But Ardagh didn't deign to reply. Not subtle enough to score a point in our duel, human, and you know it. He turned from the table as Egbert had done to let a servant pour water over his outstretched hands, then let another servant cautiously pat them dry with a linen towel. This handwashing custom was sensible enough— assuming that the water was clean.
"Now we say a prayer in thanksgiving," Osmod told him. "Ah . . . your people do pray?" It was said as though with nothing but innocent interest, but the intent was obvious.
Egbert, overhearing, tensed slightly, but Ardagh merely smiled. "Ealdorman Osmod, you might not know this," he said, his voice bearing exactly the same amount of seemingly innocent interest, "but the folk of Eriu are Christian."
"I never doubted it!" The dismay sounded almost genuine.
Maybe now you'll stop trying to push me into something small and manageable? And do you realize that, perforce, you've dropped the subject of what my people do?
That these people should deem it necessary to say a prayer before eating was hardly unusual; so did the folk of Eriu. As he did at Fremainn, Ardagh politely lowered his head and waited till the brief ritual was completed. As he'd expected, not even Osmod dared to interject one of his veiled insults during it.
So now, here came a touch of the exotic. It was apparently the norm for the queen to serve the first drink of the evening—and for all Ardagh knew, every subsequent drink—to king and guest.
I can hear Sorcha about this, too!
Since Egbert was as yet unwed, the task of cupbearer fell to the highest-ranking noblewoman, a stalwart, strong-faced young woman who apparently was cousin to the king. Ardagh gave her his most charming smile but received only the most remote of smiles in return. In fact, there did seem to be an odd little touch of tension in the hall.
"You may have heard about the lamentable death of my predecessor," Egbert murmured in response to Ardagh's raised brow.
"I was told he was poisoned," the prince said warily. "Possibly by his wife."
"This was how the deed was done. Poison in his drink." A glint of humor in his eyes, Egbert raised his cup to Ardagh but did not drink. Ardagh heard Cadwal's ever-so-soft intake of breath and nearly laughed aloud.
I don't frighten that easily. And Egbert is hardly about to poison a foreign envoy without having heard his message.
With a cool smile at the king, Ardagh took a sip—ale? Yes, and of fine quality. Egbert chuckled, saluted him with raised cup, and drank as well.
Odd. Glancing slyly sideways, Ardagh noted that during this little byplay, Osmod had flinched ever so slightly. Why? Painful memories of having witnessed the king's death? Or could there be something more to it?
Not a trace of anything to be read on the magical level; for all his weak Power, the sorcerer still knew better than to leave a trail of emotions to be found.
Bah, he was probably merely hoping that I choked.
Unlikely that Osmod had the Power to alter the contents in the prince's food or drink, and the ever-watchfol Cadwal would note any physical alterations. But even so, very well aware of how close this potential enemy sat to him, Ardagh kept his magical senses fully alert.
But nothing untoward seemed to be happening, and after a time the prince let himself relax ever so slightly. The food at this court was agreeable enough for human cuisine and, despite the occasional difference in seasonings and cooking styles, not outlandishly unlike that which he usually saw at Aedh's table: course after course of stewed, boiled or roasted pork, beef or poultry and quite a variety of breads. There was also, he noted, more to drink than any sensible man would care to imbibe.
Midway through the meal, a man appeared before the royal table, a rectangular stringed instrument—a lyre of some sort, Ardagh guessed—under his arm.
"A scop," Osmod murmured to the prince in his falsely informative, slyly patronizing way.
"You refer to the man, I assume," Ardagh said without expression, "not the instrument. Though of course either may be tightly wound or high-strung. Or out of tune."
That earned him a chuckle from Egbert and a grudging little quirk of a smile from Osmod. "Witty, Your Highness. Quite witty to make such cunning wordplay in what for you is a foreign tongue."
"Oh, I think we both hold a language in common," Ardagh said, looking full into the sorcerer's eyes to make it clear that he referred to the language of magic. Now was the test: If Osmod was innocent of sorcery, he would merely be puzzled.
