A Strange and Ancient Name

A STRANGE AND ANCIENT NAME

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 1993 by Josepha Sherman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original.

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, N.Y. 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72151-8

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

First printing, January 1993

Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10020

Printed in the United States of America

eISBN: 978-1-62579-436-9

I

CEREMONIES AND CONFRONTATIONS

The hall was vast and airy, full of the clear, sunless light of Faerie and shaped by craft and illusion to seem a widely spaced forest of slender white trees that looked far too fragile to support the high, arched roof.

For all its size, the hall was also crowded. Males and females and those less easily classified thronged on either side of the wide central aisle, a sleek, sophisticated lot in finely draped gowns or tunics or wisps of mist, the colors soft as spring green, sharp as moonlight. Most there were tall and slender, their faces narrow, keen, elegantly planed, their eyes gray or smoky green, glinting with wit, magic, cruelty. Long, straight, shining hair gleamed with all the shades of gold (though here and there lurked some whose hair was green or softest blue, whose brows bore horns or backs bore wings).

None of them were human.

Ereledan, Lord of Llyrh, glanced sharply at his neighbors, his powerful form bold in a dozen fiery shades that quelled their pastels, magnificent red hair swirling like name about his strong face as he turned from side to side. “Well?” His whisper was hardly soft. “What are we waiting for?”

Those on either side subtly shifted away, careful not to rouse his notorious temper. Ereledan was a risky person to befriend, the last link to a long-ago deposed royal line.

Across the hall from the Lord of Llyrh, Charailis watched him and tightened her lips in distaste.
Ereledan, you boor.
The lady was all tall, slender coolness in subtle blue, hair a fall of moon-touched silver, eyes those of a quiet predator. She was also, much to her satisfaction and Ereledan’s discomfort, of higher status than he, bound by tenuous but true blood ties to the current royal line.

But Ereledan’s impatience had infected the crowd. Throughout all that ageless, glittering company the whispers flew:

“Will he come?”

“Dare he not?”

“Dare he offer open insult to our prince?”

Their prince was wondering the same thing. Hauberin, ruler of this one land among many in the convoluted Faerie Realm, was young, even as human folk counted years, his unfashionable back hair worn defiantly long, somber against the bright silver of the intricate royal crown, his unfashionable lack of height hidden beneath the folds of the robes of state, smooth as sheets of molten silver pouring down the sides of the dais. Straight-backed, regally enthroned and seemingly composed, the prince was well aware of that one blatantly empty space amid the crowd, and he was nursing a delicate name of anger within him.

Serein, cousin, don’t presume on kinship too much!

Of Faerie though this land undeniably was, its independent-minded folk held to fewer rituals than their tradition-bound neighbors. But some ceremonies couldn’t be ignored. This was the Second Triad, the sixth anniversary of Hauberin’s crowning—much as Serein might hate the fact. And, much as the man might hate it, Hauberin was his liege lord. He must do the prince at least token homage this day.

And if he doesn’t?
asked a dry little voice at the back of Hauberin’s mind.
What then?

What, indeed?

Alliar, a sleek golden figure perched on the lower steps of the dais, twisted bonelessly about to look up at him, saying in tactfully silent mind-voice,
“You can’t wait much longer.”

Hauberin glanced down at his supple, beautiful, totally genderless friend. Alliar had never been born of flesh and blood; the being was a wind spirit bound by sorcery into tangible form years back.

“I don’t intend to wait.”
The prince looked about in feigned indifference, sensing the swirlings of emotion from his subjects; some malice, some sympathy, mostly wild curiosity and a certain subtle delight at his discomfort: He, the half-blood prince. The part-human.

The prince smiled faintly. When one grows up surrounded by sly taunts, one learns to ignore them. Or at least pretend to ignore them. He let his glance rest, as though by accident, on Ereledan and Charailis, and his smile thinned. Ambitious, those two.

How fortunate they dislike each other even more than they hate me,
the prince thought wryly.
But how they would love to see me make some humiliating mistake!

He wasn’t about to gratify them—or Serein, either. The ceremonies would start now, and to the Outer Dark with his cousin.

