A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  “Ysilar?”

  “My original captor. The sorcerer who dragged me down from the skies and imposed shape on me.” Quickly, staring off into space, Alliar summarized the tale of enslavement and release. “And there you have it,” the being concluded, voice just a bit too casual to be convincing. It was Hauberin who rescued me, who gave me his friendship and taught me to take joy in what I must be. You know, don’t you, that I’ll never be able to thank you properly for the saving of his life.”

  Shaken by the sudden intensity of the fierce golden gaze, Matilde cried, “Oh, what else could I do?”

  There was a long pause. “Lady . . . Matilde . . .” the being said quietly please. “Do not love him.”

  “I . . . don’t,” she murmured, and then, more strongly, “Of course I don’t.”

  “Ah.” Alliar leaned back against a wall with a weary sigh, and Matilde glanced at the being in surprise.

  “I wasn’t sure you ever got tired. Not exhausted, just plain tired.”

  “Oh, I do. Not,” Alliar added, a touch smugly, “as easily as you flesh-and-blood types, of course.”

  Knowing when she was being teased, Matilde kept silent, looking up at the luminous, achingly blue sky. Suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see where she was—in all that time at Hauberin’s bedside, there’d never once been the chance to simply glance out a window—she straightened enough to look over the low railing. And gasped at the beauty before her, the wild, lovely sweep of green fields and forest, the fierce blue towers of distant mountains, all so wondrously radiant with the clear, sunless Faerie light every leaf seemed caught in the very moment of Creation.

  And to Matilde’s utter astonishment, a fierce, terrifying surge of belonging shook her. Somewhere down there was land that was hers, and she ached to find it, to sink her fingers into the soil and feel its Power and make it truly her own—

  God, no, that’s impossible! I’m human, only human!

  Matilde shrank hastily back against the wall, heart pounding so painfully she thought Alliar surely must hear. But the being was watching her, curious, so she babbled out the first thing that came to mind, an inane: “It’s beautiful. But not as strange as I expected.”

  Alliar gave a startled shout of laughter. “ Strange!’ This land of Hauberin’s lies only on the outskirts of strange.” There are places further into Faerie, or further out, near the Edges, that would satisfy any craving for ‘strange’.” Places where rocks float and trees melt and the sky sinks beneath your feet.”

  Matilde shuddered. “No, thank you.”

  “I don’t like that sort of thing, either. Oh, and don’t give me that surprised glance. I’m Air, not Chaos.”

  She really didn’t want that reminder of Alliar’s total alienness just then. Matilde squirmed on the hard stone, trying to get more comfortable, wishing the being had stocked some cushions.

  “Cushions!” she erupted, bursting into laughter as Alliar stared in astonishment. “I’m sitting next to a—a wind spirit on a palace in the middle of Faerie, speaking a language that was put in my brain by magic, I’m feeling ties to the land I can’t possibly have and bearing the seeds of Power I don’t want, and I’m worried about cushions?” The laughter was jarring her, a painful, wracking thing, and Matilde struggled to stop. But there was no stopping, and gradually laughter turned to tears. “I’m a human woman, a married woman,” she gasped out, “married, and my husband’s missing, and haven’t even spared him a thought! That—that other life d-doesn’t seem real, and I—I—I don’t even know who I am anymore! I don’t even know if I’m still me, or—or—”

  Silently, Alliar reached out to enfold her in cool, comforting arms. And if the sleekly muscled chest against which she pressed her face didn’t feel at all human and smelled of nothing but air, just then Matilde didn’t care, sobbing with absolute abandon.

  But after a time, the worst of the storm passed. She realized Alliar was stroking her hair with gentle, asexual, care, sniffed, gulped, and managed to say: “That feels n-nice.”

  “Mm. Hauberin likes it, too.”

  That startled her. She straightened, wiping futilely at her eyes with a hand, and Alliar chuckled. With the air of a conjuror, the being produced a square of cloth from out of a sleeve. Matilde hastily accepted it, drying eyes and nose, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

  Alliar waved a casual hand. “Ah, don’t be. If I could weep, I’d would have been even soggier back there in the bedchamber. Besides, I’ve been expecting something like this from you sooner or later; you’re a brave young woman, my dear Matilde, but you’ve been through an amazing amount of adventure recently.”

