A Strange and Ancient Name (23 page)

“Bird?” suggested Hauberin after a taut moment, but Alliar hesitated a long, nerve-racking while, searching with some arcane wind spirit sense before reluctantly nodding and murmuring:

“Maybe. At least it doesn’t mean us any harm. I think.”

Hauberin flicked his gaze warningly to Matilde, and Alliar switched to a melodious language that could only be the Faerie tongue. Insulted, Matilde murmured, “I’m not a child, gentles. You don’t have to shield me.”

The prince, Faerie-truthful, took her words at face value, saying frankly, “We were agreeing that we’re being watched by something or someone hostile.”

Did he have to be
quite
so honest? Matilde looked into the fierce, wary eyes and swallowed drily. “Then it wasn’t just my fancy,” she managed, struggling to keep her voice level. “Are we in peril?”

“No. Not yet, as far as Alliar or I can sense. But it might be wise for you to keep close.”

“No fear,” she muttered, hand closing firmly about the hilt of her little belt-knife.

###

To Matilde’s immense relief, the claustrophobic path gradually began to widen, then suddenly opened up onto a wide, mossy glade verging on a lake that lay still as gray mist under the gray mist sky. There wasn’t a sound, not the slightest chirp of bird or rustle of reed, there wasn’t the slightest sign of life, and yet she found herself struggling not to cringe beneath the weight of unseen eyes. Hauberin glanced her way.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured.

Matilde nodded almost absently. There was something about this scene . . . something nagging at her memory. A story she had once heard . . . If only she could remember . . .

“Why, look at this!” Alliar exclaimed, and Matilde turned to see a gleam of silver, glint of gem: a small goblet bobbing on the water, half-hidden in the reeds at the lake’s edge.

“Now, how did this get here?” the being wondered, and stooped to scoop it up—

The elusive memory returned to Matilde with a shock. “No, don’t!” she screamed, and pulled Alliar away with a strength born of panic. The astonished being went sprawling—and the silvery-green arm snaking up out of the water closed on empty air.

In the next moment, the lake-being was upon them, sleek and lithe, thick silver hair swirling about a fine-boned, elegant face, the tapering eyes fiercely green as he stared at Matilde in implacable hunger (for food, or for something more?), the whole close enough to handsome man-form to send a little shiver racing through her. But the teeth bared in an angry smile were pointed, and scales shimmered along the too-limber arms. And the hands that reached for her as the being lunged ended in learning claws. For one terrifying moment, deathly chill fingers closed with implacable strength about her wrist and she saw nothing but death by drowning in the green-flame eyes.

But then Hauberin was shouting out a sharp, commanding spell in the Faerie tongue. The words seemed to blaze for an instant in the air, and the creature released Matilde with a hiss, as though her flesh had all at once burned him.

“D-Drac,” Matilde cried out, stumbling over her words, “dragon-man—”

“Drac,” the being agreed, and the smile he gave her, sharp teeth hidden, was urbane and sensual, so sensual it sent a little prickle shivering through her even as she recoiled. “Lovely thing, lovely human woman . . . how long since I’ve touched soft woman-flesh . . .” he purred, voice as mellifluous as water flowing smoothly over stone. “You fear me. Am I so monstrous to you?”

Oh, no. He was fair, inhumanly fair, and the light in his green eyes promised such wonders . . .

Dazed, Matilde felt a hand close about her arm, digging into her flesh till she gasped in startled pain and turned to stare at Hauberin—and only then realized the drac had nearly charmed her right into the water. Drac, dragon-man in one, stalker of woman, eater of human flesh—

“You shall not have this woman.” Hauberin’s voice was cold with command.

“Shan’t I?” The drac smiled again, stare never leaving Matilde’s face. “I saw the
galipote
running in fear, I laughed at it and followed you, waiting, waiting till you came to my very doorway. I am no foolish
galipote,
my friends, to abandon food and sport.”

For answer, Hauberin snapped out a ringing Faerie phrase that made the drac start. The sharp green gaze shot from Matilde to Hauberin, as though the being was only now fully aware of the prince. The drac’s eyes narrowed warily, but his smile never wavered.

“Faerie-man,” he purred. “Silly little Faerie-man. Your spells will barely work here; you have no true power over Nulle Part.”

“No? Then dare come closer,” Hauberin retorted.

