“Probably not. Ask.”
“Yesterday, you told me you were in my husband’s castle tracing your ancestry. And later, you mentioned that your own mother was—was called a witch. Are you . . . ? Was she . . . ?”
“Human?” The dark eyes blazed with such sudden anger that Matilde realized too late she’d broken a rule of Faerie etiquette: asking one of his ever-truthful race a question he couldn’t avoid answering. But then the prince sighed and moved a hand in an odd, ritualistic little gesture, murmuring, “Athenial ne thenial: you shared thoughts with me, I share with you. Ae, yes. I am my father’s rightful heir, but my mother was of your people. Now, are you rested enough to go on?”
“I did offend you, didn’t I?”
Hauberin glanced sharply at her. “You didn’t mean to. And I’ll admit I’m not always comfortable about my mixed blood.”
“But your subjects accept you, don’t they? And—”
His laugh interrupted her. “Believe me, if I hadn’t inherited magic, I doubt I would have reached my majority, let alone ruled.”
“I—I didn’t realize . . .”
“Ach no, it wasn’t as bad as I’m making it sound. What royal court—including, I’ve no doubt, human ones—isn’t full of intrigues? Of course I had—and have—enemies.”
“Including,” Matilde added daringly, “your cousin?”
“Including my cousin. Serein. Whom I intend to oust from his stolen home as soon as we return.”
“He . . . killed Rogier, didn’t he?”
“Oh, probably. Any man who would stoop to child-murder—” he said it as though it was the foulest obscenity (which, thought Matilde, it was) “—wouldn’t shrink from killing a grown man. A . . . mere human, to boot.”
Matilde bit her lip. “I shouldn’t want him for a foe.”
Hauberin shrugged. “One can’t, as the saying goes, pick one’s relatives. Serein only once dared attack me openly, and I—thought I’d put an end to him. Look you, I did have—what shall I say?—friendlier family, too, and friends. I still do have my friends,” he added with a quick grin at Alliar, who made him an elegant little bow. The prince stretched restlessly, then got to his feet. “Enough of this. No, it’s not easy being part-other-than-Faerie; no, I’m not really bitter about what I can’t change; and yes, I do love my land and people very much and most of them seem quite content with their prince, human blood or no. Now, let’s do something about getting out of Nulle Part.”
Wearily Matilde got to her feet and followed. The open progression of trees narrowed all too soon for her comfort, the way becoming overgrown once more. At last she found herself trailing the others down a narrow corridor lined with a maze of intertwined bushes taller than her head: walls of heavy, dark green leaves looming over her on both sides, so close they brushed her arms like so many moist, chilly hands. Matilde shuddered, pulling her cloak about her, and the leaves left damp streaks on the thick wool. The air was heavy with the odor of dank, overripe growth, and she could swear the ground squelched faintly beneath her feet. Dear saints, did Hauberin really know where he was going? Was he deliberately leading them into a swamp? Or maybe even into a trap . . . ? He was a Faerie man, after all, not really human . . . Soulless, the priests would say. As if priests knew anything about Faerie.
The thick, dank air was wearing on her nerves. Matilde all at once could have sworn that something was watching them, keeping pace with every step. The galipote? Something worse? But when the young woman glanced wildly about, she saw nothing but the heavy vegetation and heard nothing but her own squelching footsteps.
Don’t be a fool, she snapped at herself. I’m with two magical beings. If there was any real danger, they’d know it.
It wasn’t too comforting to see that both Hauberin and Alliar were alert as two wild things. Something disconcertingly close emitted a sobbing cry, and Matilde jumped violently, barely biting back a cry of her own, vaguely gratified to see prince and wind spirit start, too.
“Bird?” suggested Hauberin after a taut moment, but Alliar hesitated a long, nerve-racking while, searching with some arcane wind spirit sense before reluctantly nodding and murmuring:
“Maybe. At least it doesn’t mean us any harm. I think.”
Hauberin flicked his gaze warningly to Matilde, and Alliar switched to a melodious language that could only be the Faerie tongue. Insulted, Matilde murmured, “I’m not a child, gentles. You don’t have to shield me.”
