Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  There were admiring little chuckles from those of the Tylwyth Teg who understood the human tongue. Ardagh looked at them, now that he thought about it a bit insulted by the easy comparison, noting their small stature, their golden hair and foxy-sharp faces, and corrected dryly, "Distant cousins. Very distant."

  "Brave of being, this the human is," a woman murmured, and there was genuine admiration in her voice. "So suddenly into our place-world snatched, yet nothing of fear is within him."

  Well now, interesting! This was surely the same woman who had made that rather flattering comment about Cadwal's appearance back in the forest. She moved quietly to the mercenary's side as innocently as though she meant merely to guide him.

  Oh, indeed, the bemused Ardagh thought. Guide him where is, of course, another matter.

  Trying not to grin, he watched as the woman, young—at least as the Folk reckoned age—slim, pretty and seemingly guileless, put a shy hand on Cadwal's arm, looking up at him as though he was an unexpected wonder. "Fear have none," Ardagh heard her murmur to the mercenary (who, by all the Powers, was actually reddening). "Nothing of harm here is there for you. Gwenalarch I am of the naming, and so vow I this." Seeing his blank face, she switched easily to Cymreig, presumably repeating her reassurance.

  "Nothing of harm is there for you," the prince repeated with an inner laugh. True enough, Cadwal, true enough.

  Well now, the human was an adult and hardly naive; he could speak and choose for himself. Gwenalarch was using no Power other than the normal magic of a woman finding a man intriguing, and since she had given her word to do him no harm . . . Ardagh shrugged, grinning to himself, thinking that Cadwal was a lucky fellow—and about time, too—and went on.

  But as they moved forward down the tunnel, a sudden blaze of golden light burst upon them, and the prince heard Cadwal gasp in renewed shock, and nearly gasped as well.

  Ahead lay a great hall, high of ceiling and dazzlingly bright, glinting with gold, silver, fire-bright copper, gleaming with tapestries rich with a hundred hues. A few of the Tylwyth Teg sat at a long table of polished, amber-red wood; others stood in small groups of two or three, their clothing richly hued as the tapestries.

  To Ardagh's surprise, a few laughing, excited children raced among the adults, their cheerful noise an incongruous touch amid the tranquillity: human, most of them. Not surprising, given the Folk's tendency towards infertility and with the human world so near to hand. Changelings? Unwanted babies given freely? Whatever, they looked happy and healthy; none of the Folk, no matter what their race, harmed children.

  They must be frequently taken up out of the caverns for light and air; they'd have to be. Humans cannot thrive without the sun.

  He took a wary step forward, and every one of the Tylwyth Teg in the hall froze, staring in undisguised curiosity. Even the children, puzzled by the adults' behavior, stopped to stare.

  Don't see strangers very often, do you? Particularly not a stranger who is one of the Sidhe, I take it.

  Unfortunately, his Sidhe eyes could, like it or not, see through illusion—and after the first dazzled moment, he realized with a touch of regret that nearly all the splendor was just that—illusion. The rich clothing was nicely dyed, yes, but the fabrics were merely wool or linen. And the hall itself . . . Ardagh looked right through the glory of it to the plain grey cavern, the mundane reality, behind it, and felt a twinge of genuine disappointment.

  Illusion. Nothing much more.

  And why should I be disappointed? They never were known as the greatest mages, not even in the Faerie Realms.

  No wonder, then, that they chose to live here in the human Realm, where any Power was a great marvel and they could be all but worshiped by those they deigned to let see them.

  Did I really think that such as these could help me? That they'd somehow, miraculously, reveal a Power unknown to the Sidhe, a strength I lack? The strength to actually open a Doorway home? How could I be such a fool? Ardagh blinked fiercely, furious to find his vision suddenly blurring, and snapped at himself not to be more foolish yet.

  Cadwal, of course, even with the Otherly glamour removed from him, was still human; he could only see all the splendid illusion before him as solid truth.

  And the shock of it all must have been truly overwhelming. Cadwal stopped short in the entrance to the great cavern with a muttered, "No." Ardagh and Gwenalarch both turned to him in alarm, and he gave them both a wild-eyed glance before turning to stare again at what to him must have been a glorious, impossibly alien hall.