Instead, the drac stalked sideways, circling. Hauberin turned with him, dark eyes fierce, keeping Matilde always behind him. Alliar fell into place behind her, guarding her back, and Matilde heard the drac give the softest hiss of frustration.

“Long and long has it been since I’ve touched woman-skin, long since I’ve tasted the sweetness of human-flesh. I shall not be defeated now.”

There was no warning, no betraying tensing of muscles. Suddenly the drac was at her side, swifter even than Faerie speed. There wasn’t any time to plan, to think. Faced with a blur of fangs, green-flame eyes, flashing claws, Matilde did the only thing she could, and lunged with her belt-knife. She felt the little blade graze flesh, heard the drac scream—a high, alien shrilling that burned at her ears and went on and on and on. Green eyes, wide and hating, stared into her own, sharp teeth flashed for her throat—

But then Hauberin shoved the drac aside. Still keening, the dragon-man fell, crumpling bonelessly. Heart racing, Matilde stared, expecting a trick, expecting him to leap up again. But after an eternity of watching, the crumpled figure remained still. Alliar stuck out a wary foot and pushed the body onto its back, and Matilde drew in her breath in a sharp gasp of horror.

The green eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky, their fierceness fled. The flesh had fallen away from the contorted, finely planed face, rigid with agony, leaving it little more than skin stretched tightly over bone.

“Dead . . .” Alliar murmured.

“Iron-poison,” Hauberin said flatly.

Matilde couldn’t bear to look at that agonized mask any longer. “But . . . I only scratched him . . .”

The prince was rigid with horror, eyes wide, dusky skin pale. “It was enough.”

His terror was only just held in check. Matilde swallowed drily, all at once understanding: iron-death was a nightmare of his people—a nightmare come all too real. And such a death could just as easily have been his if her knife had slipped . . . Dear God.

Without warning, Hauberin snagged her wrist with a cold hand, voice taut. “Come, we must go on.”

He led them away so swiftly Matilde and even Alliar could hardly keep up. After a time of being half-dragged through dense underbrush that scratched her skin and tugged painfully at her hair, Matilde gasped out, “Wait! I—You—Stop it!” and planted her feet firmly, pulling the prince to a halt with her. As he stared at her, wild-eyed, she said flatly, “I don’t blame you for being frightened of—of iron-death; it looks like a truly foul thing. But I don’t want to be towed like a reluctant puppy, either!”

Sanity flooded back into the stark eyes. He reddened. “Of course not. Forgive me.” Glancing around, the prince added cajolingly, “Ah, but we’re so close to our goal now. Just a little further.”

It wasn’t quite as close as Matilde would have liked. But all at once the three of them were bursting through a final snarl of bushes to find—

“But this can’t be right!” she protested. “This is where we started!”

To her astonishment, she heard Alliar chuckle. Hauberin grinned at her; though his hair was as wild a tangle as her own, his clothing disheveled, he’d managed to totally regain his self-possession. “Exactly. Or, not quite exactly. Don’t you feel the difference?”

Blinking, Matilde listened to nothing, looked at trees that seemed perfectly the same. But . . . they weren’t. There was the faintest golden haze, the slightest out-of-focus shimmering to everything, as though this wasn’t
quite
the same world, and she turned back to Hauberin in alarm.

“Ah, you
do
feel it!” he said. “There’s more Power in you than you want to admit. But what you’re sensing is that Nulle Part is as convoluted as Faerie and as devious as human Realms.”

Alliar nodded. “We couldn’t return to the Gate by which we entered without all that circling about to place us on the . . . mm, the proper arcane level of existence.”

A shrilling of high-pitched laughter sounded from the forest, and Hauberin’s grin broadened. “See? Even the
lutin
agrees. My, how that little trickster must have enjoyed watching our struggle. It
was
a ridiculous journey, wasn’t it?”

His smile was infectious. Glancing from prince to wind spirit, Matilde found herself grinning back. “The most ridiculous I’ve ever known. Though I’ve never had such unusual travelling companions. Or such . . . ah . . . entertaining ones!”

“Or I such a brave lady.” Alliar made her a sweeping bow. “You saved my life. Though I doubt,” the being added dryly, “the drac would have actually eaten me. One taste of this pseudo-stuff, and he probably would have spat me out!”

