A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  ###

  The vase was an ancient, delicate, lovely thing, so finely carved the light shone through its gleaming white sides. But Charailis, noble lady, ambitious lady, let it fall, unheeding, standing in stunned silence: lovely pale stone woman with pale silver hair.

  Dying . . . Hauberin, dying . . .

  She broke suddenly into frenzied life, catching the reed-slim servant (not-man, not-cat, finely carved and fragile as the vase) in so sharp a grip her nails cut into the thin arm and the servant hissed in pain. Charailis loosed her grip only slightly, insisting, “Are you sure of this?”

  “Ah, lady, so very sure. All the royal castle mourning is, even while the poor, ill prince still breathes. Please, lady, if you break me, I cannot serve.”

  Charailis absently released it. A thin pink tongue briefly caressed the nail marks, then the servant added thoughtfully, “Iron-poisoning, they say.”

  The woman tensed, dismissing the servant with an autocratic wave.

  Iron-poisoning. She shuddered delicately. Now, how could Hauberin have managed that? From wandering in other Realms like his fool of a father? If he knew his father’s travel-spell, he could have been gone countless mortal days within a single Faerie afternoon. Long enough to find that fatal metal and—no matter. He had named no heir. And with Serein already dead . . .

  Charailis stooped to pick up the shards of vase, then paused. Slowly, languorously, she smiled, and began plans for a visit. A royal visit.

  ###

  Ereledan, strong form clad in plain leather armor, red hair swirling about his face as he stamped and fought his way across the smooth rooftop, froze in the middle of a parry, so abruptly his sleekly muscled fencing partner—who was also his bedmate of the moment—only barely managed not to stab him with the unbated swords they were using.

  “Dammit, man, I nearly gutted you just then!”

  Ereledan ignored her. Normally he rather enjoyed their game of common soldier, common mate, particularly since their fencing bouts usually ended with equally violent bouts of another kind (powerful Listel with her crown of bright blonde braids had such a fine command of human profanity he suspected she’d once actually taken a human soldier for lover), but now he absently waved her away, barely hearing Listel’s anger at being dismissed like a servant, and summoned the man-slave he’d just heard gossiping to a fellow.

  “Speak,” he commanded and listened impassively, then sent the slave on his way with a Power-enhanced blow as punishment for gossiping. And only the clenching of Ereledan’s fists revealed his shock.

  Hauberin dying of iron-poisoning. And leaving no heir.

  Ereledan turned sharply to command his slaves to ready their master for his journey—

  Powers, no! He dare not visit the royal palace, not just yet. His mind had been reassuringly clear of late, but he still didn’t know what had caused those frightening mental lapses: attacking the prince, acting the fool before his cousins . . . Ereledan swore. What if he went empty-witted before all that noble company? Worse, what if he suddenly, helplessly, turned violent?

  Besides, Ereledan told himself hastily, to appear too suddenly was to cast doubts in noble minds. It wasn’t as though he was afraid, of course not, it was just that they trusted him little enough as it was. If they thought he’d had a hand in their prince’s death . . .

  No, indeed. He would wait. Hauberin could not possibly live much longer. And when he died, when it came down to a choice between hot-blooded Ereledan or chill, passionless, boring Charailis, well, there was no doubt at all which one of them would wind up on the throne!

  ###

  Ah, he burned, he burned . . .

  Someone was calling him, mocking him, and Hauberin, wandering blindly through the red-mist corridors of his fever-dreams, turned this way and that, aching with every move, yet saw no one.

  “Who are you?” he called out at last. “Where?”

  “Where? Here. Who? Your enemy.”

  Serein? the prince wondered vaguely. No. That could never be Serein’s voice, no matter what shape he wore. There was a strangeness behind it, an eerie, hating, chaos-wild feel of the Outer Dark—“Who are you?” Hauberin shouted. “Show yourself!”

  “Oh, no,” the voice taunted. “You shall never see me. None of your family ever has. Not your mother, not even your father, they never knew the shape of their slayer.”

  And in the fever-dream, it seemed very easy to accept: “You killed them!”

