Forging the Runes (17 page)

Osmod paced the length and breadth of his bedchamber, far too restless to sleep. The prince . . . that encounter . . . that strange, alarming, infuriating encounter . . .

If ever, the ealdorman thought with a flash of dark humor, he'd had any doubts about Prince Ardagh's pedigree, they'd just been resolved. No one but a prince could ever have shown such complete, absolute, self-assured
arrogance!

The lines of battle had most definitely been drawn.

Oh yes, for what good that does!
Prince Ardagh, curse his haughty soul, had been quite right. Their two forms of magic were totally alien to each other. Although . . . did that really mean he couldn't work harm on the prince? Just because he couldn't puzzle out how the other's magic worked, did that mean Prince Ardagh would be quite immune to the effects of battle-runes? Maybe, Osmod mused, he'd been letting the prince's smooth words trick him, too.

But again, why did there need to be a battle? Facing an enemy was one thing, fighting him another. Why not just take the prince at his word? Let him negotiate as he would. Let him make his pacts. And then, Osmod told himself, simply watch him leave and know that that's the end of the matter.

No. If Prince Ardagh left with an alliance between Wessex and Eriu, that would hardly be the end of the matter. Ever. And when he came right down to the hard and sharp of it, Osmod mused, did he really want to see such an alliance?

No, again. He stopped short, leaning on the window-sill, not really seeing anything—save for the images in his own thoughts.

Northmen, now . . . or rather, the prince's emphasis on them. Osmod shook his head impatiently. This nonsense about their being a threat was just too unlikely. That pack of seafaring barbarians could never amount to more than the occasional thieving nuisance. Forming an alliance with Eriu against a threat that didn't exist would be the height of uselessness. Worse than useless. Therefore, there had to be some secret meaning behind the obvious surface of the words—but what?

Osmod turned sharply from the window, resuming his restless pacing. All right, then. All right. Say that, bizarre though such an idea might be, the Northern threat was real. Who would they be more likely to attack? Wessex, so far to the south, with the rocky coasts of the Cymru kingdoms between it and the northern sea? Or Eriu, sitting out in the open, right in the path of any southbound ships?

And so it's Eriu that benefits from any alliance, not us.

No, no, wait, it wasn't so simple. An alliance between Wessex and Eriu would mean sending men and arms to defend the island. That was fine as far as it went, because once one had troops on foreign soil, one had opened a nice door towards future occupation. But although Egbert could field quite an impressive army, given the Witan's approval, sending any of it as far away as Eriu would mean spreading his forces dangerously thin.

And is
that
Aedh's real god? Weaken us so that
he
can invade? Or, more realistically, take our trade routes?

No and no again. That didn't make sense, either. Eriu was positioned too far from the mainland to make practical use of those routes.

Of course, Osmod admitted, stopping thoughtfully by the window again, Aedh
might
have intended nothing at all sinister. There was a certain logic to the image of forts lining both coastlines, particularly when added to the natural fortifications of Cymru's harsh coast. Such an alliance would be quite formidable, able to catch any marauding Northmen between them and . . .

No! That still meant taking valuable warriors away from Wessex. It meant weakening Egbert's chances just when he stood at the edge of doing what no Saxon king yet had done: conquering and uniting all of Britain.

This is ridiculous! First and foremost,
there is no Northern threat!

Enough. The disadvantages of an alliance far outweighed any possible advantages. And there was another factor, one he'd been delicately avoiding:

Magic.

Ah, yes. Were an alliance to be made, Prince Ardagh would be using his powers to shape whatever followed. He would be forever the enemy.
There
was why he could not be allowed to go in peace.
There
was why he must be stopped.

Were an alliance to be made. He would, Osmod vowed, staring grimly out into the night, allow no interference, not from Eriu, not from meddling Cathayan princes. No matter what must be done, he would see to it that Egbert triumphed. And so he would—
Egbert
would—rule.

There would be no alliance.

