So far. And the damned things aren't even enjoyable!
He shuddered. As a boy, Egbert had idly poked into a great pile of autumn leaves, only to find his stick stabbing into a dead and rotting dog underneath. The sickly bitter, sickly sweet stench had haunted him for days.
And these dreams have something of that same falsely sweet foulness. It's not just the glory of expanding an empire, no, it's the—the gloating in victims' pain and misery . . . The dreams couldn't be mine, I couldn't be conjuring such things!
Yet who else could he blame? Egbert had done some discreet investigations, never letting anyone know exactly why. Let them all think this just another level of kingly caution; nothing odd about that since everyone knew there were such things as sorcerers and dark spells. But nothing had come of those inquiries. Who cared, save perhaps the Church, that two of the kitchen help knew a few tiny charms against scalding or that one of the weavers just might be a pagan? No one in the entire royal court was found to be working anything as terrible as sorcery at all, let alone any sorceries aimed against him.
Evident sorceries, at any rate—bah, he was beginning to sound like poor, confused Leofrun.
Egbert ran his hands roughly through his hair, trying to focus his thoughts. God, he couldn't tell a soul about these dreams. That was all a new king needed: Listen, everyone, I'm being haunted by unpleasant dreams and just may be going slowly mad, but don't worry about it; I can still rule—
"Bah," he repeated aloud.
A soft hand touched his arm. Egbert sprang to his feet, whirling, snatching blindly for a weapon—
"Leofrun." It was a sigh of relief. "Don't startle me, woman. You know better than that,"
"Osmod," she said softly.
"What?"
"Osmod," Leofrun repeated, moving softly to his side, her long, sleep-tousled hair tangled about her naked body: graceful, Leofrun, lovely as a swan-maid for all her dullness of mind. "Osmod is bad."
"Nonsense."
"Osmod," she insisted, "Osmod, Osmod, Osmod."
"Stop that, Leofrun!"
But she continued in blank, stubborn determination, totally oblivious of her nudity, "Osmod, Osmod," until at last, exasperated, Egbert slapped her.
He'd never struck her before, Leofrun stopped as suddenly as if he'd cut the strings of her legs, her mouth half-open, eyes filling with reproachful tears. In another moment, Egbert thought, she'd begin to wail. Or worse, simply stand there and weep without a sound.
Ach, damn. Feeling as though he'd just hurt a child, Egbert sighed soundlessly and pulled her to him. This is ridiculous. I must find myself a wife. A politically useful wife, yes, but also someone who's sane and sensible! Someone with whom I can have a genuine conversation!
In the meantime, here was Leofrun. Adoring, stupid, safe Leofrun, her face buried against his chest, her bare body warm against him. Despite his impatience with her, Egbert couldn't resist a little stirring of interest. "I'm sorry," he said to her wild mane of hair. "I won't hurt you again, I won't. But I have troubles enough. I don't need you adding to them with your ridiculous prattle."
Of course she didn't understand one word of that. Leofrun pulled free, wiping her nose with a casual hand, her gaze fixed on him, eyes as wide and blank as those of a cow. Egbert felt his sudden interest fade just as quickly and fought back the sudden urge to strike her again, to shake some sense into that staring face. Useless. She was as she was, and nothing could change her.
"Leofrun," he said with careful patience, "Ealdorman Osmod has done nothing wrong. No, no, listen to me. Listen! He has done nothing wrong. Do you understand that?"
She nodded, but stubborn refusal was in every line of her body, and Egbert sighed and gave it up. "Leave me, Leofrun. Yes, it's all right; I'm not angry with you. Just . . . leave me alone."
The day was bright with sunlight, but Osmod stood hidden in the shadow of the royal hall, watching his fellow ealdormen and working on keeping an aura of not here about himself. Which, alas, was not quite as easy as it should have been. This was, he mused, bound to happen sooner or later. As always, the strength he stole in others' blood and lives had begun to drain away. And for a moment Osmod thought with a flash of sullen defiance, If the Lords of Darkness want me as their agent, why in the name of that Darkness don't They provide me with the proper abilities?