  “Why, what a clever little thing it is.” Mockery hot as the fever-flames echoed in the words. “Oh, yes. Yes. They are dead, and you shall die, and the last of your line with you.”

  “Murderer! Coward!”

  “Brave names, little one, helpless, dying little one.”

  “I will not die! Hear me, murderer, you shall not kill me! You shall not kill me!”

  ###

  “You shall not kill me!”

  Matilde awoke with a start from where she’d fallen at one side of the bed, staring across at the equally startled Alliar, wondering wildly who had shouted.

  Ah, no. It hadn’t been a shout, only a fevered murmur, magnified by her groggy mind. Hauberin was still alive, still fighting. But now much longer could he endure, poor, exhausted, fever-racked man? Matilde had lost all track of time: now and again she’d seen the physicians drain and cleanse the iron-wound (dead tissue sloughing away at every treatment till at last only healthy flesh remained); now and again quiet nobles had filed in and out, honoring their prince with intricate little bows, blatantly ignoring the human at his bedside; now and again servants had brought her food, and she’d eaten without tasting a thing, clean clothing, and she’d dressed without noting what she wore. There had been brief times away from the bedside for bathing and tending her body’s needs, but they’d hardly seemed significant. Matilde accepted dully that the glamor in Faerie’s very air might have enchanted her, or mere human shock overwhelmed her mind, but for all she knew Hauberin’s ordeal could already have lasted a day or a week.

  Ah well, she was hardly going to complain. Hauberin’s state was far worse than hers. Matilde reached out a hand to stroke his cheek with weary tenderness, feeling the unabated heat, and winced. If he was a human, she would be worrying by now that such intense fever would damage his mind—

  Wait. Matilde prodded her groggy mind, knowing she was missing something vital . . . he was a human . . .

  “Oh, God, of course!” Matilde struggled to her feet, calling out, “Physicians! Where are you?”

  They were almost instantly at her side, hissing at her to be quiet.

  “I can’t be quiet! You’re killing him!”

  “The human has gone mad,” one of the men muttered, such contempt dripping in his words that Matilde had to clamp down on her lip with her teeth to keep from retorting; losing her temper wasn’t going to help Hauberin.

  “Look you,” she said as carefully as she could, “I’m not blaming you for being so terrified of iron-death; I’ve seen it happen, and it’s a . . . a horrible thing. But I am blaming you for being so frightened you forgot basic medicine!”

  “Had we, indeed?” the blue-haired woman purred, very softly. “And how would the so-wise human child tutor us?”

  “Ah, well . . .” Matilde stared into the chill, alien eyes, then hastily looked away. “The trouble is that you’re forgetting something. We’re all tired; I nearly forgot it. I’m . . . not trying to belittle your prince. But he has two . . . ah . . . heritages, not just one: he’s half-human—”

  “What a clever little girl it is.”

  “—and it’s the human blood you so despise,” Matilde finished hotly, “that’s resisting the iron-poisoning!”

  She saw the faintest shock of surprise cross the elegant faces. They plainly hadn’t even considered it; the court had, after all, had years to put the embarrassment of Hauberin’s mixed blood out of their minds.

  Almost too successfully. Matilde hurried on before anyone could stop her, “But even human blood
isn’t going to save him if you don’t break that fever quickly.”

  No human could have accepted a new situation so swiftly, without a word of insulted argument. “Exactly,” the blue-haired woman agreed. And if she raged at Matilde, the mere human, for pointing out her error, nothing of it showed in voice or face.

  The physicians waved Matilde and Alliar away, then murmured a series of twisting spell-syllables. A rush of Power followed, filling the room with blue-white light and cold, such sudden cold that Matilde gasped, then coughed as the chill air bit at her lungs.

  Dear God, they’re going to freeze him alive!

  Shuddering, she huddled next to Alliar—whose naturally chill skin wasn’t much shelter. Surely the physicians had lost control of their magic. Surely this ordeal-by-cold was never going to end . . .

  But then the blue-haired woman was snapping out sharp Words, and almost as suddenly as they’d been conjured, the intense cold and blue-white glare were gone. Half-frozen, Matilde winced to see Hauberin lying deathly still, hardly seeming to breathe. Dear God, had the sudden shock of cold stopped his heart . . . ?

