Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  Ah well, Osmod told himself, deliberately forcing a light mood, the time for change was long overdue. You knew that. And Egbert will make a fine ruler.

  But first Beortric and that awkward and damnably too-honorable Worr must die. Osmod had seen enough folks die by now, many by his own hand, not to be squeamish.

  Yet those victims had been nobodies. These two, king and noble . . . how could he . . . ? Yes, and it must be done in such a manner as to attract not the smallest shred of suspicion to him.

  How, indeed? A tool. A tool. Who could he use, who—

  "Edburga!" The answer came to him so suddenly he nearly staggered, wondering for an uneasy instant if this had come directly from the Lords of Darkness.

  Bah, of course not. It was such an obvious, logical choice. Edburga had no friends at court, thanks to her bitter, savage nature. There would be no awkward political complications. She already, not surprisingly, loathed Worr; it was evident enough to be a common part of court gossip. And she was, Osmod thought, most conveniently under his control.

  Ah yes. Edburga would make a splendid assassin.

  What, Ardagh Lithanial wondered absently, testing the weight of the practice sword, was winter like in Wessex? It certainly couldn't be more disagreeable than winter here in Eriu, which had turned into its usual damp, dank, chilly self. Never a decent snowfall, never a nice, crisp, bright-skied day . . . never anything even remotely like the clear, crystalline Sidhe winter—

  No. Let yourself sink too deeply into what Cadwal called hiraeth, the bittersweet longing for what couldn't be, and you lost all hope for what was.

  Cadwal, yes. Ardagh watched the man's approach with a slight smile. At least that silly little charm for sweet sleep seemed to have helped him.

  It had helped, hadn't it? Ardagh felt his smile fade at the sight of the weary, troubled eyes. But Cadwal didn't volunteer any information, asking only, "Ready to go a few rounds?"

  Ardagh saluted him with the sword. "Of course." Very much aware of how survival in this land depended on weapons skill, the prince practiced his swordplay whenever he and Cadwal both had the time free. And preferably, Ardagh thought, whenever they could manage to avoid an audience.

  Nothing like a cold, dank grey day for that.

  A little more perilous to duel with even these blunted iron blades, but a touch of danger did make things more realistic. Besides, there wasn't enough of the cursed metal to sicken him.

  They fought in silence for a time, working their way gradually up from the basic warm-up exercises to genuine swordwork. Ardagh could feel himself starting to smile, enjoying the elegant, quick dance, enjoying the fact that his Sidhe reactions hadn't been slowed at all by this human Realm. Of course, things might be different in Wessex.

  Wessex. The thought hit him like a shock of icy water that very soon now he would be heading once more into the unknown, alone and friendless as before—

  Ardagh gave a startled yelp as fire raced along his arm. Cadwal was instantly at his side, wild-eyed—presumably seeing his head on a pole for injuring a princely guest—and trying to see the wound even as Ardagh tried to keep it hidden, insisting to the mercenary, "My fault, not yours. I let my mind wander. It's all right, really—"

  "It's not all right, dammit—"

  "You don't have to—"

  "I do!"

  Cadwal had already grabbed his arm and pulled back the sleeve before the prince could stop him. Ardagh saw the worry in his eyes change to . . . what? Shock? Horror? The horror of a man seeing the solid world turn to mist? "There's no blood." It was almost a whisper.

  "No," the prince agreed.

  "There's a burn. The sword burned you. The iron burned you."

  "Cadwal," Ardagh said softly, "I think you had best sit down." Swallowing dryly—iron burns, he was coming to learn, tended to hurt out of all proportion to their size— he added, "I think we had both best sit down."

  "I think we must, indeed. I've got some salve in my chambers, stuff that's good for burns—that is the sort of burn that can be healed?"

  Ardagh nodded. "Lead on. I really would like to sit down."

  Cadwal's quarters were spotless as ever; the mercenary refused to give himself the slightest chance to slide into an exile's apathy. He busied himself with finding the pot of salve and a clean strip of cloth, then stood hesitating so long that Ardagh finally took the pot from him and treated the burn himself.

  "It's not serious," he assured Cadwal. "A scorch. I've gotten worse." He glanced up. "Sit, man, before you fall."

