Forging the Runes (8 page)

He came back to full attention with a jolt. Worr was in the middle of declaiming: " . . . the blood had been deliberately drained from the poor woman's body and—"

"Deliberately," Beortric echoed, his eyes wary.

"I swear it. The—the slash that had slain her was as neat as any made to dispatch a rabbit. And thinking of that made me remember . . ." Worr shuddered. "I don't know how I could have forgotten it, but recently, when we were out on the hunt, I saw this man, Ealdorman Osmod, holding a rabbit he had just slain."

"Is that such a crime?" Osmod asked, wide-eyed. "Granted, a rabbit is hardly mighty game, but the meat—"

"The rabbit's throat had been neatly slashed. Its body was . . . the ealdorman had . . ." Worr paused, plainly fighting with revulsion. "He had it pressed to his lips. And he was . . . drinking its blood.'

A flood of possible reactions stormed through Osmod's mind. He quickly rejected outrage (too much chance for unbelievable melodrama) and mockery (a wise man didn't mock the king's . . . friend) and settled for astonishment. "W-what?"
Yes, let the words tumble out as though uncontrolled.
"That—how—that is the most . . . " He stopped as though overwhelmed, then gave the laugh of a totally amazed man. "My lord Worr! Is that really what you thought you saw?"
Charming smile, now, just a touch, charming twinkle to the eyes.
"I had just slain the rabbit, yes, but all I was doing was looking closely at the creature to see if its fur was worth saving."

Worr looked like a small boy who's been patted on the head by adults. "But—I saw—"

"Come now," Osmod soothed, "the forest was dappled with shadow; the light was already fading. If I had to stare so closely at the rabbit I was holding, it's not at all surprising that you, seeing me from a distance, could have been tricked by the twilight."
And you believe me, don't you, you can't help yourself, you do believe me, I will it.
"No shame in making an honest mistake." He could feel Worr's resistance, heard the young man manage a defiant, "But . . ."

You do believe me. I hold the runes in my will, I hold your mind in my will. You do believe me.

In another moment, he was going to pant aloud from weariness or simply fall over.

You do believe me. You do believe me.

Worr's shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry." It was bitterly said. "I had no right accusing you of such a terrible crime. If you wish to settle this by combat—"

Too winded by his effort for speech, Osmod waved a casual hand. But he must speak, put in a final touch. Somehow he managed not to sway, somehow managed to keep his voice from shaking. "Nonsense. Though some might say that the death of a common whore is hardly a matter worthy of a nobleman's interest, I say it does you credit, my lord, that you show so much concern."

There. That was backhanded enough to silence Worr. And Beortric, being Beortric, was watching his favorite with gentle eyes: he had pretty much forgotten all about the original charge.

For now,
Osmod thought,
for now. No matter what I do, the seeds of suspicion, as the saying goes, have already been planted. But if they start to grow,
he vowed,
I, not Beortric, shall cut them off.

Revelations
Chapter 8

Osmod, alone in his bedchamber, crouched over the bits of rune-carved bone spread out on the clean white cloth, then let out the softest of frustrated sighs. His rank entitled him to this separate house, though of course it was barely an eighth the size of the royal hall, lacking elegant carvings or gilding, but it was still part of the royal compound. Which didn't give him much privacy, even when privacy was most vital. Such as now, with the runes showing him:

Nothing. Not the slightest trace of pending trouble. In fact, this reading was so very bland, as had been the two he'd already cast this night, as to seem almost a mockery. Granted, the days had been deepening into winter without his having sensed even the smallest hint of suspicion from the king—but Beortric was such an inoffensive fellow he wouldn't believe there was even an out-and-out rebellion till it struck him down.

As for Worr . . . Osmod tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. Out of the many castings of the runes, there had been one—though, disconcertingly only one—revealing trouble from the youngster.

A hint. Possibly not even a true one. Typical of the Lords of Darkness
—assuming
that They exist. No, no, They must exist; who else would be so frustratingly vague?

But that was the way things went. He dare not ignore the Darkness now that Midwinter was fast approaching. The darkest hour of the longest night of the year was, all the strictures claimed, the time when the Lords gave up the greatest Power to Their followers—but only in exchange for the greatest risk.

For one long moment, Osmod toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing. Plain, mundane political power was surely enough.

Of course. And he was a woad-blue barbarian.

A Midwinter offering could, by the rules, only be human. And for it to be of greatest risk, that could only mean performing the sacrifice right here within the royal compound.

Osmod swept up the runes and slipped them back into their soft leather pouch. So far, no one had missed the kitchen boy who'd been last year's offering, or the elderly servant of the prior year. But back then, there hadn't been the awkwardness of Worr planting doubts in the king's ear, either.