  She couldn’t talk about that just yet. Instead, somewhat to her horror, Matilde heard herself say hesitantly, “I . . . uh . . . it’s not really my business, but . . . what you said about stroking Hauberin’s hair—”

  “Oh, Winds, woman, I meant back when he was still a boy. What did you think I meant?”

  Matilde glanced at the sexless figure, remembering how it had seemed perfectly humanly male, wondering if it might also sometimes look perfectly female as well . . . “That . . . you . . . loved him.”

  Alliar blinked in confusion. “I thought we’d established that.”

  “No, I mean . . .”

  She couldn’t quite find a tactful way to word it. There was a long, awkward pause, during which Matilde could feel her cheeks reddening. Then, to her embarrassed horror, Alliar burst into laughter.

  “You mean, are we lovers in the flesh-games way? Oh my dear, sweet, confused Matilde: how? Can you smell yellow? Or hear blue?”

  “I don’t see what—oh. It’s that foreign to you?”

  “It’s that foreign.” The being straightened, head to one side, then grinned. “Well now, Hauberin’s awakening.” Springing up, Alliar offered Matilde a hand. “Come, my fellow former-ainathanach, let’s go greet him.”

  ###

  Charailis moved quietly among the swirl of celebrating courtiers at nightfall, a lovely, tranquil figure in somber blue, moon-silver fall of hair still in its thin lapis circlet. If that circlet chanced to remind some of a crown, remind them how close she stood to the throne, why, so be it.

  But the mind behind the tranquil mask was seething.

  How could Hauberin still be alive? How could that . . . half-blood be actually surviving iron-poisoning? Ae, she had come so close, she had almost felt the silver crown upon her brow . . . Charailis silently chastised herself for foolish hope, foolish anticipation, but the anger remained.

  And if he lives, no, since he lives, where does that leave me?

  As hopeless as Ereledan—no, the woman thought wryly, not quite. Braggart Ereledan hadn’t even the courage to come this far.

  Ah well. The game was lost, at least for now.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t. Charailis smiled slightly, decided at last, subtly pulling Power to her, setting an aura of calm about herself so not even the most skillful could catch the way of her thoughts.

  Hauberin was still weak, after all. It was just possible the fever, no matter what the physicians swore, had damaged his mind. It was just possible that, drained as he must be, he would be unable to wield Power enough to defend himself. Should he, by some strange mischance, have need to do so.

  ###

  The bedroom was larger than any she’d had back in the human Realm, the walls curved and faintly pink, softly luminescent: like sleeping in a giant pink pearl, Matilde mused sleepily. The large arch of a window looked out over land turned coolly mysterious beneath a sky radiant and crowded with stars—the brilliant, many-colored stars of Faerie, glittering with Power and set in patterns strange to her. She should have been afraid, there beneath that alien sky, but there comes a limit to everything, and right now Matilde was just too tired to care about anything much other than that the bed in which she lay (after having been bathed and groomed and cooed over by three friendly little wisps of silver-eyed women-things) was wonderfully soft. And she didn’t have to share it wit
h anyone . . . most particularly not with a husband who had all the warmth and compassion of a log . . .

  ###

  Curled up in a cushioned alcove, Alliar quietly watched the night, golden eyes glazed. More weary of mind and body both than the being would ever have admitted, Alliar was truly glad there wasn’t anything to be done right now. Matilde was tucked away in a cozy bedroom, drifting into dreams. Hauberin, after his brief but blessedly rational waking, was safely asleep once more in the royal chambers, a servant watching over him.

  The being sighed. It would have been nice to be that watcher, just in case; one couldn’t be too careful when Charailis was concerned, now that she’d found royal ambition. But for all that this golden pseudo-body was amazingly resilient, there were limits. Right now, after all that had happened in the past few Faerie-and-mortal days, there was no strength left to it at all.

