Oh Powers, how he longed to do just that, to just slide sideways onto the cushions and worry about everything tomorrow. But there had been something in that sly little smile of hers, something uneasily reminiscent of a cat that knows it will, eventually, snare its prey. Ardagh hesitated, wondering if maybe she'd guessed more about his status than he'd revealed.
A little security never hurt anyone, he decided. Since none of the races of the Folk could lie, it was generally considered a great breach of manners to ask a question that could not be evaded. So be it.
"Forgive me," Ardagh said carefully, "but I must ask for truth from you. I mean no insult by it."
"No insult is of the taking. Ask. Answer will I what I will."
"Am I safe here? Safe from harm of any sort?"
"You are."
There were many definitions of harm, and she had been just a touch too quick with that reply. Racking his exhausted brain for some more clearly defined reassurance, sure that he was missing some subtle detail, the prince asked, "May I sleep knowing I will wake without change to mind or will or body?"
"You may. The humans are, as I have the saying made, not of this place, and no one of mine—not even," she added with a sly little smile, "my so-jealous Lord Cymyriod—will be a disturbance."
She moved smoothly to her feet. Before Ardagh could see how she'd done it, Princess Tywthylodd was simply gone. Leaving him . . . wherever this was, and with not the faintest clue how to get back.
I should have worked a guarantee of freedom somewhere into all that. Should have. Bah.
He sat blinking groggily for a while, knowing he should be feeling more alarmed than he did, trying to focus on this sudden problem.
Impossible. Just as Cadwal said, this is as far as I go today. Tywthylodd told me I was safe, she can't lie, I'll take her at her word—and . . . enough.
Enough . . .
Almost gratefully, Ardagh surrendered to exhaustion, and dove into a wonderfully deep ocean of sleep.
Strange Alliances
Chapter 25
Sorcha ni Fothad, daughter of the High King of Eriu's Chief Poet and Minister, stood there in the royal fortress of Fremainn in the first faint grey light of morning, stood looking out over the dark mass of forest slowly growing into vibrant green—
Stood wishing with all her heart that she was far from here. Ardagh . . .
The softest of warning coughs made her turn, then bow politely. "King Aedh."
"You couldn't sleep, either, I see."
"Och, no. I . . . no." She wasn't about to tell the king that her dreams had been so dark, so full of worryings about Ardagh, that she'd decided it was far better to be awake. But Aedh smiled slightly; he'd guessed the truth.
"Of course you're worried about him," he said softly. "You wouldn't be human else." As Ardagh was not. Aedh hurried over that point. "My Eithne told me once—and then denied she'd ever said it—just how lonely it is for a woman waiting for her man to return."
"Life," Sorcha said shortly, "goes on. As it would whether or not women spent all their time in waiting and wailing. Your pardon if I'm speaking out of turn here, King Aedh, but you don't understand. We women are stronger—we've had to be—than you men would like to believe." Oh, clever, she snapped at herself, insult both the king and his gender in the one saying.
But Aedh only laughed. "Prince Ardagh is right. You're wasted as your fathers clerk. If the laws were other than they were, Sorcha, I'd make you one of my councilors, and you and the prince both could put the fear of the Lord—or whatever it is Prince Ardagh worships—into the others." He paused almost imperceptibly. "Where is he, Sorcha? Where is our wandering prince of the Sidhe?"
"I'm not sure. Where he was at last greeting, or—or at least so I hope."
"In Cymru," Aedh said in disgust. "I suppose I should be astonished that a mission to Wessex could ever end up so very twisted-about, but somehow I'm not. Not where the Sidhe are involved." He shook his head. "Who knows? The next time you hear from Prince Ardagh, he might even be aboard one of those elegant Lochlannach dragon-ships—yes, and terrorizing the whole shipload of those pirates into doing his bidding! Whatever," the king added darkly, "that might be."
"King Aedh! Ardagh is not a traitor!"
"Softly, lass. Of course he isn't. And I never meant to imply that he was. Principles of honor aside, our prince simply cannot lie, which means that he couldn't betray us even if he wished it."
"He doesn't."
"I know, I know. I only wish I knew what he was about!"
