A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  When he returned.

  If.

  No self-pity, Hauberin told himself.

  But how he wished he had been able to cut across Realms closer to the castle! So much mortal time already wasted . . .

  The prince sighed and stretched, trying to straighten out the clothing in which he, perforce, had been sleeping, and heard the straw mattress crackle under him. At least he had slept well so far, Serein not withstanding: exhaustion did seem to hold the curse at bay. And straw made a reasonable bed, if one was tired enough. Providing it wasn’t already . . . inhabited, of course. There were piles of alder leaves in all the loft’s crevices, guaranteed, according to the innkeeper, to chase away fleas. At least whatever creatures might still be up here didn’t seem to care for the taste of Faerie blood.

  Chuckling, the prince closed his eyes. But sleep was impossible now, what with all the shriekings and whinings and house-shaking buffets. “Eh, Alliar, are you—”

  Alliar was gone.

  “Li?” No cause for alarm. The being must be downstairs, discovering that the so skillfully detailed pseudo-human form, after eating and drinking so well, had certain needs for relief as well.

  Still . . . could Alliar counterfeit humanity that completely?

  “Li? Everything all right?”

  No answer.

  “Li!”

  Not the faintest of mental touches. Hauberin sprang to his feet, now genuinely alarmed. “Alliar!” It was a mental shout. “Alliar!”

  Was there . . . ? Yes! No coherent thought, only the most chaotic swirlings of distress and despair, but it was Alliar, somewhere outside the inn. Hauberin fairly leaped down the ladder, landing noiselessly on the earthen floor, and raced to the door, thinking wildly, If it’s bolted, how do I get out? How do I handle an iron bolt?

  But the door was unbarred. Of course, Alliar had opened it. Hauberin safely slipped the latch with a fold of his tunic and rushed out into the storm. The wind nearly knocked him off his feet. Staggering and breathless, the prince stood with head down, trying to orient himself.

  “Alliar!”

  Again he felt that terrible, despairing swirl of emotion, and looked up, shivering, half-blinded by flailing strands of hair, staring with night-sighted eyes . . . There! Alliar, outlined sharply against the turbulent sky, had abandoned human form and—oh, the anguish in that slender, alien shape with its upthrust, yearning arms!

  “Ae, Alliar,” the prince breathed, and struggled to his friend’s side. The luminous eyes were wild and sightless, not truly conscious. “Li? Can you hear me? Li!”

  Carefully, he opened his mind to the being, only to be stunned by the wave of raw emotion suddenly surging over him. Staggering with grief not his, Hauberin reached out to blindly catch Alliar in his arms. The being crumpled bonelessly against him and they both fell, Hauberin gasping for breath, helpless against that terrible, so much more than flesh-and-blood sorrow, clinging desperately to his friend, afraid to let go lest he lose Alliar over the edge into madness. Image after image assaulted his mind, alien, incomprehensible, anguished memories of freedom forever lost to this solid, fleshy prison—

  No! These aren’t my memories! “Li, stop it! Break the contact!”

  But the torment, the torment, the long, long years of slavery . . . The sorcerer, the master, the one to be feared—Ae, ae, no!

  “It’s over, Li, over. He’s dead. I killed him. I freed you. You’re safe—Ae, Li, you’ll tear my mind in two!”

  Desperate for his own safety now, the prince fought back, struggling like a man fighting the sea, painfully building up wall after wall of will, pulling free from the anguish that wasn’t his own till suddenly he was alone in his mind, shaking, but still slinging to an Alliar gone chill and rigid as a dull golden statue.

  “Alliar?”

  Not the slightest quiver of an eyelid. Shock, Hauberin thought. Or what passed for shock in such as Li. The prince shuddered, knowing what he must do, then very delicately began to let down the walls of his mental barricade. At once he was engulfed again in the turbulence of Alliar’s mindless panic. But this time he was prepared. As much for his own sanity as that of his friend, Hauberin pictured a field, a quiet field somewhere in the midst of his lands. Ignoring the physical and psychic storms that lashed at him, the prince threw every fiber of his will into seeing that field, only that field, tranquil in the clear light of Faerie . . . Nothing large was happening there, nothing ever had. There was only the gentle rustling of the silky grass . . . He could smell the sweetness of that grass, hear the sleepy buzzing of insects half-drugged by warmth . . . There was no storm, no wind, only the peace, the endless, soothing peace . . .

