A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

He fell determinedly silent, while Hauberin and Alliar and the bored, sagging-eared horse walked on. But Hauberin was beginning to feel a tormenting uneasiness. This chattering, cheerful boy seemed to know all the doings of the area. What if he also knew . . . ?

  “Aimery. No, don’t look so alarmed. I’m not going to ask you to gossip about your betters.” The prince hesitated, angry at himself for his suddenly pounding heart. “But I have an interest in the—the tales of the region.”

  Aimery gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t know if I can help you with anything like that, my lord. You see, I’ve only been in my lord baron’s service for two years. Ever since my first lord was slain at Touranne. But if I can be of any assistance . . . ?”

  “Do you know any tales of a woman, a—witch-woman, called Melusine?”

  The boy frowned. “Well, of course there’s always the story of that female devil.”

  “Ae!”

  Aimery gave him a startled glance. “Oh, d’you know that one, then? Half-serpent, half—No, wait. You wanted a local tale, and that’s not a local one at all. Mm . . . a story about a woman named Melusine . . .” He shook his head. “Sorry, my lord. I don’t know anything like that. But then, as I say, I’ve only been in service with my lord baron a short time.”

  Hauberin, sorry and relieved in one, forced a smile.

  ###

  Hauberin had long since grown disenchanted with walking. His feet hurt, his legs hurt, and his head was beginning to ache most thoroughly from the unaccustomed rays of sunlight piercing through the leaves like so many fiery little daggers. “Does this forest never end?”

  “It does, my lord.” Aimery’s voice was encouraging. “Just a little further and we’ll reach the crest of this hill and be out of it, and you’ll be able to see my lord baron’s demesne.”

  “Demesne?” Alliar queried.

  “The baron’s personal lands, Li. And—Ah, what a splendid sight that is!”

  Prince and wind spirit stood frozen, staring out from the hilltop at the alien view. Light green fields and deep green hedges, low stone walls and here and there clusters of huts roofed with thatch turned black with age, the castle in its heavy-walled might upon its rugged hill, and beyond, the dark folds of forest beginning anew, and all beneath a sky glorious with racing clouds tinted pink and red and orange by a late afternoon sun . . .

  “Splendid,” Alliar echoed softly.

  Hauberin thought he caught the faintest hint of pain in his friend’s voice, and winced in pity. How the being must ache to soar freely out over that expanse! To know one’s self hopelessly trapped instead within a solid, earthbound form—Ah, poor Li!

  But Alliar rarely wasted time in self-pity. “Splendid, I repeat. But night comes after sunset, and if I’m not mistaken, the sun isn’t far from setting.” The being cast an appraising eye over the prince, who guessed his weariness must be easy enough to read. “Shall we camp out again?” Alliar asked. “Or continue on to the castle?”

  “I think that castle is further away than it looks. Distances in mortal—ah, in these Realms can be deceptive. We would never reach it before full night, and I highly doubt they would let anyone in after nightfall. Eh, Aimery?”

  “No, my lord.”

  The boy’s voice sounded so weak that Hauberin stared at him. ‘You look terrible. Why didn’t you tell us you were in pain?”

  “I—I didn’t want to delay you. Besides,” Aimery insisted, gray with fatigue, “I’m only a b-bit faint.”

  “And faint is exactly what you’ll do if we travel on much further.”

  “We may have another problem.” Alliar, head back, was scenting the wind. “See how rapidly the clouds are thickening. I smell rain moving in very quickly.”

  “So do I. That settles it. We can’t possibly reach the castle in time. And you, boy, are in no condition to go much further—and don’t argue with me. I’m assuming that since this seems to be a well-travelled road, free from vegetation, there must be an inn of sorts somewhere along the way. Am I right?”

  Aimery had plainly gone past the point of caring, but he murmured, “Down there. That building at the end of the village. They take in travelers sometimes.”

  It wasn’t much of an inn, more a small farm—and, to judge from the reek, brewery as well—but by the time they had reached it, Aimery was sagging in the saddle and both Hauberin and the seemingly tireless Alliar were footsore enough to be glad of any chance to rest.

  “Can you help the boy down, Li? I’ll just hitch his horse here in the shed. Ae, and here comes the rain! Let’s get inside.”

  “Wait. Look.”

