Forging the Runes (9 page)

"Well, yes, but . . ."

"Ae, I'm sorry." Ardagh forced himself back under control. "I have no business laughing at you. And before you collapse from the weight of curiosity, my race isn't Tylwyth Teg but Sidhe. I really am a prince, my brother really did exile me for what he falsely thought was treason, and I really do wish no harm to these folk who have given me sanctuary. Does that satisfy you?"

" 'Satisfy' isn't quite the word." Cadwal was looking as dazed as if Ardagh had grown wings and flown away. "
Dewi Sant.
Sidhe." He shook himself like a dog shaking off water. "I knew it but didn't know it, if that makes sense."

"It does."

"
Damnio.
The world's stranger than I dreamed."

Aedh, Ardagh mused, had said almost exactly the same thing when
he'd
learned the truth.

But Cadwal was once more regarding him with that wild horror. "If you're real, the Sidhe I mean, that means all the Others are probably real, too."

There was a desperate edge to his voice, the sound of a man hunting frantically for solid ground, and Ardagh said, "Probably. But not necessarily in this human Realm. You don't have to worry that reality is falling to pieces about you."

"Glad to hear that." The tone was light, but genuine relief glinted in Cadwal's eyes. "Sidhe," he said again, this time with less shock in his voice. "No wonder you won't wear iron armor! Yes, and here you've been going into battle against iron blades. Your pardon, but that's a damnably foolish thing to do!"

"So Sorcha told me. Cadwal, stop staring at me. I have
some
resistance to the metal; I'm not going to fall to ash."
No. All I do is collapse if there's too much of the cursed stuff about, or now and then burn myself if I get overconfident: certain smeltings seem to be more treacherous than others, with no way to know which is which in advance. No problem. Hah.

Cadwal, regardless, was still staring. "Sidhe," he repeated yet again. "And there I was the other night bothering you with my human problems. Asking if you knew a—a spell,
Iesu,
and wasn't
that
a stupid question?"

Ardagh frowned slightly. "A spell that isn't working for you any longer, I take it."

"I . . . no. Not for the past three days or so." The man shrugged. "It's nothing."

He plainly wasn't going to say any more without prodding. Cursing human stubbornness, Ardagh said, "You've been humanly kind to me—ae, don't look so embarrassed; you have. And the knife-fighting you taught me saved my life. I haven't forgotten. Be honest with me. Why did you come to me that night?"

Cadwal's eyes were all at once the eyes of a trapped wild thing. "Because . . . I . . . because . . .
damnio.
Because of Gwen."

"Gwen!" Ardagh straightened in surprise. "But you told me she was dead."

"She is." Cadwal's voice was rigidly controlled. "But maybe you can tell me why she keeps coming back." The control slipped ever so slightly. "A-at least, I think it's she. The dreams or whatever they are stopped for a while after you'd taught me that spell, and I dared to think that was the end of it, but now . . . Look you, what's happening is that every night I've been hearing her voice calling to me in my sleep, all the way from Cymru, Gwen's voice pleading with me to free her, free her soul."

His eyes were suddenly painfully bright. "I'm no mystic, Prince Ardagh, I'm a mercenary. Give me a battle, sword to sword, and I know exactly what to do. This . . . if Gwen's soul really is trapped . . . I don't know how to help her! Prince Ardagh, you'd know more about such things than any of us. Is it true? Can my Gwen really be someone's prisoner? Or . . . am I just going mad?"

"You're not mad. I'd have
felt
the psychic chaos the moment you approached. As for anything else—I don't know."

"But—"

"I can hardly know very much about human souls or ghosts. And if she really is calling to you from Cymru, I certainly can't prove anything from this far away."

"Figured. That's why I decided I'm going to have to go with you."

Ardagh stared. "But there's a death sentence waiting for you if you're caught in Cymru!"

"There's insanity hanging over me if I stay here, and maybe the damnation of Gwen's soul. Look you, it's not as if I'm abandoning King Aedh. My men are loyal to him; you don't often get an employer who treats mercenaries like honorable folk, and they appreciate it. This won't be a long journey, God willing. Dyfrig can lead them well enough while I'm away." Dyfrig ap Gwilim was, Ardagh knew, Cadwal's second-in-command. "Not a scrap of humor to our Dyfrig, but he's honest as rock and a good, clever fighter; he'll keep the king safe."

"I won't be stopping in Cymru."

"Not on the way out, I know that. But you're not going to be in Wessex all that long, God willing. Figure I'll have my chance after you've met with King Beortric."

"You've worked it all out, haven't you?"

