A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  “It must have been the wine ruling him, or—or—”

  “Or magic-madness from Serein having weakened his mind. Ae, it doesn’t matter now! You think Hauberin’s safe? When he could be tortured through sheer human ignorance? When the slightest touch of iron sears Faerie skin? If they try to chain him . . . ah, winds!”

  Alliar turned away, shuddering. Matilde put a tentative hand on a bare golden shoulder, then withdrew it with a gasp. “You’re so cold!”

  “The flesh, not me,” the being said absently. “I don’t feel the cold. And if that magic-maddened human doesn’t torment him, what of Serein? Winds, winds, what will Serein do to him?” Eyes wild with despair blazed into her own. “I must get him out of there!”

  “And so we will,” Matilde soothed. “As soon as it’s fully night, we’ll find a way in there.”

  “We?”

  “You didn’t expect me to abandon him, did you? We’ll rescue him,” the woman said firmly.

  Oh God, but how?

  “Can do’t,” said a small voice near her feet, and she started, looking sharply down. A child? What was a child doing here? Particularly one so sharp-featured, so pointed of face and feral of eye—“The lutin!” Matilde gasped.

  “A lutin, at any rate,” Alliar corrected. “What would you, small one?”

  “Where be tha third one?” the lutin asked, small hands on hips. “Tha Faerie-man?”

  “I think you know.”

  The lutin nodded sharply. “In tha cold, bitter place. The human place.” He spat. “Not good for Faerie-kin.”

  “No, but—”

  “Can get ya into tha’ cold place. No one t’see ya, either.”

  Alliar knelt at the lutin’s side so swiftly the little creature jumped back. “Are you telling us the truth, small one? Or is this just another of your tricks?”

  “Tricks? Tricks?” The feral eyes were bright with sudden mischief. “What’re tricks?”

  “Please. If you betray us, the humans and their . . . bitter metal will kill the Faerie-man. Do you want that?”

  “Na, na!” Suddenly the lutin’s light voice was perfectly serious. “Humans shall na take another a’ us. No tricks. Come.”

  He scuttled surefootedly forward through the near-darkness, out of the forest into the open, and Alliar and Matilde hurried after, to stop short nearly at the edge of the moat. Feeling suddenly painfully exposed with no sheltering trees about her, even in that moonless night, Matilde looked nervously up at the dark mass of the watchtowers, where she could see torchlight flickering, sure she was about to be spotted, but Alliar, unconcerned, stood with head thrown back like a questing beast, then gave a soft, fierce laugh.

  “Where the master is lax, the servants are lazy. What guards may still be alert after dining and drinking aren’t the ones in those watchtowers. No one’s awake in there.” Alliar studied the castle for one more long, careful moment, then grinned. “I don’t think anyone’s patrolling the ramparts, either. My lord baron really does keep a sloppy watch.”

  Matilde glanced at the being, amazed at Alliar’s sharp sight (though, she reminded herself, this was a spirit; she shouldn’t be surprised at anything). “Or else this . . . Serein . . . has everyone bespelled?”

  The being waved that off. “He never had that much Power.”

  The lutin hissed in impatience. “Pay attention, ya!” he scolded. “Tha way ya want is there.”

  “In the moat . . . ?” Matilde asked doubtfully.

  “Na, na, there!”

  “The drawbridge? But it’s up; we can’t possibly—”

  “The vines!” Alliar exclaimed. “Once we get across the moat, we can climb right up them into one of the windows.”

  Matilde’s merely human vision saw nothing but a solid black mass of wall, but she remembered those vines from before. “Assuming they’ll hold our weight,” she added doubtfully. “And that nobody’s waiting on the other side of that window.”

  Alliar shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Indeed.” Matilde glanced down at the moat, a mass of smelly blackness in the night, and tried not to think about what might be living in that swampy water. “I used to swim. Before I grew too old for such . . . childish things; I suppose I can still manage. But what about you?”

  “Think the water won’t let me in because I’m of a different element? Oh, I can swim. Hauberin insisted I learn, once upon a time. Eh, come, let’s try it.”

  But Matilde looked down at their small benefactor. “Thank you, my . . . ah . . . my lord lutin.”

