A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  “We really don’t have a choice. If your men ride blindly out into the darkness now, their horse’s hoofs are going to destroy any hope we have of finding Raimond.” The baron glared at her, eyes fierce as those of a cornered predator, but she never flinched. “Please. You know I’m right. I don’t like the thought of your poor brother out there alone either, but there truly is nothing we can do till morning.”

  Baron Gilbert shuddered, then straightened with a shadow of his usual pride, a man desperately struggling to recover self-control. “Save pray,” he said softly. “So be it. We will begin our search at daybreak.”

  As he turned to reenter the Hall, his tormented glance caught Hauberin and Alliar. The baron hesitated, very blatantly reluctant to call on them for anything. Worry overwhelmed pride, and he burst out, “My lords, I know you planned to leave on the morrow. But will you not first help us on our search?”

  Why should I care what happens to a man who tried to kill me? But he could hardly say that to his host. Instead, working his delicate way around untruth, the prince answered evasively, “We . . . will do what we can,” and left it at that.

  ###

  Dinner had been a grim ordeal, what with the baron and his wife lost in their thoughts, the empty chair at the baroness’ side reminding them painfully of the missing Raimond. Even the usually ebullient castle folk had been subdued and somber, reflecting their master’s mood, and Hauberin and Alliar were honestly glad when they could make their excuses and escape to relative privacy.

  But now, alone in his guest chamber with the wary Hugh, Hauberin found himself chattering like an idiot and setting himself ridiculous little tasks, seeing to the fold of this tunic or the dusting of that pair of shoes until, with a little hiss of disgust at his cowardice, the prince realized he’d been trying like a frightened child to put off going to sleep. Hauberin settled into bed and grimly awaited his ordeal by nightmare. Maybe the curse, or enchantment, or whatever it was would simply fail to attack him this one night.

  Of course. And maybe Raimond would fly home on butterfly wings.

  At last, inevitably, Hauberin slept . . .

  ###

  . . . and the dreams began. That terrible, featureless corridor tried to form itself around him—but this once it seemed dim and unreal, its Power muted, overlaid instead by quick flashes of visions that, for all their confused brevity, had nothing of hallucination about them. Hauberin’s dreaming sight caught clear glimpses of undeniably real forest, or an undeniably real Raimond alive, unharmed but powerless.

  Another figure stood over Raimond, tall and thin, wrapped in a hooded cloak. As the visions continued their flickering, illogical progression, Hauberin lost track of Raimond and saw only that mysterious cloaked figure: a human, surely, a stranger, and yet somehow so teasingly familiar . . . The prince stirred restlessly in his sleep, certain he must recognize this figure, certain that he dared not fail. If only he could see beneath that concealing hood, if only he could see—

  Hauberin woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in astonishment, knowing exactly who he’d sensed. Though that truly had been a human’s body, the feel of him, the essence, had been unmistakably that of: Serein!

  Oh, ridiculous! Serein was dead.

  But the visions had been far too clear. Hauberin knew with a magician’s conviction he couldn’t shrug the whole thing off with “just a dream.”

  “Alliar,” he called, mind to mind, and felt the wind spirit’s senses brush his own. “Li, you know I’ve never been much of a seer. But this once I . . . think I may have dreamed truly. Used far-sight. And if so . . .”

  Hauberin paused, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts. True enough, he never had shown much ability at far-sight, save for when there was a psychic linking to the one he sensed, some tie of blood or strong emotion—

  Such as hatred—

  No! How could Serein possibly still be alive?

  When he was growing up, the prince had heard fanciful tales of a spell known as Free-of-Death, which, those tales said, cast a spirit safely from a dying body. No sage had ever been able to prove any such spell actually existed. But . . . what if, in the last moment of his life Serein really had thrown his spirit free?

  Hauberin snorted. Not that again! He’d toyed with the idea often enough during those long, dream-tormented nights. And come up with the same conclusion each time: impossible. Free-or-Death, assuming it wasn’t just a fable, could only be cast when a host body waited nearby, mind-dead or so weak of mind it could easily be possessed. There’d been no such host anywhere on that mountain! If Serein had cast such a spell, his bodiless essence would have blown to dust upon the wind.

