"Human. You were going to say 'human,' admit it."
Ardagh had to grin at that, and saw a reluctant little smile twitch at her lips as well. He bowed. "I yield to my most perceptive lady." But as he straightened, Ardagh let his grin fade. "Yet I am going, Sorcha."
"Into battle. Against men with iron swords."
"I've fought against such before, yes, and survived unscathed."
"You can't expect such luck every time!"
"Hey now, grant me a little skill!"
But this time he couldn't coax even the smallest of smiles from her. "You are a prince, not a warrior," Sorcha said coldly. "And I expected more from one of the Sidhe than this sudden mindless need to kill."
"Give me strength against this woman!" That had erupted in his native tongue. Switching quickly back to the human language, Ardagh added, "I do love you. I do. But do not presume on that love too far. I am what I am, Sorcha, as you remind me, and human has no part in it."
"Go, then," she said flatly. "Go. Fight. Kill. Only return, alive, unharmed. That's all I ask."
That's all I ask as well! Ardagh thought. But he would not say that, and he could find nothing else.
Cadwal ap Dyfri let out his breath in a wary, soundless sigh as the prince and Sorcha ni Fothad went their separate ways. The last thing he'd intended was to be trapped in a corner like this, hiding like someone in a silly tale and horribly embarrassed lest the prince's keen night sight spot him. He most certainly hadn't wanted to be an eavesdropper.
But then, Cadwal thought with a rueful shake of the head, he doubted that either of the two would have noticed, lost in the heat of their lovers' quarrel as they'd been, if he'd paraded them painted all in blue woad.
"Fools," he said, but so softly it was no more than the faintest whisper. "Ah, fools. Don't they know?"
No, of course not. They had no idea, they could have no idea, how frail a thing was love. . . .
Cadwal realized suddenly how he was clenching his fists and very deliberately forced his hands to relax. He would not be ruled by memories. Or . . . dreams. (Gwen, his Gwen, calling, help me, Cadwal, help me—)
No. Ridiculous. Gwen was long dead, and dreams were . . . only dreams.
Even if they hurt so fiercely.
"Damnio," Cadwal muttered and started blindly forward. He knew why Prince Ardagh burned for battle, even if Sorcha did not; he'd felt the same madness. It was all too easy for an exile to fall into a frenzy of despair, to act with a wildness that said, clear as words, what does my life matter?
It mattered to Sorcha. The prince should remember that. But then, cu glas as Prince Ardagh was, what hope was there on that point? Pw, his own people had their codes of honor, of course they did, but these folk of Eriu had more such codes than any sane man needed!
"I must be at the king's side," Cadwal said to the absent prince. "I can't watch over you, too."
Still, Prince Ardagh was a more than decent swordsman, and he'd been training now and again with Cadwal; for a prince, someone who hadn't needed to fight for his life—at least not with a sword—he wasn't a bad warrior. Besides, there was that uncanny grace and speed of his, a definite asset.
Uncanny.
Cadwal stopped short, uneasily considering the word. Uncanny, yet. And what, specifically, had he overheard amid the quarrel? Something odd, something of magic . . .
Nonsense. He'd once drunk with Prince Ardagh when the weight of their respective exiles had burdened them both beyond solitary endurance. Yes, and they'd gotten a little drunk, too, talking like old comrades fully half the night. Nothing uncanny about that!
"Nonsense," Cadwal repeated aloud, and turned his mind grimly to the forthcoming battle.
It was a fine, bright day. A good day for a combat. Aedh had chosen the site well, forcing King Finsneachta's men to fight uphill, the sun in their eyes.
For all and all, Ardagh thought, trying not to pant, it wasn't shortening the fight. Sorcha was right. This is not my battle. The prince fiercely parried a sword cut meant to take off his head, feeling the shock of blade against blade shudder all the way up to his shoulders. This is not my land. He twisted aside to let a second blow whistle past, very well aware that his armor was of leather while everyone else—including this cursedly enthusiastic foe—was clad in iron; no way around that liability, not for one of the Sidhe. This is not even my Realm, curse it!
All around him, the clash of sword on sword and the roar of men's battle-mad voices tore at the air. Powers, how long was this battle going to last? Finsneachta of Leinster must surely know by now it was hopeless; Aedh had mustered far too many allies against him. And yet, Leinster fought on.
Oh yes, and I went into this stupid human fray with equally stupid enthusiasm. Though why I ever wanted to—
Ae, time enough to scold himself when he was safely out of this tangle.
If ever he was. By now, Ardagh's swordarm was brutally weary, his head pounded, and his side ached from someone's direct hit on that barely adequate leather armor. Only Sidhe reactions, swifter than anything human, had kept him unhurt so long. And now, somehow in the crush of bodies, he'd gotten himself separated from King Aedh.
Ardagh spared a second's glance to hunt and (with a little surge of relief) find Aedh mac Neill, there on a slight rise, fighting with the zeal and strength of a much younger man, iron helm hiding his silver-streaked red hair, and apparently totally unharmed. Yes, he'd brought this battle to the rebellious Finsneachta to teach that underking some humility. But no such serious motive could have been read from Aedh's face; he was very clearly enjoying the fight.
Hastily refocusing on his foe, Ardagh parried a new slash, then cut at the man, left, right, left again, trying to find an opening in that cursed iron mail. He didn't dare glance away again, but a part of his mind noted that it wasn't very long since the matter of the late, villainous Gervinus; Aedh was probably delighted to be fighting a battle that didn't involve sorcery.
No need to worry about the king, at any rate. Even if Aedh hadn't been so fine a warrior, Ardagh knew that at his side was Cadwal ap Dyfri; no joy of battle in Cadwal, only a grim and very professional efficiency that had kept the man alive so long.
