Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  "Reassuring."

  "Ae, come," the prince added, suddenly uncomfortably restless, "let's move on. The sooner we sleep under a safe roof, yes and in a genuine bed, the happier I'll be."

  He took the lead, very much aware that this time the eyes watching him warily belonged only to Cadwal.

  The boy, thought Osmod, had been quite carefully selected. He was a nobody, one of the small, scrawny, unmemorable multitude of underservants at King Egbert's court, and very young. That last fact was, Osmod knew, the only way to be even remotely sure of his innocence. Innocence was, after all, out-and-out essential for this final, desperate attempt at scrying.

  The boy was also very clearly nervous about being here in the ealdorman's chambers, particularly this late in the evening, particularly with no one else around.

  "Don't be afraid," Osmod said to him, keeping his voice as gentle as possible given his impatience. "You won't be harmed if only you do what you're told. And," he added with sudden sharpness, "one thing I told you was not to watch me!"

  No. Snapping at the boy was only going to make him so terrified that he would be useless. "I didn't mean to frighten you," Osmod crooned, and saw the faintest hint of relief. "And I won't hurt you. You want to help me, don't you?"

  Half-hypnotized, the boy nodded, and Osmod smiled and continued his soft purr. "Of course you do. And all you have to do to help me is look into the bowl. That's right. Look into the bowl. Good boy. Look into the bowl, only into the bowl. See only the water. Very good. Empty your mind—don't flinch!" he added as he put his hands on the boy's narrow shoulders and felt the slight body tense. Biting back his annoyance, Osmod continued more gently, "Don't flinch. You won't be hurt. Just keep looking at the water, the clear pool, the mirror . . . look into the mirror . . . that's right. . . .

  "Now, see him . . . see the prince . . . see Prince Ardagh . . ."

  He gradually threw more and more of his will into the effort, overwhelming the boy's mind, joining that innocent young strength to his far-from-innocent own, feeling the doubled energy clearing his senses, letting him see more than what the boy saw . . . letting him see . . .

  Ach, nothing.

  No. Not quite nothing. There was the faintest tingling, the faintest misting of the water . . . far away, he realized suddenly. No wonder this was all so vague, so difficult to trace. The prince was astonishingly far away, and Osmod felt a chill run up his back at the thought of how much Power that transition must have taken. More Power than he even wanted to consider.

  He really did disappear, he and his man as well.

  Far away, yes . . . but there was something else troubling the image. Frowning, Osmod deepened his hold on the boys mind, drawing more and more strength from it. And all at once, with so sharp a shock that he nearly lost the image altogether, he realized the truth. Someone else—no, someones else was involved. No, no, more than merely involved: They were hunting the prince—no, Osmod corrected, for whatever reason, the one they sought was the prince's companion. Right now, though, that amounted to the same thing.

  And these mysterious, nervous hunters, he could have sworn, also bore the faintest touch of Power. . . .

  "Yes," Osmod murmured, bemused. "Yes." Quickly, he withdrew his will from the boy's mind. What an interesting situation. Making use of such a thing wouldn't be easy, not at all. But if he could manage it, the results should prove most valuable, indeed.

  First, though: With a quick clench of his hands, he snapped the boy's thin neck. Cutting the narrow throat deftly, he drank the young life and blood together, delicately, careful not to stain himself or his belongings, delighting in the fresh new strength rushing into his mind and heart. Yes, ah yes, splendid! And the boy had been so small; it would be so simple to be rid of his body.

  Three hunters. Three nervous, near to panic hunters. They'll be so very glad of aid, Osmod thought, smiling. They'll be glad of aid—no matter what the source.

  And as for Prince Ardagh, well now, anything that blocked his path was fine. Especially the loss of his one ally, that far too loyal Cymric mercenary. Farewell, then, to him—and farewell, soon after, the Lords of Darkness only grant this, to Prince Ardagh!

  Hiraeth

  Chapter 21

  Tywi, self-proclaimed mage and would-be druid, woke with a start, blinking confusedly in the darkness. Strange, so very strange! The dream had been odd enough in itself, a wild swirling of mist and shadow, leaf and tree. But there had been more to it than mere visual bewilderment. Tywi could almost have sworn that someone had actually spoken to him as well, not as part of the dream, but somehow through it, like a man shouting through a fog from far away, saying words sounding so faint and distant he almost hadn't heard the sense of them.