  There was a sharp, delighted laugh from the lutin, an equally sharp tug at one of her braids, and then she and Alliar were alone. The being, clad only in lightweight linen hose, slipped silently into the moat. Matilde hesitated, knowing it was absurd to feel embarrassed in front of a genderless spirit yet not quite having the courage to strip. But if she didn’t get rid of her bedraggled riding gown, its weight was going to drown her, so Matilde abandoned foolishness and struggled out of the dress, kicking off her low boots, feeling incredibly light and free in just her simple chemise.

  Her white chemise that glowed like a beacon even by starlight. Hastily Matilde held her breath, and jumped into the shelter of the water.

  Ugh, it felt almost thick and slippery as oil, and she didn’t even want to think about what might be in there with her. At least she could remember how to keep herself afloat. The water didn’t seem to splash like normal water, either; she could paddle her way through it without raising more than a ripple. But swimming wasn’t as easy as she recalled; her muscles were definitely out of practice for such exercise. Trying not to breath too deeply, Matilde struggled determinedly after Alliar—a sleek golden knife slicing the water—to the small, artificial island on which the castle stood. Treading water, the being paused for a moment, then scrambled onto land.

  But the first vine the being seized tore free and tumbled Alliar in an arc back into the water. This time there definitely was a splash, and Matilde caught her breath, expecting an outcry from the castle. But there wasn’t a sound, and after an anxious moment, the being surfaced, festooned with water lilies and spitting out a short, sharp, alien exclamation that needed no translation. As Matilde bit back a near-hysterical giggle, Alliar swept off the plants, scrambled back up onto the island and began to climb again.

  The second vine held. Halfway up the castle wall, Alliar paused to signal to Matilde. She tried to pull herself up onto land, only to sink back into the water, panting. She tried again and yet again, scraping her knee against rock yet unable to get a purchase, the weight of herself and the water an insufferable burden.

  “Alliar!” she whispered, and the being came slithering down the vine. A cool golden hand reached impatiently down to grasp hers, and Matilde had a new chance to be amazed at the wind spirit’s strength as she was raised against the water’s pull. Her flailing feet struck solid ground, and she whispered up, “I’m all right now. You can let go.”

  Maybe Alliar’s strength wasn’t quite inexhaustible. The grin she received was decidedly weary, and she could have sworn she heard the being panting. But Alliar swarmed back up the vine, signaling to her to follow.

  At least her feet had something to push against. From what her questing fingers could find, the vines were spread up and out across the wall like a tracery of iron, each tendril sunk deep into the mortar between the stones. In fact, judging from what she felt, the main reason for eradicating such vines wouldn’t be so much to repel invaders as to keep the castle intact; there were some definite gaps in the wall where the tenacious plants had pulled out whole chunks of mortar and brought down several blocks of stone.

  Climbing things seems to be my fate, she thought wryly, thinking of her recent frantic scrabble up the chimney.

  Matilde’s groping toes found a fork in the vine, and she managed to raise herself, slowly and carefully, hunting for a second foothold, her mind unexpectedly casting back to childhood days. She’d been a confirmed c
limber of trees and walls back then, at least until her father had found out and forced her back into the proper behavior for a girl of gentle breeding.

  Gentle! He should see me now!

  Matilde found a small hole in the stone with one foot, raised herself again, memory prompting her to take her time till she’d found sure places to grip where the mortar was missing. She took another torturous step upward, then another, flattening herself against the cold stone like a lizard she’d seen on a rock, took yet another step, and yet another, not sure how high she’d climbed, not daring to look down to find out. Now, if she could just reach high enough to close her hand about the next twist of vine . . .

  Without warning, her feet slipped free. For what seemed an eternity, Matilde hung by her arms alone, terrified, hunting desperately for a new foothold, fighting not to sob with the effort. Then, just before she knew she would have had to let go and fall, she managed to wedge the toes of one foot between wall and vine, praying she wouldn’t tear the whole thing—vine and crumbling stones and all—free. As though mocking her, telling her she wasn’t miserable enough, the breeze began to rise, sweeping across her wet chemise, which wrapped itself lovingly about her body, till Matilde was shivering helplessly. Her bare feet were so cold she could hardly feel her toes. Oh saints, and how her muscles ached! She wasn’t a lithe little girl anymore, and this wasn’t a harmless man-high wall off which she could safely jump, and in another moment her arms and legs were going to give way and let her fall.