The Wild Hunt
Chapter 17

Egbert sighed and rolled over in bed, reaching out to pull the bed curtain aside a fraction. Ach, morning, or nearly so, judging from the pale grey light pouring in. Morning, and he could have sworn he hadn't slept more than a few turns of the hourglass.

The woman beside him squirmed in her sleep, whimpering like a puppy, trying to avoid the light, and Egbert let the curtain fall back into place, watching her without like or dislike. Leofrun her name was, and she was no one particular, chosen not so much for her beauty or abilities in or out of bed as for her simple devotion to him; it would not let her betray him, nor would she ever have the wit to ask anything of him but the occasional trinket.

Egbert turned away. This was a fine thing for a king, reduced to taking only the safest and more innocent-minded of bedmates! But those years of exile, he admitted, could not have left him anything but a very wary man.

A man who would survive, God willing, come what may. A king who would rule.

He groaned. This chain of thought brought up the subject of that alliance yet again. That damnable alliance. He'd been
dreaming
about the cursed thing, in the brief snatches when he'd actually slept, mostly seeing Osmod solemnly warning him,
no, don't do this thing.

The smallest chill slid down Egbert's back.
Had
those been dreams? Only dreams? Everyone knew that saints and demons both could send visions while men slept.

Hah. Osmod would make a rather poor saint. And, ambitious or no, he's hardly a demon!

And yet, the dreams had been so insistent, so unnervingly real. There, Egbert thought, was the true reason he'd not slept.
I
must
be a king
he told himself wryly,
if my sleep has grown so troubled!

Ach, but that alliance . . . so easy to say no to it, to be rid of the whole stupid situation by simply sending Prince Ardagh back to Eriu with some polite, politically noncommittal message.

Or maybe not so polite? Osmod's tentative suggestion teased his mind: "
There are ways, I need not tell you, of quietly being rid of the prince
. . ."

No! Even if it could be done without obvious blame being attached, a king could hardly go about ridding himself of all inconveniences. Particularly not royal inconveniences. Besides, Prince Ardagh, for all his haughty elegance, had hardly done anything to warrant murder!

Egbert yawned, then sat up, brusquely pulling the curtains aside. "Leofrun. Up, woman. Out with you."

She gazed blearily up at him, for a moment no more wit in her eyes than in those of a cow.
Is this what I've come to?
Egbert thought with a flash of disgust.

But it wasn't Leofrun's fault. She was as God had made her.
Aren't we all?
the king thought, then answered himself,
No. We only begin as God makes us. What we make of ourselves after engendering and birth is something else entirely. We are, in a way, our own creations.

And this was a ridiculous time for philosophy. Or near-blasphemy. "Leofrun! Morning's here. Up with you."

He shoved, not ungently, to get her on her feet. Leofrun, still blinking sleepily, her hair a wild yellow mane, threw on her tunic and padded uncomplainingly away. The guards, Egbert knew, would let her pass without question or comment. And now that they knew he was awake, servants would be in here shortly to tend to him.

Morning, and he still didn't know what to do about that alliance.

Save take refuge in a king's usual tactic.
Stall,
Egbert thought.
Stall and see what happens on its own.

It was starting to be a fair, bright day out there. The air was nicely cool and sharp. No urgent business waited this morning.

Perfect hunting weather. Yes, the king decided. A good, fierce hunt would be just the thing to banish shadows.

Osmod rubbed a hand over his eyes, then yawned again, so powerfully he felt his jawbones creak. Morning already, and he'd surely had no more than a few moments of sleep. Morning, and he'd spent all the long hours of the night sending dreams to Egbert, willing about the alliance,
no, don't do this thing.
Had all that effort worked? Had any of it? Surely Egbert had received some of the repeated messages, some of the emotion behind them: a combination, nicely designed, Osmod thought with a moment's self-congratulation, of alarm and worry and concern-for-the-land.

