Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  . . . and chanting . . .

  . . . and . . .

  He came sharply awake, staring into blackness. What—Yes . . . he had finished the spell . . . ae yes, and it had worked. The amulet, split as neatly in half as though he'd cut it with an axe, was definitely charged with Power. Ardagh wrapped each half separately in a precious square of spidersilk cut (not without a pang) from his one and only Sidhe tunic, then paused to yawn and rub a hand over his tired eyes. Not surprising that he'd fallen asleep for a moment; he'd used a fair amount of magical energy. More than should have been necessary.

  Every time I think I've adjusted to this cursed Realm. . .

  The spell had also taken far longer than it should. The hour was now somewhere in the deepest part of the night, judging by the feel of it. Ah well, at least the work was done and he could hie himself to bed and a much more comfortable sleep than—

  The sound of a hesitant knock on the door brought Ardagh starkly alert. Who would possibly be calling at this hour?

  Cadwal. The feel of his aura was unmistakable—as was the unexpected cloud of misery shrouding the man. Ardagh brushed back his hair, straightened his rumpled clothing and, face composed into a mask of Sidhe calm (even though, he jibed at himself, the human probably couldn't see him in the darkness) called: "Enter."

  The door swung open. Cadwal stood in the entrance, peering into what, to him, would have seemed total blackness. "Prince Ardagh?"

  "Of course."

  "I . . . ah . . . thought you might be still awake. Hoped you were, anyhow. I wouldn't dream of disturbing you, particularly not at this hour, but . . ."

  "But you have some trouble weighing you down. And obviously it's nothing you can share with a priest—or with King Aedh—or you would already have done so. Come inside, man, and shut the door."

  Since Cadwal couldn't very well see what Ardagh was doing, the prince didn't bother looking for flint and steel, but lit an oil lamp with a simple flick of will, blinking in momentary discomfort as the sudden small flare of light burned at his darkness-adjusted sight. The flame quickly settled down to a steady little yellow glow, and Ardagh gestured to the room's other chair. Cadwal sat as warily as though he expected the thing to suddenly sprout fangs, and Ardagh fought down a sigh and asked, "Why come to me?"

  "Because . . . oh hell, this sounds ridiculous and I wouldn't blame you for throwing me out, but . . . do you have a spell or something that lets a man sleep without dreams?"

  "A spell!" That, Ardagh thought, feigned astonishment nicely. "What makes you think I would know such a thing?"

  The mercenary shrugged, a little too casually. "Hell, I don't know. Just that . . . you being so foreign, the ways of your land being so strange . . ."

  So foreign. You know, don't you? You know on some deep inner level what I am, and don't want to accept that you know. Ae, humans. "Dreams," Ardagh said without expression. "Foul ones, I assume."

  "Very. I know," Cadwal added fiercely, "it's a weakness, but it's one I damn well can't afford. And before you ask, yes, I did try going to priests and all that, but I don't dare let everyone know I'm getting soft or—"

  "Anyone," Ardagh cut in, "may suffer from disturbed sleep." Particularly a human who has led such a harsh life. "It's hardly a sign of failure."

  "But—"

  "But I certainly agree with you: The leader of the High Kings mercenary band can't afford to be weakened by lack of rest."

  His very matter-of-factness seemed to be more soothing to the human than any soft words might have been; Ardagh saw not a muscle twitch in Cadwal's weatherworn face, but the faintest spark of hope flickered in the mercenary's eyes. "Then . . . you can help?"

  Ardagh hesitated, considering. "No one may be totally without dreams," he said at last, which was certainly the truth. "And I can promise nothing." Which is undeniably true as well. "But . . ." Ha, he'd found the memory he'd been hunting. "Yes, I do know a charm for sweet sleep. Something even a . . ." human ". . . a man not of Cathay can perform."

  It was a very basic spell, a charm taught to every Sidhe child. Whether or not a magickless human could get it to work . . . who knew? But the charm required no special movements, no surge of Power, and Cadwal couldn't possibly do himself any harm.

  Besides, even if the magic isn't sparked into life, the thing still might work by the simple power of suggestion.