  Half-hypnotized himself, Hauberin started violently when Alliar stirred in his arms. Quickly he reassured the being, “It’s all right, Li. You’re safe, you’re here, in the present. Come with me, back to the present.”

  Life flared abruptly in the blankly staring eyes. For a time the being could do nothing but huddle helplessly against Hauberin, trying with sudden little spasms to regain control over mind and body. The prince waited, shivering in the wind. Alliar’s body, cool-fleshed at the best of times, was almost as cold as that wind right now, but Hauberin dared not let go. But his teeth were beginning to chatter, and at last the prince could wait no longer and asked tentatively: “Yes. I’m . . . I’m here.” The being pulled away, sitting with head down, shuddering. “Forgive me. I—didn’t expect—I—I don’t know these mortal winds, and they—called to me, and—Oh, how I ached to go with them!”

  The anguish in the hopeless words trembled in the air between them. Hauberin hesitated, aching with his friend’s pain, hating with every nerve what he was going to say. I could free you. You know that. I could free you if you can no longer bear—”

  “By killing this mortal shell?” Alliar gave him a soft, weary smile, eyes suddenly infinitely old, infinitely sad. “Oh my friend, do you think I would ever place such a burden on you?” Then the being added, almost lightly, “I never was one of the High Ones, after all, even when I was . . . in that other way of being. None of the High Winds would ever have been snared into flesh.”

  “Don’t belittle yourself.”

  “Ach, who better? But what I’m trying to tell you is that I . . . don’t know any more if I could ever be what I once was.” There was a brittle edge to Alliar’s words that was very close to hysteria. “I’ve been in this flesh-and-blood shape for so long and long, thinking flesh-and-blood thoughts, feeling flesh-and-blood emotions none of my kin would comprehend. Why, I might even have acquired a flesh-and-blood soul! Do you think that’s possible?”

  Hauberin fought to control his shivering. “Li, if we’re g-going to debate theology, can’t we get back indoors first? No matter what you say, you’re obviously s-still a wind spirit if you don’t feel this cold, but I—look you, if we stay here much longer, the humans are going to find me frozen in the morning.”

  Alliar gave him a contrite glance. “And you without even your cloak in this wind.”

  “There was hardly time to search for it.”

  With what was plainly a great effort, Alliar stood, swaying slightly. Hauberin scrambled to his feet, feeling bruised in body and mind both. “Come, back to the inn.”

  Stumbling with weariness, Alliar staggered forward, just barely reshaping into human form, the taller, heavier body sagging in Hauberin’s supporting arms. “Please, Li, don’t collapse, not just yet. I don’t think I could carry you.”

  The short way back seemed an endless journey through cold and wind and worry. Shivering, struggling beneath Alliar’s weight, Hauberin prodded himself on with thoughts of a warm hearth, warm blankets . . .

  But the door to the inn was bolted fast.

  “No!” It was a cry of princely fury. “You’ll not shut us out!” Hauberin forgot all his intentions of avoiding magic in this Power-poor Realm, and sent out a blazing surge of will to catch a human mind, set a human body to working the bolt. The door swung open, and the
prince forced his way inside, slamming it shut again behind himself and the sagging Alliar with a deft toot. Surrounded suddenly by stale, beer-and-human scented but wondrously warm air, he dropped his psychic hold, staring fiercely into the eyes of the innkeeper.

  “I can manage the rest of the way,” came Alliar’s weary thought. “I suspect you’ll have to pacify our good host. I’m sorry, I . . . just can’t do anymore.”

  “It’s all right, Li,” Hauberin soothed. “Just go and get some rest. I can handle this alone.”

  He watched his friend struggle safely up to the loft, then turned regally to the human. “Why did you bolt the door?”

  The man didn’t flinch. “Didn’t know what might be tryin’ to get in, what with the storm ’n all.” He frowned, plainly not remembering what had made him reopen the door. “What happened out there, m’lord? You look like a man who’s been battlin’ devils.”

