Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  Did he mean to leave Sorcha?

  No, Ardagh realized. Never that. Whatever else might happen, he would not merely abandon her.

  What, then, was bothering him? The prince searched his thoughts with Sidhe honesty, but found nothing but vague uneasiness.

  Now isn't this ridiculous? Why worry about What Might Be when for all I know the amulet is going to shatter the moment I start a spell?

  "Enough," Ardagh said, and set to work.

  The hour was much later than it had been when he'd begun. Ardagh stood alone in what was surely the darkest time of the night, sagging slightly with weariness and looking down at the amulet in his hand, feeling it tingling ever so faintly with Power. At this late hour, no one would be about. And no eyes but his could pierce this moonless darkness.

  Then why was he hesitating anew? He was tired, yes, longing for that soft feather mattress, but he'd been much more weary and yet successfully worked far more intricate magics.

  Try it! the prince scolded himself. It was ridiculously easy to compose the spell; it should be ridiculously easy to cast. You have all the words, the gestures, fixed in your head. You're not that weary. Go ahead! Work it!

  But he just couldn't seem to begin. With a little shock of that total Sidhe honesty, Ardagh realized that now he was afraid, he was genuinely afraid!

  His sudden shiver had nothing to do with physical cold. How could he ever forget that terrible moment of banishment, that more terrible yet moment of realization that every Realm-crossing spell had been torn from his mind? Since then, what had there been to do but try creating some new version?

  Out of what? The bits and scraps of spells to be found in this magic-poor Realm? Amazing I managed anything at all!

  There had been so many almost-successes so far, so many tantalizing hints, glimpses of a Gate, of Faerie glory beyond—

  So many heartbreaking failures.

  You idiot! Suppose you finally have the right spell? Are you going to trap yourself here because you're too frightened to use it?

  No. Ardagh grimly began, staring at the little amulet, using it as his focus. This newly minted spell required little more than his own will and a quiet incantation, which was good, because the original spell had been simple as well. A corner of his mind felt the tiny bit of Power in the amulet rouse, tingling, and knew a thrill of hope, but Ardagh could not let anything distract him. He continued chanting softly, willing more and more strength into the spell, willing more and more of the amulets Power awake, willing the spell and the amulet and the full force of his longing into one magical call:

  "Open! Open! Open!"

  There, ah there, he saw the shimmering in the air, he saw the Doorway beginning to form, he knew with a wild blazing of hope that this time it would work, this time he would leave the human Realm behind and—and—

  —and he couldn't hold it, there wasn't enough Power, he couldn't hold—

  With a great rush of air, the Doorway snapped out of being. As the spell gave way, Ardagh's strength went with it. He fell forward as though his legs had been cut out from under him, landing full-length on the cold earth. Alone in the darkness, too worn for self-control, too worn to do anything else at all but despair, the prince wept.

  But the ground was just too chilly for such weakness. After a short while, Ardagh caught his breath and forced his emotions back under control. Shivering, the prince pulled himself slowly to his knees, but could get no further. He huddled like that for what seemed half the night, head resting on one upturned knee, trying to find the strength to stand, the backlash of unspent Power from his failed spell aching in his mind.

  But . . . was someone watching him? With a great effort, Ardagh struggled back to his feet, staggering with exhaustion, trying to identify who . . . Cadwal . . . ? Yes. It was the mercenary whom he'd sensed standing nearby.

  He straightened. How near? Had Cadwal seen anything of what had just happened—or rather, not happened?

  Impossible. Human eyes were all but night-blind, and what was left of the night was still very dark. The man could have seen nothing. Staggering, Ardagh headed back towards his small guest house, his home in Fremainn. Falling across the bed, too weary to undress, he thought with bitter, weary humor, This Realm . . . must like me. For no matter what I do, it just . . . will not . . . let me go.

  Cadwal stood where he had been standing still as stone ever since seeing Prince Ardagh collapse. His first impulse had been to run to the prince, see if he was hurt. But something inside hum had said, clear as words, no. It wasn't right to intrude on a man's private grieving, be he prince or commoner.