  Cadwal was a quick study. It took only the shortest of time before the words were set in his mind. He started to stammer out thanks, but Ardagh, all at once embarrassed at the human's embarrassment, shook his head. Deliberately brusque, he said, "The hour is late. I wish to sleep."

  That was true enough. But once he was alone again, the prince sat musing over what had just happened.

  Ah well. Humans had such self-tormenting minds. Not surprising that some long-buried horror or sense of guilt might unexpectedly spring up to torment a dreamer.

  Then why do I feel troubled? I'm certainly not worried that Cadwal's going to blurt out "The prince isn't human," or some such nonsense. No . . . this has nothing to do with him. . . .

  Nothing, indeed. Something to do with the journey, then? The Wessex lands? Ardagh frowned, frustrated. He had never been talented in prescience, even in the Sidhe Realm. And yet there was something . . . something. . . .

  Nothing. The danger, if danger there was, had no true form, or else was so distant even scrying would hardly detect it. Or maybe it—

  Maybe it doesn't even exist. The hour, the prince repeated to himself, is late. Go to bed, you idiot. Things in this Realm always do look brighter in the morning.

  Things, Beortric of Wessex mused, rarely did look brighter in the morning, no matter what folks believed. He stood in the doorway of his hall, to anyone watching merely a man enjoying the brisk bite of the clear air, but his thoughts were dark. Worr had come to him yesterday with so bizarre a tale that had it been anyone else reciting such nonsense, Beortric would have ordered him away. But Worr . . . Worr, the king thought, would never lie to him. Yet . . . that tale . . . to accuse an ealdorman of such a thing as murder, no matter that the slain had been no more than some common whore, to accuse him of the darkest of sorceries . . .

  What am I to do? What am I to do?

  Edburga would know. Oh yes, Edburga never hesitated to pass judgment. She would rant and rave as she always did, and in the end he would give in to her, as he always did, just to keep the peace. Beortric snorted. His wife would rule the land if he let her!

  Yes, and he could just hear Edburga shriek that he was dithering again, stalling when he should be acting. Something must be done about Osmod. But what?

  Beortric let out his breath in a shuddering sigh. And now Edburga would accuse him even more shrilly of stalling. Maybe he was. But you could hardly up and indict an ealdorman of such fantastic charges. Not unless they were true.

  Enough of this. He would bring Osmod and Worr both before him, and see how matters went from there.

  Osmod just barely managed to keep the look of bewildered innocence on his face as he listened to Worr's horrified accusations. What wild things the youngster was spouting—even if they were true. At least Beortric had shown the good taste—or perhaps the cowardice—to keep this a private matter between the three of them. It would have been very awkward, indeed, if the king had decided to bring the affair before the entire Witan.

  He came back to full attention with a jolt. Worr was in the middle of declaiming: " . . . the blood had been deliberately drained from the poor woman's body and—"

  "Deliberately," Beortric echoed, his eyes wary.

  "I swear it. The—the slash that had slain her was as neat as any made to dispatch a rabbit. And thinking of that made me remember . . ." Worr shuddered. "I don't know how I could have forgotten it, but recently, when we were out on the hunt, I saw this man, Ealdorman Osmod, holding a rabbit he had just slain."

  "Is that such a crime?" Osmod asked, wide-eyed. "Granted, a rabbit is hardly mighty game, but the meat—"

&n
bsp; "The rabbit's throat had been neatly slashed. Its body was . . . the ealdorman had . . ." Worr paused, plainly fighting with revulsion. "He had it pressed to his lips. And he was . . . drinking its blood.'

  A flood of possible reactions stormed through Osmod's mind. He quickly rejected outrage (too much chance for unbelievable melodrama) and mockery (a wise man didn't mock the king's . . . friend) and settled for astonishment. "W-what?" Yes, let the words tumble out as though uncontrolled. "That—how—that is the most . . . " He stopped as though overwhelmed, then gave the laugh of a totally amazed man. "My lord Worr! Is that really what you thought you saw?" Charming smile, now, just a touch, charming twinkle to the eyes. "I had just slain the rabbit, yes, but all I was doing was looking closely at the creature to see if its fur was worth saving."

