Forging the Runes (3 page)

I dare not hope. But I do, Powers help me, I do indeed!

Foreign Politics
Chapter 2

He was Egbert, son of the late King Elmund—for what good, he thought, that proud Kentish lineage did him. He was Egbert, a tall, fair-haired young man, no more than that, once of Wessex but now just an exile in these Frankish lands, this royal court of Charlemagne.

He was also, being an exile, fair game for these bored young Frankish nobles. Cornered against a plaster wall brightly painted with scenes of Charlemagne's ancestors, he listened, perforce, to their witty jibes about "Saxon fools" and "landless idiots" and fought back the angry words that sprang to his lips.
No,
Egbert reminded himself fiercely as he had for all these years.
No reaction. Smile and bow. Play the innocent. Never once let them know that anything but docility lies behind the bland eyes and slack face.

It worked, as it always did. Of course the nobles couldn't do anything worse than so cleverly insult him; they might think him an idiot, but he
was of
royal blood, not to be touched. Instead, bored by his lack of response and their own wit, they strolled away down the palace's frescoed halls as though he didn't even exist.

And he didn't, Egbert thought, not according to Saxon or Frankish law, because not even the great Charlemagne in whose palace he lived here in Aachen could decide what he should be: exile, certainly, of royal birth, certainly—but someone who'd never actually inherited a throne or kingdom.

Ha, I doubt that Charlemagne even remembers I exist. Particularly since the man seems to spend more time out conquering others than he does here at court. And now he's off to Rome to be crowned emperor by his pet pope.

Not that the royal absence made it any easier to escape this place. Egbert glanced about, seeing nothing but the brightly painted walls, knowing his apparent privacy was illusion. The guards had their orders: he was not to leave the main hall without escort, let alone do something daring such as go for a solitary stroll. After all, Egbert was here by command of King Beortric of Wessex, son-in-law of the late Offa, who had been Charlemagne's close ally in Albion. A convoluted political chain, this, but quite sturdy.

Egbert shook his head. Since he had no choice about matters, wiser to seem harmless, surely, even if it did mean watching every word and gesture. Even if it did mean smiling and smiling, letting everyone think him simpleminded.

God, he was tired nearly to death of smiling!

No. If he had learned anything in all these long years of exile, it was patience. Yes, he was Egbert of Kent, yes, his father had been king and as such had left him in the direct line for the Wessex throne—and made him, therefore, Beortric's foe—but right now his safety lay, as it had lain for nearly sixteen years, in being no one. Just another face at the Frankish court. Allowed good food, good clothing, even (since no one expected him to ever be able to use it) a good education in sword and spear, but no more than that. Fair game for idle nobles—damn them!

Again, no. Egbert forced his face to relax into its usual blankness, forced his fists to unclench. He had never blamed the Witan, the Wessex council, for having ruled against him; he'd been only a boy at the time of banishment, barely more than nine. The ealdormen had all surely been weary of the bloodshed that had followed the death first of King Sebright (slain by Cynewulf) then of King Cynewulf (slain by Sebright's kin). Not surprising after that chaos that the Witan had chosen Beortric to rule them. No matter that his claim to the throne wasn't half as strong as that of Egbert: he was what Egbert hadn't been—a mature and settled man.

A complacent man. Egbert shook his head. Whether the courtiers here realized it or not, over the years they'd taught their captive prince a fair amount of political guile. One befriended as many nobles as was feasible—but one didn't hesitate for a moment when it came to removing all possible rivals.

While I'm certainly glad that Beortric let me live, in his place I never would have been so weak!

Of course, Beortric had never expected a boy, alone and friendless, to survive exile, let alone grow to manhood. Let alone vow to return.

Yes, but how, curse it? I don't have men, I don't have supporters—even if I somehow managed to escape this soft prison and found my way back to Wessex, alone, it would be as good as committing suicide.

