A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  The horse snorted, for all the world as though in agreement, and Hauberin chuckled.

  But now to the work at hand. The prince pushed the friendly equine head away and stood motionless, eyes closed, arms held slightly out from his sides, hands palm down. Once more he let himself slip below the conscious level, feeling first the busy little animal and insect lives about him, then the deeper, slower pulsings of the green, vegetable lives. Warily, he slid deeper yet, trying to attune himself to the earth itself, sensing the pull of it at last through his flattened hands, so strong a pull, so alien . . .

  The prince came back to himself with a start. So alien, indeed! He should be feeling refreshed, not as though he had been trying to move a crushing weight.

  So now. Let me try again.

  The earth . . . the heavy, heavy earth . . . What if he didn’t fight? If he let it pull him this way and that . . . ? Yes . . . he could see color now through his closed lids: red, blue, green, brown, the colors symbolic of the cardinal points.

  Oriented, Hauberin opened his eyes, staring at true north. “Earth,” he said firmly, and summoned an image of a little circle of bare earth, rich, deep brown-black, fertile earth, the element of the north. For a moment he held it firm in his mind.

  But all at once the image was wavering, fading—Hauberin caught it, set it firmly, ignoring the nagging little doubts as to why he should be having trouble with this, the most basic of protective spells.

  The prince turned sharply to the east. “Air.” It was an image of the luminous air of Faerie, and it, too, fought his will, shimmering and darkening until Hauberin needed all his strength to fix it in place.

  (Ae, ae, what was wrong? He’d never had such trouble before, never! But he couldn’t stop now, not with the Wards only halfway built and the Power still unbound.)

  Hauberin turned towards the south, standing silent till he had blocked knowledge of his body’s weariness from his mind. “Fire.” A tiny flame sprang up, thin and pale and wavering, forcing him to feed it with his own energy to keep it burning. There, now! It was blossoming at last into healthy red and gold, and he dared turn away to face the west.

  “Water.” The last of the Elements, the Powers be praised: a bright little pool, clear and still and perfect as he poured more and more will into its being, extravagant of his strength now in the desperation to be finished.

  One thing more, only one thing more to complete the Warding. Hauberin caught his breath, then willed an arc of clear blue flame from earth to air, from air to fire, from fire to water, from water to earth. None save someone skilled in Power could have seen it, but it was there. The Warding was complete, and he, Alliar, and the human boy were safe within it.

  And Hauberin, spent, toppled sideways; only Alliar’s quick move keeping him from striking his head as he fell, asleep, quite literally, before he hit the ground.

  VII

  AIMERY

  Hauberin awoke completely disoriented. A forest . . . ? Had they been hunting . . . ? He looked lazily up at trees towering over him, their leaves so intriguingly dappled—

  Dappled by sunlight!

  Oh. This was the human Realm. And he was lying on the ground more or less where he had collapsed, wrapped warmly in both his and Alliar’s cloaks. (That had been kind of Li . . . But then, the wind spirit hardly needed a cloak, not feeling the cold.)

  Mm. A night spent on the hard, bare ground, and yet he had slept so well . . .

  Hauberin’s eyes shot open again. Slept well, indeed, without the faintest hint of nightmare—Ha, just as he had that night back on the terrace.

  Wonderful. All I have to do to escape Serein’s curse is work myself into total exhaustion every day—No, thank you. I would rather continue this ridiculous name-quest.

  He had better see about lowering the Wards before the boy began asking uncomfortable questions. It was almost a shame to destroy the things after all the struggle of setting them. Remembering that battle, the prince felt a sudden cold horror.

  Powers, Powers, I could have burned out my mind, destroyed myself with the backlash.

  Hauberin stared bleakly up at the leaves far overhead. Granted, the healing charm might have been too much of Faerie to work efficiently here. But setting the Wards was one of the simplest defensive spells known! Even away from Faerie, it shouldn’t have given him any trouble, even though he’d been forced to impose foreign imagery on a mortal Realm—

  Unless the Realm itself was hostile to Faerie.