  I can’t do this, I can’t.

  And yet . . . Hauberin was almost certainly undergoing a worse ordeal. One without any hope at all of escape. “Something terrible has happened to him,” Alliar had cried, and, “The very touch of iron sears Faerie skin.” Matilde remembered, the drac, slain by one small scratch from her knife, and thought, against her will, of Hauberin lying in the creature’s place, face contorted with agony, the beautiful dark eyes blank and empty . . . dear God, no.

  But for a long moment, heart aching or not, she just couldn’t move, clinging to vine and wall, eyes shut, thinking that if ever she got out of this, she would never, ever complain about her lot again. And if anyone ever dared lecture her about women being the weaker vessel, he would regret it!

  Teeth clenched, Matilde gathered what was left of strength and courage, and began the painful climb after Alliar who, after glancing back to make sure she was all right, was scampering up the wall with disgusting ease. Lost in her fog of exhaustion, Matilde continued to climb, silently raging at beings who seemed to think human bodies could do anything spirits could do—and nearly shrieked as a hand shot out of the wall to close about her arm.

  “It’s me,” whispered Alliar, “we’re here,” and pulled. After that first terrified moment, she realized the being wasn’t trying to drag her through solid stone; they’d reached a window at last. But even though a stone had crumbled away here, too—Matilde had a wild mental image of Baron Thibault giving a procrastinating wave of the hand when faced with needed repair—what remained was barely wider than the standard arrow-slit.

  I’ll never fit. They’ll find me hanging here in the morning.

  But then Alliar whispered, “Exhale.”

  She did, flattening herself as much as possible. The being pulled, and Matilde was abruptly tumbling through and down in a heap onto a stone floor, elbows and one knee scraped, hair dripping and chemise bunched up in most unseemly fashion about her thighs. Hastily pushing the sodden cloth back down about her legs (feeling it outlining her body so closely she wondered why she bothered), Matilde blinked about at darkness. “Where . . . ?”

  “A guardroom, I think,” Alliar murmured. “Yes. There’s the guards’ torch, burned out. And there are the guards, sound asleep!”

  “But . . . so heavily,” Matilde breathed, scrambling to her feet and staring as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. “Almost as though . . .”

  “As though they were bespelled?” Alliar sighed. “Forgive me. You were right earlier and I was wrong. There’s definitely the feel of enchanted sleep about these men.”

  “I know . . .”

  “So now! Sense it, do you?”

  “No, I only meant . . .” Matilde hastily dropped her voice to a whisper. “We shouldn’t talk so loudly!”

  “You don’t have to worry; nothing short of time will unravel that spell. And,” the being added thoughtfully, “I wonder if perhaps it lies about everyone else in the castle, too.”

  Matilde shivered, flinging her wet hair over her shoulder, wincing as the cold weight of it slapped against her back. “That would explain why no one at all was on guard.”

  “It has to be Serein’s doing. Serein’s spell, to ensure no human would disturb him.” Neither of them wanted to say why he wouldn’t want to be disturbed, but the being’s eyes glinted with cold anger. “It’s true that he never could wield such Power before. But then, he never could switch bodies before, either.” Alliar grinned, a fierce flash of teeth in the darkness. “We should thank him. By being so human-wary and eliminating all the guards, our dear little Serein has made our task so much the easier.”

  Easier. All they had to do was find Hauberin before the sleep-spell wore off or they shattered it, rescue him, and escape out through a castle full of enemies, one of whom was a renegade Faerie sorcerer.

  Is that all? Matilde wondered wryly. Why, after all we’ve done so far, it seems almost too easy!

  Not, dear lord understand, that she was complaining.