Osmod. The name came without warning to Egbert's mind. Osmod. He frowned. Now, who . . . ? A Saxon name. Yes . . . one of the ealdormen, surely. But which one? He had the vaguest memory of a pleasant face, cheerful blue eyes, golden hair: Osmod.

I haven't heard the name for sixteen years. Why should it come to me now?

For that, Egbert had no answer.

Ah, what difference did it make? An exile alone and frustrated, Egbert, son of Elmund, stalked grimly through the halls of his elegant prison and tried not to notice the guards who forever trailed him.

King Beortric of Wessex rode out through the early autumn forest with his hunting party, standards flying bravely, hounds baying: the very image of a royal hunt.

It would be a great deal more impressive,
Osmod thought,
if Beortric was actually able to hit something with that spear he's waving about.

Beortric, solidly of middle years and grown just a touch too soft in the sixteen years of his reign, was—for him—dressed almost plainly, although his dark red hunting tunic was frivolously edged with priceless silk and gold glinted from about his throat; the man had, Osmod knew, picked up some extravagant tastes from his late father-in-law, Offa of Mercia.

Yes, but now Beortric was glancing his way. Osmod smiled and dipped his head. Polite and charming as always. But then, being the noble ealdorman, the trusted royal advisor he was, he could hardly be anything
but
polite and charming. Osmod knew he made a pleasing picture: pleasant-faced if not truly handsome, with not a sign of aging, his eyes still clear blue—merry eyes, Beortric had once called them, and most folk seemed to agree—and hair bright gold untouched by grey. They wondered at that, did the courtiers, even made jests about "ageless" and "undying," and Osmod had laughed with them: how ridiculous, those jests, how patently impossible.

A sudden blaze of sunlight through leaves just beginning to be touched with red and gold caught him by surprise, and Osmod threw his head back to it. Ah, what a pleasant day! Charmingly warm for this late in the year, but with the faintest touch of sharpness to the air, charmingly dry and calm—perfect. "A pleasant day."

Osmod snapped his head down at this echoing of his thought, and found himself meeting the earnest young gaze of Ealdorman Worr, who'd brought his horse next to Osmod's own. Ah yes, Worr, Beortric's favorite: honest and trustworthy and handsome. And, some scandalous rumors hinted, more than merely the king's political favorite.

Ask Edburga what she thinks about that. Ask Beortric's spiteful queen. See what happens—

No. Not yet. Osmod smiled, charmingly, dipped his head ever so slightly to Worr, and rode on.

Green as grass, that one. Almost too innocent to be a courtier. His blood would probably run out thin as water.

Not that Osmod planned to find out; no need stirring up trouble. Again, not yet. Beortric was complacent as only a man who'd ruled for sixteen years and never fought a war could be, but he was a king, and for the moment there was no reason to change that fact.

I certainly don't want the throne! Aside from the inconvenient little fact that I haven't a drop of royal blood, I would rather be the
secondary
target, thank you, the power behind the throne, rather than having to be perpetually on my guard.

Bah, as though he wasn't already! It was difficult enough as it was to balance the two worlds of power and Power with no one suspecting; it would be almost impossible to add a crown to the mix.

As for Beortric, well now, a king without ambition did give one status and wealth, yes, and a certain amount of freedom to experiment with—
be honest,
he thought with a wry flash of humor, with Power beyond what might be known even to a king.

A king without ambition, though—there was the thorn that pricked. Oh, granted, Osmod admitted that he never could have properly honed his abilities were it not for the chance sixteen years of peace and noninterference had given him. And while powerful King Offa of Mercia had lived, neighbor to Wessex, Offa who had been the rival in might of Frankish Charlemagne himself, ambition on the part of Wessex would have been national suicide.

But Offa was dead these six years now. A far weaker heir sat the Mercian throne. Now was the time for action on the part of Wessex's king—

Osmod snorted. Not the smallest chance of that. Beortric would never be remembered as a conqueror, a great ruler, one fit to be mentioned in the same breath as Charlemagne or his late father-in-law.

