A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  The sorcerer!

  Raimond was halfway back to the shelter of the bushes before he realized that last body had lain just as still as the others. He edged cautiously forward to prod it with a toe. Dead . . . ? Yes. Quite dead.

  “You tried to kill me, you treacherous, base-born little son of a whore! And I’m still alive, and you’re dead!”

  All the terror he’d undergone, all the pain, for this! Raimond rained a sudden frenzy of kicks upon the body, then turned, panting, to snatch a sword from one of the others. He would cut the sorcerer’s treacherous head from his treacherous body!

  But without warning the world crashed open before him. A sudden sharp blast of wind forced him stumbling back, gasping, frantically clawing strands of hair from his eyes. And he saw the devil step forth from empty space, the devil named Hauberin, and with him, his consort: Matilde, his brother’s wife!

  It was beyond bearing. With a shout of terror and rage, Raimond lowered his sword and charged.

  ###

  Hauberin stepped forward out of Nowhere into dazzlingly bright daylight and the sudden, shocking loss of Power the human Realm imposed. Half-blinded, aching from the loss, he heard Alliar’s gasp, blinked frantically to clear his vision—and saw a madman charging him, sword aimed right at his heart!

  The prince threw himself aside, kicking out as he fell, putting all his magic-lost fury into the blow. His foot struck bone; there was a grunt of pain and a crash. He landed, rolled, sprang back to his feet, raging, and found the human struggling back to his, sword clenched in shaking hand. He stumbled towards the prince, and Hauberin laughed savagely. Iron or no, this fool would learn what it meant to attack a prince of—

  But then Matilde cried out, “Raimond!”

  The madman—it was Raimond, by the Powers!—hesitated ever so slightly at the sound of his name, long enough for Alliar to catch him from behind, pinning his arms to his body.

  “No, damn you! Let me go!”

  But Alliar’s hand closed with implacable force about Raimond’s wrist, ignoring the man’s furious oaths. The sword fell with a soft thump to the ground, and the being quickly kicked it away. Gasping, swearing, Raimond fought and squirmed, but Alliar held him helpless as a child in a parent’s arms. Hauberin smiled thinly. Li’s apparently human forms, with their apparently human limitations, were deceptive; the strength of the winds was in those arms. Pinioned, Raimond stared savagely at the prince, gasping out: “Devil! Demon!”

  “He’s not—” Matilde began.

  “And you!” Wild eyes blazed. “You witch! Whore! Lying with—”

  But a firm golden hand over his mouth muffled whatever else Raimond had been about to shriek. Alliar gave the man a stern shake, murmuring as though to a child, “Softly, now. Softly, if you would stay conscious.”

  Raimond tensed, eyes frantic, then all at once sagged submissively in his captor’s grasp.

  Matilde, riding cloak wrapped tightly about herself, was gazing about the glen in horror. “Oh, Hugh . . .” she murmured, almost to herself, “and Jerome, Phillip . . . dead, God rest their souls. But where are the others? And I d-don’t see my lord husband here, either.”

  Barely aware of the baroness’ words, Hauberin said absently, “They probably fled.” How could he think of human matters now? How, when every psychic sense was shouting to him that Serein was gone from here, Serein had escaped?

  But escaped to where? Hauberin knew he should be proud of having returned himself, Alliar and Matilde from Nulle Part without having lost more than a few hours of mortal night and morning. But during those lost hours, who knew now far Serein might have run?

  Raimond was squirming about distractingly, trying to shout out something from behind Alliar’s hand.

  “Let him speak, Li.”

  The being obligingly dropped the gagging hand to let the young man gasp out, “It’s not true. Gilbert wouldn’t have fled! He knew I was here, he—he wouldn’t have abandoned me!”

  “No,” the prince agreed, remembering that meticulous man. “But then, where is he?” He caught Raimond’s sudden start. “You know what happened to your brother, don’t you?”

  “I think . . . dammit, I can’t talk like this. I . . . can’t even breathe.”

  “Don’t crush the man, Li; it isn’t courteous. Raimond, if we let you go, will you speak to us like a civilized man? And not try to cut out my heart?”