  Hauberin laughed wearily, feeling the close air stealing the strength from him. “You’re not that far from wrong. Oh, no, I didn’t mean that literally! None of your cloven-hoofed monsters were out for a stroll. Look you,” he added evasively, “have you never heard of folk walking in their sleep?”

  “Is that what happened? Your friend was walkin’ in his sleep, out in the storm?”

  It sounded unlikely to Hauberin, too. “You’ve said it,” he replied vaguely, foot on the lowest rung of the ladder to the loft. It would have been lovely to sit before a roaring fire for a time, preferably with mulled wine in hand, but not at the price of further interrogation. “Once more, good host, good night.”

  “One question more, m’lord.” The human’s voice was taut with sudden tension. “How did you get past the iron?”

  Hauberin froze. “Why, whatever can you mean?”

  “Forgive me if I’m wrong. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

  The prince turned, stalking forward a step, wary, menacing. The human’s hand closed about something, an amulet or crucifix, no doubt, but he held his ground. “They told me iron over the door’d be enough.”

  “They’ would seem to have been mistaken. Tell me, when did you first suspect?”

  “Not suspect, m’lord, not exactly. Wondered. The youngster bein’ with you fooled me a bit. Then . . . well, first, you didn’t know a’ Saracens. I told myself that might a’ just been that you were a foreigner. But then I saw you ’n your friend lookin’ at each other and plainly talkin’ to each other—but you never said a word aloud.”

  Oh, damn. “I see. Careless of us.”

  “And just before, when you two were out in the storm, I saw—As God is my witness, I saw your friend change shape. And that’s why I bolted the door. There’s the truth of it, and you can do what you want. Only don’t hurt my wife ’n son, because they know nothin’ a’ this.”

  Hauberin let out his breath in a long sigh. Brave little man. Brave, foolish little man whom I could destroy with three well-chosen Words. “I never yet did harm to the innocent, nor punished courage in human or other.”

  The man swallowed. “It’s true, then. You be a nobleman of—of—”

  “Faerie?” Hauberin smiled faintly, correcting with reflexive truthfulness. “I am a prince of Faerie.”

  There came twin gasps of amazement, one from the innkeeper, one from—

  “So, Aimery. How long have you been awake and listening?”

  The boy staggered to his side, using a staff as a cane. “Not very long, my lord—ah—Your Grace.”

  Long enough, obviously. “Why, how composed you are, Aimery! I’m impressed.”

  “It’s n-not composure, Your Grace, it’s shock.” The boy’s grin was quick and nervous. “I knew you were foreign to these lands, but I never dreamed just how foreign.”

  “And here I was callin’ him a Saracen,” the innkeeper muttered.

  Aimery’s eyes widened. “Then . . . it’s true, that night, the robbers—what I thought I saw—it really was magic . . .”

  “That doesn’t frighten you?”

  “Oh, it does,” the boy admitted, face red. “You m-must know this, Your Grace: we’re forbidden to have anything at all to do with the Black Arts—I—I beg your pardon, I mean the magical arts. But I . . .” He straightened proudly. “You saved my life, Your Grace, for whatever your reasons, and so I cannot be afraid of you.” The quick grin came and went again. “Overawed, I admit. Your Grace, no matter what the facts, I am in your debt.”

  Hauberin forced back a smile. “Nobly said.” He looked from one wide-eyed human to the other, and sighed. The last thing he wanted to do right now was work any mind-spells. But he could hardly leave these folk with the knowledge of who and what he was. “This will not hurt you in any way.”

  He hadn’t thought it possible for Aimery to become even more wide-eyed. “Please, Your Grace,” the boy whispered, “might I speak to you alone? For j-just a moment?”

  Curious, Hauberin nodded, drawing the boy aside. “What?”

  “You—you’re going to take away our memories of this, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?”

  “Please, leave me mine.”

  “Ah? Why?”

  “Because I . . . you . . . Oh please, Your Grace, I’ve never seen any true wonder in my life before, not even the smallest of magics. And this is so very splendid! I—I don’t want to lose it.” The boy drew himself up proudly. “I give you my word on my honor as a squire and a—a good Christian: I shall not betray your secret.”