The prince, Faerie-truthful, took her words at face value, saying frankly, “We were agreeing that we’re being watched by something or someone hostile.”
Did he have to be quite so honest? Matilde looked into the fierce, wary eyes and swallowed drily. “Then it wasn’t just my fancy,” she managed, struggling to keep her voice level. “Are we in peril?”
“No. Not yet, as far as Alliar or I can sense. But it might be wise for you to keep close.”
“No fear,” she muttered, hand closing firmly about the hilt of her little belt-knife.
###
To Matilde’s immense relief, the claustrophobic path gradually began to widen, then suddenly opened up onto a wide, mossy glade verging on a lake that lay still as gray mist under the gray mist sky. There wasn’t a sound, not the slightest chirp of bird or rustle of reed, there wasn’t the slightest sign of life, and yet she found herself struggling not to cringe beneath the weight of unseen eyes. Hauberin glanced her way.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured.
Matilde nodded almost absently. There was something about this scene . . . something nagging at her memory. A story she had once heard . . . If only she could remember . . .
“Why, look at this!” Alliar exclaimed, and Matilde turned to see a gleam of silver, glint of gem: a small goblet bobbing on the water, half-hidden in the reeds at the lake’s edge.
“Now, how did this get here?” the being wondered, and stooped to scoop it up—
The elusive memory returned to Matilde with a shock. “No, don’t!” she screamed, and pulled Alliar away with a strength born of panic. The astonished being went sprawling—and the silvery-green arm snaking up out of the water closed on empty air.
In the next moment, the lake-being was upon them, sleek and lithe, thick silver hair swirling about a fine-boned, elegant face, the tapering eyes fiercely green as he stared at Matilde in implacable hunger (for food, or for something more?), the whole close enough to handsome man-form to send a little shiver racing through her. But the teeth bared in an angry smile were pointed, and scales shimmered along the too-limber arms. And the hands that reached for her as the being lunged ended in learning claws. For one terrifying moment, deathly chill fingers closed with implacable strength about her wrist and she saw nothing but death by drowning in the green-flame eyes.
But then Hauberin was shouting out a sharp, commanding spell in the Faerie tongue. The words seemed to blaze for an instant in the air, and the creature released Matilde with a hiss, as though her flesh had all at once burned him.
“D-Drac,” Matilde cried out, stumbling over her words, “dragon-man—”
“Drac,” the being agreed, and the smile he gave her, sharp teeth hidden, was urbane and sensual, so sensual it sent a little prickle shivering through her even as she recoiled. “Lovely thing, lovely human woman . . . how long since I’ve touched soft woman-flesh . . .” he purred, voice as mellifluous as water flowing smoothly over stone. “You fear me. Am I so monstrous to you?”
Oh, no. He was fair, inhumanly fair, and the light in his green eyes promised such wonders . . .
Dazed, Matilde felt a hand close about her arm, digging into her flesh till she gasped in startled pain and turned to stare at Hauberin—and only then realized the drac had nearly charmed her right into the water. Drac, dragon-man in one, stalker of woman, eater of human flesh—
“You shall not have this woman.” Hauberin’s voice was cold with command.
“Shan’t I?” The drac smiled again, stare never leaving Mat
ilde’s face. “I saw the galipote running in fear, I laughed at it and followed you, waiting, waiting till you came to my very doorway. I am no foolish galipote, my friends, to abandon food and sport.”
For answer, Hauberin snapped out a ringing Faerie phrase that made the drac start. The sharp green gaze shot from Matilde to Hauberin, as though the being was only now fully aware of the prince. The drac’s eyes narrowed warily, but his smile never wavered.
“Faerie-man,” he purred. “Silly little Faerie-man. Your spells will barely work here; you have no true power over Nulle Part.”
“No? Then dare come closer,” Hauberin retorted.
Instead, the drac stalked sideways, circling. Hauberin turned with him, dark eyes fierce, keeping Matilde always behind him. Alliar fell into place behind her, guarding her back, and Matilde heard the drac give the softest hiss of frustration.
“Long and long has it been since I’ve touched woman-skin, long since I’ve tasted the sweetness of human-flesh. I shall not be defeated now.”