  Tywi paused, considering. Dreams could be strange things, yes, without any need to add Otherliness to them. And yet, no, the message hadn't been merely part of his own mind's fancyings; the more he thought about it, the more certain he became.

  Cadwal. There was something in the message about Cadwal ap Dyfri. Something about him being here in Cymru—yes! Something about him coming this way!

  Was it possible? Tywi knew better than to disregard all dreams. Oh no, while some were downright useless, idle fancies of an overwrought brain, many were so much more. Some, indeed, were nothing less than out-and-out messages from the Powers Themselves.

  But had this really been one such? The old stories all made it perfectly clear that when a god chose to reveal holy words to a follower in a dream, that follower knew it, yes, here, now, no doubt about it.

  The old stories. No such being told nowadays. And yet, here he was—och, no, he'd talk with the others before making any sweeping decisions. Shaking his head in confusion, Tywi got out of bed and padded barefoot through the darkness to the sleeping alcove usually occupied by Tegid—

  Who met him halfway there, blinking sleepily, a dim figure in the darkness saying, "I had the oddest dream just now, almost as though—"

  "Someone was sending you a warning?" Tywi gasped.

  "All about Cadwal ap Dyfri, yes. How did you—"

  "I just heard a similar warning, myself! And—"

  "Tywi, Tegid!" It was Tegan, looking tousled, sleepy, and, despite the fog of darkness hiding most of his face, thoroughly alarmed. "What are you two doing here?"

  "Did you have a dream?" Tegid asked sharply.

  "Yes! It was—"

  "Containing a message about Cadwal ap Dyfri?"

  "What—you, too?"

  "That's right," Tywi said, fumbling with a candle till he'd gotten it burning. He glanced at the other two over the small, flickering fight. "The same dream for all three of us."

  "A god . . . ?" Tegid asked warily.

  "Or a demon. Or another mage with a grudge against Cadwal. Who can say?" Tywi shrugged, a little too casually. "The days when the gods identified themselves to their worshipers seem to be long gone. But whomever—or whatever—our mysterious informant may be, there seems to be no doubt about his, her, or, for all we know, its message:

  "Cadwal ap Dyfri has, indeed, returned to Cymru. He is, all the Powers be thanked, coming straight to us. We will at last be able to put an end to the whole messy business."

  Ardagh bit back an impatient sigh. He had to admit that by now, their third day of wilderness travel, he was managing well enough, far better than he'd ever dreamed of coping back during his first dazed wandering in Eriu's forests. But that, the prince thought, didn't mean he was actually enjoying this—this—barbarism!

  Powers, what I'd give for a bed that's something more than broken boughs, a roof that doesn't shed leaves— no, no, for nothing more than a simple hot bath!

  He had been aching to scry out Osmod, aware of the sorcerer like the most distant but menacing of storms. But Ardagh reluctantly had to admit that it was too great a risk. A magical backlash, here in the middle of wilderness, might well prove fatal.

  Onward. That's all there is right now: onward.

  They had been climbing
a rough, rocky slope for some time, weaving their way up through the tangled underbrush, stepping carefully over the treacherous footing. Cadwal, in the lead this time, reached the crest of the hill—

  And froze, outlined starkly against the sky as though turned in a moment's sorcery to stone.

  "Cadwal?" Ardagh hurried up to join him, alert in every nerve. "What is it?"

  "Look."

  The prince obligingly glanced about. Scenic. Grey-purplish mountains, deep green forest. Yes, and there, perched dramatically on a rugged hill, a ringed fortress reminding him vaguely of those in Eriu: a main house of stone surrounded by several thatched outbuildings, the whole estate or king's holding or whatever it was lying safe within its wooden palisade. Peaceful as an artist's rendering, the entire scene, with nothing alarming about it, nothing to put a man into such a total state of shock—

  Ah. Suddenly knowing exactly what the reply was going to be, Ardagh asked, "You finally know where we are, don't you?"