  Besides, how in the name of all the Powers could Serein have thrown his spirit into a Realm he didn’t even know existed?

  “My prince?” Alliar prodded warily.

  “Yes.” Hauberin let out his breath in a long, weary sigh. “Li, I may be mistaken. But until I know for sure whether or not I saw Serein—”

  “Serein!”

  “—I’m afraid we must definitely be a part of tomorrow’s search party.”

  ###

  A nervous groom had sworn he’d last seen Sir Raimond heading full-tilt due north. And so, north, the party rode: Baron Gilbert and his wife, Hauberin and Alliar, with the baron’s finest trackers, huntsmen and dogs.

  But after nearly a full day of fruitless searching, with the night swiftly approaching, only those dogs remained cheerful, wagging their tails, sniffing the cooling air with every indication of canine delight—and showing no sign that they were following a trail.

  How could they? the prince thought. After all that rain, there can hardly be any scent left for them to follow.

  The humans weren’t doing much better, picking out what might have been a hoofprint here or crushed bush that might have been trodden by a galloping horse there, and Hauberin, nerves taut with the aftermath of his warning dream, struggled with the impulse to kick his horse into a gallop and leave the rest of them behind, because by now he knew, he felt, the way they must go, yet couldn’t share that arcane knowledge with anyone but Alliar.

  Baron Gilbert was taking out his frustration and worry on the “hopeless trackers” and their “hopeless dogs” and “this whole Godforsaken day.” In a burst of fury, he finally banished the dogs and their handlers back to the castle, ignoring his wife’s patient, weary attempts to soothe him.

  “My lord baron,” Hauberin broke in, “your brother could hardly have been riding cross-country, not in that downpour. This is the only northbound road on your demesne, am I right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then we must keep going.”

  Ignoring the baron’s frown, Hauberin urged his horse on. After a moment, he heard the others following him. But as they approached the dark green line of forest, the prince ignored the humans. Straightening in the saddle, he stared rigidly ahead, every arcane sense alert and prickling with the faintest teasing hint of . . . what? He almost had it . . . Ae, no. Something else was in there, confusing the psychic trace, something . . . odd, decidedly Powerful . . .

  Baron Gilbert was muttering angrily to himself. Hauberin, lost in his frustrating psychic search, cut in without even realizing he was interrupting: “This is the road.”

  “I told you it was!” the baron snapped, then tempered that with a more restrained, “Yes. But it forks just at the forest’s verge, the main branch leading to Touranne—” He broke off with a muttered oath. “If Raimond’s ridden that way, out in the open, his tracks will have been washed away, and we’ll never—”

  “He didn’t.”

  Baron Gilbert shot him a sharp, suspicious glance. “How could you know that?”

  Hauberin blinked, brought abruptly back to caution. How, indeed? Alliar came to his aid with a smooth, “Because we’ve both noticed that horse-high mass of broken branches in the forest ahead, as though a weary horse had crashed through them fairly recently: Sir Raimond’s horse, I d
on’t doubt.”

  Hope blazed up in Baron Gilbert’s eyes. Without another word, heedless of the coming darkness, he urged the party on into the looming mass of trees.

  ###

  The delighted trackers were babbling about something in the cold, clear light of the full, rising moon—hoofprints, a scrap of cloth that might have been torn from Raimond’s cloak—but the prince hardly heard them. The feel of Power, alien, primal, perilous, had grown so strong now it blazed like a beacon in his mind.

  “Raimond did pass this way.” Baron Gilbert’s eyes were so fierce with mixed fear and hope their fire cut through Hauberin’s trance. Startled by a surge of pity for this man who—too severe, too human though he was—was still his kinsman, the prince exclaimed: “You mustn’t go on. The danger—”

  “What danger? To me? To Raimond?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Come, my lord, tell me.” The baron’s voice was cold with suspicion. “How could you know there’s danger?”