Oh, but look: Here, with a nice sense of timing, came said cousin after all, swirlings of busy whisperings in his wake as he strode smoothly forward. As always Hauberin felt the smallest pang of envy, fiercely suppressed, at this reminder of how a proper prince of the realm should look. Serein was tall and glittering in coppery robes just a fraction less regal than those of his prince, his flowing golden hair bound back by a copper circlet just a fraction less intricate than the silver royal crown. Pride and insolence shown in every line of that elegant figure, and a sourly amused Hauberin thought that surely the man had changed very little from the naughty boy he had been.

But then Serein stepped clear of the crowd. His metallic cloak trailed out behind him, heavy and long enough to warrant a page to keep it from sweeping the floor. And that page was undeniably human.

The fact wasn’t extraordinary in itself; there were changelings enough throughout the lands of Faerie, and most of them—since even human children were cherished by a notably infertile race—were treated with more grace than they would have known in mortal lands. But this boy, obedient to Serein’s every move, was so plainly terrified of his master that many of the whisperings grew sharp with disapproval.

The boy was small for his age. And slight. And dark. The whispers died one by one as he passed, and Hauberin, stunned by sudden fury, felt the weight of countless startled eyes on him. On their prince who was so lacking in height. On Hauberin of the unfashionable black hair and eyes and olive-dark skin. Hauberin, who looked most not like his regal golden father, but like his small, dark, very human mother.

No one there could miss the similarity. Or the insult. Hauberin heard Alliar’s soft hiss of anger, and drew in his own breath for a shout of sheer rage—

No. Oh, no. That was surely just what Serein wanted. Hauberin clenched his teeth, struggling to keep his face impassive, remembering all the boyhood years of being the butt of Serein’s sly, subtle, never-quite-treasonous jests, of never quite knowing how to defend himself against his older, glamorous, ambitious cousin. If he lost control now, Serein would become, as always, most innocently, most ingratiatingly humble, leaving his prince looking like a fool—worse, like a half-human ranting in totally human rage.

So Hauberin merely . . . smiled. “Welcome, cousin.” For all that he ached to shrivel Serein with one well-worded spell, and the rules of law be damned, the prince kept his voice smooth and bland and level. “You come late to our court. So late that we wondered, foolish thought, if you had some reason to fear us.”

He caught a flicker of unease, of anger, in the beautiful sea-green eyes. But Serein quickly broke the contact before Hauberin could read any deeper, sweeping down into an overly respectful bow.

“Fear you, dear cousin? Why, no. Never.” His smile was as fixed as Hauberin’s own. “For are you not known as a most . . . merciful and . . . gentle prince?”

The faint, deliberate hesitations were an insult in themselves, implying not mercy, but weakness. Hauberin refused to be baited. “How sweetly spoken.” In sudden inspiration, he added, “And how kind of you to bring me so amusing a gift.”

Ha, that surprised Serein! “A . . . gift, cousin?”

“The boy, of course. The little human. He
is
a gift, is he not?”

He most certainly was not, and they both knew it. But Serein, sensing his mockery going awry, covered quickly with, “Why, what else could he be?”

“How you jest, cousin.” Hauberin raised his head slightly, a prince inviting his court to join in a mild pleasantry. “And isn’t it charmingly rare for one among us to be given a chance to see himself returned, as it were, to childhood?”

There was a puzzled murmuring from the court, half of them confused over their prince’s motives, half more concerned with trying to remember back over the uncounted years to their own nigh-forgotten childhoods. Hauberin laughed silently. Good! Let them stay confused.

“Lady Aydris,” he called.

The young woman, warmly curved and pretty, if somewhat plumper than that slender race’s fashion dictated, came forward from the front edge of the crowd, giving her prince a cheerful curtsey and a smile; she and Hauberin, both young, both outside the fashionable norm, shared an amiable friendship and, on occasion, a bed. “My prince?”

“Kindly take this boy—Ah, his name, cousin?”

Serein’s eyes were smoldering. “I fear you must learn that for yourself, Cousin. I’ve not had the boy long enough for him to have learned our tongue.”

“A pity. Lady,” Hauberin said formally to Aydris, “do you take the boy under your care.”

Aydris, who had been studying the boy with a motherly eye, gave him an unfeigned smile. “At once, my prince.”

Hauberin turned his attention back to the fuming Serein. “And as for you, cousin, do
you
take your proper place.”

“Look you, I—”

“Take your place!”