"Tried to. You're going to need some sort of escort other than pretty courtiers." Cadwal shrugged. "Might as well be me."

"In other words, you're going, with me or without."

"You got it."

"And it doesn't bother you that your travelling companion won't be human?"

Cadwal winced. "I can't swear to that. But I'm going, no matter who's my companion."

Ardagh sat back, studying the man. "I can't guarantee your safety. I can't even guarantee my own!"

"I don't understand. Why not just magic us there?"

"Think, man! Do you really think I would be languishing in this human Realm if I could wield that much Power?"

Cadwal blinked. "There is that."

The prince sighed, seeing stubbornness and honesty both in the man's eyes. "I can trust you." It was as much command as comment. "In my native Realm, yes, I could magic myself, as you put it, here or there with little more than the wish. Here . . ." He shrugged slightly. "Let's just say that in this Realm, my abilities are rather restricted."

"But you're not without magic?"

Ardagh laughed shortly. "You sound like a small boy hoping for wonders."

That roused a wary chuckle. "Och, I do, don't I? But you have to admit this sort of thing is far from my experiences."

"Mine, too," the prince drawled. And yes," he added, relenting, "I do have some Power left to me, though it's nothing spectacular." Ardagh could see skepticism plain on Cadwal's face and gave a mental shrug. Humans would believe what they wished, regardless of facts. "Which," the prince continued, "is why we'll be making the journey to Wessex by perfectly mundane means."

" 'We,' eh?"

"We. You already told me as much. So be it." Suddenly Ardagh smiled, and saw Cadwal's puzzled frown. "I was just thinking of that journey. And the human societies about which I still know so very little."

"I speak the Saxon tongue. Know your enemy and all that."

"Enemy?" Ardagh echoed uneasily.

"Och, not to you and not to Eriu." Cadwal's voice was wry. "Let us just say that Cymru has had more dealings with the Saxon folk than Eriu and leave it at that. I know a fair bit about how they live, too."

"And you won't let prejudices get in the way, I trust."

Cadwal snorted. "You know me better than that."

"Im glad to hear it." Ardagh got to his feet, stretching warily. Under the soothing salve, the burn had almost stopped hurting, and he was all at once too restless for further conversation.

But he suddenly stopped at the doorway and turned back to the watching human. "Quite frankly, friend Cadwal," the prince said, "I was not looking forward to travelling alone—yes, yes, I know the king will send an escort with me. But there will be none among them with whom I can speak freely. Save for you. Cadwal, I admit it: I will be very glad of your company."

Renovations
Chapter 9

She couldn't remember. Something odd had happened just before, Edburga was vaguely sure of it. Something odd had been said to her, but she could not remember what it had been or who had said it. Or had the words come from her own mind? There had been something about a drink . . . someone had been urgently whispering about a drink . . . about Worr . . .

Worr. That was it. She would be rid of him. Yes. The potion she had mixed under the goad of that whispering voice was quick to act, quick to cut off any hope of breath. Worr would neatly drink and neatly die. And Beortric? Beortric would soon forget.

That was it, just as the whispers told her. Of course. She would poison Worr.

The world failed to come into focus, but it didn't matter. She had the drinking horns, one in each hand. (And for a moment Edburga wavered, wondering, had she poured the poisoned drink into one horn or both? But the voice was whispering to her; she must go on; she must believe this was right and Worr would die.) One horn for Beortric, the ritual first drink of the evening given to the king by his wife. (Though Edburga could not remember ever having followed this ritual before; but the whispers were telling her, yes, yes you have.) One horn for Worr, the last he would ever taste.

Moving through a dreamy haze, Edburga crossed the crowded, noisy, smoke-filled hall and saw and heard nothing but the whispers in her mind telling her what to do. She would give the drinking horns to Beortric and Worr and watch them drink.

She would be rid of Worr.

It was, Osmod thought, the finest acting he had ever performed, and the most difficult. Keeping up this facade of perfectly charming fellow, sitting here at the kings table as was his right as ealdorman, smiling as casually as though politely hiding boredom. And all the while he was hiding his desperate concentration behind that calm facade.

At least Bishop Cynbert was still not back from Rome; at least Osmod was spared that potential distraction. But that hardly made his work any easier as he drew Edburga from the women's side of the hall, a drinking horn in each hand.