  Raimond hesitated, then nodded. Alliar glanced at Hauberin for confirmation, then shrugged and let go.

  For a moment Raimond stood motionless, as though too cowed to move, but Hauberin surprised a sly little sideways glance: the man was trying to find his sword without being too blatant about it.

  “No,” the prince said shortly, and Raimond started guiltily. “You can hunt out your weapon later.”

  The young man glared at that, then suddenly, melodramatically, signed himself, boldly defiant. Hauberin blinked in confusion, then got the point and laughed. “I’m not a Thing; your holy signs don’t hurt me. Now forget this nonsense and tell me what happened here after we . . . all . . . left. Where is Baron Gilbert? And . . . Rogier?”

  “I don’t know. D-dammit, don’t stare at me like that! I really don’t know! You’re the demon, you should know!”

  The prince sighed. “I repeat, I’m not a Thing. And if I knew everything, I’d hardly be wasting time like this, would I? Come, at least tell me if Rogier was acting alone.”

  Raimond hesitated. “No. He wasn’t.”

  “So? Continue.”

  “I . . . didn’t mean for anyone to die. But when the sorcerer gave me a chance to avenge my lord Rogier . . .”

  As Hauberin listened to the tale of petty sorcery and betrayal, Matilde stiffened.

  “Thibault!” she spat. “Of course. If anyone would shelter a traitor for personal gain, it would be he. And if ever there was a man who’d jump at the chance of holding a rival for ransom—he has my husband, my lords, I’m sure of it.”

  “I didn’t see all that happened,” Raimond murmured. “But . . . after Rogier . . . after he betrayed me . . . Yes. He and Baron Thibault almost certainly captured my brother.”

  Matilde glanced from Raimond to Hauberin. “It’s not so bad. Thibault won’t dare harm him, not if it means risking the ransom!”

  “Thibault,” Hauberin reminded her quietly, “has already declared himself a traitor to his liege lord. He was in league with a sorcerer—which dealing, I believe, is what you people call a mortal sin—and with a . . . with Rogier. By now, he’s hardly likely to care about chivalry. The sooner we snatch Gilbert back, the better.”

  He felt Alliar’s confused, “?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t possibly be worrying about the baron!”

  “Now what do you think?” Hauberin threw back his head, questing with more than physical senses, wondering, Serein, kinsman-who-was-dead, where are you . . . ?

  He froze. There was something . . . the faintest of intangible threads . . . “But where the baron is,” the prince continued silently, “Serein almost certainly is, too. And oh, my friend, my cousin is not going to escape me again.”

  Hauberin straightened in sudden alarm. “Hoofbeats.” He melted into the underbrush, closely followed by Matilde and Alliar, the later pulling the wild-eyed Raimond along. They waited in tense silence till the riders, disheveled men-at-arms, broke into the open, horses picking their way over the fallen branches with delicate care. Matilde stared at the riders for a moment then exclaimed, “It’s all right, they’re our men.”

  She stepped out of hiding before Hauberin—thinking of treachery—could stop her. To his relief, the guards hastily dismounted, bowing to her. “My lady! Now God be praised, you’re safe.”

  “What of my husband? Is the baron . . . ?” The guards exchanged nervous glances. “Lady,” one began reluctantly, “we haven’t seen him since . . . since that terrible sorcery hurled us all away.” The man flinched at the sight of the dead and hastily crossed himself
, correcting softly, “Almost all of us, God rest ’em. After a long chase, we managed to catch our horses—poor beasts were maddened with fright—and hurried back here . . .” His voice trailed off, his eyes widening as Hauberin moved to join Matilde. “My lord.” The tone was almost reverential. “Forgive me, my lord, we had no idea who you were.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  “Why, a wizard, my lord! Battling the evil sorcerer who’d attacked us.”

  Hauberin just barely managed to turn his astonished laugh into a cough. Was that what they’d thought they’d seen? If so, he wasn’t about to dissuade them! “It seems that this Thibault really does have your baron. Eh, wait! The man’s certainly had time to get back to his castle by now. Were you planning on storming the battlements with only the . . . ah . . . ten of you?”

