leofrun stopped as suddenly as if he'd cut the strings of her legs, her mouth half-open, eyes filling with reproachful tears. In another moment, Egbert thought, she'd begin to wail. Or worse, simply stand there and weep without a sound.

Ach, damn.
Feeling as though he'd just hurt a child, Egbert sighed soundlessly and pulled her to him.
This is ridiculous. I must find myself a wife. A politically useful wife, yes, but also someone who's sane and sensible! Someone with whom I can have a genuine conversation!

In the meantime, here was Leofrun. Adoring, stupid, safe Leofrun, her face buried against his chest, her bare body warm against him. Despite his impatience with her, Egbert couldn't resist a little stirring of interest. "I'm sorry," he said to her wild mane of hair. "I won't hurt you again, I won't. But I have troubles enough. I don't need you adding to them with your ridiculous prattle."

Of course she didn't understand one word of that. Leofrun pulled free, wiping her nose with a casual hand, her gaze fixed on him, eyes as wide and blank as those of a cow. Egbert felt his sudden interest fade just as quickly and fought back the sudden urge to strike her again, to shake some sense into that staring face. Useless. She was as she was, and nothing could change her.

"Leofrun," he said with careful patience, "Ealdorman Osmod has done nothing wrong. No, no, listen to me. Listen! He has done nothing wrong. Do you understand that?"

She nodded, but stubborn refusal was in every line of her body, and Egbert sighed and gave it up. "Leave me, Leofrun. Yes, it's all right; I'm not angry with you. Just . . . leave me alone."

The day was bright with sunlight, but Osmod stood hidden in the shadow of the royal hall, watching his fellow ealdormen and working on keeping an aura of
not here
about himself. Which, alas, was not quite as easy as it should have been. This was, he mused, bound to happen sooner or later. As always, the strength he stole in others' blood and lives had begun to drain away. And for a moment Osmod thought with a flash of sullen defiance,
If the Lords of Darkness want me as their agent, why in the name of that Darkness don't They provide me with the proper abilities?

Because, of course, the Lords of Darkness were neither human nor at all concerned with human wants and needs. And reminding Them of that fact was hardly wise. For a heartbeat he was only human and chilled at the thought of that, at the thought of Their reality and what it meant to him.

And then Osmod grinned in sardonic acceptance. What it meant to him was power and Power both. Things were as they were, and at least the late Physician Octa had been good for a great deal of work, from winning over a fair number of ealdormen to his way of thinking to reestablishing a decent hold on the king's mind.

Not as firm a hold as I'd like. But with the Witan quivering on the edge, almost won, who cares what the king thinks!

Yes, yes, the Witan was already beginning to assemble. Osmod watched as Ealdormen Cuthred and Eadwig, as unlikely a pair of conversationalists as any, stopped to argue. Cuthred, neat and prim as always, was the one shaking his head in disapproval. "No, and no again. It is not wise."

Florid Eadwig threw up his hands in flamboyant disgust. "What sort of man are you? The insult offered by Mercia—"

"Yes, there has been an insult, and yes, we truly must act, I'm not denying that—"

"Now! We must act now!"

"Eadwig, please. This isn't some boyish feud."

"Of course not, dammit, but—"

"Please. We can't just rush madly off to the attack. Before we can even start thinking about marshalling anyone, we must have a plan—"

"
Aha, then
we
are
in agreement!"

Cuthred blinked. "I never said we weren't."

Eadwig's face brightened with relief. "Ha, of course we need a plan!" He slapped the slender Cuthred on the shoulder, staggering the man. "But at least we're in agreement: Mercia must pay. Hell, we're all in agreement!"

"Except for the commons."

"Who have no say in the matter!"

"And the merchants, who certainly have."

"What are they going to do? Withhold funding? Not if the king raises their taxes!"

"The king," Cuthred muttered darkly. "There's the problem. Will the king himself agree with us?"

Oh, he'll agree,
Osmod promised.
Whether he will it or not, King Egbert shall agree.

But the two ealdormen drew back in surprise as a slight figure drifted up to them, weaving between them like a cat, her rich gown slightly stained, her hair decked with wilting flowers.

"My lady Leofrun!" Eadwig exclaimed. There was, of course, a wordless understanding of her role at court. "Lady, you shouldn't be here."

"She must have slipped her . . . her attendants," Cuthred murmured. "Come, lady, we'll see you safely back to—"

"No," she argued, "no. Osmod. Osmod!"