  The being sagged in the alcove, losing the struggle with awareness. Sighing in surrender, Alliar sank into mind-quiet trance.

  ###

  Hauberin struggled slowly up out of sleep, now nearly awake, now snared by eerie wisps of dream, a nameless sense of peril weighing down his consciousness. Somehow he found his way to the surface, forcing open impossibly heavy eyelids, too drained of strength by that simple act to do more than lie still and try to clear his mind.

  Surely there had been an awakening before this? He thought he could remember Alliar’s face, radiant with joy, and another beside it . . . Matilde? Oh no, surely not. Surely the being wouldn’t have brought her here, out of her rightful Realm.

  Hauberin’s eyelids slid slowly closed again. But that nameless weight of disaster remained. His arm ached, and his throat was uncomfortably dry, and he forced his eyes open once more, looking about for the servant who must surely be nearby.

  A figure stood at the foot of his bed, tall, slim, wrapped in a hooded blue cloak: never a servant. Hauberin made one abortive attempt to rise, then sank back, gasping out, “Who . . . ?”

  “You weren’t meant to wake.” A woman’s voice, so teasingly familiar . . .

  “Charailis,” Hauberin breathed.

  “Charailis,” she agreed quietly, pushing back her hood. “It might be best if you simply drifted back to sleep. There’s no need for you to suffer.”

  “Don’t . . . be so . . . melodramatic,” Hauberin gasped, angry at his voice for betraying his weakness. “How did you . . .”

  “Get in here? Oh, my dear, it was simple. Your people have been celebrating your most miraculous recovery. Their resistance is low: not even your so-proud Kerlaias felt my suggestion-spell; not even he suspected the woman he saw leaving the palace was only air and ice, illusion; not even he suspected the woman who entered here was anyone other than a servant. Enough delay, Hauberin. You haven’t the strength to fight me, or simply call for help.”

  True enough, Hauberin thought darkly.

  In the next instant, he felt the surge of Charailis’ Power, and knew he hadn’t a chance of defending himself.

  ###

  Jarred from sleep, Matilde found herself on her feet, heart pounding painfully, without the faintest idea of where she was or what had awakened her. Hauberin! Hauberin was in dire danger, and as Matilde was surrounded by startled servants crooning at her, trying to coax this bewildering human back to her proper place, she saw and heard and felt nothing but the prince: Oh, I won’t let you die, not now, not after all this! I will not let you die!

  ###

  Alliar uncoiled with serpentine speed and strength, landing lightly on the other side of the room in the one bound, spirit-mind instantly cleared of trance. Matilde?

  Was that Matilde in such fierce distress? And—ae, Hauberin!

  The being raced grimly for the royal chambers.

  ###

  As Charailis’ Power engulfed him, crushing at mind and heart, Hauberin fought back as best he could. The magic was there in his blood, the defensive spells were whole in his brain—but he just didn’t have the strength to use them, and so, struggling for breath, he was going to die . . .

  But a sudden, lightning-sharp touch against his mind roused him, sending new Power, new strength, new life surging into him: borrowed Power, unshaped and raw, from some unknown source, but right then he hardly cared. Too dazed for subtlety, Hauberin hurled magic up about himself in blue fire, Shielding himself with all his renewed will just as Charailis hurled her Power, cold and gray as despair—

  Magics crashed together in one white-hot blast so fierce it destroyed every shadow in the room and blazed out into the night. Terrified, half-blinded, Hauberin lost the edge of his will and felt the Shielding slip.

  But it had held just long enough. Uncontrolled Power surged back like a wave against a rock, recoiling upon the one other living target in the room.

  Charailis stood transfixed for an endless moment, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream as her own Power destroyed her. Then, graceful to the last, her elegant, lifeless body sank slowly to the floor.

  Borrowed strength vanished, Hauberin collapsed back against the pillows, shaking with shock. Whatever Warding spells Charailis had placed upon the room had shattered with her death, and guards came rushing in.

  “You’re . . . a bit . . . late.” Hauberin managed to put enough sarcasm into the gasp to make the abashed Kerlaias wince.

  “My prince!”

