A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  No! Not against something so alien! The spell would fatally recoil onto the flesh-and-blood.

  But the damned thing is still trapped, still mortal, so . . .

  Hauberin charged his foe, head down, colliding with Gilbert’s body with an impact that should have hurled it right off the mountain. But even in its mortal trap, the Other was far too strong for any one man. A backhanded slap sent Hauberin staggering back against a boulder, breath slammed from him. Before he could defend himself, the Other grabbed him off his feet as though he was weightless. For one dizzy moment, Hauberin saw a blur of empty space, mountains, the long, long drop to the valley below and a river that looked like a thin silver ribbon, then the Other threw him down at its feet with bruising force, nonvoice shrieking in an ecstasy of triumph, *Fool, fool, this one cannot be hurt by you! This one cannot be slain by anyone of mortal birth!*

  Inhumanly strong hands closed about his throat. Choking, dying, Hauberin heard a fierce, joyous, despairing voice cry, “Oh well, I suppose this is my job, then!”

  “Alliar, no!” the prince gasped out.

  Swifter than any of mortal birth, the wind spirit surged forward, crashing into the Other, sending them both plummeting off the mountain.

  “Alliar!”

  Hauberin shot out a frantic hand—

  But it closed only on empty space.

  XXIX

  REVENANT

  Hauberin had no memory of having buried the dead (Ereledan alone; the river far below had, mercifully, washed away the others) or returned the living to his palace. He accepted the commiserations of friends and courtiers without emotion; there was no room in his numb mind yet for grief.

  Only one thing was clear: he must destroy his father’s spell. Alone in his chambers, he took it apart, syllable by syllable (refusing to let himself remember the first time he had used it, with Alliar so nervously peering over his shoulder) and, syllable by syllable negated it, banishing each fragment from his memory as he erased it from parchment. With the erasure of the final spell-shard, there was the sudden sense of a distant door irrevocably, safely, shutting, and Hauberin sat for a time with head in hands, too drained to think.

  But then the prince straightened. Oh, Powers, he’d forgotten about Moonflame and Matilde! He’d stranded them here without a thought. Matilde was off seeing to her father’s estate; Hauberin had thought giving her something positive to do might help her over the shock of double bereavement. But Moonflame was still in the palace, and the prince asked to see him.

  “Grandfather,” Hauberin began uncertainly, “I . . .”

  “Closed the Gate permanently. I know, I felt it.”

  “But—”

  “No, dearheart, you haven’t trapped me.” Moonflame’s smile was gentle. “We desert folk aren’t quite like you of green Faerie; with us, peri calls always to peri. I don’t need a formal Gate. All I need do to find a way home is . . . listen.”

  “You miss that home very much, don’t you?”

  Moonflame hesitated. “I didn’t want to bother you with it, not with your friend’s death so fresh in your mind, but . . . I’m sorry, yes. This land of yours is very beautiful but it could never be mine. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy seeing my daughter’s son in his rightful place on the throne. And it also doesn’t mean I can’t come calling on said grandson from time to time. If he’ll allow it.”

  Hauberin had to smile. “Oh, of course. You’ll always be welcome.”

  “Then,” Moonflame said, smiling as well and bowing his most intricate and formal bow, “I shall not say goodbye, only farewell for now.”

  ###

  “Hauberin?”

  The prince started, looking up from the scroll on which he’d been trying without success to concentrate. “Matilde.”

  She was dressed in a gown of Faerie design dyed black in human mourning style; her hair was at last free of those restrictive braids, streaming gloriously down her back, but its brightness was covered by a black silk scarf. Her face was drawn with grief, her eyes shadowed. And, Hauberin thought with a stab of pain, she had never looked so beautiful.

  “They told me you were out here on your terrace,” she said, “and that I was free to enter.”

  “Yes. Matilde . . . how are you managing?”

  “I don’t know yet. Too much has happened too swiftly. The moment I set foot on Erele—on my—my father’s lands, I realized I’d found my own heartland, the place where I belong. And that was wonderful. But at the same time . . .” Matilde turned away, staring out over the fertile green fields to the mountains beyond. “I can’t truly mourn my father; I never had a chance to know him. But Gilbert . . . I never really loved him, I won’t lie about that now. But he—he was a good man, he didn’t deserve to die like that, alone, unshriven . . .”

  “The Powers won’t mind.”

  She glanced at him. “Your people don’t have any churches, do they?”

  He waved a hand at the beauty before them. “When we have that? Why insult the Powers with something artificial?”

  “But I . . . ah . . . never hear anyone call on Holy Names.”

  “By now you should know we never toy with Names of Power. That doesn’t mean we don’t have our own forms of worship. But you didn’t come here to discuss religion.”

  “No. I . . . it’s . . . oh, Hauberin, I’m so sorry about Alliar.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “I—I wish there was something sensible I could say.” She hesitated. “At least now—”

  “If you’re going to say, ‘Now Alliar’s free,’ please don’t.”