  Yet . . . there was more here than an exile mourning his lost land, much more, though Cadwal couldn't quite have put his thoughts into clear speech. He hadn't quite seen, the mercenary told himself, not in all this darkness, he hadn't quite heard, either. But surely before he'd fallen, Prince Ardagh had been chanting in his strange, beautiful native tongue, whatever it might be. And just for a moment Cadwal could have sworn there had been something more than . . .

  Than what? He felt a little shiver run up his spine, in that moment for all his years of war nothing more than a child of his homeland, of often-mystic Cymru. Had he really seen something other than the mundane walls of Fremainn? Something more? Had there been just for that bare heartbeat of time, a hint of something very splendid, indeed?

  Och, idiot! And are you going to start believing in Faerie at this late date? Are you going to add that to— to whatever it is that's driving you to wander about like a lost soul?

  That last question was far too easy to answer: Dreams drove him—

  No, Cadwal corrected himself, not dreams, only one dream. The dream. Gwen, so real he could almost touch her, Gwen pleading with him, Help me, save me, free me. It couldn't really be her, of course not. And yet, and yet . . . he had heard so many stories in his youth, tales of souls held from rest, souls held captive in little cages. . . .

  No. There are no such things as soul cages. No such things as ghosts, either. With all the battlefields I've seen, there should have been at least one someone reluctant to leave life behind. But no. You're dead, you're dead. Your soul goes on to heaven or hell. You do not hang about pestering the living like an unwanted guest.

  And why couldn't he believe it? And why couldn't he banish the dream? Feeling rather foolish about it, Cadwal had gotten himself some holy charms from Father Seadna, the High King's own priest, and worn one charm about his neck and spread the others all about his bed. Feeling even more foolish, he'd said a few rhymes dimly remembered from his Cymric childhood, things that the old women had taught him would chase away all uneasy spirits.

  And yet the dream refused to be banished. Every night: Save me, Cadwal, cariad, free me.

  "Iesu Crist," he muttered, not quite in prayer, not quite not. Not much of a choice here, and neither very pleasant: either it really was poor Gwen's trapped soul— or he was going mad.

  A Bit of Conversation

  Chapter 4

  The new day was bright and cheery as though there'd never been a battle from which to recover. Praise God that he could recover, Aedh thought, flexing a still-stiff swordarm, wincing at the pull on bruised muscles. Eithne had wanted him to stay in bed this day while she rubbed her herbal mixtures into his sore skin.

  A pleasant thought, that, though I suspect we'd have spent more time rubbing those herbs off than on—ah well.

  He'd refused, of course. Let the word spread that the High King was incapacitated, even for a day, and they'd all be having him ready for his grave. True, Aedh admitted, he was no boy to fight so fiercely one day and be untouched by strain the next. But he could still more than hold his own. The moment he stopped being able to lead his men like this—och, that day hadn't yet come, nor, God willing, would it come soon.

  So, now. They'd come through the battle relatively unscathed: surprisingly few losses, while most of the wounded seemed, at least so far, likely to recover. Looks like a good time to make some nice,
pious public statement about God being on our side. Which I suppose is true enough, he added with a wry little glance to heaven, since we won. Besides, it won't hurt to let the clergy have something good to say about me.

  Aedh lowered his head to look about his royal "conversation house"—stone walls to the small house, guarded door, slate roof on which no spy could perch. In short, thought the king, this was the one place in all Fremainn that he knew was secure from prying eyes or ears. The only other person in here with him just now was Fothad mac Ailin, and Aedh let the man wait and worry a bit longer before quoting sardonically:

  "The Church of the living God, let her alone,

  Waste her not.

  Let her right be apart, as best it ever was."

  He watched Fothad's slight wince, though at the same time Aedh caught the faintest glint of delight in the minister's eyes: the poet's involuntary joy that, no matter the circumstance, his words should have been so well remembered. Can't separate the poet from the man, can we? Aedh thought. Never could. He asked aloud, "Well?"

  "I had to compose the poem. You know that."

  "Did you have to recite it within everyone's hearing?"

  Fothad reddened. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

  "So I noticed. So everyone noticed."