Because, of course, the Lords of Darkness were neither human nor at all concerned with human wants and needs. And reminding Them of that fact was hardly wise. For a heartbeat he was only human and chilled at the thought of that, at the thought of Their reality and what it meant to him.
And then Osmod grinned in sardonic acceptance. What it meant to him was power and Power both. Things were as they were, and at least the late Physician Octa had been good for a great deal of work, from winning over a fair number of ealdormen to his way of thinking to reestablishing a decent hold on the king's mind.
Not as firm a hold as I'd like. But with the Witan quivering on the edge, almost won, who cares what the king thinks!
Yes, yes, the Witan was already beginning to assemble. Osmod watched as Ealdormen Cuthred and Eadwig, as unlikely a pair of conversationalists as any, stopped to argue. Cuthred, neat and prim as always, was the one shaking his head in disapproval. "No, and no again. It is not wise."
Florid Eadwig threw up his hands in flamboyant disgust. "What sort of man are you? The insult offered by Mercia—"
"Yes, there has been an insult, and yes, we truly must act, I'm not denying that—"
"Now! We must act now!"
"Eadwig, please. This isn't some boyish feud."
"Of course not, dammit, but—"
"Please. We can't just rush madly off to the attack. Before we can even start thinking about marshalling anyone, we must have a plan—"
"Aha, then we are in agreement!"
Cuthred blinked. "I never said we weren't."
Eadwig's face brightened with relief. "Ha, of course we need a plan!" He slapped the slender Cuthred on the shoulder, staggering the man. "But at least we're in agreement: Mercia must pay. Hell, we're all in agreement!"
"Except for the commons."
"Who have no say in the matter!"
"And the merchants, who certainly have."
"What are they going to do? Withhold funding? Not if the king raises their taxes!"
"The king," Cuthred muttered darkly. "There's the problem. Will the king himself agree with us?"
Oh, he'll agree, Osmod promised. Whether he will it or not, King Egbert shall agree.
But the two ealdormen drew back in surprise as a slight figure drifted up to them, weaving between them like a cat, her rich gown slightly stained, her hair decked with wilting flowers.
"My lady Leofrun!" Eadwig exclaimed. There was, of course, a wordless understanding of her role at court. "Lady, you shouldn't be here."
"She must have slipped her . . . her attendants," Cuthred murmured. "Come, lady, we'll see you safely back to—"
"No," she argued, "no. Osmod. Osmod!"
Eadwig, showing far more patience than Osmod would ever have believed, asked gently, "What about him?"
But Leofrun, glancing frantically from man to man, could only shake her head in confusion. "He—the dead man—Octa is dead."
"Yes, lady, we know that." Eadwig's voice was still remarkably patient. "But thank you for reminding us. Now, come and—"
"No! Don't you see? You don't! Osmod! He—it—don't you see? Not—no!"
"Shh, lady. See? Here are your women now."
"No! You don't understand!"
But the two ealdormen, having handed her over to the frantic ladies, hurried, glad to be free of the embarrassment, on their way.
Yes, Osmod told them, join the rest of the Witan. The king will be with you shortly. We are almost ready to strike.
Naturally, someone else was going to have to . . . sacrifice himself for the cause. Himself, Osmod added, or—seeing Leofrun slipping by like a dim-witted ghost, closely trailed by the ladies
who were also her guardians—just possibly herself.
No. Leofrun was far too perilous a target.
And yet . . . such complete and utter innocence, for all that she was Egbert's mistress, the innocence of an unspoiled child mixed with the passion of a woman—
Osmod shook his head ruefully at opportunities wasted. As though she'd caught something of his thoughts, Leofrun stopped short, staring at him with the eyes of a deer sighting a wolf. "Lady," Osmod said, and bowed.
But she, ach, she went right on staring; even when her ladies took her gently by the arms and pulled her away, she turned her head to him and kept right on staring.
You know, don't you? Poor innocent, you know exactly who and what I am. And no one will believe you.
Cadwal glanced at the prince as they wove their way through the dense Cymric forest. "You're worried, aren't you?"
