Forging the Runes (4 page)

Worr blinked, rubbed a hand over his eyes, then rode away without a word. Osmod stood staring after him, then crumpled to one knee, gasping, fighting the sudden waves of weariness surging over him. Maybe sorcerers in those stupid ancient sagas could work their phenomenal feats without getting tired, but he certainly couldn't; he doubted anyone could. But Worr—had it worked? Lords of Darkness, had it worked?

Of course it had. Worr surely would have said or done something if his will hadn't been overcome. He wouldn't have ridden off like a blank-faced puppet. No, the youngster wouldn't remember a moment of what he'd seen.

And yet, and yet . . . Osmod shuddered, wondering after the fact if he hadn't sensed just the faintest spark of resistance gone unquenched. That would be all it would take, one unconquered spark, to let memory return. Controlling something as simple as a rabbit was one thing; controlling the human mind was another matter entirely.

Ach, nonsense. If they'd been returning to the royal hunting lodge, that might have been a problem; it was impossible to work anything useful while crowded into such a small space with so many potential witnesses. But of course the season was already too late for the lodge. All he needed to do, once they were back in Uintacaester, the king's city, was reinforce matters with something stronger than a rabbit's life.

He certainly couldn't stay kneeling here like some mindless, bloodstained predator. Osmod hastily set about cleaning his mouth and hands, then scrambled to his feet, catching his terrified horse by the bridle and swinging back into the saddle, fighting the animal till it obeyed him. He'd known the risks of his chosen path from the start. As for Worr . . .

If I fall,
Osmod promised Worr silently,
I take you with me.

The hunt had, Osmod mused, turned out to be a good one after all. The king had somehow managed to bring down a fine stag, and Osmod (careful as ever not to outdo his ruler) had felled one almost as fine. More, Worr was his usual earnest, perfect self, showing no sign that sorcery had been worked on him. Yes, and—a petty thing, perhaps, Osmod thought, but it was most satisfying to note—the young man had missed his mark completely.

In every sense.

They came out of forest into cleared farmland. Ahead lay the city, safe within its ancient stone walls, "the old work of giants," as the common folk claimed, and Beortric suddenly raised his arm and ordered a gallop.

With horses already weary from the hunt,
Osmod thought.
And with the crowded city ahead. We must have our dramatic gesture, mustn't we?

Wagons on the road ahead were being frantically dragged out of the way. People were scurrying for cover. The hunt came sweeping through the gates and into Uintacaester, which brought them, perforce, back to a more sensible pace; the High Street might be wide enough for a gallop, even though it would mean trampling pedestrians, but the side streets, with their closely packed wooden houses, were just too narrow for anything more than a walk.

Osmod shook his head, glancing about. All this wood, with never a gap. No one had learned anything from the fire some . . . what was it? . . . thirty years back, had they? But then, how many ordinary folk could remember something thirty years back?

A good many in the crowds were yelling polite cheers. Osmod raised a startled brow. Well now, listen to this: some of the cityfolk were actually calling
his
name. The ealdorman smiled and courteously dipped his head as he rode by. It never hurt to show yourself friendly to the common folk; you never knew when they might prove useful.

Besides, Osmod admitted to himself, he liked these people, so busy and industrious. Loyal servants of their complacent king who would easily shift their loyalty to whomever else sat the throne so long as he left them alone. And to whomever stood beside that throne, as well.

Osmod glanced to one side, to where the great wooden bulk of Uintacaester s cathedral towered over the common houses. Another reason why he had no desire for the throne: the Church would
not
support a sorcerer-king, and no king could rule a Christian realm without the Church. Bishop Cynbert was a civilized, politic man, but there were, Osmod thought wryly, limits. Cynbert was off in Rome—as well he might be, what with the coronation of the mighty Charlemagne drawing a good many prelates to the holy city.

Ah, Charlemagne. Things could be worse. I could be at
his
court. Even the strongest of sorcerers would he dwarfed beside the arrogant power of that man.

