“Gently, now,” the prince soothed, “gently. You’re in no danger.” He waited till she seemed to have regained most of her composure, then continued carefully, “Where, I don’t know yet. As to what . . .” He hesitated, remembering her rear of things arcane. “That’s not going to be easy to explain.”
Matilde impatiently tossed a tangled red braid back over her shoulder, fixing him with a rigid stare. “I’m not a frightened child. Be honest.”
“How much of what you saw back in the stone circle did you understand?”
“You and Rogier—but . . . that . . . wasn’t really Rogier, was it?”
“No.”
Her fierce gaze faltered. “Possession . . . ? A . . . demon?”
“A kinsman,” Hauberin said drily.
“What—”
“Look you, I’ll be blunt and try not to alarm you too much: That circle marked a site of Power, magical Power. Between us, my cousin and I loosed more of that Power than we could control. The eruption threw me, Alliar and—since you were clinging to me—you here.”
Her eyes were very wide. “Magic . . .”
But Hauberin abruptly waved her to silence. Both he and Alliar stiffened, listening. “We’re not alone,” the being said.
“I know.” Strolling casually to the thick, glossy green foliage surrounding the glade, Hauberin toyed idly with a leaf, then pounced with Faerie speed. There was a squeal, a thrashing, and then the prince was straightening with his squirming catch. Small and thin, nearly light as a bird in his hands, the creature was wizened and brown as bark, clad in bright scraps of cloth, sharply slanted of wild green eyes, sharply pointed of face and ears. It—he—could only be some manner of forest sprite—Ah, of course. Hauberin identified him from his mother’s tales: a lutin, a mischievous, chaotic little being. The lutin writhed feverishly in Hauberin’s grip, blurring, shifting hastily from sprite to snake to giant spider and back again, trying to pull free, trying to bite, and the prince gave him a shake and a stern: “Stop that!”
He’d said it without thinking in the Faerie tongue. The lutin froze, feral eyes widening, and twisted about to stare up at his captor. “One o’ tha High Ones!” The dialect was strange, but unmistakably of Faerie. “Forgive me, lord. I didna know you.”
Stunned, Hauberin said, “This isn’t a Faerie Realm. How can you know the language?”
“Sa, sa, tha High One sports wi’ me. Surely he knows where he is.” The creature smiled ingratiatingly up at Hauberin. “Let me go, High One. I sha’ na run, na till you gi’ me leave.”
Seeing the mischief darting in those bright eyes, Hauberin had his doubts, but he let the lutin slip to the ground. The little being stared boldly up at him, hands on hips, head to one side, then glanced at Alliar and the wide-eyed Matilde and grinned impudently. “Faerie lord, wind-thing, human, all t’gether—what a fine confusion!”
“Indeed. Now tell me how it is you speak a Faerie tongue.”
“Why, surely tha High One knows this is Nulle Part.”
“Nowhere.” Hauberin repeated the human word flatly. “Small one, if this is a jest . . .”
The creature shook his head impatiently. “We stand in Nulle Part: na mortal land, na Faerie, but so close to both. Clever folk”—the lutin’s grin left no doubt he was including himself in that category—” “travel there and here again whenever we find tha paths.”
Matilde got slowly to her feet, never taking her gaze from the lutin. “Nowhere?” She’d caught that one human word. “Is he saying this isn’t a real land at all?”
“So it would seem.” Hauberin glanced at the lutin, who was beaming at Matilde with honest, earthy enjoyment. “You speak the human tongue, small one, don’t you? Then answer the lady.”
The lutin shrugged and easily switched languages. “We had tha mortal lands once,” he told her, his alien accent thick. “Then came ye, tha human-ones, and brought tha bitter metal wi’ ye.” He spat.
Matilde glanced helplessly at Hauberin. “ ‘Bitter metal’ . . . ?”
“Iron.” The prince couldn’t quite keep the distaste from his voice. “And so the magical beings retreated, eh, sprite?” As the creature nodded, Hauberin mused, “They evidently couldn’t find their way into true Faerie; maybe they were too closely tied to mortal lands for that. But they could reach this little not-land.” He smiled, savoring the feel of the air. “This little pocket of magic.”