It was too silly a picture. Laughter welled up within her, and Matilde gave up and let it explode. Dear God, dear God, all at once she understood the warmth men felt after a battle, when they found themselves still alive and unharmed: comrades in arms, all differences of rank or gender or race forgotten in the surge of relief and sheer camaraderie. For this one bright moment she was included in the shining circle of the friendship she had so envied.

But it couldn’t last. Abruptly sobered, Matilde knew she would lose this strange, joyous sense of friendship as soon as she returned home. Home to husband. To respectability. To the proper order and way of doing things, with never anything half so dangerous as a mad dash through magical forest with Faerie folk. And for a moment she could have cried aloud for the impending loss of freedom, and shriek like a spoiled child, “No! I don’t want to go back!”

But she could hardly stay here in Nowhere. Engulfed in a sudden flood of guilt, Matilde reminded herself sharply she wasn’t some light, soulless Faerie creature. She was human, and married, and a lady of rank, and there must be no more foolishness.

“You can return us?” she asked quietly, fighting to keep the pain from her voice. “To the exact spot and time we left?”

Hauberin shrugged. “Close enough.”

“Then . . . please, take me home,” Matilde said, and closed her mind to regret.

XVIII

RETURNS AND DEPARTURES

Raimond groaned, aching equally in head, legs and wrists. And he was cold, too, shudderingly cold, and damp. A dank, sour smell filled his nostrils, and after a long, bewildered moment he identified it as that of leaf mold, and opened his eyes to find himself lying in underbrush in a world gone pale gray with morning.

Underbrush? Forest?

Oh, God! All at once he remembered the sorcerer and that glinting sacrificial knife—biting back a whimper, Raimond shrank back into the shielding bushes, heart pounding painfully, expecting to feel a blade come plunging down . . .

But after what seemed an endless wait, nothing happened. No one came looking for him, and Raimond dared straighten, realizing for the first time the gag that had been choking him was down around his neck, leaving his mouth sore but free.

Not that he was about to shout, God’s blood, no, with who knew what foes still lurking. Maybe they were watching him right now! Maybe they were just waiting to see what he would do before they pounced on him and—

No, no, there wasn’t anyone around, he could almost swear it. Raimond swallowed dryly—God, what he wouldn’t have given for a drink!—then touched a cautious tongue to the sore corners of his mouth, wincing at the sharp tang of blood. Warily, he tested the ropes holding his arms and legs, and barely bit back a cry of triumph: the bindings about his arms had come loose. After a time of desperate contortion, he managed to work his wrists free, trying to ignore the slickness that was almost certainly blood. Ugh, yes, blood it was, as though some great force had torn the skin from them.

Raimond froze, staring wild-eyed into space, suddenly remembering that force, that night gone mad: devil’s work, sorcery flaming into the sky, tearing the darkness asunder, revealing the very heart of Hell—Oh, God, God, the devils had been loose this night, and foremost among them had been the one who’d passed as a man, Hauberin, and the other, the demon that dared wear the shape of Rogier . . .

He wouldn’t let himself think of that just yet. Instead, Raimond busied himself with freeing his legs. As the last of the ropes fell away, he staggered to his feet, wiping his bloody mouth with a bloody hand, glancing wildly around for enemies. The forest about him was torn and battered, tree limbs strewn about as though there had been some terrible storm. A storm of sorcery . . .

But now not a leaf stirred. Raimond licked sore lips again. Maybe, oh maybe all that sorcery had chased everyone away and left him safe . . .

But in those last confused seconds before the world had been torn open, he had heard his brother’s voice, yes, and others with him.

“Gilbert . . .”

Surely, no matter what had happened, his brother would have searched for him. Gilbert wouldn’t have just left him here, bound and alone.

Unless Gilbert . . . had been slain . . . ?

God, what if
everyone
had been slain? What if Hell had won and the whole world was dead and he was the only one left?

No! That’s impossible!

But what if it
was
true? Frantic, Raimond burst out into the open, only to stop short at the sight of the looming gray stones.

“Oh, God!”

Human bodies lay crumpled gracelessly askew about the stones as though tossed there by some demonic child. Hands trembling so badly he could barely use them, Raimond forced himself to turn them over, one by one, biting back a whimpering that threatened to turn itself into pure hysterical sobbing. One dead man, two, three . . . Not a one was his brother, not a one—

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?”