The ealdorman shrugged. Even when the alliance between Mercia and the Frankish realm had been alive, Charlemagne had made it clear that he had no interest in Wessex or the rest of Britain; no need to worry on that front now that the alliance was as dead as Offa.

A flash caught his eye. The massive bulk of the royal hall loomed before him, every bit as splendid as the cathedral, the lofty roof taller even than the surrounding palisade. Its gilded shingles glinted in the sunlight like something magical, something out of the sagas, and Osmod smiled anew.

What a perfect day, indeed.

Plans and Trials
Chapter 3

It had been a wearying ride back from the battle with Leinster and the victory over Finsneachta. But now at last Fremainn lay before them: Fremainn, royal fortress of the High King of all Eriu. Ardagh glanced up at the high earthen rings through which Aedh and his men were riding, and felt the by-now quite familiar little pang of dismay.

Fremainn. Ahead, encircling the great mound within the rings, stood a wooden palisade, ridiculously plain and primitive to someone used to the elegant, spun-silver walls of the Sidhe. Within that topmost wooden ring, he knew, lay not some breath-catchingly beautiful estate (flash of memory: his own quiet, airy mansion, his own lovely gardens ablaze with flowers—no!) but nothing more grand than a wide, grassy field set with simple houses of stone or—more commonly—wood and thatch.

Ae, Powers.

Tolerate these folk, even rather like these folk though he did, he would never be able to accept that this,
this
was the finest palace in all the land.

But now they were all at once racing up through the palisade's gate and out onto the grassy field. The prince let go of his dismay, realizing that he was, to his surprise, doing just what every other returning warrior was doing: scanning the gathered crowd for one special face.

Why, you romantic idiot!
he jibed, amazed at himself.
You refugee from a bardic tale!

Aedh was already leaping from his horse, arms open, as Eithne his wife came running to him like a girl, laughing, her chestnut hair flying out behind her, her eyes wild with relief. Ardagh alone knew that the queen must have been spending all her time till now secretly weaving protection spells to shield her husband; Eithne was no great sorceress, but she did have that touch of Power. Aedh swept her into his embrace and gave her a passionate kiss that made the crowd cheer.

But there, ah there . . . Ardagh froze, forgetting his self-mockery, all at once—just as the bards sang—hearing nothing, seeing nothing but one face. "Sorcha," he murmured.

Sorcha ni Fothad stood just as still, her face sharp with mingled joy and rage: only she, Ardagh thought with an inner smile, could have managed such a mix. Her eyes in daylight were the deepest blue of the midnight sky, her hair was dark red flame slipping free of its braids, and Ardagh suddenly found himself abandoning control as thoroughly as any human.

So be it.

Imitating Aedh, he flung himself from his horse and caught his lady in an embrace.

In the next instant he wondered if that had been such a wise idea; Sorcha was hardly the sort to be submissively swept off her feet. But for one endless, splendid moment, Sorcha's lips were fiery against his own. Then she pulled back, gasping, "You're not hurt? You're safe?"

Ardagh chuckled at the human ability to ask obvious questions. "Quite safe."

"Good!" Sorcha practically snarled that out, her voice suddenly sharp as a slap. "Don't ever frighten me like that again. If a sword had cut you—iron—"

She stopped short, choking on her anger, knowing as well as Ardagh that she dared not continue this train of thought where others could hear; as far as Sorcha knew, only she, in all Fremainn, was aware of his true Sidhe nature.

The truth's not that much greater,
Ardagh thought.
Aedh knows as well, and—our secret, hers and mine— Eithne.
"You're right," he said before Sorcha could regroup. "You're truly, totally right. I had no business taking part in that battle. It was a stupid thing to do, and I'm incredibly fortunate not to be hurt. Just let me bathe and rest a bit," he added, voice dropping to a sleek purr, "and then I will . . . more properly tender my apologies."