The baroness has gone very pale. “You knew, didn’t you, my lord?” she murmured. “You knew about the magic from the start.”
Hauberin sighed. “Lady, I think we’re past the point of pretense. If you know what I am—”
“A High One,” the lutin cut in, eyes alive with mischief, and dodged Alliar’s swat. “One a’ tha Faerie-kin,” he called out, suddenly scampering away.
“Wait,” Hauberin commanded, “I haven’t given you leave—Stop!” But the little thing only laughed. The prince swore under his breath: Trust a lutin . . . “He’s headed your way, Li! Stop him!”
Hampered by pseudo-human form, Alliar was still almost as quick as the sprite—almost. For a time it looked very much like a tall, two-legged cat trying to trap a particularly elusive mouse. But then Alliar made one desperate, full-length lunge. The giggling lutin wiggled out from under the being’s outstretched arms, and vanished into the forest. Alliar disappeared with a crash into a mass of bushes, only to emerge again after a stunned moment, scratched and empty-handed, brushing off leaves and twigs. “I missed. He’s gone.”
“Damn.” The Realm-travelling little creature could have shown them a path back to mortal lands. But as he glanced at his panting, rumpled friend, the prince forgot his frustration, cherishing the thought of that leafy dive: one of the few times he’d caught Alliar being flesh-and-blood clumsy. “You gave it a gallant try,” Hauberin said, struggling not to laugh.
Alliar’s bow dripped sarcasm.
“My lords?” asked the bewildered Matilde, and Hauberin turned to her with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She didn’t look at all comforted. “What was that . . . being?”
“A lutin. A small, sentient fragment of the forest’s life-force. Nothing to frighten you, for all his strangeness. Those little ones are mischief incarnate, but there’s no real harm to any of them.”
“Wh-what he said about you wasn’t a lie, was it? The old tales say magic creatures can’t lie.”
“They can’t,” Hauberin admitted, then paused, considering her. “But you didn’t need the lutin’s help, did you? You already knew the truth about me.”
“I’d guessed.” Matilde’s voice was very soft. “I just didn’t believe. Not really. Till now.”
“But you never said a word to your husband.”
“Oh, God! Do you really think he would have believed me? ‘My lord husband, our guest isn’t human, but a—a being out of—’ ” She gave a strangled little laugh. “I didn’t want to be locked away as a madwoman, or b-burned as a witch.” Matilde’s eyes were wild, but she continued resolutely, “Don’t worry, my lord, I’m not about to collapse into hysterics. If I started screaming now, I d-don’t think I’d be able to stop. But that wouldn’t get me back to husband and home. You’re the only one who can return me, and you . . . you . . .” She shivered suddenly, hugging her arms about herself. “You truly are of Faerie. You aren’t human.”
“Yes to the first, not exactly to the second. Lady,” Hauberin said gently, “even as truthfulness binds the sprite, so it binds me. I never lied to you or your husband. I mean no harm to you or any of your kin. My name really is Hauberin. And my rank is . . . high enough.”
“High enough,” Alliar muttered. “He’s a prince, lady, the ruler of his land.”
Matilde’s eyes widened even more. “But what in the name of all that’s holy were you doing in our castle?”
Hauberin glanced a warning to Alliar. “I thought I was merely . . . tracing my ancestry. It would seem I was hunting my cousin as well.” He paused, listening to the forest about
them, suddenly uneasy. The dim blue twilight hadn’t darkened and the air remained mild, but there was the scent of approaching night to it. The things that might walk Nulle Part after dark wouldn’t be as harmless as a forest sprite, and he wasn’t quite sure how much of this non-land’s Power he could wield. “Much as I’d love to answer the rest of your questions, I think we’d better find a secure spot to make camp first, and start gathering firewood.”
Matilde bit her lip. “Is that necessary? Can’t you just use your . . . art to take us home?”