  Worr looked like a small boy who's been patted on the head by adults. "But—I saw—"

  "Come now," Osmod soothed, "the forest was dappled with shadow; the light was already fading. If I had to stare so closely at the rabbit I was holding, it's not at all surprising that you, seeing me from a distance, could have been tricked by the twilight." And you believe me, don't you, you can't help yourself, you do believe me, I will it. "No shame in making an honest mistake." He could feel Worr's resistance, heard the young man manage a defiant, "But . . ."

  You do believe me. I hold the runes in my will, I hold your mind in my will. You do believe me.

  In another moment, he was going to pant aloud from weariness or simply fall over.

  You do believe me. You do believe me.

  Worr's shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry." It was bitterly said. "I had no right accusing you of such a terrible crime. If you wish to settle this by combat—"

  Too winded by his effort for speech, Osmod waved a casual hand. But he must speak, put in a final touch. Somehow he managed not to sway, somehow managed to keep his voice from shaking. "Nonsense. Though some might say that the death of a common whore is hardly a matter worthy of a nobleman's interest, I say it does you credit, my lord, that you show so much concern."

  There. That was backhanded enough to silence Worr. And Beortric, being Beortric, was watching his favorite with gentle eyes: he had pretty much forgotten all about the original charge.

  For now, Osmod thought, for now. No matter what I do, the seeds of suspicion, as the saying goes, have already been planted. But if they start to grow, he vowed, I, not Beortric, shall cut them off.

  Revelations

  Chapter 8

  Osmod, alone in his bedchamber, crouched over the bits of rune-carved bone spread out on the clean white cloth, then let out the softest of frustrated sighs. His rank entitled him to this separate house, though of course it was barely an eighth the size of the royal hall, lacking elegant carvings or gilding, but it was still part of the royal compound. Which didn't give him much privacy, even when privacy was most vital. Such as now, with the runes showing him:

  Nothing. Not the slightest trace of pending trouble. In fact, this reading was so very bland, as had been the two he'd already cast this night, as to seem almost a mockery. Granted, the days had been deepening into winter without his having sensed even the smallest hint of suspicion from the king—but Beortric was such an inoffensive fellow he wouldn't believe there was even an out-and-out rebellion till it struck him down.

  As for Worr . . . Osmod tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. Out of the many castings of the runes, there had been one—though, disconcertingly only one—revealing trouble from the youngster.

  A hint. Possibly not even a true one. Typical of the Lords of Darkness—assuming that They exist. No, no, They must exist; who else would be so frustratingly vague?

  But that was the way things went. He dare not ignore the Darkness now that Midwinter was fast approaching. The darkest hour of the longest night of the year was, all the strictures claimed, the time when the Lords gave up the greatest Power to Their followers—but only in exchange for the greatest risk.

  For one long moment, Osmod toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing. Plain, mundane political power was surely enough.

  Of course. And he was a woad-blue barbarian.

  A Midwinter offering could, by the rules, only be human. And for it to be of greatest risk, that could only mean performing the sacrifice right here within the royal compound.

  Osmod swept up the runes and slipped them back into their soft leather pouch. So far, no one had missed the kitchen boy who'd been last year's offering, or the elderly servant of the prior year. But back then, there hadn't been the awkwardness of Worr planting doubts in the king's ear, either.

  Ah well. He would simply have to be more cautious. Osmod scrambled to his feet, shivering a little; the hall's central fire had, of course, been banked for the night. He straightened, listening . . . yes. At this time of year, when the thin song of the wolves could be heard out there beyond the city's walls, it might not be considered too bizarre for someone to meet an unexpected end at the fangs of some starveling creature even within Uintacaester.

  I hope You appreciate the dangers I'm facing, Osmod thought, only half-jesting. Let's hope that the Power I receive in exchange is worth the trouble!

  Worr stirred restlessly, unable to sleep for all the bed's cozy warmth, and heard Beortric's drowsy protest. But now he couldn't get comfortable at all; the king had pulled most of the heavy furs to him and what was left wasn't keeping out the drafts.