  "No. I'm sorry." In his voice was the unnaturally calm desperation of a man who has finally gone beyond the last of his endurance. "No. I . . . I could take the rest, but this . . . this is just too much. Sorry. This is as far as I go today."

  Not surprising, Ardagh mused. It was amazing that the human had lasted as long as he had, what with all his world turned aslant again and again in the past day. Gwenalarch gave a low, worried cry, having evidently puzzled out enough of what Cadwal had said. She caught him by the shoulders so that she could look directly up at him, her face a study in genuine concern, and told him gentle words in Cymreig.

  Ae, clever! Ardagh thought. No open seduction, nothing alarming. No, no, she's being downright maternal—for now. And, no doubt about it, she really does mean to help.

  Cadwal, being no fool, had to know exactly what he was being offered—in addition, that was, to a peaceful night away from everything. The mercenary glanced uncertainly at Ardagh, a wild mix of confusion and longing on his face. The prince nodded ever so subtly—yes, it's safe, it's permitted—and saw relief flash in Cadwal's eyes. His hand in Gwenalarch's, the mercenary let her lead him away.

  "He shall of no harming come," a woman murmured, and Ardagh just barely kept from laughing aloud.

  "I know," he said with great restraint. On the contrary, this may prove the best medicine any could give him! The prince turned to see who'd spoken:

  So-o! This could only be the ruler of this clan, a woman lovely and ageless in the foxy-sharp Tylwyth Teg way—lovely enough to send a little prickle of pleasure through him. It had been long and long again, after all, since he'd seen any woman of the Folk.

  Control, he warned himself, well aware of the casual awareness of authority surrounding her. Tall for her people, she came almost to his shoulder, her eyes as green as his, her hair a long fall of reddish-gold held back from her face by a thin silver coronet worked to resemble the graceful curl of waves. The Otherly silkiness of her gown was no illusion, nor was its color, a smooth bluish-green, the exact shade of ocean touched by moonlight; the fabric was patterned to shimmer like the waves with even the slightest movement. Not a gown or a coronet, the prince thought, for a cavern-dweller to wear. But then, the Tylwyth Teg were said to love the sea.

  No sea, no bodies of water of any size, anywhere nearby. Odd.

  Nothing odd at all about the way she was studying him, and unlike he, making no attempt to hide her pleasure.

  Flattering, Powers, yes. And Powers be thanked that I am not a human, to let animal instinct reveal itself. One way or another. "Lady," Ardagh said smoothly, and bowed, royal to royal.

  She returned the bow just as graciously. "Sidhe lord. Seldom-rare is it that the race of yours visits ours." A pause. "Tywthylodd am I, Princess Tywthylodd Gwythion of the Tylwyth Teg. Your name is for my knowing?"

  She obviously hadn't been out there scrambling away from the human attack. "I am—ah, Ardagh Lithanial am I, Prince of the Sidhe."

  "Ah. Pleased will you be to with us dine?"

  Hunger, fiercely suppressed all during the long chase, woke with a roar. "Pleased, indeed, Princess Tywthylodd, and my gratitude to you. But first . . ." His rueful gesture took in his soiled, tired clothing and self. The princess smiled with a touch more amusement than his dignity would have liked.

  "Of course," was all she said.

  The bath had been wonderfully, magically hot, and Ardagh had nearly fallen into exhausted sleep in the middle
of it. Only the sharp impression that he was being secretly watched kept him at all alert.

  Tywthylodd? Possibly. Or perhaps it was some of the pretty little servants he'd shooed away (thinking that it lacked all courtesy to his hostess to, as it were, welcome the servants before the ruler). The Sidhe lacked the humans' ridiculous prudery about their bodies, and he knew he had nothing of which to be ashamed, so Ardagh had ignored the watcher or watchers, knowing they'd meant him no harm. Now he let other servants—male, this time—dry him with towels of human weave, though nicely soft, and bring him blessedly clean clothing, sky-blue tunic and sea-blue leggings, of human weave, again, but of exotic Tylwyth Teg design.

  "This way, if pleasing you this is," one servant said politely, and led the prince back to the splendid-seeming hall. Princess Tywthylodd was already there, seated at the precise midpoint of the great table. If it had, indeed, been she watching him, she gave not the faintest sign of it.

  "Come, Prince Ardagh, seated here be, by my side."