  “No . . .” Alliar moaned, rushing forward to snatch up the prince’s hand. But then the being sank down on the edge of the bed with a small, shaken laugh. Matilde warily followed, touching a hand to Hauberin’s face, letting out her breath in a long sigh to find his forehead normally cool and damp.

  “It worked,” the being murmured. “The fever’s broken.”

  Suddenly Matilde’s legs wouldn’t hold her. Barely noticing the physicians’ grudging but genuine bows, she collapsed on the bed’s other edge.

  There between Matilde and Alliar, unaware of their giddy, exhausted grins, Hauberin had fallen into a deep, healing sleep.

  XXII

  ROYAL EXECUTION

  How word of their prince’s survival had reached so many people so quickly, Matilde couldn’t even begin to guess. But as Hauberin, no longer plagued by even the slightest touch of fever, slept, not even stirring when wary servants changed the perspiration-soaked bedding about him, a crowd of nobles came swarming in, silent as so many sleek cats but with their mood changing with Faerie swiftness from deepest dejection to wildest joy. Though they had the sense and good taste not to press in on the royal bed itself (there were guards among that crowd to keep things that way), Matilde found herself engulfed in a whirlwind of color, catching quick, dizzying glimpses of narrow, elegant faces, glinting green eyes, of tall, supple figures in robes of more fabrics and in more shades than she could name. Bits of dialogue filled her ears:

  “Who would have thought it: a human ainathanach?”

  “Why, she looks almost . . . civilized.”

  “Only a human. But that flame-hair is lovely.”

  “Red as Ereledan’s hair.”

  “Ah, Ereledan. Where is he?”

  “Home. All bluster, no action, our brave flame-hair.”

  And, “Flame-hair,” purred a voice behind Matilde.

  It took her a moment to realize that it was she being addressed, not the mysterious Ereledan. A hand on her shoulder made her turn, staring up in startled wonder into a pair of lazy green eyes set aslant in a narrow, sensual male face, ageless as were all the faces there, exquisitely framed by straight, sleek hair of the palest gold. But a touch of careless cruelty hinted in the slight smile, a hint of, What amuses me, I take in those glowing eyes, enough to destroy any desire his exotic beauty might have roused.

  “Pretty human,” he murmured, reaching out a long-fingered hand to caress her hair, and Matilde hastily pulled back, saying, “Your pardon, my lord.”

  She turned away as quickly as she could without seeming rude, trying to find her way through the crowd—only to find her way blocked by a second man, tall, golden, glorious. His slanted, sapphire-dark eyes were just as casually ruthless as the first man’s had been, and when he whispered, “Pretty flame-hair, come and play with me,” she could only stammer out, “N-No!” and turn to flee without thinking of rudeness. A chuckle sounded behind her, and a hand brushed her hair. Without looking back, Matilde knocked it away, panic churning within her. Dear God, she had to get out of here!

  A cool hand closed about her own. At the end of endurance, she whirled to fight.

  “Ah, the children have been pestering you,” said a quiet, amused voice.

  “Alliar!”

  “Don’t let the idle creatures frighten you; they would never dare harm someone under the prince’s protection. Don’t courtiers in your own Realm play such games?”

  Matilde remembered her one brief visit to the royal court in Paris, and suddenly she didn’t know if she wanted to curse or simply sit down and weep like a too-weary child. “Yes.”

  “Well, then. Hauberin isn’t likely to wake for some time, even with this crowd here. Want to escape?”

  She gave the being a heartfelt nod. But as they started forward, Matilde came face to face with so exquisite a woman she stopped short, staring openly. Faerie-ageless, coolly elegant in a simple gown of somber blue, the woman was tall and slim just to the point of gauntness, with the clear, pale, flawless skin that seemed a Faerie characteristic, her long, straight fall of silvery hair held back from the high, fine bones of her face by a thin lapis coronet. Eyes pale blue as shadowed ice studied Matilde, analyzing this interloping human, and Matilde, determined not to be outdone, stared right back.