  The redness deepened. "I'm sorry for that, truly. You know I'm not usually so . . . well . . . impolitic."

  "Good choice of a word, that. Impolitic."

  "Aedh, please. I didn't mean to make things difficult for you, you know that. It's only that . . ." The poet shook his head helplessly. "The ancient bards were right about this: The words come when and where they will, and I don't always have a chance to control them. Besides," he added defiantly, "you know I was right. It was one thing for you to call up a full muster of Eriu's men to battle Leinster; that was well within your royal rights—"

  "Thank you so much for reminding me."

  "Och, well . . ." Fothad hesitated, not quite meeting the king's gaze. He and Aedh had once been tutor and pupil (with Fothad, who was not that much the elder, seared nearly foolish by the responsibility), but the poet was very obviously reminding himself that this wasn't an erring pupil but the High King.

  "You are Aedh Ordnigh," Fothad continued at last, ignoring Aedh's impatient wave at the obvious statement, "Aedh the Ordained, proclaimed rightful High King by the Church, and yes, of that I do remind you. When you wished to involve that Church in secular matters—"

  "Where they've certainly been before," Aedh snapped.

  "Yes, but in this case involving them could not have been justified by any stretch of political maneuverings. And yes, yes, they might have joined in if you'd ordered it—but then again, they might not. And how would that have looked?"

  "Embarrassing. Awkward. I agree on that point, and yet—"

  "Aedh, please, listen: We both know that you've had quarrels enough with the clergy since the very first days of your reign. They don't care for your independence—"

  "And I don't care for their meddling."

  "Yes, but we both know that without the clergy's support, no king is going to rule for long. That is the way it is, like it or not. And High King or no, you cannot afford to antagonize the Church again!"

  You always could cut right to the heart of arguments. And win most of them. "Enough, Fothad. Enough! That poem of yours was damnably convincing all by itself. And," Aedh admitted reluctantly, "you are quite right." There were too many years of friendship between them for him to need to add more than the simplest of warnings. "Just don't embarrass me in public like that again, agreed?"

  Fothad, mouth half-open to defend himself, shut it again, reddening. "Ah. Indeed," he said awkwardly.

  Aedh accepted that for the apology it was. Besides, he thought, suddenly amused, Fothad's outburst of poetry hadn't done either of them any real harm; folk expected bizarre behavior from poets, and forgiveness to those poets from kings. "Onward."

  "Onward," Fothad agreed with blatant relief in his voice. "What of King Finsneachta?"

  Aedh knew his grin must be downright predatory. "He has given me the usual hostages and pledges of good behavior. More importantly, since he is that unfortunate paradox, a defeated king, Finsneachta has suddenly discovered a religious vocation."

  Fothad raised an eyebrow. "How convenient! That leaves . . . wait, now, if memory serves, he has no son to inherit."

  "That's right. And don't give me that dismayed stare. I'm very well aware that his unfortunate lack means I'm going to have to split his land between his two nearest kinsmen. Yes, Fothad, just as I needed to do with the two royal sons in Meath three years back. And yes, I'm very well aware that splitting a land between two ambitious young men means trouble in the future—but as with Meath, there's no other solution short of murdering one or both of them. A nice thought, but hardly politically wise."

  Fothad, who knew as well as Aedh that the king's ambitions stopped short of the downright ruthless, added flatly, "Or morally proper. Nothing ever gets truly settled, does it?"

  "Not in Eriu!" Aedh held up his hands in a wry shrug. "But then, when has governing this realm ever been easy? Come, enough of Leinster. Tell me how the repairs are going."

  Fothad glanced down at his scrolls. "You know that the . . . ah . . . storm, the one in which Bishop Gervinus . . . ah . . . died, did terrible harm to Corca-Bhaiscinn."

  "Over a thousand folk dead there, God rest them, yes. And the island of Fitha is permanently split apart."

  "Into at least three pieces, yes. Of course there's also been a sizeable loss of trees and flooding of coastlines. But aside from Corca-Bhaiscinn and Fitha, Eriu does seem to be recovering." Fothad opened another scroll, then another. "The harvest isn't going to be as good as we'd like—"

  "No surprise there! I'm amazed that anything is left growing."