  “I . . . can’t tell you. I can only warn—”

  “Warning taken.” Baron Gilbert reached out to catch Hauberin’s arm in a painful grip. Before the angry prince could pull free, the baron murmured, “You knew we’d find traces of Raimond here. You know danger lies ahead. What else might you know about this matter, my lord?”

  Hauberin jerked his arm away. “I’m not trying to trap you!”

  “Indeed.” Baron Gilbert’s hand dropped, none too subtly, to the hilt of his sword. “Since you seem so wise, my lord, I think you must serve as our guide.”

  The prince glared. “So be it, my lord baron.”

  Hauberin and Alliar slipped from their horses and slid into the forest, Faerie eyes already adjusted to the night, intending with one accord to elude the inconvenient humans. They did escape most of the night-blind humans who, despite the moonlight, were blundering and crashing about, muttering curses and fumbling for the makings of torches. But, amazingly, baron and baroness kept pace, and when Hauberin glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze was met by Matilde’s intent stare. It was she who was following him, leading her stumbling husband; the woman must have astonishingly keen night vision for a human.

  Hauberin turned away. Enough. He had warned them. He could do no more. Particularly not now, when the feel of alien Power was becoming so painful a throbbing in the air he could hardly think.

  But behind that Power hid—what? A darkness that might be only an occult echo. And there was still something else . . . Heart racing, Hauberin fought to focus on that one elusive aura, praying, No, it can’t be, it can’t . . .

  Ach, the overwrought humans were making so much psychic noise he could barely think! The prince signaled sharply to them to wait and be silent, hoping they’d seen and would obey, then stole forward, Alliar a shadow at his side, to crouch hidden amid the bushes. Warily, Hauberin parted branches, Power surging before him . . .

  For one confused instant he could only stare. Could that be its source? That crude circle of undeniably human-worked stones?

  Ae, no. Whoever had placed the stones, however many ages past, had certainly been of arcane wisdom, and a circle was a potent Symbol in itself, but the true Power lay in the land beneath. In this magic-poor Realm, Hauberin realized, the Earth-force wasn’t evenly distributed. Instead, it surfaced only rarely, in dazzling, perilous upthrusts of Power like this one, calling and calling to him to draw its endless strength into his being . . .

  Hauberin came back to himself with a gasp, shaking. No, oh no, he wasn’t going to try controlling something like that! This wasn’t the easy magic of Faerie, but raw, primal Power strong enough to blast him to the heart. Unstable Power that could all too easily erupt into—

  The prince froze, thoughts trailing to silence. A tall, lean figure was stepping out from behind a stone, shrouded in night and the same dark echo of Power Hauberin had sensed earlier. But beneath the darkness was an all-too-familiar aura . . . Dimly, the prince heard the humans behind him gasping out, “Rogier!” But though the body facing him was human, the spirit animating it was unmistakably, undeniably: Serein!

  Hauberin shot to his feet, quivering with horror. “Powers above, how many times must I kill you?”

  “Ah, you do recognize me.” The voice was alien, the words pure Serein. “Never again, little cousin.” The man’s teeth flashed in a quick smile. “I set an elaborate trap, didn’t I, luring Raimond, luring you? Elaborate, but it worked.”

  Hauberin blocked out the terrified inner voice screaming that all this was impossible, unnatural, Serein couldn’t possibly be here; it was possible, he was here, and the prince ignored his horror as best he could, thinking of Raimond’s irrational attack, the flash of sea-green eyes—“I wasn’t hallucinating. You really were possessing Raimond, weren’t you?”

  Serein’s human body shrugged. “Briefly. Long enough.”

  But Hauberin caught a hint of disquiet behind the words. He felt the trace of darkness lingering about Serein and fought down a sudden shudder, wondering aloud, “Now, what could be frightening you?”

  “Nothing!” Serein snapped, a bit too quickly. “Look you, this is hardly the time for a leisurely chat.” His smile was cold. “I’m tired of this feeble human shell, cousin. Yours will suit me far, far better.”

  Hauberin just barely managed to keep from starting. “Is that your plan? To go home in my place? The Dark you will!”

  “How can you stop me? You can’t wield your pretty magicks here. And the body I wear is far more attuned to this Realm than yours, and—what do you want?”