  There over the lintel an iron dagger had been most conspicuously stabbed. Hauberin frowned at it. “Now what do you suppose that means?”

  “I think, my prince, that’s to ward off such as you and I.”

  “Charitable.” The rain was beginning to fall in curtains, and Hauberin mentally consigned warding daggers to the Beyond, and reached for the door.

  “No!” Alliar mind-shouted. “Iron again, in the latch.” Aloud, the being said chivalrously, “Allow me,” and cast open the door with one arm, supporting Aimery with the other. Hauberin hurried inside, then stopped warily, glancing about.

  This was hardly an elegant place: one large room with a floor of hard-packed, dully glossy earth, a step lower than the land outside, and a wooden ladder leading up to a loft. An enormous square-sided bed occupied one side of the room, which was otherwise sparsely furnished with a table and a few benches of plain, solid wood darkened with age and, Hauberin guessed, almost as impervious to wear as the house’s stone walls. The chimney of the deep fireplace did seem to be drawing well, though the prince had his doubts about how long that would last now that the rain was already splatting down on the flames. He eyed that fire uneasily, sensing the cold, cruel burning of iron fire-dogs, iron pokers, an iron cauldron . . .

  A human was hurrying forward to meet them, a solid, leathery-skinned man in the plainest of brown woolen tunics and trousers. Hauberin forgot his iron-uneasiness, staring in sickened fascination. As with Aimery, this man was far ruddier than anyone out of Faerie, and his skin was . . . ugly, worn and wrinkled, rough as a file. Worse, not only was the human’s hair losing its color, in places the scalp was actually visible . . .

  “What ails the man?” Alliar asked warily.

  “I . . . think it’s nothing more than mortal age. A . . . disease common to all full-blooded humans.” Oh, Powers, let it be one common only to full-blooded humans, not to a half-blood as well . . .

  Alliar’s distaste was sour in his mind. “Be thankful for Faerie blood, then.”

  “I am, Alliar, I truly am . . .”

  But then Hauberin realized that the human—the innkeeper?—was watching him as though he were a wild thing that might pounce. “Come, man, stand aside and let us enter,” the prince said regally. “Is this not an inn?”

  “I . . . take in travelers now’n then.”

  “What are you staring at? Do I look like a monster to you?”

  The man flushed. “Oh no, m’lord, of course not. It’s just . . .” Wary brown eyes flicked from the quality of Hauberin’s clothing—obvious even under the layer of road dust—to the hilt of his sword, to the proud, sharp lines of his face. “M’lord, to be honest, we don’t have lodging fit fer gentry, only for farmers ’n the like.”

  “No matter. We’re here. And the boy is hurt and in need of rest.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes widened as he saw Aimery sagging in Alliar’s grasp. “That’s the baron’s livery.”

  “The boy is a squire in his service. Now stand aside and let us enter!”

  In a quick, efficient flurry of motion, a woman the innkeeper’s match for solid human middle age and ruddy skin (though, noted the bemused Hauberin, she seemed to be retaining her hair) came forward to take charge of Aimery.

  “Bed’s the best place for him,” she said over her shoulder in a no-nonsense voice. “Beggin’ yer pardons, m’lord.”


  “My Meg’ll take good care of the lad,” the innkeeper assured Hauberin. “And my son’ll see to your horses.”

  “Horse,” the prince corrected to the gawky adolescent shape that had materialized out of the shadows. “Only one.” He turned smoothly back to the bewildered innkeeper with a charming smile. “So now. You do have beds, I take it? And food and drink?”

  The human’s eyes brightened a bit. “Yes, m’lord. Best beer in the barony, saints forgive me fer boastin’, good as what they brew up in the castle.” He beamed. “Brew our own, y’know.”

  “We noticed,” Alliar murmured.

  “Ah well, yes. Guess it is a bit strong to the nose, what with the wet outside n all.” But then the brightness faded. “Food’s goin’ to be plain, m’lords, I’m warnin’ you now so you won’t be blamin’ m’wife or me.”

  Alliar raised mental eyebrows. “Does he expect us to take our swords to him if we’re displeased?”

  “Possibly. Is the food hot? And filling? Good enough, then. Wait, now . . .” Hauberin rummaged in his belt purse; his people had no need of coins, but he imagined that links from a pure silver chain would suffice. “There, man. I assume that’s enough.”