  "We were lucky. But unless we're faced with another storm of that terrible force—the good Lord deny—no one, except in Corca-Bhaiscinn, is going to face genuine hardship."

  "Mm. Make notes to send wheat there should they request it. Go on." Aedh forced out the next words from a suddenly tight throat. "No Lochlannach raids while I was away?"

  "No. You seem to have stopped those Northern thieves."

  "Hah!"

  "Or at least thrown some fear into them."

  "Again, hah. One little defeat of one little raiding party isn't going to frighten that lot. If the traders' stories are correct, the Lochlannach actually enjoy the thought of dying in battle. Such a death sends them, their pagan priests claim, straight to a warrior's heaven."

  "Let it be straight to a warrior's hell," Fothad snapped.

  "Amen to that." Aedh hesitated, wondering how to word what he wanted to say. "Your mistimed poem wasn't the only reason I sent for you."

  Fothad frowned slightly. "The Lochlannach?"

  "Exactly. They worry me, Fothad, they truly worry me."

  "But they're nothing!"

  "Well now, we seem to have swung completely about, haven't we?"

  "I don't . . ."

  Aedh held up a hand. "If I recall, it was originally you who tried to put worry into my mind about them, and I who scoffed."

  "True, but—"

  "But I've had a chance to actually face them in combat since then."

  "And I have not," Fothad admitted. "Yes, granted, and granted that from everything I've heard from everyone the creatures are fierce enough—but they're still nothing more than seafaring thieves!"

  "No. Think. My spies and loyal vassals give me warnings of trouble from any not-so-loyal vassal, and I have no doubts I can control each and any would-be traitor. But how can I possibly defend Eriu against sea raiders? Raiders who can strike without warning anywhere along our coast and be away again in those incredibly swift ships before we can so much as take up arms against them?"

  "But . . ." Fothad began hesitantly, almost as though embarrassed, "the last time, Ardagh and I both received a warning from—"

  "Ardagh is hardly a saint
." Aedh nearly strangled in the sudden, unexpected effort not to laugh. God, no! A Sidhe saint? "And neither, my friend," he added hastily, before the unseemly laughter could break loose, "are you. How or why you two received that ghostly warning of the attack, well, we'll never know the truth of that." Unless our Sidhe prince admits it. "But we can't expect . . . ah . . . Heaven to send us a warning every time."

  Fothad grinned ruefully, agreeing, "No. Alas. But you still aren't catching my point. Yes, the Lochlannach are a danger, no, their attacks can't always be predicted— but they are hardly organized enough to be a true threat."

  "Not yet. And not in such small numbers. But we don't know just how many discontented, loot-hungry Northerners actually exist. We don't know where to find their home base or bases. Yes, and what happens when some ambitious, charismatic fellow turns up among them? What happens when he unites them into one force?"

  Fothad snorted. "I've yet to see a charismatic Northerner."

  "Hey now, we wouldn't look so pretty or smell so sweet either after a long sea voyage! Remember their elegant swords and axes and those lovely, deadly ships: the Lochlannach may be pagan thieves, but they're hardly primitive. Don't underestimate them."

  Aedh broke off, trying not to see the dark image that his mind was all at once insisting on conjuring. "And what happens," he added slowly, "when the Lochlannach learn how badly the storm has hurt us? What better time for them to launch a raid or, worse, a series of raids on Eriu? What better time for those thieves to join together against us? Savage fighters without any Christian sense of morality, and very probably, judging from what we've heard of their homeland, with an equally savage lust for land."

  "Och, they wouldn't . . ." But Fothad fell silent, eyes widening.

  "You see the same vision I do."

  "Devastation." It was a whisper. "Conquest or devastation."

  "Indeed. The Lochlannach will come again, Fothad. That is as sure as the turn of the seasons. And I quite honestly don't know what we can do to stop them. Except," Aedh continued thoughtfully, "this. We have someone among us who studies issues from angles neither of us would ever imagine. Yes, and solves problems from weird perspectives as well."