Sorcha shivered as a sudden damp breeze swept in over the forest. Rain on its way. I hope you're dry, my love. "Believe me, King Aedh, so do I. I haven't heard from him for—for far too long." He wouldn't betray me, I know that. But what if Ardagh's hurt, or—or—or worse—no! I won't believe that! "Right now," Sorcha said with fierce restraint, "I'd settle for just knowing where he is, and that he's whole and healthy and safe!"
"Och, well, I do, too." Aedh suddenly patted her hand in awkward comfort. "He'll be back. If the man's survived his brother's court and exiling, nothing in this silly little human world is going to be strong enough to stop him."
"He'll be back," Sorcha agreed. "He will be back."
God grant that it be so.
He was in Eriu, Ardagh's sleeping mind knew that at once. Yes, he was in Eriu, in Fremainn, though the distances seemed altered as only they could be in a dream, the spaces between houses stretching out impossibly far while he stalked his foe, the false Bishop Gervinus. Gervinus was in the midst of some dark sorcery . . . yes, the prince knew it now: the bishop was conjuring a demon, and only Ardagh could stop him.
Only Ardagh could stop him.
Only—
The prince awoke all at once, eyes snapping open. For a moment he was wildly disoriented, expecting Fremainn, finding only a misty haze and the soft lapping of water against land. The boughs of a willow arched gracefully over him, and with a sudden shock of recognition, Ardagh knew exacdy where he was: the Realm of the Tylwyth Teg. This was the lakeside that brushed up against the human Realm.
All around him was the peacefulness of early morning, the first faint chirps of birds and rustling of leaves in the soft breeze, though the mist kept out any trace of sun. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the scent of wet vegetation. Sometime during his sleep, he had slid from the divan to the ground, taking some of the cushions with him, and both they and the ground itself were wet with dew. The prince sat up with a shudder of purely physical chill, realizing that otherwise he felt perfectly restored. Once again his sleeping mind had managed to draw Power from his involuntary direct contact with the earth.
But his mind had also conjured up Gervinus. Of all the people of whom he could have dreamed, why him?
The answer wasn't difficult. His sleeping mind had plainly been sending him a warning, not of the late, unmourned Gervinus, but of his closest living parallel— the very much alive Osmod. Ae-yi, yes, like it or not, the matter between him and the ealdorman had gone far beyond being merely a personal feud.
A matter of dangerous ambition, that's what it is.
Gervinus, as his dream had so carefully reminded him, had plotted to control Eriu. King Egbert's ambitions clearly reached out for all of Britain. No peril to Eriu there, not really.
But Osmod's dreams were another case. Osmod's dreams barely stopped at Britain's shores. Ardagh frowned, wondering uneasily why he hadn't seen the threat right from the start. Was he still so much Eirithan's brother that his mind ignored a peril to mere humans?
The prince hissed in disgust. Hardly that!
What, then? Was it that I didn't want to see the threat? Was I in such haste to be done so I might return to Sorcha? Have I, then, grown so very . . .
But the only way to finish that thought was with the impossible: "human." And only humans worried over what had already happened.
So, now. Consider Osmod. Consider him and Egbert both: strong, determined, ambitious—with the sorcerer able to gi
ve his king a strength far beyond human military might. Without magic, it would surely take Egbert most of his merely human life to conquer all of his neighbors, yes, and to hold fast to his conquests. With magic, the combination of royal and sorcerous powers would tear right through any merely mundane defenses in a frighteningly short span.
Yes, and what then? Once Osmod and Egbert had finished with Britain, would they be content? Hardly. They would soon enough be reaching out across the narrow water from Britain to the nearest obvious challenge. Not to the Frankish lands, not when it meant facing the Emperor Charlemagne and his ties to Rome. But Eriu stood alone.
And I was the one who reminded Osmod and Egbert both that Eriu was there for the attacking. How very good of me.
This double menace to Eriu, military and sorcerous force united, would be far stronger than anything the lone Gervinus could ever have posed, even with the worst spells from his grimoire.
Darkness rend them both.