There was no warning, no betraying tensing of muscles. Suddenly the drac was at her side, swifter even than Faerie speed. There wasn’t any time to plan, to think. Faced with a blur of fangs, green-flame eyes, flashing claws, Matilde did the only thing she could, and lunged with her belt-knife. She felt the little blade graze flesh, heard the drac scream—a high, alien shrilling that burned at her ears and went on and on and on. Green eyes, wide and hating, stared into her own, sharp teeth flashed for her throat—
But then Hauberin shoved the drac aside. Still keening, the dragon-man fell, crumpling bonelessly. Heart racing, Matilde stared, expecting a trick, expecting him to leap up again. But after an eternity of watching, the crumpled figure remained still. Alliar stuck out a wary foot and pushed the body onto its back, and Matilde drew in her breath in a sharp gasp of horror.
The green eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky, their fierceness fled. The flesh had fallen away from the contorted, finely planed face, rigid with agony, leaving it little more than skin stretched tightly over bone.
“Dead . . .” Alliar murmured.
“Iron-poison,” Hauberin said flatly.
Matilde couldn’t bear to look at that agonized mask any longer. “But . . . I only scratched him . . .”
The prince was rigid with horror, eyes wide, dusky skin pale. “It was enough.”
His terror was only just held in check. Matilde swallowed drily, all at once understanding: iron-death was a nightmare of his people—a nightmare come all too real. And such a death could just as easily have been his if her knife had slipped . . . Dear God.
Without warning, Hauberin snagged her wrist with a cold hand, voice taut. “Come, we must go on.”
He led them away so swiftly Matilde and even Alliar could hardly keep up. After a time of being half-dragged through dense underbrush that scratched her skin and tugged painfully at her hair, Matilde gasped out, “Wait! I—You—Stop it!” and planted her feet firmly, pulling the prince to a halt with her. As he stared at her, wild-eyed, she said flatly, “I don’t blame you for being frightened of—of iron-death; it looks like a truly foul thing. But I don’t want to be towed like a reluctant puppy, either!”
Sanity flooded back into the stark eyes. He reddened. “Of course not. Forgive me.” Glancing around, the prince added cajolingly, “Ah, but we’re so close to our goal now. Just a little further.”
It wasn’t quite as close as Matilde would have liked. But all at once the three of them were bursting through a final snarl of bushes to find—
“But this can’t be right!” she protested. “This is where we started!”
To her astonishment, she heard Alliar chuckle. Hauberin grinned at her; though his hair was as wild a tangle as her own, his clothing disheveled, he’d managed to totally regain his self-possession. “Exactly. Or, not quite exactly. Don’t you feel the difference?”
Blinking, Matilde listened to nothing, looked at trees that seemed perfectly the same. But . . . they weren’t. There was the faintest golden haze, the slightest out-of-focus shimmering to everything, as though this wasn’t quite the same world, and she turned back to Hauberin in alarm.
“Ah, you do feel it!” he said. “There’s more Power in you than you want to admit. But what you’re sensing is that Nulle Part is as convoluted as Faerie and as devious as human Realms.”
Alliar nodded. “We couldn’t return to the Gate by which we entered without all that circling about to place us on the . . . mm, the proper arcane level of existence.”
A shrilling of high-pitched laughter sounded from the forest, and Hauberin’s grin broadened. “See? Even the lutin agrees. My, how that little trickster must have enjoyed watching our struggle. It was a ridiculous journey, wasn’t it?”
His smile was infectious. Glancing from prince to wind spirit, Matilde found herself grinning back. “The most ridiculous I’ve ever known. Though I’ve never had such unusual travelling companions. Or such . . . ah . . . entertaining ones!”
“Or I such a brave lady.” Alliar made her a sweeping bow. “You saved my life. Though I doubt,” the being added dryly, “the drac would have actually eaten me. One taste of this pseudo-stuff, and he probably would have spat me out!”
It was too silly a picture. Laughter welled up within her, and Matilde gave up and let it explode. Dear God, dear God, all at once she understood the warmth men felt after a battle, when they found themselves still alive and unharmed: comrades in arms, all differences of rank or gender or race forgotten in the surge of relief and sheer camaraderie. For this one bright moment she was included in the shining circle of the friendship she had so envied.