  Cadwal sat, staring.

  "Go ahead," Ardagh said after an awkward moment of silence. "Say what you're thinking."

  The mercenary gave a gusty sigh. "What I'm thinking is that you're something other than anyone would believe."

  "And that is?"

  Cadwal never flinched. "I'm not sure exactly what. Maybe . . . Tylwyth Teg."

  "No." Ardagh's mind was racing through a hasty Should I? Should I not? But there was the evidence of the iron burn to explain. And . . . there had once been a lonely night and this human's comforting welcome to a fellow exile. The prince added frankly, "Not Tylwyth Teg. But they are distant cousins."

  "You mean I'm right?"

  It came out as such a squawk of astonishment that Ardagh couldn't hold back a burst of laughter. "Didn't you expect to be?"

  "Well, yes, but . . ."

  "Ae, I'm sorry." Ardagh forced himself back under control. "I have no business laughing at you. And before you collapse from the weight of curiosity, my race isn't Tylwyth Teg but Sidhe. I really am a prince, my brother really did exile me for what he falsely thought was treason, and I really do wish no harm to these folk who have given me sanctuary. Does that satisfy you?"

  " 'Satisfy' isn't quite the word." Cadwal was looking as dazed as if Ardagh had grown wings and flown away. "Dewi Sant. Sidhe." He shook himself like a dog shaking off water. "I knew it but didn't know it, if that makes sense."

  "It does."

  "Damnio. The world's stranger than I dreamed."

  Aedh, Ardagh mused, had said almost exactly the same thing when he'd learned the truth.

  But Cadwal was once more regarding him with that wild horror. "If you're real, the Sidhe I mean, that means all the Others are probably real, too."

  There was a desperate edge to his voice, the sound of a man hunting frantically for solid ground, and Ardagh said, "Probably. But not necessarily in this human Realm. You don't have to worry that reality is falling to pieces about you."

  "Glad to hear that." The tone was light, but genuine relief glinted in Cadwal's eyes. "Sidhe," he said again, this time with less shock in his voice. "No wonder you won't wear iron armor! Yes, and here you've been going into battle against iron blades. Your pardon, but that's a damnably foolish thing to do!"

  "So Sorcha told me. Cadwal, stop staring at me. I have some resistance to the metal; I'm not going to fall to ash." No. All I do is collapse if there's too much of the cursed stuff about, or now and then burn myself if I get overconfident: certain smeltings seem to be more treacherous than others, with no way to know which is which in advance. No problem. Hah.

  Cadwal, regardless, was still staring. "Sidhe," he repeated yet again. "And there I was the other night bothering you with my human problems. Asking if you knew a—a spell, Iesu, and wasn't that a stupid question?"

  Ardagh frowned slightly. "A spell that isn't working for you any longer, I take it."

  "I . . . no. Not for the past three days or so." The man shrugged. "It's nothing."

  He plainly wasn't going to say any more without prodding. Cursing human stubbornness, Ardagh said, "You've been humanly kind to me—ae, don't look so embarrassed; you have. And the knife-fighting you taught me saved my life. I haven't forgotten. Be honest with me. Why did you come to me that night?"

  Cadwal's eyes were all at once the eyes of a trapped wild thing. "Because . . . I . . . because . . . damnio. Because of Gwen."

  "Gwen!" Ardagh straightened in surprise.
"But you told me she was dead."

  "She is." Cadwal's voice was rigidly controlled. "But maybe you can tell me why she keeps coming back." The control slipped ever so slightly. "A-at least, I think it's she. The dreams or whatever they are stopped for a while after you'd taught me that spell, and I dared to think that was the end of it, but now . . . Look you, what's happening is that every night I've been hearing her voice calling to me in my sleep, all the way from Cymru, Gwen's voice pleading with me to free her, free her soul."

  His eyes were suddenly painfully bright. "I'm no mystic, Prince Ardagh, I'm a mercenary. Give me a battle, sword to sword, and I know exactly what to do. This . . . if Gwen's soul really is trapped . . . I don't know how to help her! Prince Ardagh, you'd know more about such things than any of us. Is it true? Can my Gwen really be someone's prisoner? Or . . . am I just going mad?"