Hauberin hesitated. His travel-spell would surely work well enough even from . . . Nowhere to transport them safely to Faerie. But what was he to do with Matilde? He supposed a true Faerie lord—pitiless and practical—would simply keep her there, whether she willed it or not. That was certainly the simplest solution, because if he didn’t return her from Faerie to her precise time, if he made the slightest error, she would die of sudden old age.
And yet, the thought of keeping this brave, bright lady a virtual prisoner . . . Nulle Part, for all its magic, was a direct offshoot of the mortal Realm; it existed in very nearly the same time-frame. If they traveled back to Matilde’s land from here, there wouldn’t be any temporal problems.
Oh yes, if.
The prince sighed. “I could take you home,” he said honestly, “if only I knew exactly where we are. Ah lady, don’t worry! Either Alliar or I will puzzle it out soon enough.”
“Optimist.”
“Hush.” Hauberin looked about him. “I think this is as safe a site for a camp as we’re likely to find; with empty space on all sides, nothing can steal up on us. Let’s gather our firewood before night falls.” He paused. “I don’t think I have to warn anyone about taking only dead branches?”
The trees, like the rest of Nulle Part, were an intriguing mixture of Earthly and Other. As they foraged in the underbrush, Hauberin keeping a protective eye on the human woman, the prince’s attention was caught by a bush of bright red berries that looked very much like ailaitha, native to his own lands. Hauberin knelt by the bush, murmuring the words of an identification spell, then sat back on his heels with a pleased smile. Not only had the spell worked—almost as easily as it would have in Faerie—but this was indeed an ailaitha bush, the seeds presumably scattered by one of the Realm-wandering sprites. Alliar probably didn’t need food yet, but he and Matilde did. At least they wouldn’t have to fast this night.
Now, what could he use to hold the berries? A basket magicked out of leaves? If Matilde had a scarf or kerchief, that would be much simpler.
“Ah, lady,” Hauberin began, then froze. “Lady!”
“Oh come, look.” The woman’s voice was soft and crooning. “I’ve found a puppy, and I think the poor thing’s hurt.”
A puppy? Here? Warily, Hauberin moved to where Matilde crouched in the underbrush. Something whimpered and wriggled at his approach, staring up at him with big, frightened eyes. The prince raised a surprised brow. This funny, snub-nosed little creature really was a pup, looking very much like those baby hounds-to-be he’d seen tumbling about the baron’s castle, all awkward paws and scraggly fur.
But . . . what was a blatantly mortal pup doing here? Hauberin glanced up at Matilde, and saw her normal keen eyes clouded over with softness—or enchantment. And all at once the prince remembered that human inn, and the innkeeper mentioning, too lightly, tales of magical creatures: “. . . like the galipote, who can make himself look like your favorite hound, just waitin for you to turn your back.”
“Matilde, no!” As she reached down to the puppy, Hauberin snatched her aside. The pup glared up at him in cheated rage, hungry green fire blazing in suddenly far-from-innocent eyes, and the prince shouted out in the Faerie language, “You’ve lost to me, creature! By all the Power of my blood, I command you, take your rightful form!”
He put a surging of will behind the words. The puppy form cringed, snarling, then submitted, obediently blurring, growing . . . puppy no longer but a long, sleek canine shape, pale as moonlight, angry intelligence in its tapering green eyes. It made one defiant rush at Matilde—only to spring back with a startled yelp as she lunged at it with her suddenly drawn belt-knife.
The galipote glanced from the threatening iron on one side to the equally threatening Faerie lord on the other. And all at once all its defiance broke. Tail between its legs like a frightened hound, the creature turned and raced wildly away, yipping. As its cried died away, Hauberin and Matilde stared after it in amazement, then, as one, burst into laughter.
“What—what was that?” Matilde gasped. “A g-galipote out of the—the tales?”
The prince nodded. “A—hungry one.”
“But it looked so silly! Not like a—a demon, l-like a frightened puppy running for its life!”
Hauberin took a deep, steadying breath. “Ach, lady,” he began. But as Matilde, wiping her eyes, turned to him, he saw only the knife glinting in her hand, and instinctively flinched away from iron. The woman stared at him, then glanced down at the blade.
“Oh. Of course.” She hastily resheathed it. “You . . . really are of Faerie.”