  The food was not as elegant as he'd expected; earthly plain, but it was nicely seasoned and plentiful. All around him, the Tylwyth Teg chattered and laughed as they ate, surrounding him with a cheerful babble of noise, though none, not even the princess, tried to engage him in conversation.

  Which was fine with Ardagh. This was the first true meal he'd had in . . . Powers, just how long had it been since he'd eaten a genuine, cooked-and-served meal? Unlikely that his hosts would try to poison or ensorcel him; the various races of the Folk generally saw betrayal during a meal as impossible falsehood. Besides, the prince thought cynically, even if these Folk had been . . . influenced by human behavior, his Sidhe senses would still warn him of any problems—

  As they were warning him of one right now: Ardagh, seated to the right of the princess, who kept giving him sly little glances of approval, was growing very much aware of the man who sat to her left. He was as elegant as she, in robes of the same sea-blue richness. His hair was a shimmering mass of gold, his eyes a glowing dark green—and full of a light that was definitely not approving.

  "If I may ask," Ardagh said with delicate care, "who is this?"

  "This?" Tywthylodd gave the man a quick glance of casual affection. "Lord Cymyriod is this. My cydwedd."

  Husband? Mate? For all he knew, brother? Though that was hardly a brotherly resentment in the brooding eyes. "My lord," Ardagh said with a polite dip of his head.

  The Lord Cymyriod nodded curtly but said nothing.

  Just what I needed: more complications.

  Ah well, he couldn't worry about that right now. Hunger was finally gone, but heavy weariness was creeping back into its place. "Princess Tywthylodd—"

  She stood, and of course everyone stood with her. "Pleased are you to with me walk, Prince Ardagh? Alone? It is to my thought matters have we to speak."

  It is to my thought that sleep is what I want. But of course he couldn't be so impolitic as to refuse his host. "It is to my thinking, too." I just didn't want to worry about anything just yet. "Please, lead the way."

  But then Ardagh stopped at the sight of Lord Cymyriod staring with outright hostility. "If I may ask, Princess Tywthylodd," the prince said, "what, exactly is a . . . acydwedd?"

  "Cydwedd?" Tywthylodd shrugged casually. That has a meaning . . . mm . . . consort. It has the meaning, consort."

  "Ah." A jealous consort. How splendid. "Should he not join us?"

  "It has no need of being so."

  Of course not. I'll merely have to keep watching my back while I'm here.

  They walked on together, her hand resting, feather-light, on his arm, echoing so strongly the very civilized ways of the Sidhe nobility that Ardagh nearly pulled away, remembering his brother's court, his brother's treacherous wife, Karanila.

  But Tywthylodd was the ruler here, not her consort. And even though the small of his back was prickling, expecting an attack, Ardagh let her bring them both down a quiet corridor and out without warning into what seemed almost like a moonlit grove beside a tranquil lake, there under a sky rich with stars—

  No, by all the Powers, there was no "seeming" about it! This wasn't illusion but reality, yes, and the lake mirroring the stars was real as well. Stunned, Ardagh told himself that maybe the Tylwyth Teg weren't quite as weak in Power as he'd imagined. Or rather, that their Power wasn't quite in the same shaping as that wielded by the Sidhe.

  This wasn't a Doorway spell, no, nothing I could truly use to go home. A transfer spell of some sort, then, and so smoothly worked that I never even sensed it.

  "Princess Tywthylodd . . ."

  "No. Not yet. Here sitting shall we be."

  It was a pleasant little space by the water's edge. There beneath the overhanging arch of a willow's branches was a divan so cleverly worked as to seem part of the tree and piled comfortably with cushions. It was, Ardagh noted, easily wide enough to hold someone lying at his ease.

  Or rather, he reconsidered, two someones. Oh, and isn't this perfect. There's a lovely lady of a race near to my own, a jealous consort to consider, and Sorcha to remember—though I'd guess she'd be understanding of the circumstances (wouldn't she?)—and—and I'm just too cursed weary to . . . do anything about it all. "First, Princess Tywthylodd, shall we not talk a bit?"

  She smiled, but it was a very politic smile that failed to include her eyes; no matter what her motives in bringing him to this pretty seclusion, Tywthylodd, ruler that she was, plainly had no intention of letting down her guard quite yet.