Eadwig, showing far more patience than Osmod would ever have believed, asked gently, "What about him?"

But Leofrun, glancing frantically from man to man, could only shake her head in confusion. "He—the dead man—Octa is dead."

"Yes, lady, we know that." Eadwig's voice was still remarkably patient. "But thank you for reminding us. Now, come and—"

"No! Don't you see? You don't! Osmod! He—it—don't you see? Not—no!"

"Shh, lady. See? Here are your women now."

"No! You don't understand!"

But the two ealdormen, having handed her over to the frantic ladies, hurried, glad to be free of the embarrassment, on their way.

Yes,
Osmod told them,
join the rest of the Witan. The king will be with you shortly. We are almost ready to strike.

Naturally, someone else was going to have to . . . sacrifice himself for the cause. Himself, Osmod added, or—seeing Leofrun slipping by like a dim-witted ghost, closely trailed by the ladies who were also her guardians—just possibly herself.

No. Leofrun was far too perilous a target.

And yet . . . such complete and utter innocence, for all that she was Egbert's mistress, the innocence of an unspoiled child mixed with the passion of a woman—

Osmod shook his head ruefully at opportunities wasted. As though she'd caught something of his thoughts, Leofrun stopped short, staring at him with the eyes of a deer sighting a wolf. "Lady," Osmod said, and bowed.

But she, ach, she went right on staring; even when her ladies took her gently by the arms and pulled her away, she turned her head to him and kept right on staring.

You know, don't you? Poor innocent, you know exactly who and what I am. And no one will believe you.

Cadwal glanced at the prince as they wove their way through the dense Cymric forest. "You're worried, aren't you?"

"Is it so obvious?"

"It is if you've been living in such close quarters as we've been doing. Not that you've been talking in your sleep," the mercenary added hastily, catching Ardagh's sideways glare, "or any such humanlike thing. But you haven't been talking much while you're awake, either, and what you have been saying isn't more than a word or two."

"Mm."

"Like that. You
are
worried. And . . . well, this is probably none of my affair, but I have a feeling that its not just about Osmod."

"Meaning?."

"Those Sidhe-folk, they told you something unpleasant, didn't they?" When Ardagh resolutely said nothing, Cadwal pressed on, "Something about your home."

"You are," the prince snapped, "rapidly overstepping the boundaries."

"I was right, then."

"Yes," flatly.

"No shame there, worrying about your homeland. Hell, I've done it often enough, and there's no complications about magic in my case. Well . . . almost none," he added softly, "not counting the Tylwyth Teg."

Cadwal could be stubborn as a hunting hound when the fancy took him. "My brother," Ardagh said in resignation, "may or may not be losing his hold on the throne. The courtiers you saw might or might not have been telling the undistorted truth about that. They certainly went to enough trouble to find me. However, they might also have simply been inventing a tale by which to snare me. And then again, they might or might not, one or all of them, have been sent by my brother to trick me into open betrayal." He glanced sideways at Cadwal. "Does that satisfy your human curiosity?"

"
Dewi Sant,
"
the mercenary muttered. "And here I thought Eriu's way of governing was complicated. No insult meant, Prince Ardagh, but I'd not be mixed up in your people's politics, no, not for the world's own treasure."

"You're not. Nor am I."

Yet. Or is that to be ever again? Ae, Powers.
He had truly never given the safety of the Realm much thought before this. The land was simply
there,
something one took for granted.
Why am I feeling this sudden surge of protectiveness now, when there's nothing to be done about it?

Hiraeth, he decided at last,
Cadwal's so-evocative Cymreig
hiraeth,
that half-pleasurable pain for what you cannot have again.

But the runes, clattering softly together in their pouch, reminded him that
hiraeth
someday might be ended for him—no, no "might be" about it, he snapped at himself. He
would
go home. But first he must go back to Wessex.

"Cadwal," the prince said suddenly, "I'm weary of this trudging through the wilderness. And I have, by now, gained as much control over the runes as I'm likely to have."

"Meaning?" Wariness edged the mercenary's voice.

"Meaning that I'm going to try something drastic to return us to Wessex."

Cadwal groaned. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"Hush, now. Follow me. I
feel
something nearby, something useful."

And so, Ardagh thought with wry humor, they'd reentered Wessex as much by Sidhe whim as by design. Nothing but Sidhe whim—which had nothing as common as mere logic to it—could explain whatever had possessed him to try using that one small stone circle he'd sensed back in Cymru.