“Did you still have any doubts?”
“What was it you shouted at the galipote? A—a spell?”
“Not really. I simply commanded the creature to reveal its true form. It had enough awe of things Faerie to obey. Lady, come. I’ve found us some berries for dinner.”
But she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
That simple touch seemed to blaze through him. He froze, stunned, thinking, Oh no, not here, not now . . . Matilde’s eyes, their delicate slant so like those of a Faerie woman, were soft and wondering, for this brief time totally unshadowed by fear. Her lips held the faintest trace of a smile, so sweet . . . All at once Hauberin realized how very much aware he was of the feminine warmth and scent of her. Time seemed to still as they stared at each other, hardly daring to breathe . . .
But then the prince flinched away as though she’d burned him, reminding himself angrily, She’s human. And another man’s wife. “I could hardly have let you be eaten,” he said belatedly.
“No. Of course not.” She was struggling to match his brusque tone, refusing to meet his gaze, busily smoothing her disheveled hair. “Ach, the tangles . . .”
Tangles. “Matilde, I . . .”
“Are you two all right?” It was Alliar, appearing in the wind spirit’s usual silent fashion. “I heard you shout—”
“Fine. Everything’s fine.” This once, Hauberin could cheerfully have throttled his friend. “My lady,” he added, voice rigidly neutral, “if you will gather these berries, Alliar and I will take care of the firewood.”
###
By the time the three of them were kneeling before their newly acquired pile of wood, the prince had almost convinced himself that warm, disconcerting moment had meant nothing.
Matilde certainly seemed to think so. Judging from her unembarrassed manner, she hadn’t meant to express anything more than honest gratitude. Now, eyeing the wood with a doubtful glance, she said, “I think there’s enough to see us through the night. If nights here are anything like mortal nights. I don’t know what we’re going to do for flint, but at least I have the steel.”
She hesitantly touched her little knife, but Hauberin shook his head. “No need.”
He sparked the fire into life with an extravagant flash of will, showing off; having flinched from a lady’s dainty dagger still rankled. But her reaction wasn’t at all what he expected: a wave of such undeniable terror that the prince said, abashed, “Here now, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t you, or—that. It was . . . I . . .”
“Lady?”
“I—Oh, God help me, I can do that, too!”
Hauberin and Alliar stared. “But what’s so terrible about that?” the being asked.
“Don’t you see? I’m human! Humans aren’t supposed to be ab
le to do things like that!”
“Why ever not? Hauberin’s own mother—”
But the prince waved his friend to silence. “Ah, so that explains it,” he murmured. “All along I thought you almost unnaturally magickless, even if you did so miraculously know I was in trouble in the tower room—”
“I told you, I heard your fall.”
“Through the rainstorm. Of course. And you just happened to nee here with me—”
“I didn’t think about it, I just—It only—”
“Seemed like the right choice at the time,” Hauberin completed. “You weren’t magickless at all. Instead, you were hiding your gifts so completely—even, I’d guess, from yourself—that I couldn’t sense—”
“No!” It was a cry of pain. “I don’t have any gifts! I’m not a witch, or—or—”
“Lady,” Alliar soothed, “we’d be the last to accuse you.”
She glanced from one Faerie being to the other. “Of . . . course. But,” the woman insisted stubbornly, “I’m not a witch.”
Hauberin sighed. “If it’s any comfort, it’s true that my own mother was called a witch. It’s not such a terrible name.”
“Isn’t it?” Matilde’s voice was savage. “They burn witches, my lord, they chain them to stakes, and light the fire under their feet, and there’s no escape, only the smoke and the flames and the pain—”
She broke off with a strangled little sob. As Hauberin and Alliar watched her in helpless astonishment, she gradually fought herself back under control, wiping her eyes with an angry hand. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Nonsense,” the prince murmured. “After all you’ve been through this day, you’re entitled to a little collapse.”
“No. I mustn’t. My husband . . .”
“Wouldn’t allow such weakness, Hauberin finished silently. “You must love him very much.”
Matilde glanced at him in surprise. “What has love to do with it?”
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