  Hauberin shuddered. A would-be magician must have the innate talent for Power if he or she was to work any spells at all. But that magician must also have deep inner resources, for Power fed directly off whatever energy was at hand. In Faerie, no one worried much about it, since Faerie was magic; anyone with talent and training could call upon fresh energy from land or even air almost without thought. But here, where the land was jealous of its strength, refusing to yield its energies to one not of its own . . . To all extents and purposes, he was Powerless.

  No. Not quite. Hauberin realized he had already proved that lightweight magics fueled from his own will still were possible, such things as the sparking of a fire into life or the using of mind-speech. He could almost certainly still manage even a persuasion spell, or any other magic worked directly mind to mind.

  But anything stronger, anything requiring more strength than one mind and body could surrender, would be suicidal.

  Ay me, Hauberin decided after a moment, if my father could endure this loss (which would, after all, last only till he returned to Faerie), so can I.

  No doubt about it, though: Prince Laherin had truly had a bizarre taste in Realms.

  Hauberin stretched, pulling his arms free from the double wrapping of cloaks. As he began to wriggle out of the cocoon, a cheerful voice chirped: “Now, God give you good morning, my lord.”

  It was the human boy, arm in sling, foot neatly bound up, back resting comfortably against a tree. All in all, he looked vastly improved from the pale-faced child of last night.

  Hauberin raised a surprised eyebrow. Child? Not quite. Without the fog of pain and terror shrouding him, he was clearly older than the prince had first believed, perhaps close to the age Hauberin had been when he’d rescued Alliar. And killed Ysilar. Hardly a child, indeed.

  Would I have still saved him if I’d known?

  It was a little late to worry about it now. The prince cocked his head to one side, studying his catch. A stocky form that promised strength to come, short, thick, sandy hair topping a broad, engagingly homely face ruddier and rougher than the clear, pale Faerie skin, and sprinkled with odd little brownish spots (natural? an affliction of some sort?). The boy’s accent was a touch strange to his ear—or else, more likely, Hauberin’s own accent, learned from his mother, was a bit out of date, and flavored with the music of Faerie as well—but at least the language still was the one he knew.

  “What part of the morning is it?” Hauberin asked belatedly.

  The boy glanced up as though hoping to see the sun through the screen of leaves. “Somewhere near the noon hour, I would think.”

  “What!” Hauberin sat bolt upright, and heard Alliar’s amused chuckle.

  “It’s quite true,” the being said in the human tongue. “You slept like Azerion the Entranced. And how do you feel?”

  “Quite recovered.” And here I’d hoped to make an early start. He glanced at the being again, and added, mind to mind, “Why, Li, how elegant, all in deep blue.”

  “I humble myself before my gracious liege for his courtesy. Besides, the boy seemed to expect a brave show. What, are we not of noble birth?”

  “Are we not, indeed.”

  The silent exchange was, of course, literally as swift as thought, and Hauberin turned to the boy as though merely continuing his spoken conversation. “And you, lad—First, what do you call yourself?”

  “Aimery, my lord. Aimery de Valen.”

  “So. How do you feel this day?”

  “Oh, much better th
an I ever thought I’d be feeling after last night. There isn’t even any pain! Or not much, anyhow.” The boy gave him a quick, grateful grin. “Your hands have a most wonderfully healing touch, my lord.” He bowed from the waist. “Pray forgive me for not doing this properly.”

  “Ae, no,” cut in Alliar. “Stay off that ankle.”

  The boy glanced from Alliar to Hauberin. “Ah, did I thank you last night for saving my life? I’m afraid I—I don’t remember.”

  “You did.” Hauberin was on his feet, stretching stiffness from protesting muscles. He disentangled the two cloaks, shaking twigs and leaves from them, and tossed one to Alliar with a nod of thanks. “I’m surprised you remember anything at all. You were in a sorry state.”

  “Oh, and don’t I know it. I . . . did get a chance to use my sword on them,” the boy added wistfully, “didn’t I?”

  “The robbers? Yes.”

