Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  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."

  Worr blinked, rubbed a hand over his eyes, then rode away without a word. Osmod stood staring after him, then crumpled to one knee, gasping, fighting the sudden waves of weariness surging over him. Maybe sorcerers in those stupid ancient sagas could work their phenomenal feats without getting tired, but he certainly couldn't; he doubted anyone could. But Worr—had it worked? Lords of Darkness, had it worked?

  Of course it had. Worr surely would have said or done something if his will hadn't been overcome. He wouldn't have ridden off like a blank-faced puppet. No, the youngster wouldn't remember a moment of what he'd seen.

  And
yet, and yet . . . Osmod shuddered, wondering after the fact if he hadn't sensed just the faintest spark of resistance gone unquenched. That would be all it would take, one unconquered spark, to let memory return. Controlling something as simple as a rabbit was one thing; controlling the human mind was another matter entirely.

  Ach, nonsense. If they'd been returning to the royal hunting lodge, that might have been a problem; it was impossible to work anything useful while crowded into such a small space with so many potential witnesses. But of course the season was already too late for the lodge. All he needed to do, once they were back in Uintacaester, the king's city, was reinforce matters with something stronger than a rabbit's life.

  He certainly couldn't stay kneeling here like some mindless, bloodstained predator. Osmod hastily set about cleaning his mouth and hands, then scrambled to his feet, catching his terrified horse by the bridle and swinging back into the saddle, fighting the animal till it obeyed him. He'd known the risks of his chosen path from the start. As for Worr . . .

  If I fall, Osmod promised Worr silently, I take you with me.

  The hunt had, Osmod mused, turned out to be a good one after all. The king had somehow managed to bring down a fine stag, and Osmod (careful as ever not to outdo his ruler) had felled one almost as fine. More, Worr was his usual earnest, perfect self, showing no sign that sorcery had been worked on him. Yes, and—a petty thing, perhaps, Osmod thought, but it was most satisfying to note—the young man had missed his mark completely.

  In every sense.

  They came out of forest into cleared farmland. Ahead lay the city, safe within its ancient stone walls, "the old work of giants," as the common folk claimed, and Beortric suddenly raised his arm and ordered a gallop.

  With horses already weary from the hunt, Osmod thought. And with the crowded city ahead. We must have our dramatic gesture, mustn't we?

  Wagons on the road ahead were being frantically dragged out of the way. People were scurrying for cover. The hunt came sweeping through the gates and into Uintacaester, which brought them, perforce, back to a more sensible pace; the High Street might be wide enough for a gallop, even though it would mean trampling pedestrians, but the side streets, with their closely packed wooden houses, were just too narrow for anything more than a walk.

  Osmod shook his head, glancing about. All this wood, with never a gap. No one had learned anything from the fire some . . . what was it? . . . thirty years back, had they? But then, how many ordinary folk could remember something thirty years back?

  A good many in the crowds were yelling polite cheers. Osmod raised a startled brow. Well now, listen to this: some of the cityfolk were actually calling his name. The ealdorman smiled and courteously dipped his head as he rode by. It never hurt to show yourself friendly to the common folk; you never knew when they might prove useful.

  Besides, Osmod admitted to himself, he liked these people, so busy and industrious. Loyal servants of their complacent king who would easily shift their loyalty to whomever else sat the throne so long as he left them alone. And to whomever stood beside that throne, as well.

  Osmod glanced to one side, to where the great wooden bulk of Uintacaester s cathedral towered over the common houses. Another reason why he had no desire for the throne: the Church would not support a sorcerer-king, and no king could rule a Christian realm without the Church. Bishop Cynbert was a civilized, politic man, but there were, Osmod thought wryly, limits. Cynbert was off in Rome—as well he might be, what with the coronation of the mighty Charlemagne drawing a good many prelates to the holy city.

  Ah, Charlemagne. Things could be worse. I could be at his court. Even the strongest of sorcerers would he dwarfed beside the arrogant power of that man.

  The ealdorman shrugged. Even when the alliance between Mercia and the Frankish realm had been alive, Charlemagne had made it clear that he had no interest in Wessex or the rest of Britain; no need to worry on that front now that the alliance was as dead as Offa.

  A flash caught his eye. The massive bulk of the royal hall loomed before him, every bit as splendid as the cathedral, the lofty roof taller even than the surrounding palisade. Its gilded shingles glinted in the sunlight like something magical, something out of the sagas, and Osmod smiled anew.

  What a perfect day, indeed.

  Plans and Trials

  Chapter 3

  It had been a wearying ride back from the battle with Leinster and the victory over Finsneachta. But now at last Fremainn lay before them: Fremainn, royal fortress of the High King of all Eriu. Ardagh glanced up at the high earthen rings through which Aedh and his men were riding, and felt the by-now quite familiar little pang of dismay.