  That was Alliar, brusquely shoving guards aside. Supported in the circle of the being’s arms, a slight figure sagged in total exhaustion. Hauberin caught a trace of familiar aura and stared in weary wonder.

  This was the one who had sent him that incredible surge of Power, the one who had saved him once and yet again: Matilde.

  XXIII

  PUZZLES AND PROBLEMS

  Still dazed and uncertain after nearly two days of healing sleep, Matilde stopped in the wide doorway, staring. Beyond lay what could only be the royal study, a light, airy room lined with intricately wrought shelves of wood and silver like branches of a delicate, fantastic forest. A priceless forest: In her Realm, only the wealthy owned more than two or three books—the costly, hand-copied things—but here were so many volumes (copied, no doubt, by magic) she ached with frustration at not being able to read.

  Hauberin, clad in a wine-red robe, a thin silver coronet holding back sleek black hair from a still almost-gaunt face, and a silken sling supporting his wounded arm, was perched in one of the two arched windows, examining a scroll as best he could with only one free hand. He looked so unquestionably royal that Matilde hesitated, suddenly feeling absurdly shy.

  Idiot. He hasn’t changed, even if he’s wearing a crown now.

  Besides, she could hardly go on just standing here like a silly little girl, so Matilde gave a polite cough.

  “Don’t hover in the doorway,” Hauberin said without looking up. “Enter.”

  “Ah . . . it’s me. Matilde. You asked to see me.”

  The dark head jerked up in surprise. Hauberin flashed her a quick, embarrassed smile. “Sorry. My psychic senses are still off a bit.” His eyebrows rose as the language she’d used registered. “They’ve taught you our tongue, I see. Magically, of course.”

  “When I was . . . an . . . when they thought it was necessary.”

  “When you were ainathanach, you mean. I’m sorry about that; I have no idea why I placed that burden on you.”

  A long, awkward silence fell. Then Hauberin gave a sharp little laugh.

  “This is ridiculous. How can we be wary of each other after all we’ve been through?”

  “I . . . never really had a chance to see you as a prince before.”

  “Oh, come, the crown doesn’t change me into a monster, does it?”

  She had to grin. “Hardly. Oh, but how do you feel?”

  “Fragile,” Hauberin admitted, “but viable. Though yes, the arm does still hurt. Iron-wounds, I’m discovering, take a cursedly long time to heal. But at least they will heal, thanks to you. Matilde, you saved my life twice over.”

&
nbsp; She could feel her cheeks reddening. “I couldn’t very well just let you die, could I?”

  “All. Well.” Hauberin glanced down at the scroll he still held, then gave a small, wry laugh, shaking his head. “I keep forgetting I’ve only been away a very short time; I’m always expecting to find piles of work waiting for me.”

  “A short time . . .”

  “Oh, yes. Alliar brought us back here the same day Li and I left.”

  The scroll slipped. Hauberin moved too quickly to catch it, and struck his arm a glancing blow against the wall. Eyes shut, face gone pale, he muttered something short and sharp. “I am forever doing something stupid like that,” he said tightly.

  Not knowing what else to do, Matilde murmured, “That . . . uh . . . word wasn’t part of my language lessons.”

  “Nor is it going to be.” Hauberin opened his eyes, not quite managing a smile. “Forgive me.” The words were just a bit clipped with pain. “We’re a pampered folk, used to healing wounds with just a concentration of will. This nonsense,” he indicated the sling, “is growing . . . tedious. At least Serein had the . . . good taste to wound me twice in the same arm.”

  Hauberin’s voice faltered. Matilde reached out a nervous hand, and the prince deposited the scroll into it. “If you’d just drop this onto the table . . . Thank you.”

  “Are you—”

  “There’s a very pleasant wine in that ewer, with a restorative spell added to it. It might be a nice idea for both of us. If you’d be so kind . . .” He touched his sling. “Pouring is a bit . . . inconvenient just now.”

  Matilde hastily handed him a filled goblet. Hauberin sipped from it in silence. The color slowly returned to his face; after a bit, he saluted her with the goblet. “Kerlein’s potions are a wonder.”