He yawned again, stretching wearily. It would have been most satisfying if he could have, at the same time, sent distrust of Prince Ardagh into the royal mind, or at least planted the seeds of such distrust. But there were limits to what he could do.

Let Egbert be hostile to the thought of an alliance. That will be enough. And meanwhile I, oh, I will deal with our magical prince.

The day, early though it was, was already promising to be fair, early enough in the season to not be too warm. A perfect day for a hunt, Osmod thought.

Of many things.

The morning was still barely more than a band of grey lightening the sky and the ground was still chill and damp with dew, but Ardagh and Cadwal, grinning at each other, were already exercising their swordplay together. Both of them, the prince knew, were glad of the chance to let off frustration and pent-up energy in at least this illusion of action—although Ardagh was still cherishing the memory of the night before and pleased as well with the small bit of magic he'd worked just before sleeping. Whether or not that magic had any effect . . . he would learn, soon enough. And then, maybe . . .

Ae, stop this mental wandering! That's how you got burned the last time!

The rest of their small entourage loafed nearby, watching, making amiable wagers and jests. Ardagh suspected that Cadwal, somewhere at the back of his mind, must have been worried about giving him another iron-burn, particularly since they'd had no choice but to use real swords, but that wasn't stopping the mercenary from providing him with quite an enthusiastic challenge and—

"Hold," the prince said suddenly, lowering his sword. He brushed back damp strands of hair from his eyes with his free hand. "We seem to be disturbing the neighbors."

It was one of the royal servants, glancing nervously from prince to mercenary and back again, bowing hastily to Ardagh. "Don't look so worried," the prince drawled. "We won't behead you. What would you?"

"The—the king—King Egbert—"

"So I gathered he was named," Ardagh said solemnly, and heard a choked-off snicker from Cadwal. "No, no, go on," the prince told the flustered servant. "I won't interrupt again."

"Ah. Uh. King Egbert offers his greetings for the new day. He will partake of a royal hunt—"

"Ah!"

"—and—and invites you to join him."

"Does he, now?" Ardagh smiled. "Tell King Egbert that I will be happy to accept."

As the prince watched the relieved servant scurry off, Cadwal hissed at him, "You can't go!"

" 'Can't?" "

"Och, you know what I mean. Look you, I'm not trying to insult you, but—hell, don't you see? Forest, the confusion of a hunt, nobody really sure where anybody else is—you couldn't ask for a more perfect time or place for a 'stray' arrow, a 'misthrown' spear. This has got to be a plot, something the sorcerer's planned to get at you!"

"More likely, to get me alone."

"Same thing!"

"No. Hush. It could also be something that
Egbert
has planned to 'get at me' so we may speak in relative privacy. It could," Ardagh added slyly, "even be something else entirely. We can't know what without accepting the invitation."

"But—you—" Cadwal threw up his arms in disgust. "How can you sound so calm about it?"

"Come, Cadwal, walk with me a bit before our muscles cramp up. Now then," the prince continued once they were out of anyone's hearing, "do you think me a fool?"

"No, of course not. But—"

"I have already refused to join the royal dinner. I can hardly refuse to join the hunt as well. Especially since," he added casually, "I had something to do with it. Stop staring, Cadwal, or at least blink. You look like an owl."

"How did you . . . ?"

"I sent a little touch of persuasion to Egbert last night." Ardagh gave a short, humorless laugh. "It wasn't easy. Osmod had set up enough . . . ah . . ." He shook his head. "This language doesn't have the term for it. Let's just say that sending that little magic was about as easy as sailing a tiny craft through endless fog."

He saw a flicker of nervousness in Cadwal's eyes. "Osmod's really been a busy fellow, then," the mercenary said in a voice that was carefully neutral.

"Oh, he has. A frustrated one, too, since—no insult meant, Cadwal—no human has the will or the sheer magical stamina he needs."