The words were knife-sharp. They were also edged with more than a little compulsion-magic. Caught off-guard, Serein was snared; for all that he fought the spell wrapping itself about his will, it had already taken hold. It would fade again in only a few moments, but for now Serein had no choice. Smiling grimly, Hauberin watched his furious cousin helplessly obey him.

The smile faded.
Ae, Serein, what game are you playing?
Hauberin wondered.
Are you really as foolish as you seem?

In these six years since he had come to reign, Hauberin had been waiting, watching for some open attack from Serein who, being his closest kinsman, was so much more of a threat than Ereledan or Charailis. And yet, for all his cousin’s blatant hate and envy, Serein had never tried anything stronger than this childish mockery.

Hauberin bit back a weary sigh, sick of the subject. Oh, yes, the man was tall and fair and golden, as he, himself would never be. But how could he envy Serein that shallow, petty mind?

Serein had reached his assigned place by now, turning sharply to face the prince again, the heavy, elegant coppery cloak whirling dramatically out behind him.

But, just for an instant, as the last of the brief compulsion-spell slid from him, Serein’s self-control seemed to slip. Just for an instant, his eyes were not those of the malicious, superficial courtier, but harsh as winter ice, the will behind them cold, implacably cold. Stunned by the sudden transformation, chilled to the heart, Hauberin heard without words:

“I will have your death, princeling. One way or another, I will have your death.”

###

“On this first day of the Second Triad of your reign, I accept you, Hauberin, son of Laherin, as Prince of the Realm.”

“Oh this first day of the Second Triad of my reign, I accept you as subject of the Realm.”

As he repeated the ritual words of acknowledgement yet again to yet another courtier in the seemingly endless line waiting to pay their respects, Hauberin fought down an urge to squirm like an impatient child. How many times had he heard the first half of the formula so far? How many times had he replied with his half of it? At least he wasn’t expected to mention everyone by name; by now, he wasn’t sure he could remember anybody’s name.

There had been only one small moment of suspense, right at the start, since Serein, as Hauberin’s direct kinsman, was expected to swear his oath first. But, after a brief, bitter pause, Serein had yielded and sworn, though the words nearly choked him.

The prince bit back a sigh, telling himself he should be thankful neither he nor his people had a true taste for formality. He could remember all too well swearing his own oath before the High King and Queen of Faerie in their magic-glittering court soon after taking the crown. It had been an act more of politic courtesy than anything else, since his was an independent land, but even in that somewhat abridged ceremony, the oath had been couched in the high ceremonial tongue—an elaborate, archaic language in which each change of tone carried at least a dozen meanings—and had occupied a full twenty scrolls.

“On this first day of the Second Triad . . .”

Hauberin came back to himself with a jolt at this new voice.
“Don’t worry,”
teased Alliar’s familiar mind-voice,
“it’s only me.”
Amusement glinted in the being’s eyes.
“And
—
rejoice! I’m the last one. Which means your work is done. Now it’s time to play!”

###

By moonrise, the festivities had spilled out from the royal palace down to the level green valley below. Folk whirled about in dance, gleaming, glittering in countless shades of reds, blues, purples, of citron and jacinth and colors known only to Faerie, muted by the light of the full, unstained moon, brightened in flashes by the sparkling flames of silver, blue, and bronze from the festive, frivolous torches set all about (frivolous, since a night-sighted race hardly needed their light). The hems of gowns and cloaks whispered against the long, silky grass, a soft counterpoint to the music of harp and crystalline flute and singers like so many silver birds. Those who chose not to dance sipped wine fragrant as the flowers scenting the warm night air or sharp as the sophisticated wit being exchanged.

Hauberin sat in his chair of state and seemed at ease, and all the while kept his attention on Serein.

But Serein did nothing more alarming than sit in shadow, long legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle, and drink moodily from the silver goblet in his hand. Not a trace of hatred now, not a trace of that icy, savage will: Serein was very much himself again, all sullen innocence.

And how can I make accusations against that?

At last the prince sighed, and signaled proud Kerlaias, captain of his guard, fiercely blue of eye and hair, all loyal, brave, and shining in his Faerie mail. “Keep my cousin under your eye,” Hauberin commanded softly, and put Serein at least partially out of his mind, looking out over the festivities with a more genuine smile.