But again, only humans wasted time in futile curses. Ardagh got to his feet, restlessly pacing by the lakeside. He was not going to let his sanctuary or his human allies—most certainly not his human love—be imperiled, but he certainly couldn't fight the entire might of Wessex single-handedly.
Which meant that he'd been right all along: He couldn't just up and return to Eriu. Ae, no, he had to stop the sorcerer now, before there were any military complications.
He must destroy Osmod.
But how? I can hardly go back to Wessex and challenge the man to a—a mundane duel! Even if I did, I couldn't fight Osmod's foreign style of magic.
Then he'd just have to learn how Osmod's magic worked, wouldn't he?
As easily as that. Hah.
And then Ardagh stopped short, struck by so strong a sense of yes, this is what to do, this is where to go from here: the Cymric coast. There, he knew it as surely as though someone had shouted it, he would find an ally. What or who that ally might be—ae, no, that was as far as the flash of foresight went.
So be it. I never was much of a seer even in the Sidhe Realm.
Well now, all this was promising a fascinating time ahead. But before he could do anything else, Ardagh reminded himself sharply, he first had to figure out how to get out of this pretty snare. Foolish to have gotten into the situation at all! But the prince accepted with Sidhe honesty that he'd just been too weary, mind and body both, to have avoided even so obvious a trap.
They took away my sword and dagger, I see. Not surprising. I wouldn't have left me armed, either.
The lack of weapons didn't matter, not just yet. Ardagh froze, concentrating, then shook his head in surprise. Odd! No one was watching him, magically or mundanely, he was almost certain of that.
Tywthylodd must be very sure that I can't escape. Or that I am hopelessly ensnared for . . . ah . . . lust of her. Either way, it's a definite mistake on her part. Though how I can make use of it . . .
The prince stood with eyes closed and senses alert, hunting this time for any trace of disturbance, any shimmering of reality.
He opened his eyes again in disgust. Nothing! Or else the Tylwyth Teg transfer spell was simply too ordinary, too much a part of this place after much usage, to stand out.
Of course. Everything else in this cursed journey's been complicated. Why should this be any different?
Ardagh got to his feet and prowled along the edge of the lake, listening, scenting the air, hunting anything that didn't belong in such a peaceful scene.
Still no trace of any Doorway. But there was a feeling of Power set and holding . . . yes. The mist grew thicker as he went, finally turning almost solid.
Ardagh stopped, considering. A barrier. Not so much to keep anyone in, he'd hazard, as to keep the outside world out. No doubt any human wandering along the lakeside would see nothing unusual, possibly not even more than a hint of the mist itself, yet feel a definite sense of nothing here, turn back, go away.
"Clever," the prince said aloud.
He tested. Sure enough, a short stroll away from the lake into the vegetation brought him up against the wall of mist once more. He walked back along the lake the other way, following the curve of the shore. Ha, yes, here was the ever-thickening magical mist again, at the other end of this half-circle of lake. One firmly set loop of mist encircled greenery and water. Ardagh knelt at the water's edge, watching carefully.
Yes. There were swarms of small fish, fingerlings he thought they were called, swimming towards the mist, then turning aside like a flock of birds hitting an invisible barrier. The ring of force extended below the surface, then, as well; no simple escape, then, by swimming under it.
No doubt there are more fingerlings on the other side of this thing, equally cut off from these their fellows. Clever Tylwyth Teg indeed. They've made themselves a private garden out of this bit of mortal wilderness.
And in the process, trapped him in it. Why? Ardagh thought of Princess Tywthylodd's sly, subtle smile and gave a sharp little laugh. The "why" of it was obvious enough: she'd decided she liked this exotic Sidhe, this all-by-him-self Sidhe, and planned to keep him here awhile. By not calling this an imprisonment, but merely a . . . what word would she use? Dalliance, perhaps? Yes, there was a fine euphemism. By calling this a pleasant dalliance with not the slightest hint of danger to it for her "guest," she could easily evade her vow not to offer him harm.
No harm—except from sheer frustration. I wonder if it's even morning out there in the human Realm. If, for that matter, it's even the same day.
Time sometimes ran strangely between the Faerie and mortal Realms. Fighting the sudden panicky thought that it might not even be the same decade it had been in Eriu, Ardagh whipped out the magicked amulet-half. "Sorcha? Can you hear me, love? Sorcha?"