  "You're not mad. I'd have felt the psychic chaos the moment you approached. As for anything else—I don't know."

  "But—"

  "I can hardly know very much about human souls or ghosts. And if she really is calling to you from Cymru, I certainly can't prove anything from this far away."

  "Figured. That's why I decided I'm going to have to go with you."

  Ardagh stared. "But there's a death sentence waiting for you if you're caught in Cymru!"

  "There's insanity hanging over me if I stay here, and maybe the damnation of Gwen's soul. Look you, it's not as if I'm abandoning King Aedh. My men are loyal to him; you don't often get an employer who treats mercenaries like honorable folk, and they appreciate it. This won't be a long journey, God willing. Dyfrig can lead them well enough while I'm away." Dyfrig ap Gwilim was, Ardagh knew, Cadwal's second-in-command. "Not a scrap of humor to our Dyfrig, but he's honest as rock and a good, clever fighter; he'll keep the king safe."

  "I won't be stopping in Cymru."

  "Not on the way out, I know that. But you're not going to be in Wessex all that long, God willing. Figure I'll have my chance after you've met with King Beortric."

  "You've worked it all out, haven't you?"

  "Tried to. You're going to need some sort of escort other than pretty courtiers." Cadwal shrugged. "Might as well be me."

  "In other words, you're going, with me or without."

  "You got it."

  "And it doesn't bother you that your travelling companion won't be human?"

  Cadwal winced. "I can't swear to that. But I'm going, no matter who's my companion."

  Ardagh sat back, studying the man. "I can't guarantee your safety. I can't even guarantee my own!"

  "I don't understand. Why not just magic us there?"

  "Think, man! Do you really think I would be languishing in this human Realm if I could wield that much Power?"

  Cadwal blinked. "There is that."

  The prince sighed, seeing stubbornness and honesty both in the man's eyes. "I can trust you." It was as much command as comment. "In my native Realm, yes, I could magic myself, as you put it, here or there with little more than the wish. Here . . ." He shrugged slightly. "Let's just say that in this Realm, my abilities are rather restricted."

  "But you're not without magic?"

  Ardagh laughed shortly. "You sound like a small boy hoping for wonders."

  That roused a wary chuckle. "Och, I do, don't I? But you have to admit this sort of thing is far from my experiences."

  "Mine, too," the prince drawled. And yes," he added, relenting, "I do have some Power left to me, though it's nothing spectacular." Ardagh could see skepticism plain on Cadwal's face and gave a mental shrug. Humans would believe what they wished, regardless of facts. "Which," the prince continued, "is why we'll be making the journey to Wessex by perfectly mundane means."

  " 'We,' eh?"

  "We. You already told me as much. So be it." Suddenly Ardagh smiled, and saw Cadwal's puzzled frown. "I was just thinking of that journey. And the human societies about which I still know so very little."

  "I speak the Saxon tongue. Know your enemy and all that."

  "Enemy?" Ardagh echoed uneasily.

  "Och, not to you and not to Eriu." Cadwal's voice was wry. "Let us just say that Cymru has had more dealings with the Saxon folk than Eriu and leave it at that. I know a fair bit about how they live, too."

  "And you won't let prejudices get in the way, I trust."

  Cadwal snorted. "You know me better than that."

  "Im glad to hear it." Ardagh got to his feet, stretching warily. Under the soothing salve, the burn had almost stopped hurting, and he was all at once too restless for further conversation.

  But he suddenly stopped at the doorway and turned back to the watching human. "Quite frankly, friend Cadwal," the prince said, "I was not looking forward to travelling alone—yes, yes, I know the king will send an escort with me. But there will be none among them with whom I can speak freely. Save for you. Cadwal, I admit it: I will be very glad of your company."

  Renovations

  Chapter 9

  She couldn't remember. Something odd had happened just before, Edburga was vaguely sure of it. Something odd had been said to her, but she could not remember what it had been or who had said it. Or had the words come from her own mind? There had been something about a drink . . . someone had been urgently whispering about a drink . . . about Worr . . .