  Too late he remembered that humans didn’t necessarily tell the truth. The innkeeper stared down at the shining metal in his hand, obviously fighting a battle between greed and honesty. “More ’n enough,” he admitted with obvious reluctance.

  Lessons in the fine art of bargaining for food certainly weren’t part of a princely education. “Never mind,” Hauberin said helplessly. “Keep it.”

  He sat without ceremony, close enough to the fire to be warmed, far enough from the iron tools to be at ease. Alliar sprawled beside him, the very image of a road-weary human. “Aimery looks comfortable enough over there.”

  “He does. I think that’s a feather bed.” Hauberin winced inwardly at the thought of the fleas probably inhabiting it.

  “And where are we to sleep, my prince?”

  “Up in the loft, I would think.”

  “Among the rafters? I trust the roof doesn’t leak. Heigh-ho for a life of luxury,” the being added aloud, and smiled innocently at the now cauldron-tending Meg when that harried woman looked up in surprise. “Not exactly the image of the buxom tavern wench.”

  It was Hauberin’s turn to stare. “Now, where in the name of all the Powers did you learn about tavern wenches?” he said, absently aloud, and received a second startled glance. “For the poor woman’s sake—and she’s an honest farm wife, Li, not a wench—let’s be more careful with our mind-speech.”

  “Mm. Our hosts are eyeing us oddly enough as it is. Ah, here comes dinner.”

  It might have been plain, but neither Hauberin (after that half-raw rabbit) nor Alliar, whose pseudo-human form at last needed food, could find fault in the good hunks of bread and cheese and the bowls of soup thick enough to be called stew. Hauberin took a wary sip of the home-brewed beer, then, pleased, a second, savoring the unfamiliar tang on his tongue. He called out to the innkeeper, “My compliments. Your boasts were justified.”

  The human, too proud to grovel, too pleased not to react, gave him a quick, surprisingly charming smile, and Hauberin thought, He’s no fool. And what tales might he know about the region? “Come, host, and join us.” Now, how could he win the human’s confidence? “I really can’t recall ever tasting finer beer.” True enough; he’d never tasted any human drink before. “No, man, I mean it. It reminds me almost of heather ale.”

  To his surprise, the human let out a shout of genuine laughter. “Caught me there, m’lord. Heather ale, indeed. You’ll be knowin’ some of our local tales, I see.”

  For an instant, Hauberin was puzzled. Ah, wait . . . heather ale might be brewed in Faerie, with magic’s aid, but here it was probably only a drinker’s myth. “And why shouldn’t I know your tales?”

  The human’s smile faded. “Pardon, m’lord, but . . . Well, it’s plain you’re a stranger here.”

  Hauberin grinned. “Stranger, indeed. Come, your eyes are fairly burning holes in me. Ask your question.”

  “No, wouldn’t be proper . . .”

  “Ask!”

  “Be you a . . .” his voice sank almost to a whisper, “a Saracen?”

  Hauberin and Alliar exchanged a blank glance. “A . . . what?”

  “Why, a Saracen, m’lord! A—a paynim from the East, a worshipper of Mahound.” At that name, the farm wife, en route to Aimery, stopped to piously cross herself. Hauberin raised a brow, more bewildered than before.

  “No, man. Whatever else I may be, I am most certainly not a worshipper of this . . . Mahound.”

  “Didn’t mean no harm by it, m’lord. But you did ask me t’ ask, and . . . It’s just you lookin’ so dark ’n foreign ’n all . . .” His voice trailed into silence, and the prince was uncomfortably aware of a building tension. Alliar could hardly miss it.

  “By the Winds, he’s afraid of us! Why? He doesn’t even know who we are.”

  “He knows we’re nobility and he’s a commoner. Didn’t you hear the contempt in Aimery’s voice when he mentioned serfs? Human nobles are allowed cruel license over human commons.”

  “Our good host looks quite capable of defending himself.”

  And a man frightened for himself and his family, a man wielding cold iron . . . Hauberin smiled reassuringly. “Come now, don’t look so grim. I’m not offended. Eh, enough of this! Since I am, indeed, a stranger, perhaps you can tell me something about the region. As innkeeper and brewer, you must know a great deal.”

  The flattery struck home. “Ah. Well. Somewhat.”

  “The land seems peaceful enough,” Alliar prodded. “Barring the occasional bandits, of course,” the being added silently to Hauberin.