Ah, Edburga. It had been so simple to plant the thought of murder in her head; one mention of Worr gone, and the red flames had shot up in her mind like so much wildfire. And the means—like any other noblewoman, she had a sizeable herb garden, she also, unlike most other noblewomen, had a sizeable knowledge of poisons. That she hadn't already poisoned Worr was a miracle. But getting her to slay both Worr and Beortric in one . . . not easy, not easy. Her angry will was, in its own frenzied way, unpredictable. If she failed now, if his hold over her failed now—

No. He would not even think of failure. He would merely watch and wait, and try to ignore his ever more painfully pounding heart. Edburga was hardly the sort to exchange light words of courtesy; she clearly even begrudged the slight bow necessary to hand her husband and Worr the drinking horns. Now, if only . . .

It was done. Osmod sagged in his seat, fighting not to gasp but still not able to relax, retaining his hold on Edburga's will, worrying now that the poison might not be strong enough. What if it failed to kill outright? What if it merely sickened Beortric and he lived to learn the truth?

Lords of the Underworld, if you want your servant alive to do your work . . .

But he dare not show even the slightest hint of tension. It took every bit of his sorcerous control, but Osmod managed to keep himself sitting in apparent calm, mimicking with all his might a man who anticipated nothing more than dinner, a man who—

Beortric surged up from his chair, his eyes suddenly wild with the effort to breathe, a hand at his chest. A storm of wild cries tore through the hall: "The king! The king is ill!"

No! Not just ill, he can't be merely—

With a crash, Beortric fell across the table, thrashing desperately about for air, his face purpling. Just as suddenly, his struggles stopped, and he lay still amid the wreckage of dinner. A man's voice cried out in horror: "He is not ill! The king is dead! King Beortric is dead!

"Poison . . ."

It was the faintest of choked gasps. Worr, Osmod realized, and thought in heart-stopping terror,
The dosage wasn't enough.
Somehow, Worr had dragged himself to his feet, somehow he managed to stare for what seemed an eternity right into Osmod's eyes.

He knows, he
knows, Dark Powers help me, he knows! He isn't going to die, but I will, I—

But all at once Worr lost his desperate struggle. Quietly, almost as though resigned, he fell lifeless beside the lifeless body of his king.

The hall erupted into a chaos of shouts and screams and panicked people rushing blindly about. Osmod sagged back in his seat, dizzy with relief and exhaustion, so drained that he could not have moved to save himself. His grip on Edburga's will fell away, and he saw horror flash across her face as she all at once knew what she had done, horror closely followed by sheer terror: No one realized yet who'd done the poisoning, but it wouldn't take long for everyone in the hall to guess the answer.

Osmod roused himself with a great effort. This one last link must be severed before he collapsed. "Flee," he told Edburga beneath the storm of noise, and only she heard. "Edburga, flee the land."

He saw her sob once, saw her hand cover her mouth. Then Edburga, no longer queen of Wessex, turned and fled. And in the crush of confusion, no one marked her passage. No one save Osmod.

Go, Edburga. Your usefulness is ended. And I—I am safe.

Egbert, once prospective prince of Kent, and possibly of all Wessex, now nothing more than a young man in exile, slept with a knife close to hand. It was his custom—particularly now that his captor-patron Charlemagne was far off in Rome and some of the Frankish court left behind here in Aachen just might fancy some deadly sport. Now he came surging up from sleep, knife drawn, seeing a shadowy figure there in the darkness, thinking,
This time it's real, someone's sent an assassin to—

"No," a calm voice said. "I'm not a foe. Wait. Let me light a lamp so you can see me."

It had been said in the Saxon tongue of Wessex, the sound infinitely sweet to Egbert's ears. He waited tensely, ready to attack if he must. There was a small flare of light, a flickering as the lamp's wick caught. . . .

So now, who was this? A man stood alone in the yellowish glow, hands raised slightly to show he bore no weapon. The light was too uncertain to let Egbert guess the man's age, but he was definitely blond of hair, blue of eyes, and his pleasant face was vaguely familiar. . . . Egbert hunted for a name and after a moment said tentatively, "Osmod?"

"Ah, I'm flattered that you remember, Your Highness. It's been . . . what, sixteen years now?"

"Indeed," flatly. "You're the last person I would have expected to see here. Especially," his sweep of a hand took in the bedchamber, "here."

"I needed to speak with you rather urgently—and secretly."

"But how did you get into—"

"Please. We both know that nothing's impossible."

"With sufficient coin. Of course." Egbert didn't relax his grip on the knife's hilt. "Speak."

"I'll be blunt. King Beortric of Wessex is dead."

Egbert just barely hid the wild shock of hope that blazed through him; only his years of pretending to be a harmless nobody allowed him to say as calmly as though they were discussing the weather, "Is he, now? How? He wasn't that old a man. And from what I remember of him, I can't believe there was a battle."

"No battle. The talk at court is that his wife was his murderer."