But it couldn’t last. Abruptly sobered, Matilde knew she would lose this strange, joyous sense of friendship as soon as she returned home. Home to husband. To respectability. To the proper order and way of doing things, with never anything half so dangerous as a mad dash through magical forest with Faerie folk. And for a moment she could have cried aloud for the impending loss of freedom, and shriek like a spoiled child, “No! I don’t want to go back!”
But she could hardly stay here in Nowhere. Engulfed in a sudden flood of guilt, Matilde reminded herself sharply she wasn’t some light, soulless Faerie creature. She was human, and married, and a lady of rank, and there must be no more foolishness.
“You can return us?” she asked quietly, fighting to keep the pain from her voice. “To the exact spot and time we left?”
Hauberin shrugged. “Close enough.”
“Then . . . please, take me home,” Matilde said, and closed her mind to regret.
XVIII
RETURNS AND DEPARTURES
Raimond groaned, aching equally in head, legs and wrists. And he was cold, too, shudderingly cold, and damp. A dank, sour smell filled his nostrils, and after a long, bewildered moment he identified it as that of leaf mold, and opened his eyes to find himself lying in underbrush in a world gone pale gray with morning.
Underbrush? Forest?
Oh, God! All at once he remembered the sorcerer and that glinting sacrificial knife—biting back a whimper, Raimond shrank back into the shielding bushes, heart pounding painfully, expecting to feel a blade come plunging down . . .
But after what seemed an endless wait, nothing happened. No one came looking for him, and Raimond dared straighten, realizing for the first time the gag that had been choking him was down around his neck, leaving his mouth sore but free.
Not that he was about to shout, God’s blood, no, with who knew what foes still lurking. Maybe they were watching him right now! Maybe they were just waiting to see what he would do before they pounced on him and—
No, no, there wasn’t anyone around, he could almost swear it. Raimond swallowed dryly—God, what he wouldn’t have given for a drink!—then touched a cautious tongue to the sore corners of his mouth, wincing at the sharp tang of blood. Warily, he tested the ropes holding his arms and legs, and barely bit back a cry of triumph: the bindings about his arms had come loose.
After a time of desperate contortion, he managed to work his wrists free, trying to ignore the slickness that was almost certainly blood. Ugh, yes, blood it was, as though some great force had torn the skin from them.
Raimond froze, staring wild-eyed into space, suddenly remembering that force, that night gone mad: devil’s work, sorcery flaming into the sky, tearing the darkness asunder, revealing the very heart of Hell—Oh, God, God, the devils had been loose this night, and foremost among them had been the one who’d passed as a man, Hauberin, and the other, the demon that dared wear the shape of Rogier . . .
He wouldn’t let himself think of that just yet. Instead, Raimond busied himself with freeing his legs. As the last of the ropes fell away, he staggered to his feet, wiping his bloody mouth with a bloody hand, glancing wildly around for enemies. The forest about him was torn and battered, tree limbs strewn about as though there had been some terrible storm. A storm of sorcery . . .
But now not a leaf stirred. Raimond licked sore lips again. Maybe, oh maybe all that sorcery had chased everyone away and left him safe . . .
But in those last confused seconds before the world had been torn open, he had heard his brother’s voice, yes, and others with him.
“Gilbert . . .”
Surely, no matter what had happened, his brother would have searched for him. Gilbert wouldn’t have just left him here, bound and alone.
Unless Gilbert . . . had been slain . . . ?
God, what if everyone had been slain? What if Hell had won and the whole world was dead and he was the only one left?
No! That’s impossible!
But what if it was true? Frantic, Raimond burst out into the open, only to stop short at the sight of the looming gray stones.
“Oh, God!”
Human bodies lay crumpled gracelessly askew about the stones as though tossed there by some demonic child. Hands trembling so badly he could barely use them, Raimond forced himself to turn them over, one by one, biting back a whimpering that threatened to turn itself into pure hysterical sobbing. One dead man, two, three . . . Not a one was his brother, not a one—
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