Powers, maybe she couldn't hear him. Maybe it really wasn't the same time or—
"Ardagh!" It was an impassioned whisper, and Ardagh's heart skipped a beat with relief. "There are folks about! Wait . . ." After a time, he heard her continue, "I'm alone near your guest house. But it's morning! You've never contacted me in the morning! What's wrong? And where are you?"
Ardagh glanced wryly about the misty garden. "That, my love, is not going to be too easy to explain. But it is morning there?"
"Yes, of course. Ardagh, what—"
Ah, thank you, whatever Powers are listening thank you!
Clearly no outlandish amount of time had passed. In fact, the odds were probably good that it really was the same day both here and there. "Thank you, love. I'm truly glad to hear that. As to where we are . . . Cadwal and I are still in Cymru. More or less."
"More or less?" she echoed incredulously. "Now what am I not going to want to hear?"
"Ah well, it's not that bad. You see, we've been given sanctuary by distant kinfolk: the Tylwyth Teg."
"That—that's the Cymraic Fair Folk? They're real?"
He chuckled. "Real as the Sidhe." Ardagh glanced quickly about. Maybe they weren't actually watching him, but sooner or later—doubtlessly sooner—someone was going to be checking on the "guest's" well-being. "Sorcha, I fear I must be brief. Cadwal and I are both safe and unharmed." If trapped. "I will contact you again as quickly as I may. Please, love, I know this sounds impossibly glib, but try not to worry."
"Hah!"
"Sorcha—"
"I know, I know. You have no choice in the matter."
Ardagh thought of Osmod and bit his lip. "That, love, is more true than ever. I'm sorry, I can't say more right now."
He heard her angry hiss of a sigh. "I'm getting truly weary of saying this, Ardagh, but: Come home. Finish up whatever weirdness it is you're doing and come home to me."
"As soon as I can, of honor. On that, my dearest one, you have my vow."
"I'd rather have you," she snapped, "and never mind the talk of honor. But things are as they are, you are as you are, and I'll try to take what comfort from that fact I can."
She broke off contact sharply, and Ardagh stood staring blindly at the amul
et, aching for Sorcha with a ferocity that astonished him. Powers, ae Powers, just how strong was the force that was love?
How strong was human love? For the first time, Ardagh imagined this journey as it might seem to Sorcha: an endlessness of waiting, of worrying, of never knowing whether he'd return, or even if he was still alive. What if she grew too weary from the burden? What if she could no longer bear the strain of loving him?
I cannot lose her, not her, not this as well as all else. I cannot.
Ae, ridiculous. He'd might as well be a human for all the logic in this—this maundering chain of thought. He was not going to so suddenly fall out of love, and neither, from everything he'd ever seen and known and adored about her, was Sorcha.
Heh, Eithne doesn't fall out of love with Aedh every time he goes off to battle.
And while this separation was an unhappy thing for both of them, he wasn't going to end it by standing here and pining. Ardagh put the amulet safely away, and turned the current problem over and over in his mind, hunting weaknesses.
First: What disadvantages did he have? No physical weapons. Given. No way of using Sidhe Power against a Tylwyth Teg spell. Given.
Now: What advantages did he have? Rested, yes. Power restored, yes. What else? What else? There must be something less obvious. . . .
Ha, yes, less obvious, indeed! Princess Tywthylodd might have decided to keep this lone Sidhe here as her pet, but pets eventually had to be fed, and—
Pet? Not exactly. He was a prince of the Sidhe, which made him a rare, valuable being to the Tylwyth Teg, and Ardagh doubted that Tywthylodd was shallow enough to want him only as a plaything. What else, then? Not as a political bargaining counter; the two races had little to do with each other.
"Darkness take it," Ardagh said in sudden comprehension.
Of course. What else could it be? Tywthylodd intended him, and not her consort, to be the sire of her heir. No choice about it on his part, of course; no matter how he might feel about it, there were drugs, spells, to ensure his constant fidelity. Granted, neither race was very fertile, but given the situation, he and she just might engender a child.
Forging the Runes Page 24