  And in the process alerting Serein—Damn. There had to be a way into that castle without Serein’s knowledge . . .

  Of course, there was this advantage: no matter what weird ability the man might have learned to let him switch bodies, in this Realm his Faerie magics—particularly now that it was a human body he wore—could only be as weakened as Hauberin’s own. Especially if he was in Thibault’s castle, virtually ringed round with iron . . .

  The prince paused thoughtfully, glancing about at the company, then smiled. “Now, of course you, Raimond, must go home—no, don’t argue, man! Think! If Thibault captures you, he has both Gilbert and Gilbert’s only heir. Go home and wait. And take these men with you to make sure you get there.”

  “First,” murmured Matilde, “we must bury the dead.”

  “Not here, lady, surely!” a guard protested. “This is a heathen place.”

  Hauberin stirred impatiently. “What difference can it possibly make to the dead?” He frowned at the horrified looks he received and added sharply, “Take them with you, then. Only go!”

  “Well and good,” Raimond snapped, “but what about you? What are you planning to do?”

  “Why, meet with Thibault, of course—”

  “And betray us!”

  “And remind him,” Hauberin continued smoothly, “that we—particularly you—know all about his treasonous connivings. With you safely out of his hands, why, what can he do but yield as gracefully as possible? Come, two of you ride double. Well need the mounts.”

  A burst of panicky thought from Alliar: “You can’t be meaning to rush boldly into the enemy camp!”

  “Oh Li, think. A chance to cut off both Serein and his curse in one—how can I not risk it?”

  “You aren’t doing this strictly from chivalry, are you?” Matilde murmured and Hauberin flashed her a quick, sardonic smile and an honest, “Hardly. Thibault’s castle lies in that direction, I’d guess?”

  “How would you know . . . ah, yes. Your cousin must be there, too.” The woman bit her lip. “You’ll take Alliar with you, of course. And—me.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. What, are you worried about? My reputation?” she mocked. “Surely that’s been damaged enough already. Look you, maybe it wasn’t one of your wondrous Faerie love-matches, but Gilbert is my husband! I’m not going to wait home like some poor little creature out of the songs to find out if I’ve become a widow. Besides,” Matilde added fiercely, eyes glinting with pain, “I’m not an heir, only a wife, and possibly a—a barren one, too. Thibault won’t dare harm me, but I don’t make much of a bargaining counter, either. Oh come, we’ve delayed long enough!”

  Hauberin had been thinking more of Serein than the merely human Thibault. But Matilde was a free, rational being. And Serein would be just as dangerous whether or not she was there. The prince held up a hand in surrender. “So be it.”

  ###

  They rode that day into night, hardly speaking, and made such camp as they could, hardly speaking. Sitting before their small fire, Hauberin glanced at Matilde, who was huddled into herself, eyes shadowed and remote.

  “Lady? Are you well?”

  She nodded curtly.

  “Ah come, what is it? You’ve not spoken more than a word all day. This is surely more than mere worry for your husband.”

  She looked at him. “They didn’t mean a thing to you, did they?”

  “They? Who? Ah, those dead men?” Hauberin held up a helpless hand. “What should they mean? I never knew them.”

  “You killed them!”

  “Oh, I did not! Look you, don’t try to make me into one of your guilt-ridden human knights. Yes, I am sorry for the waste of life, but those three were merely unfortunate enough to be in the way of erupting Power, and there’s the end of it.”

  “You would have had them buried in unhallowed ground.”

  “Unhallowed.” Hauberin considered the word for a time, rolling it about in his mind, hunting its meaning. “Unclean, you mean?” He paused again, considering. “Unsacred, because it wasn’t within the boundaries of one of your churches? How absurd!”

  “Absurd!”

  “Lady, the earth is itself incredibly Powerful, far and far removed from any petty little mortal ideas of good or evil. Whatever foulness human’s work may leave a shadow on the surface, may even stain the soil, but they cannot possibly change its inner nature. The earth cannot be unclean.”

  Matilde was studying him quizzically. “You really are alien, aren’t you?” she murmured, and shuddered.

  At a loss, Hauberin glanced at Alliar, who sat half in shadow, a golden statue with glowing golden eyes, and asked, “You’re not going to help me out of this, are you?”

