Forging the Runes (27 page)

"Right. Sure." Cadwal took a deep breath, then asked, "He'll be well treated? Even if he's half-human?"

"Of course. None of the races of the Folk would ever harm a child."

"And happy, he's got to be happy—hell, listen to me blathering like an idiot! But yes, I saw all those cheerful youngsters; he'll have a good chance at being happy."

"A very good chance."

"Better than being a mercenary. Or an exile." Cadwal blinked, as though hit by a sudden new thought. "What about magic . . . ? Will he . . . ?"

"Wield Power? Very probably."

"
Iesu.
My son a magician. My son . . ."

"Are you all right?"

But Cadwal was still beaming as he glanced at Ardagh. "You don't understand. I'm not too thrilled with never getting to know the boy—or, hell, even getting a chance to see him—but that's the way things are. But now, no matter what happens to me, there'll still be part of me here in Cymru. Part of me that can never be exiled. And . . . you really don't understand a bit of this, do you?"

"Not all, not entirely. Most surely not as a human would. Still, I'm delighted that you're delighted."

Suddenly as that, the
feeling
of
an ally, here,
struck, so strongly that Ardagh whirled, staring wildly out over the sea, heart racing.

"What now?" There wasn't a hint of vagueness to Cadwal's voice. "You just came alert like a hunting hound, no insult meant."

Ardagh shook his head, never taking his stare from the horizon. "Now we must return to our work."

"Here? What are we going to do here?"

"Find an ally. My . . . call it a sense that's all but screaming it at me."

"An ally against Osmod."

"Yes, of course. But who or what that ally may be— of that, I haven't the faintest of hints."

"Right. Can't have things too easy, now, can we? And here we are, standing on this exposed ledge like a couple of . . . You do see something now, don't you? What?"

Hand shading his eyes against the sun, Ardagh stared with all his will. Ae, whatever it was out there was almost too far away to see at all. "I'm not sure," he said after a moment, "not yet. You're right; this is no safe place to wait. Let's get down from this ledge and under cover."

The cliff was sheer above them, but from the point of the ledge on down to the beach, rockslides had created a shallower slope, covered with treacherous bits of rock but passable. Ardagh and Cadwal slid and scrambled their way down to level ground, then picked their way across the rocky beach to a hiding place behind two great, weathered boulders.

Cadwal glanced back over his shoulder, then turned fully, glaring up at the semicircle of cliffs. "I hope your feelings haven't led us astray."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know about you, but I can't see myself making it all the way up those sheer things to the top. And there's nowhere else to go."

"Save," Ardagh said thoughtfully, "out to sea."

Cadwal whirled, staring. "A ship," he exclaimed. "I see it now, though I can't make out details. Wind's coming in towards land so strongly though, that it'll be close soon enough."

"So it will," Ardagh murmured absently, more intrigued by the force of his own premonition.
Why now? Why here? The only other time I
felt
a warning this strong was when Gervinus arrived in Eriu. But this isn't the same. This isn't a warning . . . not exactly.

Neither he nor Cadwal said another word, tensely watching the ship smoothly sail towards land.

"There it is." Cadwal's voice was sharp with alarm. "Red-striped sail, dragon-prow—
damnio!
You know who those are? Those are Lochlannach!

"Your so-called allies are Eriu's worst foes—and here we are, trapped and just waiting for them!"

Old Acquaintances
Chapter 27

Lochlannach! Ardagh stared at the beautiful, deadly ship in a wild storm of confusion. "I don't understand . . . I know who and what they are, of course I do; I fought them. And yet . . . they are to be allies just now, I
feel
it."

He felt Cadwal's skeptical glance. "Can't your feelings be mistaken?"

"No! That is one of the few Sidhe talents left untouched by your human Realm."

"Allies. Those thieves. Allies.
Dewi Sant,
what else can possibly get twisted up in this journey?" The mercenary frowned, peering. "Haven't taken any loot yet, or at least not very much; the ship's riding too high in the water for that. Why do you suppose they've chosen right here to come ashore? No one about this place to raid, as far as I can see. Nothing but empty beach."

"I know why
I'd
come ashore," Ardagh said speculatively. "After a long sea journey aboard a wooden ship— a no doubt highly flammable wooden ship—I'd look forward to the first chance of getting ashore to light a fire and cook a hot meal, particularly in a place where I didn't have to keep a heavy guard while eating."

"Ha, I bet you're right! They're letting their bellies rule them."

"I know the feeling."

"You're not the only one. At least that means we don't have to take on any charging, loot-hungry warriors. Just yet, anyhow." Cadwal glanced at Ardagh with one eyebrow crooked wryly up. "You really want to do this."

"I must. You can stay here if you'd rather."

"Och, right. Well, if we're to go down and be pals with that lot, let's see if we can't find ourselves something to eat before they get here. Should at least be some edible plants. Don't want to die on an empty stomach, and damned if I'll beg them for food!"

But for a time, Ardagh stood where he was.
I don't understand this, I don't. Drawn to—to
these.
I
can't
be losing my Sidhe abilities, Powers, no, that would be like—like losing sight or hearing or—or . . .