  “But—”

  “If I knew for certain Li was free and happy, believe me, I would rejoice. But I don’t know!” Hauberin turned savagely to her. “Because of that thrice-damned sorcerer thrice-damned spell, a violent death such as Alliar faced might not have meant freedom, but total obliteration! And I . . . I’m sorry,” he added, seeing her horror, “I didn’t mean to put that weight on you.” Hauberin breathed deeply, trying to regain control. “Matilde,” he said softly, “I’m afraid I have something else to tell you. I’ll be blunt: the Gate back to your Realm is closed. Forever.” The prince hesitated, hunting in vain for comforting words. “Moonflame couldn’t take you back with him; since you haven’t a drop of peri blood, he assured me the transition would be fatal. I . . . forgive me. I can’t return you to your native land.”

  But she didn’t even flinch. “Weren’t you listening to me?” Matilde asked gently. “I don’t want to go back there; I don’t belong there anymore. Hauberin, my land is here.”

  ###

  The slow days passed. Hauberin, to all outward seeming, took up his fife once more, sitting in court, settling what needed to be settled. Matilde, formally ceded the late Lord of Llyrh’s lands and title after one of those sessions, was, he knew, settling into Faerie with wary joy, chattering with Aydris as though they were sisters of one birth and charming his people, learning the forms and strengths of her Power, even working her first careful healing spells under Lady Kerlein’s haughty supervision. With all three possible rivals for the throne dead, the land and court were at peace.

  But, alone in his chambers, Hauberin, unable to find relief in tears for all his bitter loneliness, mourned for his lost friend as for a brother.

  A sudden voice asked, “Hauberin?”

  The prince looked up, startled at this invasion of privacy. And then he was flattening himself against the far wall without realized he’d moved, staring out at this—this apparition, this seeming of—Oh, Powers, no, it was impossible. Panic-stricken, Hauberin rummaged through his memory for a spell of banishment, sure his mind had finally given way and—

  “Oh Winds,” the apparition said, and darted forward to catch him firmly by the arm. “Now, does that feel like a ghost?”

  The hand was cool but undeniably solid. “Alliar . . . ?”

  “No, you are not hallucinating, and yes, I really am here. Come, sit befor
e you fall.”

  “But you—I saw you—”

  “I . . . think I really did . . . die,” the being said hesitantly. “I know the Other did.”

  “Of course it died; it was still mortal when it fell. Never mind that now. What happened to you?”

  “I’m not sure. I remember falling, and then . . .” Alliar shrugged helplessly. “It’s the first time I actually lost consciousness. Now that, you know, is a truly bizarre sensation. I don’t see how you flesh-and-blood folk stand it every night.”

  Hauberin groaned. “Now I know it’s you. Alliar, please, what happened?”

  “Death or whatever it was apparently shattered the sorcerer’s spell. The next thing I knew, I was free of solidity, whirling up into the sky. And oh, it was glorious for a time . . .”

  “But you returned.”

  “Ah. Well. You see, I’ve been tangible too long. I’ve learned too much of flesh-and-blood emotions, and . . . Ah, I never was able to put this into easy words. Hauberin, wind spirits, true wind spirits, have no sense of I, no real understanding of the concept. They’re totally boundless, incorporeal in a way you’d find terrifying. But as Alliar, as myself, I’ve gained too true a personality. After a time I found myself longing for a body. And that was when I discovered Ysilar’s spell wasn’t quite broken after all. Just as he’d done to me, I used it to build myself a body out of motes of light and matter.”

  “Alliar . . .”

  “Winds, don’t feel sorry for me! You’re missing my point: this time I wasn’t forced to do anything. I freely chose to be Alliar again. And now that it’s totally my choice, I realize that I like being Alliar. I suppose,” the being added smugly, “that means you’re stuck with me.”

  There had been too many shocks in too short a span. Overwhelmed, Hauberin let out a joyous whoop of a laugh and threw himself into his friend’s embrace. There, to his mortification, he felt the long-postponed tears finally starting. Alliar said nothing, only held him patiently, pretending not to notice, till the prince had recovered.

  “Sit,” the being commanded. “The wine’s still kept in this cabinet? Ah, yes.”

  Alliar filled two goblets and handed Hauberin one. They hesitated, then clinked goblets in the human style, sipped, and burst into laughter.

  “Now,” said the being like a good gossip once they had settled back into comfortable quiet, “what about you and Matilde? Is there anything between you two?”

  Hauberin, about to deny it, stopped short, realizing with a shock that Matilde had completed her human rites of mourning some time back. She was quite honorably single by anyone’s standards. And since he was now officially three-quarters of Faerie and she—that bright, brave, lovely lady—was at least as much Faerie as human . . .

  “Why, there may be,” the prince told his friend, “there just may be at that,” and smiled.