"His wife!"

"You do remember her, don't you? The high-headed daughter of late King Offa? As to the truth of what she did or didn't do . . ." Osmod shrugged. "The fact is: she's fled. And the king is most undeniably dead. Ah . . . I see that my news interests you!"

Egbert could feel his heart racing so fiercely he nearly staggered.
Oh God, to be out of this place after all this time! The throne of Wessex vacant, and I
— In a voice suddenly choking with hope, he asked, "What of the Witan? Have they chosen a successor?"

"Oh, they're still debating back and forth and getting nowhere. Beortric left no heir of his body; I'm sure that information drifted to you here in Aachen. As for other candidates . . ." Osmod shrugged again. "I don't know how much you recall of how the Witan operates."

"I wasn't too young to recall them agreeing with Beortric to exile me."

"A boy, yes, then. A man, now. Oh, and before you ask," Osmod added cheerfully, "yes, I did reach Aachen with astonishing speed: lucky winds and the like."

"Even so late in the year."

Osmod shrugged. "I didn't say the trip had been easy, just swift. Very swift. Believe me, Your Highness, the Witan is still meeting." Osmod took a small step forward, blue eyes earnest. "The Witan will choose you. They must."

"But you know nothing about me!"

"More than you think, I suspect. You aren't totally isolated here at Charlemagne's court, Your Highness. Not for the . . . ah . . . curious."

"The ambitious, you mean."

"Why, Your Highness, is there anything wrong with ambition?"

Egbert hesitated, wondering. "No," he said at last.

"So. You have the strongest claim to the throne, you are strong and handsome—don't wave that away, Your Highness, we both know that folk, contrary to all the priestly teachings, do judge by outer appearances. So," Osmod repeated, ticking off the points on his fingers, "you are tall, handsome, hale and young—but no longer too young."

"I blush," Egbert said dryly, and saw the man grin.

"More important, Your Highness, you look so much like your late father, Heaven rest him, that no one can deny your lineage. I . . . ah . . . don't suppose you have some token of his as further proof? Of—your pardon— legitimacy?"

"His seal ring." Egbert had held it safely hidden all these years.

"Ah, splendid. The Witan
will
choose you, Your Highness. Particularly," Osmod added with the slightest of dramatic pauses, "when you are there to remind them you still live."

"What—"

"Yes. I can get us away from here as easily as I got myself in."

"You can guarantee lucky winds back again, eh? Winter weather notwithstanding."

"Something like that." Osmod paused, grin fading. "I can do my part, Your Highness. I can and will get you safely back to Wessex. But before we go a step further, you must decide. Do you want the throne of Wessex?"

God, yes!
"Words are all well and good," Egbert hedged warily. "But who stands behind them? I'm not naive: good looks aren't enough to win a throne. And I've been out of sight for sixteen years; the people aren't going to know who I am."

"The golden delight of the Witan, that's all they'll need to know. That will win you initial support. What happens after that . . . well now, Your Highness, once you're on the throne, that will be up to you."

"That still doesn't answer my question: If I leave my 'sanctuary' here and risk returning home, who will I find willing to back my claim?"

"Everyone."

It was said so flatly that Egbert wondered just how bad things had gotten in Wessex. Or just how influential Osmod had become. Yet, oddly enough for an ealdorman, there seemed to be no guile at all in the pleasant face or those clear blue eyes.
I've been an actor all these years,
Egbert reminded himself.
Why shouldn't he be acting as well?

And yet . . . and yet . . . there was something honest about those eyes, something that told him, whispering in his mind,
this is a man you can trust.

Could he? Egbert frowned slightly. "Why are you doing this? And please don't give me those tired old words, 'rightful ruler.' "

"Ah, but you are!" But Osmod was smiling again, eyes alight with wry humor. "Of course I want to see you on the throne of Wessex."

"And you beside me as advisor. Weren't you that for Beortric?"

"Of course. One of his several ealdormen, at any rate. But he had lost most of his interest in the wider world. He listened only to his . . . favorite."

"Ah." Egbert hadn't missed the subtle emphasis on
favorite.
"A pity. And you expect me to have larger concerns?"

"Expect? I
know
it, Your Highness."

His grin was infectious. Even as a small part of his mind was wondering why, after sixteen years of perpetual caution, he was being so suddenly, so completely trusting of a virtual stranger
(almost as though Osmod had cast a spell—no, ridiculous),
Egbert felt himself grinning as well.

"We shall see, ealdorman. Get me out of this comfortable prison, get me the throne of Wessex, and we shall see."

"I can ask no more," Osmod said, and bowed.