  “So.” Aimery was clearly pleased with himself, though he added with determined modesty, “Of course I’m nowhere near being a knight. As I admitted to Sir Alliar, I’m still very much in training.”

  “Sir Alliar?”

  A mental shrug. “The boy expected a title. He has a very feudal mind.”

  Hauberin eyed Aimery skeptically. “Is that a uniform you wear?” The tunic was sadly stained and torn, but its pattern of red and blue was still plain.

  “It’s livery, my lord! I’m a squire,” he added with considerable pride, “to my good Baron Gilbert.”

  Who obviously has more submissive underlings than I if he can get them into livery. “And would said baron be the owner of that castle to the north?”

  The boy’s look of astonishment said plainly, how could anyone not know that? “Of course, my lord.”

  “Pray forgive my ignorance,” Hauberin drawled. “I’m a stranger here.”

  “Oh, I could see that.” Aimery stopped, reddening. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to—”

  “You’d be singularly unobservant if you hadn’t noticed my . . . shall we say foreignness.” Hauberin paused, considering. “Now, I do think you’ll be able to repay us for the rescue.”

  Aimery stiffened. “Ask of me anything, my lord. Anything that might be honorable for a squire.”

  Hauberin and Alliar exchanged wry glances. “I wasn’t planning to compromise your honor,” the prince said. “All I want is a guide to your baron’s castle.”

  “Ah! You’ve business with—” He broke off in dismay. “Forgive me, my lord. I don’t mean to pry, truly I don’t, but sometimes a devil seems to get into me—”

  “The creature’s name is Curiosity, Aimery. And in my land he’s not considered a devil at all.” Hauberin turned to Alliar. “So, ‘Sir’ Alliar, do I or do I not scent water?”

  “You do, my—ah—lord. A neat little pool some hundred paces to your right.”

  “Good.” Hauberin scooped up his pack. But then he froze, staring. “Li! Where are the Wards?”

  “Down.”

  “But—”

  “The sunlight touched them,” the being said laconically. “They dissolved.”

  “I’ll never get used to this Realm, never!”

  With that, Hauberin went in search of the pool.

  There it was, clean and clear and so deep the water looked almost black, ringed by thick carpets of moss and screened by trees. The prince stripped and dove silently in, only to surface a moment later, gasping. Ae, cold! But refreshing. He took a few supple strokes; Hauberin could swim like one of the sealfolk. He turned easily onto his back, looking up at the interlaced branches shielding him from the sun, and was suddenly sober, wondering about his people, wondering just how much time was passing in Faerie. If he’d worked his father’s spell correctly, the answer to that should be: virtually none. But what if something had gone wrong? What if—No. He wasn’t going to start worrying over “what ifs.” Or ponder the restrictions on his magic, either.

  But I’m forgetting how swiftly mortal time passes. Enough of this.

  He returned clad in soft russets and browns, black hair neatly combed. “So-o,” Alliar said slyly, “I’m not the only one to impress the boy, am I?”

  “One must keep up appearances,” Hauberin retorted with mock dignity. He was nibbling a last mouthful of cold rabbit, trying not to taste what he was swallowing. “Aimery, lad, if we get you into the saddle, do you think you’re strong enough to ride?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “So be it,” said the ever-practical Alliar, who calmly picked the startled boy up and put him on his horse.

  “Uh . . . thank you, Sir Alliar. I . . . think I can manage from here. But what about you, my lords? Where are your horses?”

  Alliar shot a wry glance at Hauberin. “We have none.”

  The boy stared, opened his mouth, then shut it again, plainly struggling not to ask the questions they could practically hear shouting in his mind. “B-but it’s not proper for me to ride while you walk.”

  “Aimery,” Hauberin said, “you can’t even stand. How could you walk?” He returned Alliar’s wry glance. “As I believed I mentioned some time before, ‘Sir’ Alliar, it will do neither of us any harm to hike a bit.”

  “Aimery?”

  “My lord?” The boy seemed to be holding up well enough at that easy pace, but he looked glad at the chance to take his mind off what must have been considerable discomfort.

  “You are a squire. Blame this on my foreignness, but what, exactly is a squire?”