  A second figure—that little human sorcerer, by the Powers—had stolen out of shadow to tug at Serein’s sleeve, hissing, “My lord, wait. What about me? The moon and time are right; you promised me Power.”

  Without taking his gaze from Hauberin, Serein shoved the sorcerer aside, so roughly the man nearly fell. “Yes, yes, do what you will. Just stay out of my way. And now, cousin, no more wasted time.”

  What happened next happened in a blur of confusion.

  Out of the comer of his eye, Hauberin glimpsed the sorcerer dragging a bound but savagely struggling Raimond into the circle, saw a knife flash in the little man’s hand even as—

  —Baron Gilbert cried out, “Raimond!” and rushed forward, sword drawn, to slash at the sorcerer who was about to stab his sacrifice even as—

  —Serein, eyes wild, drew Power up from the land in great waves of white hot flame surrounding him that—

  —engulfed Hauberin’s own magic, drowning caution. His world all at once full of nothing but that Power, there was nothing he could do but pull it to him, ecstasy blazing along every nerve as the Earth-force responded to his magic and his human, native blood, surrounding him with more and yet more wild, glorious strength—

  Too wild! That part of his mind clinging frantically to sanity knew neither he nor Serein could ever control so much force. Panicked, Hauberin struggled to draw free. But there was no longer any way to quiet what they’d called up, and the unstable Power was cresting—

  In the instant of reason left to him, Hauberin seized the only escape he could find. Holding the wildfire at bay with all his strength of will, gasping with the strain, he caught Alliar by the arm (feeling Li catch his hair in a powerful grip at the same time), then abruptly dropped all resistance. As earth and sky erupted into one blaze of force, he let the unleashed Power recoil, hurling them out and away from peril—

  Into darkness.

  XVI

  NOWHERE

  Pain woke Hauberin. For a moment he lay sprawled where he’d fallen, eyes shut, feeling every nerve in his body protesting, and couldn’t remember what he might have been doing to make him hurt like this. Power . . . it had something to do with wild torrents of Power . . .

  Oh, indeed! As memory returned in a rush, the prince swallowed drily, shaken by What Might Have Been. How lucky, how incredibly lucky, to have escaped that eruption of Earth-force with nothing worse than an aching mind and body!


  Gradually, Hauberin regained enough self-control to will pain down to a muted throbbing. The last thing he could remember clearly was snatching Alliar’s arm and feeling the two of them being hurled aside like chips of wood on the crest of a wave. Obviously they’d survived, and landed here—

  Here? Where? The prince opened his eyes a cautious crack, and looked up at a canopy of perfectly ordinary-seeming leaves far overhead, and beyond that, glimpses of luminous sky that might have been sunless or simply overcast. The air was warm and soft, smelling of sweet vegetation. The light was the clear, pale blue of mortal twilight, but there was a . . . feel . . . to it all that reminded him almost of Faerie. For the first time in however many days, the sense of heaviness weighing down his spirit was nearly gone. This was never the human Realm; there was magic here.

  “Alliar?” the prince asked in wary mind-speech. “Are you all right?”

  “Mm,” came the groggy response, and then a more coherent, “Yes. I think so.” After an instant, the being added laconically, “That was not the way I would have chosen to travel.”

  “Better than staying to be crushed.”

  “Oh, agreed! But where are we?”

  “I haven’t the slightest . . .” Hauberin broke off as he felt a hand still clamped tightly on his hair. “Ah, Li, you can let go now.”

  The prince opened his eyes fully to see the being looking at him—from the other side of a small glade. With a startled yelp, Hauberin twisted aside, jerking his hair painfully free of the unknown, and sprang to his feet, staring down at: “Baroness Matilde!”

  The young woman, hair and riding dress disheveled, moaned faintly in protest. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked up at him, gaze soft and unfocused. But that gaze quickly sharpened in alarm, and Matilde struggled to sit up (Hauberin winced as strands of black hair fell from her hands). “My lord! Where is everyone?” Her voice rose, sharp with panic. “Where are we? It was full night a moment ago, yet now—what is this place?”