  Fremainn. Ahead, encircling the great mound within the rings, stood a wooden palisade, ridiculously plain and primitive to someone used to the elegant, spun-silver walls of the Sidhe. Within that topmost wooden ring, he knew, lay not some breath-catchingly beautiful estate (flash of memory: his own quiet, airy mansion, his own lovely gardens ablaze with flowers—no!) but nothing more grand than a wide, grassy field set with simple houses of stone or—more commonly—wood and thatch.

  Ae, Powers.

  Tolerate these folk, even rather like these folk though he did, he would never be able to accept that this, this was the finest palace in all the land.

  But now they were all at once racing up through the palisade's gate and out onto the grassy field. The prince let go of his dismay, realizing that he was, to his surprise, doing just what every other returning warrior was doing: scanning the gathered crowd for one special face.

  Why, you romantic idiot! he jibed, amazed at himself. You refugee from a bardic tale!

  Aedh was already leaping from his horse, arms open, as Eithne his wife came running to him like a girl, laughing, her chestnut hair flying out behind her, her eyes wild with relief. Ardagh alone knew that the queen must have been spending all her time till now secretly weaving protection spells to shield her husband; Eithne was no great sorceress, but she did have that touch of Power. Aedh swept her into his embrace and gave her a passionate kiss that made the crowd cheer.

  But there, ah there . . . Ardagh froze, forgetting his self-mockery, all at once—just as the bards sang—hearing nothing, seeing nothing but one face. "Sorcha," he murmured.

  Sorcha ni Fothad stood just as still, her face sharp with mingled joy and rage: only she, Ardagh thought with an inner smile, could have managed such a mix. Her eyes in daylight were the deepest blue of the midnight sky, her hair was dark red flame slipping free of its braids, and Ardagh suddenly found himself abandoning control as thoroughly as any human.

  So be it.

  Imitating Aedh, he flung himself from his horse and caught his lady in an embrace.

  In the next instant he wondered if that had been such a wise idea; Sorcha was hardly the sort to be submissively swept off her feet. But for one endless, splendid moment, Sorcha's lips were fiery against his own. Then she pulled back, gasping, "You're not hurt? You're safe?"

  Ardagh chuckled at the human ability to ask obvious questions. "Quite safe."

  "Good!" Sorcha practically snarled that out, her voice suddenly sharp as a slap. "Don't ever frighten me like that again. If a sword had cut you—iron—"

  She stopped short, choking on her anger, knowing as well as Ardagh that she dared not continue this train of thought where others could hear; as far as Sorcha knew, only she, in all Fremainn, was aware of his true Sidhe nature.

  The truth's not that much greater, Ardagh thought. Aedh knows as well, and—our secret, hers and mine— Eithne. "You're right," he said before Sorcha could regroup. "You're truly, totally right. I had no business taking part in that battle. It was a stupid thing to do, and I'm incredibly fortunate not to be hurt. Just let me bathe and rest a bit," he added, voice dropping to a sleek purr, "and then I will . . . more properly tender my apologies."

  That startled a laugh out of her. "Ardagh," she murmured, for his ears only, "och, Ardagh. Maddening, no, no, totally infu
riating though you are, I do love you!"

  Her hand rested gently on his cheek for a heartbeat. Then, still trailing laughter, she scurried off into the crowd.

  And I, Ardagh thought, watching her go, I love you, human though you are. I love you.

  And what, I wonder, is to become of us?

  The humans had given him a fine little guest house when he'd first arrived in Fremainn: small but clean and quite comfortable, even though it contained little more than a feather bed, a table and a chair. More to the point, at least to Ardagh's way of thinking, it was set a bit apart from the other buildings; it gave him some much-needed privacy. Particularly since, eccentric though the idea might make him seem to the humans, he refused to have a servant share the house with him.

  Right now, the prince was very glad of the solitude. There had been, understandably, quite a feast to welcome home the triumphant king and army, but by now the last revellers had staggered to their beds. Ardagh sat alone in the now blessedly quiet night, keen-sighted as all Sidhe in the darkness, studying the small amulet he'd taken from the dead Leinster warrior and, strand by delicate strand, working out the weave of its Power.

  Such as it was. Ardagh straightened with a sigh that turned itself into a yawn, arching his back to get out the stiffness, thinking with regret of the magically hot baths of his homeland.

  Ah well. He was here, and if this ridiculously weak amulet was all he had to work with . . .

  And yet he hesitated. This one thing he'd kept from Sorcha, this one thing he'd held to himself . . . why? If he did, indeed, manage to open a Doorway home, what then? Did he mean to leave at once, without so much as a glance behind?