Or he was just going to let the matter rest for now. It would take some time for the Lochlannach to safely beach their ship and hunt for wood for their cooking fires, assuming that really was all they intended. Cadwal was right. Best to find something to eat while they still could. The brain, after all, the prince decided wryly, did tend to work better when it was fed.

And maybe then he would be able to puzzle out this weirdness. About himself, about his Sidhe awareness, about whatever else was going to go askew.

Maybe.

He fought his way up through layer upon layer of darkness. For an instant he was awake . . . asleep . . . awake. "Where . . . ?" Osmod, ealdorman and secret sorcerer, croaked dryly.

A hand pressed the rim of a goblet to his lips. Osmod drank thankfully, feeling the coolness of water soothing what felt like a fire-seared throat. He glanced up to see his personal servant, Bosa, holding the goblet and looking surprisingly concerned.
Beat them enough and they fawn on you,
Osmod thought, then tried again, "Where?"

A stocky, grey-haired man was shouldering his way past Bosa to the bedside. The ealdorman blinked, trying to place him, and finally said in triumph, "Octa. Physician Octa."

"Ah, good. You know me. You are in your own hall, Ealdorman Osmod, in your own bed."

"What . . . happened?"

"You don't recall?" Octa frowned ever so slightly. "You were ill, ealdorman, feverishly ill for quite some time. You don't remember any of it?"

Osmod struggled with a mind that felt dull as so much lead. "I'm not . . . not sure."

But he was. All at once he knew perfectly well what had happened. He'd thrown that spell, that message from his brain to those of the three Cymru mages—and very nearly slain himself in the process.

Something of the horror he felt must have shown on Osmod's face because Octa, clearly misunderstanding the reason for it, said soothingly, "It's not important."

"I . . . did I say anything . . . strange?"

To his dismay, Osmod saw a flicker of uneasiness cross the physician's face. But then Octa said firmly, "Nothing but the strangeness of a man lost in delirium," and smiled. "You need not fear you revealed any royal secrets."

"Yes, but . . ."

"A moment, my lord, please." The physician placed a cool, competent hand on Osmod's forehead, then withdrew it with a satisfied nod. "The fever is gone and, God willing, will not return. You show every sign of making a complete recovery. And if you will excuse me, I will now so advise King Egbert."

"Yes. Of course."

"You might like to know that the king has been quite worried for you."

Osmod waved that away. Of course Egbert had been worried; the king would hardly want to lose one of his most more-or-less trusted advisors. But that didn't mean that Egbert would have shed more than the most perfunctory of tears over his loss. "Go," the ealdorman said. "All of you. Go. I wish to rest."

He lay rigidly still, listening intently. Ah yes. They'd all obeyed, even that ridiculously loyal hound of a Bosa. Osmod forced unresponsive legs over the side of the bed, then lay for a moment, gasping. After a slow, painful struggle, he sat up, feeling the blood surging dizzily in his head, wondering if he was going to faint.

No. He would not allow that. At last, body protesting feebly, Osmod managed to stand, swaying, furious and frightened at his weakness.

The runes, where are the runes?
If anyone had searched the room, truly searched it—no, no, if they'd found the runes or anything else so very incriminating, Octa would never have been so calm.

Unless the physician had been ordered not to reveal anything? Ordered by Egbert—

No, again. This illness was making him stupidly, needlessly apprehensive. There were no dark suspicions, no secret plots. Other than, Osmod told himself with weary humor, his own.

Ah, Lords of Darkness be thanked, there was the rune-pouch, lying where he'd dropped it, half-hidden against one wall. Osmod knelt—angry that it was actually more of a controlled fall—and scooped up the pouch, pulling it open, tumbling a handful of runes out onto his palm. . . .

And felt nothing. Not the slightest stirring of Power. Nothing.

Impossible! I couldn't have lost—the fever couldn't have—there must be something else wrong.

He dropped the runes back into the pouch, hands shaking so badly they nearly spilled them all onto the floor. All right. He'd try again, properly this time. Osmod sat emptying his mind, emptying his mind. . . . Almost calm, he poured the runes hack out onto his palm.

Nothing.

He sat back in stunned dismay. The runes were no more than lifeless bits of bone and wood.

Queen Eithne of Eriu frowned slightly, watching her husband watching . . . nothing as he stood by Fremainn's wooden palisade. She hesitated a moment, reluctant to disturb him just in case he was deep in political thoughts or other matters concerning the realm.

No. There was a certain vagueness to the look of him that told her he wasn't really paying much attention to anything, at least not to anything here. Eithne moved to his side and put a gentle hand on his arm. "Aedh? Where are you? What are you seeing?"

He started slightly at the touch, then put a hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Prince Ardagh, if you must know."

"What—"

"In my mind, love, only in my mind." Still holding her hand, Aedh turned to face her. "Och, Eithne, I have to wonder if I did the right thing, sending him off like that. What is the man doing now?"

"Surviving, I trust."

Aedh snorted. "That, I don't doubt. If ever there was a survivor, it's our exotic, so-difficult-to-predict prince. But what
is
he doing? And, in the name of all the saints, why is he doing it?"