  "Cymru." Cadwal's voice was so choked with emotion it was barely understandable. "More than that. The kingdom of Gwynedd. The land of my birth. I have," he added, all at once shaking uncontrollably, "come home."

  Memory sharp as a blade stabbed through Ardagh. The glimpse of my own homeland, shown to me, shown to the exile, in that one agonizing instant by my treacherous brother, then shut off from me in the next—

  He could sympathize with Cadwal, ae, he could. But: Cymru? Gwynedd? How could this be . . .? The prince hastily traced back in his mind to the chaotic moments when they'd transferred from circle to circle, trying to recall what each of them had said, trying to reconstruct what Cadwal might have been thinking. Wait now . . . yes, Cadwal had, indeed, been concentrating on Cymru just at the crucial instant, no doubt concentrating specifically on Gwynedd—

  And as a result interfered with Ardagh's wildly improvised magic to transfer them specifically to Gwynedd.

  But Cadwal—Gwynedd— "You can't stay here!" the prince cried. "Powers, man, you're in grave danger!"

  No reply.

  "Cadwal! Look you, I know ten years have gone by and that's a long time for humans—"

  "Not long enough."

  "Exactly! Surely you can't have changed that much. If anyone here recognizes you as the exile who slew his liege lord—yes, yes, I know you were perfectly justified in your action, but I doubt these folk will accept that."

  "If they catch me," Cadwal said dully, "my life's forfeit."

  "Don't say it as though you no longer care! You wouldn't have survived this long if you didn't want to live or—"

  "Didn't think a Sidhe would care about what happened to a human." He shrugged, ignoring Ardagh's gasp of sheer, furious frustration. "I'm not going suicidal, if that's what's worrying you. And I'd just as soon not die just yet."

  "Well, then!"

  "You can't get us magically out of here, can you?"

  "No."

  "So. Like it or not, here I am. At least now," Cadwal added, his eyes bleak and hard as stone, "no matter what else happens, I can finally learn the truth about my Gwen."

  Ardagh felt a little shiver steal up his spine. Warning? A hint of prescience? "Powers willing," he said uneasily. "Amen to that."

  And, the prince added silently, can matters possibly get any more complicated than—no. I'm not even going to try finishing that thought!

  Osmod sat staring blindly into the fire, alone in his bedchamber, clenching his teeth against the blaze that seemed to be racing through his brain, fiercer than the physical flames. Lords of Darkness, what had he done? He could barely think, barely sit upright, he could feel his heart pounding so savagely it seemed about to burst, and suddenly the last of his strength was gone and he could no longer stay upright. Osmod sagged sideways onto the floor, welcoming the coolness of the planks, thanking all the Lords of Darkness that he'd had the sense to dispose of the boy's body before trying any sorceries, groaning with the never-ending pain in his head, the fierce surging of blood in his ears.

  But I did it. I reached them. All the way to Cymru. I reached them, sent the message. Now if only they act . . . the three so-called mages, if only they act. But it doesn't matter, not now, not yet. I did what no other sorcerer has done. I reached them all the way across the land to Cymru with my will alone.

  And killed himself in the process?

  No, no, that wasn't possible.

  "I did it," Osmod moaned in desperate, defiant triumph, then slid helplessly into a well of darkness.

  Ardagh stared across the little campfire at Cadwal. The prince had been wary of building any fire at all, anything that might reveal their position, but the mercenary had given him neither argument nor agreement, and at last Ardagh had decided that the benefits of warmth and, for Cadwal's sake, light outweighed the risk. Remembering the mercenary's lecture on such things, he'd gone to a great deal of care to gather only the driest, least likely to smoke, wood. But Cadwal—ae, Cadwal sat as he had sat for all this night, staring wordlessly into the flames without really being there at all, his face showing no more life than the side of a boulder.

  "Gwynedd," the prince said at last, tired of the silence. "This kingdom is, obviously, new to me. Can you tell me something about the way of things here?"

  A shrug.

  "Look you, Cadwal, I'm not exactly thrilled by the idea of wandering in unknown territory. I know you'd rather brood, but I really would like to learn something!"