Cadwal looked at him in something like admiration. "You
are
good. No," he added dryly, "insult meant. Got us so neatly off the subject of the hunt I didn't even realize where we were going. But I'm putting us right back on the road. Osmod won't need magic to—"

"Come now, don't you think I calculated in the chance of an 'accidental' assassination? I'll be wary, no fear of that, wary on
all
levels." He saw from Cadwal's slight flinch that the man understood. "Besides," the prince added cheerfully, "if anyone tries to attack me while my attention is elsewhere—well, now that's why you'll be coming with me."

"Hadn't planned on anything else. Beats sitting here doing nothing."

"Your enthusiasm," Ardagh drawled, grinning, "overwhelms me. First let's get into dry clothing. And then—off to the hunt."

Ardagh drew in a deep lungful of air spicy-sharp with the scents of wild growth. Ae, Powers, but this was wonderful! Not true, deep forest, of course, not so close to a human city. There were signs of humanity all around him, felling of trees, clearing of underbrush—the wide dirt trail itself. But as the hunt rode further out from Uintacaester, the prince saw that there was still some wildness left. He took a second deep breath of air almost as free as that in true forest, sensing at least a trace of the wild earth-Power all around him, and suddenly laughed aloud.

Egbert, riding beside Ardagh on a stocky bay stallion, small as all the Saxon horses seemed to be, quirked an eyebrow upward. "You are in good spirits this morning, Prince Ardagh."

"How should I not be on so fine a day?"
Particularly since there's just enough Power to pleasantly feed my own. Enough, at any rate for one small spell. And you are so conveniently riding a stallion.
"And don't you agree that it's good to be away from the city for even this short while?"

"Oh yes." That was a heartfelt exclamation. "I don't have to tell you, surely, how welcome—and rare—I find any time away from court." But then Egbert shrugged. "A king's life."

"Indeed." Ardagh winced at an unexpected stab of memory: The last time he'd hunted like this, a spear in his hand, had been back in his brother's Realm. Then, enemy wills had forced Ardagh to cast his spear not at the hunted wyvern but at his brother, and only by the fiercest of struggles had Ardagh managed not to kill Eirithan. There had been no trial, no chance for him to prove his innocence. There had been only banishment.

Not this time. I will not be used this time.

Osmod, as though aware of Ardagh's determination, rode up on the king's other side just then, looking, the prince thought, like any normal, innocent man enjoying a day outside. But Ardagh caught the hint of weary shadow in the apparently cheerful eyes.

You
were
up late, weren't you?
Ardagh thought.
Tsk.

He
heard Cadwal, who had been guarding the prince's flank, urge his horse forward a touch as though by chance, balancing Osmod's move, keeping a closer watch on the man.

Appreciated. But Osmod isn't going to try any oddnesses, not with so many others as witnesses.

All around them was the cheerful turmoil of the hunt, men shouting and laughing, horses snorting, bright red banners snapping in the wind. The hounds coursed up ahead, a mass of wagging tails; they might not have found any game yet, but they were enjoying the outing, too. Ardagh waited with a little less than full patience. This was the one element he couldn't control. If the hounds didn't start up a quarry—

Ha, but the amiable sniffings and yappings suddenly sharpened into baying. Horns blared. A stag! They'd started up a fine, spring-fat stag. As the hunt charged forward, Ardagh grinned, bent over his horse's tossing mane, riding as though as eagerly blood-hungry as the others but actually hunting something else entirely.

Ah yes, here was a narrowing of the road, with trails branching off in all directions. Easy for a hunting party to become accidentally separated. Ardagh reached out his will, not even trying to snare a human mind, no, no, touching an equine mind instead, the king's stallion, telling it,
Mares! Mares running
this
way!

And—now! Ardagh turned his own horse aside and sent it racing off at a tangent, crashing through the underbrush along what was probably a deer trail, ducking and dodging branches. He could hear Egbert, having no choice in the matter, following closely after him, hissing curses when he didn't dodge quite in time, swearing creatively at his eager stallion.