"Is it so obvious?"
"It is if you've been living in such close quarters as we've been doing. Not that you've been talking in your sleep," the mercenary added hastily, catching Ardagh's sideways glare, "or any such humanlike thing. But you haven't been talking much while you're awake, either, and what you have been saying isn't more than a word or two."
"Mm."
"Like that. You are worried. And . . . well, this is probably none of my affair, but I have a feeling that its not just about Osmod."
"Meaning?."
"Those Sidhe-folk, they told you something unpleasant, didn't they?" When Ardagh resolutely said nothing, Cadwal pressed on, "Something about your home."
"You are," the prince snapped, "rapidly overstepping the boundaries."
"I was right, then."
"Yes," flatly.
"No shame there, worrying about your homeland. Hell, I've done it often enough, and there's no complications about magic in my case. Well . . . almost none," he added softly, "not counting the Tylwyth Teg."
Cadwal could be stubborn as a hunting hound when the fancy took him. "My brother," Ardagh said in resignation, "may or may not be losing his hold on the throne. The courtiers you saw might or might not have been telling the undistorted truth about that. They certainly went to enough trouble to find me. However, they might also have simply been inventing a tale by which to snare me. And then again, they might or might not, one or all of them, have been sent by my brother to trick me into open betrayal." He glanced sideways at Cadwal. "Does that satisfy your human curiosity?"
"Dewi Sant," the mercenary muttered. "And here I thought Eriu's way of governing was complicated. No insult meant, Prince Ardagh, but I'd not be mixed up in your people's politics, no, not for the world's own treasure."
"You're not. Nor am I."
Yet. Or is that to be ever again? Ae, Powers. He had truly never given the safety of the Realm much thought before this. The land was simply there, something one took for granted. Why am I feeling this sudden surge of protectiveness now, when there's nothing to be done about it?
Hiraeth, he decided at last, Cadwal's so-evocative Cymreig hiraeth, that half-pleasurable pain for what you cannot have again.
But the runes, clattering softly together in their pouch, reminded him that hiraeth someday might be ended for him—no, no "might be" about it, he snapped at himself. He would go home. But first he must go back to Wessex.
"Cadwal," the prince said suddenly, "I'm weary of this trudging through the wilderness. And I have, by now, gained as much control over the runes as I'm likely to have."
"Meaning?" Wariness edged the mercenary's voice.
"Meaning that I'm going to try something drastic to return us to Wessex."
Cadwal groaned. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"
"Hush, now. Follow me. I feel something nearby, something useful."
And so, Ardagh thought with wry humor, they'd reentered Wessex as much by Sidhe whim as by design. Nothing but Sidhe whim—which had nothing as common as mere logic to it—could explain whatever had possessed him to try using that one small stone circle he'd sensed back in Cymru.
But it had worked. They'd been desperate enough, he and Cadwal both, about seeing this affair safely ended that they'd roused a fair amount of Power. And the Power of the long-dead magician whose bones lay under the Wessex circle had pulled them (though of course he'd never know it, the prince mused) back to his land. Here Ardagh and Cadwal stood, panting and disheveled, on the very spot where they'd disappeared from Saxon sight—however many days ago it had been.
Stood for a moment, at any rate. In the next, Ardagh's trembling legs gave out from under him and he fell, digging his fingers into the earth in a desperate attempt to draw some of its Power into his depleted self. And Cadwal—ae, Cadwal promptly rushed off to be, judging from the greenish shade of his face as he'd run, thoroughly ill.
After a time, Ardagh managed to sit up, somewhat restored, to see the mercenary returning, looking shaken but vastly relieved. "I will never," Cadwal said, "never get used to travelling like that."
"Believe me," the prince murmured, "you aren't the only one." Ardagh snatched out the rune Algiz, clutching it to him. You're supposed to be so powerful against magical backlash—all right, then, do your job!
There, now. It did work, or his will did, or the sheer passage of time did, but slowly Ardagh felt strength flowing back throughout his being.