  Cadwal glanced up at that. "Not much I can tell you, not after so long away. Hell, I don't even know for sure which king's on the throne, whether it's still Hywel or someone new."

  "Yes, but what is Gwynedd? A kingdom like Eriu?"

  "Something like. One king, a good many underlings of various nobility and power. Land's broken up into various steads, maenorau, estates, I'd guess you'd call them. One of those maenorau belongs—belonged to Dyfyr ap Meilyr. The late Dyfyr ap Meilyr, may he burn in Hell."

  "The murderer."

  "The bastart I slew, yes. The place would belong to his son now, Morfren, and I wish him never joy of it, the weak son of a hard, cruel father and an iron-cold, joyless mother."

  "You make it all sound as charming as the complications at my brother's court. And to think we both actually want to go home to such things."

  "Ironic, that's us." But then Cadwal's quick little wry grin faded. "I just want to be sure my Gwen's safe, that's all. The rest doesn't matter. Just as long as she's safe up in Heaven."

  "Add a little prayer while you're at it, would you, that we stay safe here in mortal realms as well?"

  Ardagh meant that only half in jest. All at once chilled as though a cold wind was blowing, he pulled his brat more closely about himself.

  And do I want to go back to dealing with my brother and his court? Powers, no. But that doesn't mean I don't ache with every bit of me to be back in my own Realm! No more dealing with humans and their never-ending problems, no more—

  Sorcha?

  Why? Ardagh asked whatever Powers might be listening. For that matter, why me?

  But of course there was no answer, and the prince shrugged slightly, watching Cadwal from across the fire. The human shrugged as well, the two of them exchanging a wordless, resigned message of: What is, is.

  Whether they liked it or not.

  "Cymru!" Sorcha exclaimed.

  "The Kingdom of Gwynedd, to be precise." Ardagh glanced down at the amulet, picturing Sorcha's astonished face, wishing with all his heart that he was there to soothe away her shock. "My love, don't ask me to explain any hows or whys in detail, because quite frankly, I can't. Remember that I was working with three different sources of Power, I was so dazed by the mix that I wasn't sure what I was doing, Cadwal and I both were desperately thinking of escape, and he . . ."

  "And he, being only human, had in his mind the first place of refuge he'd ever known. His homeland."

  "Exactly."

  "Poor man. The shock of it . . . suddenly being home yet knowing you're still an e
xile—"

  "I've been there."

  "Och, love, I know. I also know what it's done to you. Cadwal . . . isn't trying to find his death, is he?"

  Ardagh winced, glancing at the mercenary. Cadwal had spent a restless night, but now, with the dawn nearly here, he had finally sunk into an uneasy sleep, curled up by their banked campfire. "I'm not sure," the prince said after a moment. "Not if I have any say in the matter, at any rate. I firmly intend to get both of us out of this alive. And no, alas, before you ask, I can't just magic the two of us away, because—"

  "Because you don't know what you did the first time." He heard Sorcha sigh, the softest of whispers. "Yes, love, I understand that much of magic's workings by now. But forget magic for the moment. Why can't you just—turn around? Walk away? Go west or south or somewhere safer than Gwynedd?"

  "We could. The problem is that now that we're here, Cadwal is determined to learn the truth about his lost love."

  "But she's dead!"

  "That . . . ah . . . seems to be a subject open to some debate. Cadwal has, it seems, heard her and possibly even seen her, or her ghost, or—or the Powers know what. No, before you ask, he's not gone mad, at least as far as I can tell, and I don't think he's suicidal."

  "But . . . a ghost? Is that . . . possible?"

  "Ae, who can say? I'm hardly an expert on this Realm and its supernatural! What he's seen and heard could be real, could be a trick, could be anything!" Ardagh took a deep breath. "I only wish I did know more about this land in particular: the customs, the politics, the whole ridiculous situation."

  "Hasn't Cadwal told you anything at all?"

  "Oh, I've gathered some small bits of information from him, but it's been like plucking feathers from a litheren— that's a stony-hided, vicious-minded, nearly plumeless bird—much hard work and little to show for it."