Eithne frowned, wishing she could tell her husband that she knew yes, Prince Ardagh was of the Sidhe and yes, he and Sorcha were communicating by magic, and yes, the prince was no longer even in Wessex. But of course Eithne couldn't reveal any of that without revealing her own magic—so perilous a talent for an ordained High King's wife—and so she contented herself with a vague, "You don't think he's finding you allies?"

"Oh, trying such a thing, at any rate, no doubt about that. But whether he'll succeed, and if he does, who those allies will be—or even, God help us, what—of that, love, I have no idea."

"Our daughter misses him fiercely."

Aedh grinned. Fainche was all of five-going-on-six, and definitely in the grip of her first baby romance. "I'm sure she does. So, I'm equally sure, do most of the women here. Particularly," he added more gently, "Sorcha ni Fothad, poor lass."

Eithne shivered slightly. "Och, Aedh," she murmured in sudden sharp pity, "what's to become of her? Of them both?"

He chuckled, putting his arm about her. "My romantic Eithne!"

"Aedh, please."

"I don't know, love. Right now, all I can do is hope that Prince Ardagh brings himself back soon and safely. Yes, and without dragging along a war as well!"

"He wouldn't!"

"No. Of course not. Still, one never knows with him. At least," Aedh added with a grin that wasn't quite amused, "there haven't been any new Lochlannach raids. I'd rather like to think that our unpredictable prince, in one of his incredibly complicated maneuverings, has had something to do with that."

Eithne laughed. "Come now, love, the man's not . . . not supernatural!"
Not exactly.
"For all his exotic ways, Prince Ardagh is just a man."
Not a human one, granted, but a man nonetheless.

"As the women here would definitely assure you."

"Aedh!" She slapped him lightly on the arm. "Aren't you supposed to be in a council meeting right now?"

He smiled a deceptively lazy smile. "It will do them no harm to wait on me a little." Holding out his arm to her, Aedh added, "Come, my dear, let us stroll about Fremainn a bit."

But Eithne, still laughing, pushed him away. "You have work to do, husband."

"Look at this. A mere slip of a woman pushes about the High King of Eriu."

"She does, indeed. Now, go."

Chuckling, he went. Eithne turned to see, as she'd suddenly suspected, Sorcha ni Fothad watching her. "It's all right, dear," the queen said. "You don't have to look so embarrassed, I knew you were there."

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to spy. It was only that . . ." Sorcha impatiently brushed one of her thick red braids back over a shoulder. "If you must know, Queen Eithne, I was envying you. You and your husband."

"Oh, my poor Sorcha." Eithne impulsively caught the young woman's hands in her own. "He still loves you. Prince Ardagh will come back to you."

"I don't doubt it. It's what comes after the return that's worrying me. He's what he is, I'm what I am, the laws are what they are—if we could just up and run off to his land, I would in a moment. But we can't." Sorcha pulled away from the queen, blinking fiercely. "I love him. I'll never stop that. But . . . I don't know. I just don't know how much longer I can wait. How much longer I can hope."

"You will," Eithne said. "I know. I've had to spend too many lonely nights myself, wondering, praying, not sure if I'll ever see my husband alive again."

"Och, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Hush. Prince Ardagh will be back and all will look much brighter." She broke off, studying Sorcha. "When I first learned I was to wed Aedh, I admit that I was reluctant. Ha, no, I was terrified! I didn't want to be the wife of someone laying claim to the throne of High King. But I wed him, and I love him, and he is off fighting to hold that throne as often as he is here.

"And even so, even with the lonely nights and the terror, I regret nothing."

She could almost hear the thoughts screaming in Sorcha's mind,
But your love is human, your love isn't an exiled prince of the Sidhe, your love doesn't have the laws of two lands against the two of you.
"Och, Sorcha," she murmured, "I'm sorry. But don't be hasty. Don't."

"I won't," Sorcha agreed. But her steady eyes were unreadable.

Ardagh crouched behind a rock, Cadwal beside him, watching warily. Ah yes, the Lochlannach really were beaching their ship, bringing that elegant vessel carefully up onto the sand with the wariness of men who knew they might have to make a sudden retreat.

The raiders were as he remembered them: tall, weather-beaten, powerfully built men, mostly fair of hair and beards, men who moved with the unthinking grace of true warriors even while—yes, Ardagh saw he'd been right about this—scavenging for firewood. Their clothing was as he'd remembered as well, woolen tunics and leggings of good, sturdy, weather-impervious weave. Although they'd left their mail shirts on board in these relatively safe surroundings, of course they went armed even while gathering wood; a raider in a foreign land could never quite abandon caution. Ardagh thought wryly that he certainly did remember their weapons, those beautifully wrought swords and axes.

A good many of which were raised against me in that battle!

Listening intently to the Lochlannach talking and laughing with each other, cheerful even though they were pitching their voices warily low, Ardagh frowned slightly. Their language sounded vaguely related to the Saxon tongue, but it contained so many strange words, so many unfamiliar idioms, that the prince groaned. "Just what I didn't need," he murmured to Cadwal, "another language to learn."