It's his job, keep the king safe. Does it well, too. It's not my job though, and—
Suddenly his hair, admittedly far too long for battle, tore free from its thong, sending a black wave across Ardagh's face, nearly blinding him. He sprang back, clawing frantically at the strands with his free hand to clear his sight, struggling to parry at the same time, just barely managing both.
Damn and damn! It was sworn in the human tongue; the Sidhe language was too elegant for raw words. Still half-blinded by his own hair, Ardagh lunged savagely forward, driving his startled foe back and back again, hoping the human would slip on the wet, grassy slope. But now a second foe was trying to close with him as well. Ardagh sprang aside with inhuman speed, hearing the two humans crash into each other—and hopefully spitting each other on their weapons—only to find himself facing a new swordsman.
He looks as worn as I feel. Fortunately.
At least he'd finally gotten the hair out of his eyes. But without warning Ardagh felt the first blaze of iron-sickness burn through him. He staggered back, reminded—as though he really needed reminding—just how much of that cursed metal was around him. A small amount of iron was no problem, but there were limits—and his body had clearly just reached its. In another moment, Ardagh knew, he was going to have to flee or be ignominiously ill—and get himself killed during the latter. Did he care if the humans thought him a coward?
Not a whit!
Ardagh lunged to give himself room. The human drew back, expecting a charge, and Ardagh turned and fled the battlefield. His legs gave out halfway down the slope and he collapsed under a scraggly oak, struggling with nausea, struggling to draw new strength up from the native Power of the earth. If any stragglers found him here, helpless, he was dead. A stupid, stupid way for a prince of the Sidhe to die, even a prince
who was, through no fault of his own save stubborn honor, trapped in exile in this human Realm.
Ardagh looked up with a gasp, suddenly aware of someone standing over him, and saw King Aedh, his mail stained but not so much as dented, his face still fierce from battle.
"Iron?" the king asked succinctly, too softly for any human to hear; Aedh knew his Sidhe guest's keen senses, and a disconcerting bit of his weaknesses as well.
Ardagh nodded, but before he could say anything, Adeh added a curt, "You're lucky to be alive," and turned away, shouting commands to his men and his allies, working order on chaos by sheer force of voice and will.
Victory, the prince thought. Of course victory. Finsneachta didn't have a chance.
By ancient law, any king who'd been defeated—as Finsneachta of Leinster clearly had, could be deposed. But Aedh would hardly want to replace a known but at least temporarily cowed threat with an unknown, and possibly greater, menace; the High King, clever man that he was, had almost certainly already worked out some nicely convoluted treaty by which Finsneachta could keep at least a good part of his honor, and he—or at least his heir—could keep the throne. It would take some time to get the living sorted out into their respective royal armies, but soon enough everyone but the dead and the badly wounded would be riding back to their fortresses, and peace would once again fall over Eriu.
For the moment. Ardagh rubbed a weary hand over his face. These humans were more volatile than any nobles at his brothers court, and Aedh had more reason to be constantly on his guard than ever did Eirithan.
And what in the name of all the Powers did I think I was doing? "Lucky to be alive," indeed. What was I trying to prove?
Ardagh sighed. Difficult at times to be of the Sidhe, unable to lie even to one's self. For nearly two years of mortal time now—a mere instant by Sidhe standards but tediously long when one was living through it—he'd been trapped here, with not the slightest sign of a way out of exile. Unable to go home, unable to live here, unable to wed or even bed his lady—no wonder frustration had blazed out into battle-rage!
But . . . the very existence of such frustration and rage was a foreign thing, a . . . human thing. Why should he be . . . how could he be . . . Even as he staggered to his feet, tying back his wild hair with weary hands, Ardagh felt a chill stealing through him. A human thing, a human emotion . . .
I am not human. I cannot be human. But . . . what am I? What have I become?
As he watched Aedh's men sorting themselves out, tending to the wounded, counting the dead, the prince could not pierce the veil that seemed to have fallen between himself and them. He had lived among these humans, eaten with them, laughed with them, but right now all he could see were alien folk, so very alien. . . .
Ae, enough. With a great effort, Ardagh tore himself from what he knew could too easily turn to blank despair, and went to join the others. He had no great Power, not in this all-but-magickless Realm, and he couldn't risk showing those gifts he still possessed, not and keep up the convenient fiction of being a human prince from Cathay. But he could subtly ease pain here and there, speed up the organizing of the aftermath. The sooner matters were settled here, the sooner they were away from this cursed place, and—
Ardagh froze, suddenly still as a stalking cat. He had just sensed . . . what? The prince dropped to his knees beside a dead Leinster warrior, staring. About the warrior's neck hung a small clay amulet—and it bore Power.
Hands shaking slightly, Ardagh cut the leather thong with a quick slash of his dagger, closed his hand about the amulet. Yes, ae yes, the small thing did hold Power, just the faintest, faintest traces, but Power nonetheless. From where? No skilled sorcerer, surely; that would have left a definite psychic trace. Besides, Ardagh thought, opening his hand to study what he held, any sorcerer worth the name would be ashamed of such crude work. No, whatever self-claimed magician had created this had accidentally blended a touch of the earth's natural magic with the protective spells he'd cut into the amulet.
The not quite accurate spells. Ardagh glanced wryly down at the dead warrior. They didn't do this fellow much good.
Still, it was Power, no matter how slight. More important, it was solid, tangible, fixed Power. And what might not happen if he combined it with a spell? With one of the many, so far useless, Doorway spells he'd gleaned from human tales?
Ardagh's hand clenched shut. Though he had never guessed it, this was why he had entered the battle, not out of some foolish imitation of human frustration but from some arcane sense so faint he hadn't even known it. This was what he'd been seeking.
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 t
hat 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.
Forging the Runes Page 2