  “It is peaceful,” the innkeeper said, “saints be praised. Fer now, anyhow. Hasn’t been real trouble—the kind a’ thing where we all pick up and huddle up in the castle hopin’ there’ll be somewhat left unburned to get back to—hasn’t been anythin’ like that since Lammas two summers past.”

  “Touranne?” Hauberin hazarded, recalling Aimery’s words.

  “That’s it, m’lord. We were lucky then. Fightin’ didn’t really reach us here. Left a lot a’ hard feelin’s, though, some on the good duke’s side, some on t’other . . . You’ve not come through Baron Thibault’s lands, or you’d be knowin’ all about that.”

  “Feuds?” Alliar asked uncertainly.

  “Oh, aye, feuds.” The human broke off abruptly at a glare from his wife. “But ain’t my business, talkin’ a’ such.”

  Hauberin gave a mental shrug. Let the humans have their feuds; they meant nothing to him. “We were mentioning local tales just now. Are you well-acquainted with them?”

  The innkeeper grinned. “The old tales, you mean? We all know ’em; they’re good for tellin’ during those long winter nights. Tales o’ magic creatures. Like the galipote, who can make himself look like your favorite hound, just waitin’ for you to turn your back. Or the Evil Hero—that’s a nasty thing, looks just like grass, but it thinks, it hates. If you step on it, it tricks your mind so you walk right into a bog or off a cliff . . .” After a moment, his grin returned. “O’course we don’t believe in such things anymore; we’re all good Christians here, God save us.”

  But Hauberin saw a flicker of superstitious fear in the man’s eyes, and fought down a smile. No. Of course you don’t believe. “There’s one tale in particular I’d like to know. Perhaps you can help me. Have you ever heard folk tell of a—witch, Melusine?”

  The man and woman hastily crossed themselves. “There’s many a tale told a’ witches, m’lord. Some of ’em more than just tales, if you take my meanin’. But can’t say I’ve heard of a Melusine. You, Meg?”

  “Hush, now. The poor young lord’s just fallen asleep.” The woman turned a red, earnest race to Hauberin. “Never heard of a Melusine, m’lord. They might know at the castle, if it’s important to you.”

  “Perhaps.” The pri
nce refused to discuss his affairs with humans. “But the hour grows late, and we are both nearly as weary as the boy.”

  Did relief flicker in the humans’ eyes? “Of course, m’lord,” said the man. “This way.”

  “Your bed? Oh no, man. I’ll not dispossess you and your wife.” It was said out of Faerie fastidiousness, not charity—Aimery might not mind sleeping there, but there were limits—but the human only nodded, accepting without question this one more sign of eccentricity on the part of his strange guests.

  “You must be understandin’, we’ve only got straw pallets up there on the loft.”

  “Fresh straw?”

  “My son’ll just be fixin’ it.” The long-legged adolescent scrambled down the ladder, bowing nervously, and disappeared back into the shadows.

  “Fair enough,” Hauberin said lightly. “Lead on.”

  But the human paused at the foot of the ladder, plainly fighting an inner battle. At last he said, “Was it bandits, m’lords?”

  “Eh?”

  “That wounded the youngster. And stole your horses. It was bandits, wasn’t it? The baron’s men do patrol, but the forest’s big.”

  “Bandits did hurt the boy,” the prince said evasively. “As for us . . .” Hauberin smiled and neatly skirted falsehood. “Let us merely say that when we tried to ride through the forest, things just—fell apart.” Ignoring Alliar’s frantically stifled gasp of laughter, he nodded regally. “Good night, good host.”

  VIII

  STORM WINDS

  Hauberin woke suddenly to a screaming that seemed to shake the very walls, woke trying desperately to pull Power to him, Power that just wouldn’t come—

  But after that first shocked moment, he sank back down again. This was the humans’ inn, somewhere in the small hours of the mortal night, with the storm outside turning from rain to fierce wind.

  The prince lay for a time staring up through darkness at oaken beams and gray-black masses of thatching, aching with the lack of magic, all at once overwhelmed by so strong a sense of the sneer alien strangeness all around him that he shivered, thinking suddenly of home, of Ereledan and Charailis, wondering once again if, indeed, he had judged the difference between Faerie and human time accurately, worrying as to what he would return.