  He fell silent, staring at Hauberin with pleading eyes. Wounded wood-sprite eyes, thought the prince, remembering how Alliar looked at him in just the same plaintive way when the being wanted something from him. It usually worked.

  Ah well, there was no reason to doubt the boy’s sincerity. “So be it. Stay here and wait.”

  Gently, carefully, Hauberin wove a mind-spell about the innkeeper and—since she was almost certainly awake and aware—his wife as well, feeling their essences sturdy and unshakable as the stone walls about them. No dreamers, these. They were quite willing to believe only in whatever they could see or touch, and the prince silently thanked them for that lack of imagination; it made his work so much simpler.

  “We are harmless travelers,” he sent, “stopped here merely for the comfort of a roof over our heads. Believe.

  “You saw nothing outré this night, nothing. If you think at all of Faerie or magic, know that you dream. Believe.

  “We will be gone with morning. Till then, we mean no harm to you or yours. Believe.”

  To his relief, Hauberin saw the innkeeper blankly return to bed, and knew his message had been heard. Delicately he retreated from the humans’ minds and sank gladly to a bench near the banked fire, wondering if he had enough energy left to prod it into life magically—he certainly couldn’t touch those iron pokers—and clenching his hands to hide their trembling. What should have been effortless had been anything but!

  I should just be thankful the spell worked at all.

  But then the prince remembered Aimery, and looked up in resignation. “Come here, boy. Prod that fire up a bit, if you would. Ahh, yes . . . ” He baked blissfully for a time, eyes closed, feeling the last residue of chill leaving his bones, then glanced up at the wide-eyed boy. “Sit, before you collapse from the weight of wonder.”

  Aimery bit his lip, then blurted out, “You—you don’t have to worry, Your Grace. I mean, about them.”

  “Are you telling me my craft?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Hush. You’ll wake them.”

  “Ah. Yes.” In a fierce whisper, the boy continued, “I only meant—I owe you my life, Your Grace! If any wish to harm you, they must deal with me first.”

  Hauberin just barely bit back a laugh. “Thank you,” he said solemnly, and started to get to his feet. The boy jumped up, too, in hasty courtesy.

  “Uh . . . Your Grace?”

  “Yes, Aimery. What is it?”

  “You’re going on in the morning, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.
Why?”

  “I only . . . You were travelling today, too, by daylight . . . I mean—”

  “Most of my race can’t endure mortal sunlight. I can. Does that answer your question?”

  “One of them,” Aimery said with a flash of spirit. “I’ve got dozens more.”

  Hauberin laughed softly. “I’m sure you have. But the rest of them can wait till morning. No . . . wait. Now you can answer a question for me.”

  “If I’m able, Your Grace,” the boy said cautiously.

  “It’s nothing distressing. I wish to enter your baron’s castle tomorrow. How should I do this?”

  Aimery hesitated. “You . . . don’t mean my lord baron any harm, do you? I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I have to ask.”

  “No. I mean him no harm. You do know my people’s reputation for honesty?”

  The boy nodded. Very softly, he said, “I can understand the need to keep your—your race a secret. I guess you’d want to keep your royal title a secret, too.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ah. Well. I don’t know why the story of this . . . Melusine is so important to you—wait, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to pry, truly! But I would think the best thing to do would be . . . just to enter as a guest. We all love new faces at the castle; we see so few of them. And a mysterious noble stranger . . . Oh, my lord baron does love a mystery!” Aimery’s eyes were bright with excitement. “I’ll have a story ready, Your Grace, never fear.” The boy glanced at him apologetically. “I . . . may have to embroider the truth a bit.”

  “Lie, you mean. I would rather you didn’t. But these are human ways. If you must . . .”

  “Trust me, Your Grace. I shan’t betray you.”

  Hauberin held the boy’s gaze for a long moment, reading a confused tangle of human emotions, many of them beyond Faerie comprehension. But honesty, Hauberin knew. And honesty seemed uppermost. The prince nodded, stifling a sudden yawn. “So be it. Best bank the fire again before we burn down the inn. Aimery, I bid you a good night—or at least what’s left of the night.”