  “A station below knight, my lord, and one above page.”

  “Of course,” flatly.

  Aimery gave him a rueful smile. “That didn’t tell you very much, did it?” He pondered a moment. “Well now, I’m in training at-arms, of course, with sword and lance now that I’m no longer just a page. The sergeant-at-arms thinks I’ll have the shoulders to handle a war axe, but I don’t know about that.” The boy glanced down at Hauberin’s supple slimness. “You’re a swordsman, my lord?”

  “Among other things,” Hauberin replied, and heard Alliar stifle a laugh. “Go on.”

  “Ah . . . of course I have my duties within my lord baron’s castle, serving at table and the like. There are the three of us, Bertran, Denis, and myself, to take turns as my lord baron’s personal squire. And of course if he rode to battle or tourney, one of us would go with him to assist or—saints defend him!—rescue or protect him should the need arise.” He was plainly reciting something learned by rote. But then Aimery added with an embarrassed little smile, “I’d be perfectly safe. No knight, of honor, would ever stoop to attacking a squire.”

  Common men-at-arms wouldn’t have such scruples, but Hauberin wasn’t about to dishearten the boy by reminding him of that. “Now, what was a young squire—for all his undoubted abilities—doing riding alone through a dangerous forest at night?”

  The boy reddened. “Oh. Well. Through my own foolishness. You see, my lord baron had given me leave to ride with Sir Raimond and his party—”

  “Sir Raimond.”

  “The baron’s younger brother, my lord.”

  “So. Continue.”

  “We were all going to—Well, I don’t suppose you want the name. It’s a village belonging to my lord baron, on land he holds from—Ah. Yes. I’ll just tell the story. Sir Raimond was going there in his brother’s name—and not liking it overmuch, either. We were all in a hurry to return. But my horse picked up a stone in his hoof and went lame. I was supposed to wait in the village overnight and return the next morning. But . . . well, I didn’t want to stay there. I don’t mind serfs, someone has to tend the fields and all that, but . . .” He sighed. “At any rate, my horse stopped limping almost as soon as I’d pried the stone loose. I thought that if I set out at a good speed, I would be able to catch up with Sir Raimond.” He sighed again. “As you know, my lord, I didn’t make it.”

  “This Raimond,” Hauberin mused. “Is he young? Dark gold of hair and beard? Yes? I do believe we’ve seen the man, eh, Alliar?”

&nb
sp; “One could say his party passed us on the road,” the being drawled. “He was in something of a hurry.”

  “Sir Raimond does have a quick temper.” The boy’s voice was apologetic, as though he’d guessed what had happened. And he was angry at having been sent out by his brother to play messenger. Particularly since he didn’t have a choice.”

  “Ah?” Hauberin purred, a slightly malicious curiosity aroused. He put just a touch of magical persuasion into his next words. “And why didn’t he have a choice?”

  “He’s in his brother’s custody, as it were. You see, being the younger son, he had originally been destined for the Church.”

  Alliar blinked. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “I think I do,” Hauberin said. “Humans are so much more fertile than—Ah, what I mean is that with only the eldest child inheriting, the family lands don’t have to be divided.” At Aimery’s doubtful nod, the prince continued, gently increasing the force of his persuasion-spell, “But Sir Raimond wasn’t fit for this Church, I take it?”

  “Uh . . . no. And so he was given a portion of land to rule after all, against custom. But he . . . became involved with . . . He wasn’t a traitor, it was just that he—he met up with certain comrades who plotted against the duke our baron’s liege lord.”

  “And the duke was merciful, I take it, and put Raimond back in his brother’s safekeeping. Ensuring at one time the baron’s continued fidelity and the hotheaded youngster’s restraint. Practical man, eh, Li?”

  “And how said hothead must hate his brother,” the being added.

  “Almost as much as Serein hated me, I should think.”

  Just as gently as he’d placed it, Hauberin released his persuasion-spell. Aimery, confused, said quickly, “Forgive me, my lords. I—I don’t know what devil started me gossiping like an old woman.”