  And for an instant she saw behind the cool facade . . . for an instant she, too, ached with the sudden emptiness, the endless tedium of long, long life with nothing of purpose to fill it . . . Terrified, Matilde began to stammer out something, she didn’t know what, words of pity, perhaps—

  But then Alliar stepped smoothly between them, the very essence of courtesy in silken tunic and hose, and the spell was broken. “My lady Charailis,” the being said with a slight, formal bow.

  “Alliar.” The woman’s dip of the head was just as formal.

  “Now, what brings you here, lady?” Though the being’s tone was casual, Alliar’s smile was dagger-sharp. “Hope, perhaps, of finding our good prince dead?”

  “Iron-poisoning is a cruel death,” the lady answered smoothly, eyes shadowed by long, pale lashes. “I would not wish it on anyone.”

  “Even someone who stood between you and the throne?”

  “Even so.”

  The tension between them was a very real thing. Matilde said uneasily, “Alliar . . .”

  “Ah, yes.” Alliar bowed shortly to Lady Charailis and took Matilde’s arm. “Let us leave this lady to her thoughts.”

  “Who was that?” Matilde whispered as they made their way through the crowd.

  “A challenger. One who, out of boredom, no doubt, has recently discovered royal ambition. One who,” the being added with quiet anger, “had Hauberin not survived, just might have legally gained the throne. Though she shall not have Hauberin or his throne if I have any say in the matter.”

  As though by accident, their path had brought them to the side of a tall, sharp-faced man, eyes and hair radiant blue; Matilde would have named him for a warrior, and a leader of warriors, even without the silver-hilted sword at his side.

  “Ah, Kerlaias,” Alliar said cheerfully, “allow me to introduce my former fellow-ainathanach. Matilde, this is Kerlaias, Captain of the Royal Guard.”

  Puzzled, Matilde curtseyed politely, and received Kerlaias’ curt bow in return. “What do you want, Alliar?” the warrior asked bluntly, the slightest hint of contempt for this not-Faerie being in his eyes.

  “Oh wise Kerlaias, so quick to come to the point.” The slightest touch of mockery tinged Alliar’s voice in return. “Have you seen our lovely Charailis wandering about, my friend? Are you keeping a careful eye on the lady? ‘

  “I’m not a fool, spirit. Of course I am.”

  “Of course you are,” echoed Alliar, smiling sweetly. Taking Matilde’s arm once more, the being led her away. But once they were out of Kerlaias’ sight, Alliar let out pent-up breath in a gusty sigh. “I hate pl
aying these idiotic court games,” the being muttered. “Ae, I’ve done all I can for now. Hauberin will be safe with this crowd to guard him. Come, let us, by all means, get away from here.”

  But Matilde winced when she saw where she was being led. “Oh no, Alliar, not out a window. Not more climbing.”

  Poised on the windowsill like a misplaced angelic statue, the being smiled sympathetically. “Just a bit, brave lady. And then nobody will bother us for a time. Come, trust me. Don’t look out or down.”

  Her green silk gown and slippers were hardly meant for climbing, but . . . ah well, she’d risk it. Alliar’s grip was reassuringly firm as the being murmured, “That’s right, out on this ledge. Now, turn to your left and jump. Don’t fear; I’ll catch you.”

  She did, blindly, Alliar did, confidently, and Matilde found herself in a flat little stone rectangle, formed by the meeting of two walls and a tower on three sides and a low edging of balustrade on the fourth. It was just wide and deep enough for two people—or beings—to sit in comfort, and Matilde gratefully sat.

  “This is one of my hiding places,” the being said lightly. “I have about a dozen scattered here and there. The various royal architects who worked on the palace over the eons, bless their devious minds, built it full of odd angles and niches.”

  “Why would you need to hide . . .” But then Matilde glimpsed the wise, wild, sad eyes. “Oh. We . . . ah . . . flesh-and-blood people must madden you.”

  A shrug, a smile. “Sometimes.”

  “You . . . can’t be freed?”

  “Why lady,” Alliar said, a touch too brightly, “do you see any chains binding me? Surely I am free.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Ach, I know. And no, the spell on me seems totally, irrevocably unbreakable. Ysilar—damn his mad self to the Outer Dark—would probably be delighted if he knew.”