A perfect chance, perfect political ties—and even I can't rouse him!

A man could only be content with lethargy for so long.
Egbert,
Osmod mused,
Egbert the exile. A
younger man than Beortric, certainly, but by now no longer a boy. A man, and one with, it could be argued, a stronger claim to the Wessex throne than the current occupant. Ambitious without a doubt and, judging from what the runes had told Osmod, half-mad with frustration. Willing, most certainly, to help anyone who helped him.

Ah yes. For one glorious moment, the ealdorman let himself surrender to fantasy, to images of other lands, maybe even all of Britain, bowing down before Egbert,
King
Egbert, and his oh-so-faithful advisor—

But the dogs had begun to bay in earnest, the sound of hounds who'd started up a quarry. The hunt exploded into a storm of blaring horns, shouting men and the drumming of hoofs on ground, and for a time Osmod let his horse run as it would, surrounded by others' excitement without it touching him. The so-called thrill of the chase had never appealed to him; he preferred a more personal hunt.

A hunt, eh?
Why not?
Osmod thought. A small one, perhaps, just a . . . tidbit. In the excitement, no one would notice his absence. He turned his horse aside, forcing it through the underbrush, pretending to anyone who might see that it was the horse who was in control.

Yes. Here was a likely spot, this brushy little glen. Osmod dismounted, tying the wild-eyed horse firmly to a tree; the animal never had accepted his doings, and he was not going to risk having to walk home like a peasant.

Now, to work. No one had ever guessed that the pouch at his waist might hold more than coins any more than anyone knew he wore the nine-knotted cord about his waist under his tunic; reaching into the pouch, Osmod drew out a small square of bone on which was carved the doubled runes of Sigel and Cen. Of course runes in themselves had no magical powers; only idiots believed otherwise. They were merely a convenient form of writing. However, when certain runes were drawn under certain ritual circumstances—which he had performed—and with a certain amount of will—which he possessed—they could lose their mundane function and became very potent focuses of Power.

Potent, indeed. Osmod smiled slightly. Foolish, perhaps, to use so powerful a Binding Rune for so trivial a purpose as this, but again, every skill did need practice. As he muttered the proper words, he felt a faint but familiar tingling race through him: Power rousing within him. Osmod looked about the underbrush again, more carefully this time, listening, sniffing, aware that, thanks to the runic Power, his senses were now ever so slightly enhanced.

Not enough. Never quite enough. Whoever told those wild tales of ancient sorcerers and vast magics was drunk, lying, or a fool.

Still, some Power is better than none.

Ah, look. There was his prey. No need to waste more than the merest scrap of Power now. Osmod slipped the rune safely back into his pouch, whispering a Call, whispered it again, then watched the rabbit squirm out of the underbrush, its nose quivering, ears flicking in confusion.

"Pretty thing," Osmod told it, and drew his knife. The rabbit came to startled life, leaping for shelter, but Osmod was swifter. Cutting the rabbit's throat with one quick slash of the blade, he drank.

Ah, delicious the taste, delicious the tiny rush of life energy. Odd, how quickly a man could overcome his revulsion. Particularly when Power was involved. Of course, invoking the rune had used up almost more of that Power than he'd gained, that was the frustrating way things worked, but at least there was—

A gasp made him glance sharply up. Worr sat his horse, staring down at Osmod with eyes wide in stunned disbelief. For one quick moment, Osmod knew how he must look to the young man: wild-eyed, face stained with blood, a dead rabbit still at his mouth.

Damnation!

He threw the rabbit aside, fumbling in his pouch for the right rune, frantic that Worr might escape, hastily judging by
feel . . .
there. He caught the unmistakable spark that was the carving of Stane, hopefully bound to the second rune of—

No time to worry about it. "You saw nothing strange," Osmod hissed, fixing Worr's stare with his own, hurling all his will against the other. "You saw nothing. Nothing. You saw nothing strange, Worr. Nothing strange. Nothing."