  “How? If you’re alien to her right now, then I am doubly so.”

  Hauberin sighed and turned back to Matilde. “Poor lady. You’re very weary, aren’t you?”

  “How should I not be?”

  “I . . . know a simple spell to banish fatigue; I’ve just used it on myself and—”

  “No!” she erupted. “No spells! No magic!”

  “But—”

  “It’s magic killed those men, magic that trapped my husband, magic that—that might even have already slain—Oh God!” Matilde sat for a long time with head buried in hands, then slowly straightened, eyes haunted. “No magic,” she repeated softly. “Just . . . let me be.”

  Matilde turned her back on him, curling up in her cloak. Hauberin looked across her huddled form, and started.

  There, barely to be seen in shadow, stood a lutin. Whether it was the same sprite from Nulle Part, Hauberin had no way of knowing; the creatures had as many shapes as whims.

  “Small one?” he murmured in the Faerie tongue. “What would you?”

  The lutin blinked at the sound of the language, but said nothing and did nothing but study him a long, silent while, eyes glittering in the night. Then, without warning, small, sharp teeth flashed in a quick smile and the lutin was gone.

  “Now, what was that all about?” Alliar asked silently.

  Hauberin shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe it was planning a prank. Or maybe the thing was simply curious.” The prince glanced down at the sleeping Matilde and laughed without sound. No magic, eh? he thought. I’m sorry, lady, but that hardly seems likely.

  XIX

  DISCOVERIES

  The morning brought no strangeness with it; the lutin apparently had been nothing worse than curious. They ate and smoothed out their dress as best as possible, and rode on their way, and if Matilde remained remote, Hauberin told himself she had, after all, undergone a good deal recently, particularly for a human, and let it pass.

  Baron Thibault’s lands looked, Hauberin mused, unkept; the hedges just a bit too overgrown, the growing crops just a little too weed-filled. What few peasants they passed in the full day of riding were sullen, barely glancing at them.

  Not that we’re such elegant creatures by now. What I’d give for a change of clothing. And a long, long bath.

  As much wish for a swift, happy return to Faerie. And an equally swift end to Serein and his curse.

  Thibault’s squat gray castle, an ugly, unpoetic thing outlined again
st the golden afternoon light, was every bit as sloppy as his lands. Frowning, Hauberin noted vines on the outer walls—a lovely ladder for invaders—and hints of crumbling mortar and chipped stone. Unlike Baron Gilbert’s fortress, which had depended on its hilltop setting for additional security, this castle’s entranceway was protected by a drawn-up wooden bridge flanked by heavy watchtowers and surrounded by a stagnant ring of water (Hauberin’s memory suddenly supplied the missing word, “moat”) half-hidden by a mass of water lilies; when the wind shifted, such a reek of decaying vegetation rolled out from it the prince nearly gagged.

  “Lazy housekeeping,” Alliar murmured.

  Also, Hauberin thought fastidiously, an effective barrier: who would want to swim across that foulness? He sat his horse in silence for a time, sending out a delicate thread of psychic sense, searching . . . wondering if his cousin might not be doing the exact same thing. There . . . no . . . yes . . . ah, he couldn’t be sure, not with all that stone and iron interfering. At least it meant Serein couldn’t sense him, either.

  “Time to raise our treaty flag,” he said.

  With a wry grin, Alliar lifted the sorry thing—a scrap of a not-very-white surcoat impaled on a branch—and called out in a voice mighty as a storm wind; “Ho, the castle!”

  A startled face appeared in a watchtower window. A voice called down, predictably, “Who goes there?”

  Before Alliar could answer, Matilde stood in the stirrups and shouted, clear as a war trumpet, “I am Baroness Matilde, wife to Baron Gilbert de Bouvain. Tell your master I have come to speak with him.”

  “My lady—”

  “Now!”

  The face hastily vanished.

  And, a short time later, the drawbridge came creaking its slow way down. As an obsequious man-servant ushered them into the castle, Hauberin glanced admiringly at Matilde. Even in this human Realm, honesty could sometimes prove a most effective tool!