  It was more than mere physical chill, Worr thought in misery. Every time he did manage to close his eyes, he kept seeing the terror-stricken face of that poor little whore, even after so many days had passed. And sometimes he dreamed that Osmod loomed over her, smiling his charming, charming smile.

  "Damn!"

  It had been whispered just a touch too fiercely. Beside him, Beortric stirred, asking drowsily, "Worr? What's wrong?"

  "I don't know. I don't. Maybe it's just the time of year."

  "So close to Christ's Birth, you mean?"

  "So close to the old pagan darkness," Worr corrected. "Maybe it's just that. But . . ." He turned earnestly to the king, staring into Beortric's sleepy eyes. "It's Osmod. Wait, wait, please let me finish, I don't know what— why—please, Beortric. We must see what he's doing this night."

  The king's gaze sharpened. "You sound like some hysterical girl. If you've had a foul dream—"

  Worr groaned. "It's not that. It's . . . I don't know what it is. I feel . . . I feel as though someone's been tampering with my mind: Osmod. Yes, yes, I know this really does sound like a girl's hysteria, and if I'm wrong, I—I'll accept all penalties for false witness. But—Beortric, believe this: I just don't think I'm wrong."

  Osmod smiled thinly. It had been almost pathetically easy to lure the boy to him with gentle words and feigned kindness: the servant—what had he been, some young kitchen lad, perhaps?

  No matter. He had been all too willing to believe that a fine, noble ealdorman should have taken a sudden interest in him. The boy had been pretty enough under the dirt for that to be credible, had Osmod's tastes run that way. Which, he thought with a touch of dark humor, they did not.

  A pity I'm not Worr, he told the limp body. You might still be alive. A pity, too, that you were such an insignificant creature. No family, no friends, no one to miss you. So it goes.

  He'd strangled the boy almost, but not quite, beyond life. Now Osmod delicately cut his prey's throat, finishing what he'd begun, enjoying the sharp taste of blood, the wild thrill of Power renewed. The servant had been better fed than the whore; his young life force was so much stronger that it was a pure delight to drink.

  But even as he luxuriated in this hot new strength, Osmod kept one corner of his mind clear on what would come next. When he was done, he would disguise the body in a roll of worn cloth, see that it was burned like so much trash. And if any should discover the contents of that roll, why, all he need do was feign surprised horror with everyone else.

  Yes. And that burning would complete a symbolic triple deat
h: just the devious type of sacrifice the Lords of the Underworld were said to like the most. And the whole thing was being done right under the noses of the royal court. The Lords should definitely like that as well. Maybe this time the Power wouldn't fade; maybe this time he would be as magically strong as he wished. And then, and then . . .

  Osmod shut his eyes in ecstasy.

  "Oh God!"

  His eyes flew open at that shout of horror. Beortric! Beortric, and that damnably honorable Worr at his side like a faithful hound. Osmod let the body fall, snatching up his pouch of runes. No time to hunt for the ones he wanted: he thrust his fist about them all, praying that would be enough. Before Beortric could do more than draw in breath, Osmod cast all his hastily summoned will, all the strength he had just gained from the sacrifice into this one desperate cry:

  "You have seen nothing odd, nothing. You have seen nothing. You have seen nothing. Nothing. Nothing!"

  Sobbing with the effort, Osmod fell limply forward over the body, too drained to move, sure harsh hands were about to seize him. But . . . there was nothing. Just as he had willed it: nothing. Blank-faced, Beortric and Worr both were walking away.

  With a gasp of relief, Osmod let himself slide into exhausted darkness.

  He woke aching and sore and frighteningly . . . empty. Terrified that the effort of controlling both Beortric and Worr had destroyed his magic, Osmod fumbled with numb fingers for the pouch of runes. Nothing, he felt nothing—

  No. The touch of Thorn sent the faintest of tinglings through his mind. The magic was still within him, but sadly worn.

  Not surprising he thought with weary humor. It takes a bit more Power to erase the memory of a human slain than of a rabbit!

  With a groan, Osmod rolled over onto his back, stretching out tired muscles, admitting reluctantly that the perilous memory hadn't truly been erased. Ah no, he'd merely placed a patch over a pit. Sooner or later that patch was going to give way, and then—