The human gaze faltered first. No proof there; few humans could hold a determined Sidhe's stare. "Do we?" Osmod murmured, so softly that it would have been impossible for anyone but Ardagh to hear. "We must experiment someday to see if that is, indeed, the case."
"We must, yes."
As casually as though they'd been discussing the weather, Osmod turned back to where the scop was tuning his lyre. "A scop," he continued, as lightly as though there hadn't been an interruption, "is what I think you might call a 'bard' in the tongue of Eriu."
It was. At a signal from Egbert, the scop began a chant in a firm, dramatic voice, using chords from the lyre to underscore the action.
And action there was, even though Ardagh at first was totally lost. Apparently the story was so well known to most of the audience that they didn't mind that what they were hearing was clearly cut from a longer tale. He frowned slightly, determined not to ask Egbert—and certainly not Osmod—trying to puzzle out the meaning from the intricate, alliterative words.
The story seemed to be about a monster of some sort—a demon?—who was terrorizing a king's hall, and doing a properly bloody job of it, until a foreign hero came to fight the creature, tearing the arm from it and killing it.
The scop lowered his lyre. There was the proper moment of respectful silence, then the equally predictable roar of enthusiasm from the audience. To the accompaniment of still more cheering, Egbert rewarded the grinning scop with a ring from his hand (Ardagh cynically supposed the king had previously chosen that ring as one he wouldn't miss), then turned to the prince.
"To forestall your questions, what you've just heard was a portion of the tale of the great hero, Beowulf. What, if I may ask, did you think of it?"
Ardagh paused, wondering if this was an honest question or some devious human test, wondering just how blunt to be. "I have no quarrel at all with the scop," he said after a moment. "He has a fine voice and a grandly expressive style. And while I don't pretend to understand all the poetic wordplay, 'swan's riding' for sea and the like, the language and rhythm of the tale were most beautifully shaped. However . . ."
Egbert lifted a brow. "However?"
"However, King Egbert, if I were Hrothgar and a monster was coming every night to eat my men, I doubt I'd be doing little but passively waiting for more and more of my men to be killed like so many sheep. I'd be out there setting a trap for Grendel."
The king burst into laughter and raised his cup in ironic salute. "Bravely said! And I imagine you'd catch that demon, too, and leave poor Beowulf with nothing to do."
I would, indeed. But I doubt you'd believe the methods I'd use. Then again, the prince added, glancing sideways once more at the suspicious Osmod, maybe you would.
There was the faintest of snorts from Cadwal and the mutter of, "Finn mac Cumhail."
Ah yes. Finn mac Cumhail of Eriu. Ardagh was not about to tell the king of that earlier, similar tale of Finn, the long-ago hero who had saved the king's hall at royal Tara not from a monster but from Aillen, a dark and deadly being out of the Hollow Hills. Cadwal, the prince thought dryly, was not going to allow the Saesneg so much as a bit of poetic originality.
So now, still more drink was being brought forward. Apparently these folk—or rather, these men, since the women seemed to have silently retired—found nothing improper about drunkenness. Ardagh had no intention of losing even the slightest edge of his will to ale, but the others seemed to have no qualms about it at all.
Including, much to Ardagh's surprise, Osmod. Granted, the ealdorman wasn't d
rinking overly heavily; he wasn't such a fool as to risk revealing the secret of his Power. But still, the prince thought, watching as Osmod joked loudly with his king across Ardagh as though the prince didn't even exist, for a wielder of any Power at all to surrender even the smallest bit of his self-control . . .
He's so used to being the only one with Power that he dares be careless. Ha, yes, he is an amateur, isn't he?
No. That, he was not. Osmod's guard slipped for only an instant. But it was long enough to reveal the shape of his sorcery to Ardagh. Ae, no, Powers, no . . .
This trusted ealdorman, this royal advisor, was more terrible than fictional Grendel could ever be.
This ealdorman was nothing less than a human monster.
The Storm Brews
Chapter 13
Somehow, he couldn't quite remember how, Ardagh had gotten out of the royal hall. Somehow he'd made it back here to his own quarters and banished all the servants with a fierce wave of his hand, leaving only Cadwal at his side.