That startled a laugh out of her. "Ardagh," she murmured, for his ears only, "och, Ardagh. Maddening, no, no, totally infuriating though you are, I do love you!"

Her hand rested gently on his cheek for a heartbeat. Then, still trailing laughter, she scurried off into the crowd.

And I,
Ardagh thought, watching her go,
I love you, human though you are. I love you.

And what, I wonder, is to become of us?

The humans had given him a fine little guest house when he'd first arrived in Fremainn: small but clean and quite comfortable, even though it contained little more than a feather bed, a table and a chair. More to the point, at least to Ardagh's way of thinking, it was set a bit apart from the other buildings; it gave him some much-needed privacy. Particularly since, eccentric though the idea might make him seem to the humans, he refused to have a servant share the house with him.

Right now, the prince was very glad of the solitude. There had been, understandably, quite a feast to welcome home the triumphant king and army, but by now the last revellers had staggered to their beds. Ardagh sat alone in the now blessedly quiet night, keen-sighted as all Sidhe in the darkness, studying the small amulet he'd taken from the dead Leinster warrior and, strand by delicate strand, working out the weave of its Power.

Such as it was. Ardagh straightened with a sigh that turned itself into a yawn, arching his back to get out the stiffness, thinking with regret of the magically hot baths of his homeland.

Ah well. He was here, and if this ridiculously weak amulet was all he had to work with . . .

And yet he hesitated. This one thing he'd kept from Sorcha, this one thing he'd held to himself . . . why? If he did, indeed, manage to open a Doorway home, what then? Did he mean to leave at once, without so much as a glance behind?

Did he mean to leave Sorcha?

No,
Ardagh realized. Never that. Whatever else might happen, he would not merely abandon her.

What, then, was bothering him? The prince searched his thoughts with Sidhe honesty, but found nothing but vague uneasiness.

Now isn't this ridiculous? Why worry about What Might Be when for all I know the amulet is going to shatter the moment I start a spell?

"Enough," Ardagh said, and set to work.

The hour was much later than it had been when he'd begun. Ardagh stood alone in what was surely the darkest time of the night, sagging slightly with weariness and looking down at the amulet in his hand,
feeling
it tingling ever so faintly with Power. At this late hour, no one would be about. And no eyes but his could pierce this moonless darkness.

Then why was he hesitating anew? He was tired, yes, longing for that soft feather mattress, but he'd been much more weary and yet successfully worked far more intricate magics.

Try it!
the prince scolded himself.
It was ridiculously easy to compose the spell; it should be ridiculously easy to cast. You have all the words, the gestures, fixed in your head. You're not
that
weary. Go ahead! Work it!

But he just couldn't seem to begin. With a little shock of that total Sidhe honesty, Ardagh realized that now he was afraid, he was genuinely afraid!

His sudden shiver had nothing to do with physical cold. How could he ever forget that terrible moment of banishment, that more terrible yet moment of realization that every Realm-crossing spell had been torn from his mind? Since then, what had there been to do but try creating some new version?

Out of what? The bits and scraps of spells to be found in this magic-poor Realm? Amazing I managed anything at all!

There had been so many almost-successes so far, so many tantalizing hints, glimpses of a Gate, of Faerie glory beyond—

So many heartbreaking failures.

You idiot! Suppose you finally have the right spell? Are you going to trap yourself here because you're too frightened to use it?