  ###

  How long had he been huddling here, arm and mind aflame? All the stories said iron-poisoning was an agonizing but quick death, and he had seen the drac’s death as proof, and yet, perversely, despite the endless pain, his body seemed to be refusing to leave that pain behind. He ached for water, and for the simple chance to just lie down. But the last remnants of pride kept him from begging. And the rope looped about his wrists kept him tethered to the iron ring set into the wall, so that the best he could do was sprawl like this, leaning his feverish head and body against the dank, wondrously cool stone of the wall, and wish whoever was babbling on and on would stop.

  “Hauberin! Damn you, you can’t die! Hauberin, answer me!”

  Serein. The prince peered through the fever-haze at the anxious, furious human face and Faerie-aura and managed a faint, rusty laugh. “Too bad, cousin. You don’t . . . get my body after all. Have to . . . have to stay a human.”

  Serein was raging at him, warning, “Don’t you mock me!” Hauberin sagged against the wall, letting the surging of blood in his ears drown out his cousin’s fury. But he was still conscious enough to be dimly aware that underneath the bluster, Serein was terrified. And with the sudden brittle clarity of fever, Hauberin knew why, and cut across his cousin’s words with: “You’re trapped, aren’t you? It wasn’t you made the transfer from body to body.” He saw Serein start, eyes widening, and continued, hearing the words tumble out beyond his control, fascinated at what they were saying as though they weren’t his. “It was someone, something else that pulled your spirit across realms. Ha, yes, something else. Maybe not even something of Faerie.”

  “No, that’s ridiculous—”

  “But now, your ally, whatever, whoever, your ally has betrayed you. Betrayed the traitor. Abandoned you. Left you here caught in your helpless little human self.”

  “No!”

  “You can’t get out of that body, can you? It dies, you die, for good this time.”

  “Damn you, Hauberin, I’ll—”

  “What? Kill me?” The prince laughed, then broke off with a choked cry as he jarred his wounded arm, sending new fire blazing through him. For a time Hauberin could do nothing but wait, teeth clenched, until at last the pain had ebbed to a more endurable level and he could gasp out, “I’m already dead, Serein. Body just hasn’t gotten the message yet . . .”

  The prince sank wearily back against the wall, eyes closed, ignoring his cousin’s frantic noise, feeling the rising fever-flames sweeping him
further and further from lucidity, welcoming them. Soon it wouldn’t matter what Serein said.

  Soon nothing at all would matter.

  ###

  Alliar hesitated, lips tight in distaste. Phaugh, these humans were like animals, flopping down to sleep here in the Great Hall wherever they could crowd in then-pallets. The air was equally crowded with the none-too clean smells of them. The being glanced about the dark Hall, plotting the best path—stepping on someone certainly would break the sleep-spell—and listening with every sense for any trace of Hauberin . . .

  Ae, was that Hauberin’s aura, that poor, distorted, fever-bright thing? Horrified, Alliar started forward, Matilde stepping hesitantly after, only to stop short at the head of a downward-leading flight of stairs.

  “The cellars?” Alliar wondered softly, unsure of human architecture.

  “Or the dungeons,” Matilde murmured. “If Hauberin is down there—”

  “He is.” The being stared at arcane flames, faintly blue, crossing and recrossing the stairway. “Serein has set Wards.”

  “Spells to keep everyone out? You . . . can’t get through them?”

  “I don’t know.” For all that Alliar shivered with impatience, there was nothing to do but relax as best as possible, clear the senses, study the Wards on all their levels, feeling their form, the Power behind them . . . The being straightened in triumph. “I have it! They were set for flesh-and-blood reality—not for such as I.” Alliar glanced at the woman. “I’m sorry. I can’t take you with me. But I’ll be back as swiftly as I can. With Hauberin!”

  ###

  Hidden in shadow, golden skin darkened almost to black, Alliar stood in helpless silence at the head of the stairs, just out of sight of the human woman, shaking under the sudden assault of panic. How can I go down there? Ae, how?

  Swimming the moat had been simple by comparison; the water had been foul, lifeless, an alien thing to a spirit, the virtue choked from it by human misuse, human neglect, but at least it had encouraged swift action. This cellar, this . . . tomb had been gouged from the living earth, then walled off from it, from all life, from even the hint of sky and free, open air . . . Ah, the harsh cold stone, cruel as Ysilar’s prison . . .