Cadwal, who was all but blazing with worry and confused anger. "Pardon me if I'm not showing the proper respect, but—what in the name of all the saints was that about?"
Of all times for him to drop his self-imposed shyness towards the Sidhe. Ardagh sank to the bed, burying his face in his hands, feeling his dinner as a heavy weight in his stomach. "I had no choice."
"And what does that mean? One moment we're all nice and politic, all smiles and charm so thick you could cut it with a blade, the next you're stammering out apologies about being overcome—with what, I haven't the faintest idea—and rushing from the hall. Iesu, I thought you'd been poisoned! More to the point, Egbert is probably going to think the same thing."
Ardagh glanced sharply up at that. "I didn't have time to consider it."
"Should have. I had to stop and spin them all a pretty tale of suddenly hitting fatigue; I'm not sure the king believes it."
"Don't lecture me. I appreciate what you've done. But I repeat: I didn't have a choice. If I'd stayed, I would surely have killed someone."
"What—who—what in—"
"Is it the custom here for a king to keep a sorcerer at his side?"
"What!"
"Is it?"
"No, of course not! This is a Christian kingdom, much as I hate to be admitting anything civilized about the Saesneg. No Christian king would stoop to sorcery. Not," Cadwal added darkly, "in public, at any rate. Why do you ask?"
"Because," the prince said slowly, "one of the ealdormen at Egbert's court is undeniably working some very dark form of sorcery, indeed."
Cadwal stared at him, caught openmouthed, closed his mouth, opened it, tried a stammering, "Och. Well. I . . ." Clearly realizing that wasn't going anywhere, the mercenary cut himself off, shaking his head. "I keep forgetting who—what—who you are. You'd know things no one else would. About . . . uh . . . I mean . . ."
"Magic," the prince said flatly. "The word you're hunting so fearfully is 'magic.' "
"Magic, yes." Cadwal rushed that out as though glad to be rid of it, then added hopefully, "You . . . couldn't be mistaken, could you? This once? I mean, this can't be a common sort of thing among humans . . . ?"
Unspoken behind the words was a desperate, Please God, no. Cadwal had already had his rational world shaken enough, and Ardagh granted him a curt, "It's not, not at all," and saw a flicker of relief in the man's eyes. "As to being mistaken," the prince continued, "could you be mistaken about the shape of a sword? Or rather, if someone showed you a sword that was fair to see but was made of some base metal, could you be fooled?"
Cadwal let out his breath in a hiss. "No. Of course not. That certain, then."
"That certain."
"Och fi." It was, Ardagh knew by now, the all-purpose Cymric exclamation. "Who . . . uh . . . is he? The sorcerer, I mean."
"Osmod. Ealdorman Osmod."
"The man who was sitting beside you! I thought there was something more than just nasty little 'my land's better than yours' word duels going on between you two. Osmod. A sorcerer. Iesu."
"Your 'Jesus' has nothing to do with this one, I assure you."
Cadwal gave a sharp little bark of a laugh. "True enough. All right, so Egbert's got himself a pet sorcerer." The mercenary stopped short, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd find myself saying something like that. And meaning it. Ah well, he's here, he's real, and I'd guess that the king's got him at court to guard against anyone trying assassination. Ha, or merely trying to cheat him in political deals."
"Perhaps."
"That's got to be it," the mercenary rushed on. "Maybe it's not exactly ethical and all that, but I guess you really can't blame a man who's had such a perilous childhood for wanting to protect himself in any way he can."
"There are no excuses for this."
"Maybe, maybe not." Cadwal brought himself up short again, as though suddenly realizing how he was chattering. "All right. Never mind that. This is all getting so thoroughly weird I admit that given a chance I'd just up and run away like some panicky fool of a boy—but that's my problem, not yours. I'll go out there and be sure that everyone accepts that you weren't poisoned. Got to warn you: You may still get a swarm of royal physicians wanting to study you."
"If they must. They'll find nothing wrong. And thank you."
"Och, well, if you really want to thank me, you'll give me more of an explanation."
"Such as?"
Look you, the only way I can put this is bluntly, and if you take insult, I'm sorry. But you . . . aren't human, and so I hardly expected human scruples from . . . you."