Ah well. He would simply have to be more cautious. Osmod scrambled to his feet, shivering a little; the hall's central fire had, of course, been banked for the night. He straightened, listening . . . yes. At this time of year, when the thin song of the wolves could be heard out there beyond the city's walls, it might not be considered too bizarre for someone to meet an unexpected end at the fangs of some starveling creature even within Uintacaester.

I hope You appreciate the dangers I'm facing,
Osmod thought, only half-jesting.
Let's hope that the Power I receive in exchange is worth the trouble!

Worr stirred restlessly, unable to sleep for all the bed's cozy warmth, and heard Beortric's drowsy protest. But now he couldn't get comfortable at all; the king had pulled most of the heavy furs to him and what was left wasn't keeping out the drafts.

It was more than mere physical chill, Worr thought in misery. Every time he did manage to close his eyes, he kept seeing the terror-stricken face of that poor little whore, even after so many days had passed. And sometimes he dreamed that Osmod loomed over her, smiling his charming, charming smile.

"Damn!"

It had been whispered just a touch too fiercely. Beside him, Beortric stirred, asking drowsily, "Worr? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I don't. Maybe it's just the time of year."

"So close to Christ's Birth, you mean?"

"So close to the old pagan darkness," Worr corrected. "Maybe it's just that. But . . ." He turned earnestly to the king, staring into Beortric's sleepy eyes. "It's Osmod. Wait, wait, please let me finish, I don't know what— why—please, Beortric. We must see what he's doing this night."

The king's gaze sharpened. "You sound like some hysterical girl. If you've had a foul dream—"

Worr groaned. "It's not that. It's . . . I don't know what it is. I feel . . . I feel as though someone's been tampering with my mind: Osmod. Yes, yes, I know this really does sound like a girl's hysteria, and if I'm wrong, I—I'll accept all penalties for false witness. But—Beortric, believe this: I just don't think I'm wrong."

Osmod smiled thinly. It had been almost pathetically easy to lure the boy to him with gentle words and feigned kindness: the servant—what had he been, some young kitchen lad, perhaps?

No matter. He had been all too willing to believe that a fine, noble ealdorman should have taken a sudden interest in him. The boy had been pretty enough under the dirt for that to be credible, had Osmod's tastes run that way. Which, he thought with a touch of dark humor, they did not.

A pity I'm not Worr,
he told the limp body.
You might still be alive. A pity, too, that you were such an insignificant creature. No family, no friends, no one to miss you. So it goes.

He'd strangled the boy almost, but not quite, beyond life. Now Osmod delicately cut his prey's throat, finishing what he'd begun, enjoying the sharp taste of blood, the wild thrill of Power renewed. The servant had been better fed than the whore; his young life force was so much stronger that it was a pure delight to drink.

But even as he luxuriated in this hot new strength, Osmod kept one corner of his mind clear on what would come next. When he was done, he would disguise the body in a roll of worn cloth, see that it was burned like so much trash. And if any should discover the contents of that roll, why, all he need do was feign surprised horror with everyone else.

Yes. And that burning would complete a symbolic triple death: just the devious type of sacrifice the Lords of the Underworld were said to like the most. And the whole thing was being done right under the noses of the royal court. The Lords should definitely like that as well. Maybe this time the Power wouldn't fade; maybe this time he would be as magically strong as he wished. And then, and then . . .

Osmod shut his eyes in ecstasy.

"Oh
God!
"

His eyes flew open at that shout of horror. Beortric! Beortric, and that damnably honorable Worr at his side like a faithful hound. Osmod let the body fall, snatching up his pouch of runes. No time to hunt for the ones he wanted: he thrust his fist about them all, praying that would be enough. Before Beortric could do more than draw in breath, Osmod cast all his hastily summoned will, all the strength he had just gained from the sacrifice into this one desperate cry:

"
You have seen nothing odd, nothing. You have seen nothing. You have seen nothing. Nothing. Nothing!
"

Sobbing with the effort, Osmod fell limply forward over the body, too drained to move, sure harsh hands were about to seize him. But . . . there was nothing. Just as he had willed it: nothing. Blank-faced, Beortric and Worr both were walking away.

With a gasp of relief, Osmod let himself slide into exhausted darkness.

He woke aching and sore and frighteningly . . . empty. Terrified that the effort of controlling both Beortric and Worr had destroyed his magic, Osmod fumbled with numb fingers for the pouch of runes. Nothing, he felt nothing—

No. The touch of Thorn sent the faintest of tinglings through his mind. The magic was still within him, but sadly worn.

Not surprising
he thought with weary humor.
It takes a bit more Power to erase the memory of a human slain than of a rabbit!

With a groan, Osmod rolled over onto his back, stretching out tired muscles, admitting reluctantly that the perilous memory hadn't truly been erased. Ah no, he'd merely placed a patch over a pit. Sooner or later that patch was going to give way, and then—

Ah well,
Osmod told himself, deliberately forcing a light mood,
the time for change was long overdue. You knew that. And Egbert will make a fine ruler.