  "The Sidhe," she murmured, sinking to the divan and looking up at him with regal dignity, "common visitors to this land are not. Why is it you are here? And why," the princess added with the faintest frown of distaste, "is it that you be here with a human?"

  He wasn't even about to attempt the different syntax of the Tylwyth Teg dialect. He also wasn't about to tell her the entire truth. "I am," Ardagh said slowly and carefully so that she could make no mistakes of comprehension, "with the human because the human and I have saved each other's lives so often that I've forgotten who's in debt to whom."

  Ah, he was just too tired to stand any longer. Hoping he wasn't making some Tylwyth Teg declaration of more than he could deliver just now, Ardagh sat down beside her, then rather wished he hadn't; the cushions were so wondrously, tantalizingly, soft. . . .

  No! He had to stay alert, at least for now. "As to why I am in this land at all: Ae, that is not quite so simple a story. Let us just say that Cadwal and I fell afoul of an enemy, a human foe—"

  "Who?" she cut in.

  "Not one who could ever threaten you or your folk."

  "Yes, but naming him be."

  Puzzled, Ardagh told her, "Morfren ap Dyfyr."

  "Ah, that! Yes. A noisiness and nuisance he be, too late hunting, too early." Seeing the prince's blankness, Tywthylodd continued with a touch of clear impatience, "See it not? Our time he spoils!"

  Ah, of course. He'd forgotten, immune to sunlight as he was (presumably thanks to some vague, far-back taint of human blood—or so the court rumors had claimed— that also gave him his dark hair), that other Folk were not. The Tylwyth Teg, being among those unable to endure mortal sunlight, would not have appreciated Morfren's hunt cutting too close to dawn or twilight, the edges of night. Their time of freedom on mortal soil.

  Tywthylodd's smile thinned ever so slightly. "He shall, thinking am I, with interesting incidents be meeting whenever our chosen land invades he."

  "Ah . . . thank you in Cadwal's name."

  "No, no, thanking not me! Fun shall be this!"

  "Fun," Ardagh agreed wryly, seeing Morfren's life made miserable by Tylwyth Teg pranks every time he left his home, at least till the Folk grew bored with the game. Even so, it will certainly stop him from bothering Cadwal again. What human wants anything to do with someone with Powerful friends?

  "But," the princess continued, "why be you in this land at all?"

  Ardagh gave a weary ghost of a grin. "That," he told her, "is a question I've b
een asking myself often enough. Let us just say that I found myself enmeshed in human politics."

  "So-o! Odd."

  "Very." A dangerous subject; best to change it as quickly as possible. He did not want to let her know of his exile, and most certainly not of the fact that he was in the human Realm alone, with no Sidhe aid at his back. "Princess Tywthylodd, I understand your concern. But there is no peril to you or yours from that, or from either Cadwal or myself. This I freely swear to you."

  She smiled again, and this time it was with genuine warmth. "So. Sidhe are no more of the lacking-of-truth than are my Tylwyth Teg."

  Neither dialect had, of course, a word for "falsehood." "'Lacking-of-truth,'" Ardagh murmured, "I like that."

  "I have a liking of other things as well," the princess purred, her glance running slowly over him, and now her smile was very definitely warm. "I have, truly, yes. And you? What think you, mm?"

  To his horror, Ardagh realized he was about to yawn, and just barely managed to turn it into a sigh. I don't believe this! A beautiful, willing woman of the Folk is here beside me—and I really am too weary to do much about it! "Believe me, Tywthylodd," he said with rueful honesty, "it has been long and long again since I've been so near a—a kinswoman, and oh, I do like what I see, very much indeed. But it has been a long day, a very long day, most of it spent running, and little enough sleep before that."

  "Ah. I see."

  It was said without any inflection; her face was quite unreadable. "Forgive me," Ardagh said again, and meant it on every level, "but right now I'm just too cursedly tired to give either of us much joy."

  To his great relief, she merely gave a small, regretful shrug, almost-amusement glinting in her eyes; if there was anything all the long-lived Folk possessed, it was patience. "Need for rush is there none," Tywthylodd purred. "Stronger is joy for the waiting. Tonight . . . the night is warm and clear, and no humans can come nearby. Sleep here if this place has the pleasing for you."