"From one of the Sidhe, you mean. Saying the name won't damn you." The prince took a deep breath, struggling to calm himself, brushing back his hair with a not quite steady hand. "Go on. Finish what you would say."
Cadwal shrugged. "Not much else to say. I just never would have thought you of all people would get so worked up over a human—"
"He's a murderer! Worse than that, he—he—Cadwal, I felt this, back in the hall when his guard was weakened a bit by drink, I felt it, I know it: the man has . . ." Ardagh shook his head, overwhelmed with renewed horror. "The man," he began again, barely able to form the words, "has slain children."
"Ah. That is bad. But still—"
"Children," Ardagh repeated, choking. "Precious young lives—don't you understand? He's slain children for Power as casually as you might kill a rabbit. Cadwal, I can't do this! I can't deal with these folk, not with— with—ae, my language doesn't even have a word for it!—not with child-killers—"
"Is that what you're going to tell King Aedh?"
The words hit like icy water. Stiffening, the prince snapped, "Clever. Very clever. Go on."
Cadwal couldn't have missed the menace behind the simple words, but he continued steadily, "What are you going to tell the king? That you're going to let a whole alliance go to hell because you've gotten finicky?"
Ardagh shot to his feet, so choked with his sudden rush of rage he could barely gasp out, "Finicky!"
Cadwal never flinched. "Got a better word for it? Yes, I know you're horrified; never saw you lose control like this. Yes, I have some idea by now of what a child's death means to one of your land; I've heard the tales."
"Tales! Oh yes, tales told by humans! We're not talking about some soft, pretty human piety, some . . . yes, some finicky reluctance to hurt someone who's too small and weak to fight back. Ae-yi, you humans breed so easily you probably can't even see the point. But if you kill children, you not only end their lives without giving them a chance to live, you kill the future!"
"Didn't mean to insult you, I already said that. And you needn't shout. I saw what happened back when we were fighting off the Lochlannach. I saw you nearly get yourself killed trying to save their chieftain's boy, and I saw the despair in you when he died anyhow." Cadwal sighed. "I'll admit it, humans don't always feel as strongly about youngsters as we might; that's a fault in us, I guess, but that's the way we are. But you did swear something
to King Aedh, didn't you? And—"
"And," Ardagh cut in, biting off each word sharply, "an alliance to protect Eriu against those Lochlannach is far more important than Sidhe or human morality."
"I didn't mean it quite that—"
"I repeat: very clever. You know I swore to do my best for Aedh's cause; you know I cannot lie."
Cadwal wisely said nothing, and after a tense moment, Ardagh turned away. "So be it. I will be civilized, never fear. If an alliance can be safely won, I shall win it.
"But I shall not, I cannot, so much as speak to the sorcerer. If such a thing happens, if he forces the issue, I cannot promise to keep the peace."
"Understood. Hopefully you won't need to even give him another nod. And for what it's worth," Cadwal added in so suddenly somber a voice that Ardagh turned back to him in surprise, "I don't blame you. I've seen and done a good many things I'm not proud about. A mercenary can't be delicate-minded. But I've never yet made war on children. Never will."
"I knew that. You would never be standing beside me were it otherwise. But . . . thank you."
"Well, then! Glad that's all settled."
"Unfortunately, it's not. For one thing, we will surely be expected to dine at the royal table again."
"Och. I see the problem. The ealdorman's certainly going to be there, too."
"Exactly. I will not share salt with a child-killer."
What Cadwal thought of Sidhe codes of honor couldn't be told from his face, but all the mercenary said was a casual, "Not a problem, not yet anyhow. I wasn't looking forward to sharing food with the Saesneg either. I'll give out the story that you're too worn out from the journey for any such formalities as another royal dinner."
Ardagh laughed without humor. "That should sound convincing enough after my flight from the hall. As long as they don't think I've brought some exotic illness into the city!"
Cadwal shrugged. "The worst that happens is, as you said, a swarm of royal physicians looks you over and finds nothing wrong. It buys us a day's peace, at any rate. After that, well, I've seen you at work, smooth words and all that. If you can't win over King Egbert within a day—"
Forging the Runes Page 12