But first Beortric and that awkward and damnably too-honorable Worr must die. Osmod had seen enough folks die by now, many by his own hand, not to be squeamish.

Yet those victims had been nobodies. These two, king and noble . . . how could he . . . ? Yes, and it must be done in such a manner as to attract not the smallest shred of suspicion to him.

How, indeed? A tool. A tool. Who could he use, who—

"Edburga!" The answer came to him so suddenly he nearly staggered, wondering for an uneasy instant if this had come directly from the Lords of Darkness.

Bah, of course not. It was such an obvious, logical choice. Edburga had no friends at court, thanks to her bitter, savage nature. There would be no awkward political complications. She already, not surprisingly, loathed Worr; it was evident enough to be a common part of court gossip. And she was, Osmod thought, most conveniently under his control.

Ah yes. Edburga would make a splendid assassin.

What, Ardagh Lithanial wondered absently, testing the weight of the practice sword, was winter like in Wessex? It certainly couldn't be more disagreeable than winter here in Eriu, which had turned into its usual damp, dank, chilly self. Never a decent snowfall, never a nice, crisp, bright-skied day . . .
never anything even remotely like the clear, crystalline Sidhe winter—

No. Let yourself sink too deeply into what Cadwal called
hiraeth,
the bittersweet longing for what couldn't be, and you lost all hope for what was.

Cadwal, yes. Ardagh watched the man's approach with a slight smile. At least that silly little charm for sweet sleep seemed to have helped him.

It
had
helped, hadn't it? Ardagh felt his smile fade at the sight of the weary, troubled eyes. But Cadwal didn't volunteer any information, asking only, "Ready to go a few rounds?"

Ardagh saluted him with the sword. "Of course." Very much aware of how survival in this land depended on weapons skill, the prince practiced his swordplay whenever he and Cadwal both had the time free. And preferably, Ardagh thought, whenever they could manage to avoid an audience.

Nothing like a cold, dank grey day for that.

A little more perilous to duel with even these blunted iron blades, but a touch of danger did make things more realistic. Besides, there wasn't enough of the cursed metal to sicken him.

They fought in silence for a time, working their way gradually up from the basic warm-up exercises to genuine swordwork. Ardagh could feel himself starting to smile, enjoying the elegant, quick dance, enjoying the fact that his Sidhe reactions hadn't been slowed at all by this human Realm. Of course, things might be different in Wessex.

Wessex. The thought hit him like a shock of icy water that very soon now he would be heading once more into the unknown, alone and friendless as before—

Ardagh gave a startled yelp as fire raced along his arm. Cadwal was instantly at his side, wild-eyed—presumably seeing his head on a pole for injuring a princely guest—and trying to see the wound even as Ardagh tried to keep it hidden, insisting to the mercenary, "My fault, not yours. I let my mind wander. It's all right, really—"

"It's not all right, dammit—"

"You don't have to—"

"I do!"

Cadwal had already grabbed his arm and pulled back the sleeve before the prince could stop him. Ardagh saw the worry in his eyes change to . . . what? Shock? Horror? The horror of a man seeing the solid world turn to mist? "There's no blood." It was almost a whisper.

"No," the prince agreed.

"There's a burn. The sword burned you. The
iron
burned you."

"Cadwal," Ardagh said softly, "I think you had best sit down." Swallowing dryly—iron burns, he was coming to learn, tended to hurt out of all proportion to their size— he added, "I think we had both best sit down."

"I think we must, indeed. I've got some salve in my chambers, stuff that's good for burns—that
is
the sort of burn that can be healed?"

Ardagh nodded. "Lead on. I really would like to sit down."

Cadwal's quarters were spotless as ever; the mercenary refused to give himself the slightest chance to slide into an exile's apathy. He busied himself with finding the pot of salve and a clean strip of cloth, then stood hesitating so long that Ardagh finally took the pot from him and treated the burn himself.

"It's not serious," he assured Cadwal. "A scorch. I've gotten worse." He glanced up. "Sit, man, before you fall."

Cadwal sat, staring.

"Go ahead," Ardagh said after an awkward moment of silence. "Say what you're thinking."

The mercenary gave a gusty sigh. "What I'm thinking is that you're something other than anyone would believe."

"And that is?"

Cadwal never flinched. "I'm not sure exactly what. Maybe . . . Tylwyth Teg."

"No." Ardagh's mind was racing through a hasty
Should I? Should I not?
But there was the evidence of the iron burn to explain. And . . . there had once been a lonely night and this human's comforting welcome to a fellow exile. The prince added frankly, "Not Tylwyth Teg. But they are distant cousins."

"You mean I'm
right?
"

It came out as such a squawk of astonishment that Ardagh couldn't hold back a burst of laughter. "Didn't you expect to be?"