No. Ardagh grimly began, staring at the little amulet, using it as his focus. This newly minted spell required little more than his own will and a quiet incantation, which was good, because the original spell had been simple as well. A corner of his mind
felt
the tiny bit of Power in the amulet rouse, tingling, and knew a thrill of hope, but Ardagh could not let anything distract him. He continued chanting softly, willing more and more strength into the spell, willing more and more of the amulets Power awake, willing the spell and the amulet and the full force of his longing into one magical call:

"
Open! Open! Open!
"

There, ah there, he saw the shimmering in the air, he saw the Doorway beginning to form, he knew with a wild blazing of hope that this time it would work, this time he would leave the human Realm behind and—and—

—and he couldn't hold it, there wasn't enough Power, he couldn't hold—

With a great rush of air, the Doorway snapped out of being. As the spell gave way, Ardagh's strength went with it. He fell forward as though his legs had been cut out from under him, landing full-length on the cold earth. Alone in the darkness, too worn for self-control, too worn to do anything else at all but despair, the prince wept.

But the ground was just too chilly for such weakness. After a short while, Ardagh caught his breath and forced his emotions back under control. Shivering, the prince pulled himself slowly to his knees, but could get no further. He huddled like that for what seemed half the night, head resting on one upturned knee, trying to find the strength to stand, the backlash of unspent Power from his failed spell aching in his mind.

But . . . was someone watching him? With a great effort, Ardagh struggled back to his feet, staggering with exhaustion, trying to identify who . . . Cadwal . . . ? Yes. It was the mercenary whom he'd sensed standing nearby.

He straightened. How near? Had Cadwal seen anything of what had just happened—or rather, not happened?

Impossible. Human eyes were all but night-blind, and what was left of the night was still very dark. The man could have seen nothing. Staggering, Ardagh headed back towards his small guest house, his home in Fremainn. Falling across the bed, too weary to undress, he thought with bitter, weary humor,
This Realm . . . must like me. For no matter what I do, it just . . . will not . . . let me go.

Cadwal stood where he had been standing still as stone ever since seeing Prince Ardagh collapse. His first impulse had been to run to the prince, see if he was hurt. But something inside hum had said, clear as words,
no.
It wasn't right to intrude on a man's private grieving, be he prince or commoner.

Yet . . . there was more here than an exile mourning his lost land, much more, though Cadwal couldn't quite have put his thoughts into clear speech. He hadn't quite seen, the mercenary told himself, not in all this darkness, he hadn't quite heard, either. But surely before he'd fallen, Prince Ardagh had been chanting in his strange, beautiful native tongue, whatever it might be. And just for a moment Cadwal could have sworn there had been something more than . . .

Than what? He felt a little shiver run up his spine, in that moment for all his years of war nothing more than a child of his homeland, of often-mystic Cymru. Had he really seen something other than the mundane walls of Fremainn? Something more? Had there been just for that bare heartbeat of time, a hint of something very splendid, indeed?

Och, idiot! And are you going to start believing in Faerie at this late date? Are you going to add that to— to whatever it is that's driving you to wander about like a lost soul?

That last question was far too easy to answer: Dreams drove him—

No, Cadwal corrected himself, not dreams, only one dream.
The
dream. Gwen, so real he could almost touch her, Gwen pleading with him,
Help me, save me, free me.
It couldn't really be her, of course not. And yet, and yet . . . he had heard so many stories in his youth, tales of souls held from rest, souls held captive in little cages. . . .

No. There are no such things as soul cages. No such things as ghosts, either. With all the battlefields I've seen, there should have been at least
one
someone reluctant to leave life behind. But no. You're dead, you're dead. Your soul goes on to heaven or hell. You do
not
hang about pestering the living like an unwanted guest.

And why couldn't he believe it? And why couldn't he banish the dream? Feeling rather foolish about it, Cadwal had gotten himself some holy charms from Father Seadna, the High King's own priest, and worn one charm about his neck and spread the others all about his bed. Feeling even more foolish, he'd said a few rhymes dimly remembered from his Cymric childhood, things that the old women had taught him would chase away all uneasy spirits.

And yet the dream refused to be banished. Every night:
Save me, Cadwal,
cariad,
free me.

"
Iesu Crist,
"
he muttered, not quite in prayer, not quite not. Not much of a choice here, and neither very pleasant: either it really was poor Gwen's trapped soul— or he was going mad.