But he also felt, just for the briefest of instants, that same odd, alarming sense of Something watching, Something of the Darkness—
No. It, whatever it had been, was gone.
Assuming this isn't a figment of my admittedly overworked imagination, it has to be the use of the runes that's attracting . . . Whatever it is. He remembered the demonic Arridu far too well to be casual about that. But I can't not use the runes if I'm to stop Osmod.
Wonderful. Yet another complication.
One with which he'd just have to deal whenever the situation arose. With a shrug of Sidhe pragmatism, Ardagh slipped the rune back into its pouch with the others and struggled to his feet, looking about.
Not a soul in sight, fortunately. But there in the field, watching him with great curiosity, were two good, stocky farm ponies, far larger than their scruffy wild cousins, large enough, in fact, Ardagh thought, to be ridden.
"This won't be elegant," he said to Cadwal, "but I think that the next stage of our 'wondrous transport' has arrived."
Later, they were able to replace the farm horses with a merchant's two-horse wagon (leaving the bemused man standing holding the farm horses' makeshift reins and not at all sure what had happened), and the wagon with two good, swift riding horses (leaving the two courtiers standing by a wagon, not at all sure what had happened to them).
"Going to have the whole land after us," Cadwal muttered, head half buried over his horse's flapping mane. "Be lucky if we aren't hung as thieves."
"Never mind, never mind. Look."
"Uintacaester."
"Exactly! Ride, Cadwal. We are almost there—" Ardagh cut himself off, staring ahead in sudden alarm. "And," he added sharply, "we must hurry!"
The Return
Chapter 35
Although it was still full day out there, the central fires and wall torches were blazing away here in the Great Hall, casting off light and smoke in equal doses. Add to that the body heat of this agitated mass of Witan members, Egbert thought, and it made for a thick fog of smelly warmth, dulling the senses if not the nose.
Not, unfortunately, dulling the noise, either. The Witan had been at it since morning, arguing back and forth: Yes, we should go to war, no, we can't be hasty, yes, we must strike now, while Mercia's weak, no, we're not yet strong enough, yes, we are. Eadwig held the floor now by sheer volume, orating at full force.
Shut up, Eadwig Egbert thought wearily, but said nothing.
Why had he allowed this nonsense to go so far? Why had he allowed it at all? He could have—should have—said, no, we shall not discuss war with Mercia, and cowed them into obedience by sheer force of will.
Except that lately he hadn't
felt very forceful. Those cursed dreams with their taint of darkness. And now this cursed fog of warm, stale air drugging his mind.
If only it was drugging everyone else as well.
No. The king must show no weakness, for all that his head was beginning to pound from the closeness and he could have screamed from sheer boredom. Don't they see? We are not ready to attack anyone yet, let alone to declare war on another kingdom.
There it was in all its inelegant truth. Convenient an excuse as the just-might-be-an-assassin prince of Cathay made (and of course that vagueness of "just might" could always be ignored), the collective minds of the Witan were glossing right over the plain, mundane details of supply and funding.
Not heroic enough for them, Egbert thought darkly, such considerations of merchants and the like.
Ah yes, the merchants. They supported him, yes, Egbert had no doubt of that, but they didn't know their new king well enough to trust him.
"Oh, do sit down, Eadwig," he said suddenly, forcing out the words through what felt like air turned tangible. "Let another speak."
Eadwig sat, looking as startled as a boy who's unexpectedly received a parental reprimand. Good, Egbert thought.
Ha, but now it was Cuthred analyzing point by point, so quietly and pedantically that it would be just a matter of time before he was shouted down. Egbert drew a deep breath, meaning to put an end to this nonsense, then nearly strangled himself trying not to cough on the lungful of heated, smoky air he'd inhaled. It was too cursed difficult to speak in this cursed fog. Easier, far easier, to let the others have their say till, God willing, they finally ran out of words.
The merchants, now . . .
The merchants wouldn't voluntarily hand over their gold to a new king with some glorious project that didn't really concern them. Of course, Egbert mused, it would be easy enough to force them into obedience; all he had to do was raise a few pertinent taxes.
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