  Worr. That was it. She would be rid of him. Yes. The potion she had mixed under the goad of that whispering voice was quick to act, quick to cut off any hope of breath. Worr would neatly drink and neatly die. And Beortric? Beortric would soon forget.

  That was it, just as the whispers told her. Of course. She would poison Worr.

  The world failed to come into focus, but it didn't matter. She had the drinking horns, one in each hand. (And for a moment Edburga wavered, wondering, had she poured the poisoned drink into one horn or both? But the voice was whispering to her; she must go on; she must believe this was right and Worr would die.) One horn for Beortric, the ritual first drink of the evening given to the king by his wife. (Though Edburga could not remember ever having followed this ritual before; but the whispers were telling her, yes, yes you have.) One horn for Worr, the last he would ever taste.

  Moving through a dreamy haze, Edburga crossed the crowded, noisy, smoke-filled hall and saw and heard nothing but the whispers in her mind telling her what to do. She would give the drinking horns to Beortric and Worr and watch them drink.

  She would be rid of Worr.

  It was, Osmod thought, the finest acting he had ever performed, and the most difficult. Keeping up this facade of perfectly charming fellow, sitting here at the kings table as was his right as ealdorman, smiling as casually as though politely hiding boredom. And all the while he was hiding his desperate concentration behind that calm facade.

  At least Bishop Cynbert was still not back from Rome; at least Osmod was spared that potential distraction. But that hardly made his work any easier as he drew Edburga from the women's side of the hall, a drinking horn in each hand.

  Ah, Edburga. It had been so simple to plant the thought of murder in her head; one mention of Worr gone, and the red flames had shot up in her mind like so much wildfire. And the means—like any other noblewoman, she had a sizeable herb garden, she also, unlike most other noblewomen, had a sizeable knowledge of poisons. That she hadn't already poisoned Worr was a miracle. But getting her to slay both Worr and Beortric in one . . . not easy, not easy. Her angry will was, in its own frenzied way, unpredictable. If she failed now, if his hold over her failed now—

  No. He would not even think of failure. He would merely watch and wait, and try to ignore his ever more painfully pounding heart. Edburga was hardly the sort to exchange light words of courtesy; she clearly even begrudged the slight bow necessary to hand her husband and Worr the drinking horns. Now, if only . . .

  It was done. Osmod sagged in his seat, fighting not to gasp but still not able to relax, retaining his hold on Edburga's will, worrying now that the poison might not be strong enough. What if
it failed to kill outright? What if it merely sickened Beortric and he lived to learn the truth?

  Lords of the Underworld, if you want your servant alive to do your work . . .

  But he dare not show even the slightest hint of tension. It took every bit of his sorcerous control, but Osmod managed to keep himself sitting in apparent calm, mimicking with all his might a man who anticipated nothing more than dinner, a man who—

  Beortric surged up from his chair, his eyes suddenly wild with the effort to breathe, a hand at his chest. A storm of wild cries tore through the hall: "The king! The king is ill!"

  No! Not just ill, he can't be merely—

  With a crash, Beortric fell across the table, thrashing desperately about for air, his face purpling. Just as suddenly, his struggles stopped, and he lay still amid the wreckage of dinner. A man's voice cried out in horror: "He is not ill! The king is dead! King Beortric is dead!

  "Poison . . ."

  It was the faintest of choked gasps. Worr, Osmod realized, and thought in heart-stopping terror, The dosage wasn't enough. Somehow, Worr had dragged himself to his feet, somehow he managed to stare for what seemed an eternity right into Osmod's eyes.

  He knows, he knows, Dark Powers help me, he knows! He isn't going to die, but I will, I—

  But all at once Worr lost his desperate struggle. Quietly, almost as though resigned, he fell lifeless beside the lifeless body of his king.

  The hall erupted into a chaos of shouts and screams and panicked people rushing blindly about. Osmod sagged back in his seat, dizzy with relief and exhaustion, so drained that he could not have moved to save himself. His grip on Edburga's will fell away, and he saw horror flash across her face as she all at once knew what she had done, horror closely followed by sheer terror: No one realized yet who'd done the poisoning, but it wouldn't take long for everyone in the hall to guess the answer.