A Strange and Ancient Name (27 page)

But a Gate was shimmering into being, and Alliar laughed in relief. No time to be sure it was exactly the right time and place:

As the first men-at-arms came hurrying down the stairway, Alliar and Matilde, the prince held securely between them, stepped through and left the human Realm behind.

XXI

DEATH WATCH

Helping Alliar cradle the unconscious Hauberin, Matilde at first was too absorbed to notice her surroundings, save to note absently that the light in this spacious new room into which they’d arrived was bright, on most wondrously bright and luminous, daylight when it had been full night an instant before. But . . . luminous light, a part of her mind wondered uneasily, not sunlight at all.
Faerie
light?

But before she could ask aloud, even before the floor was steady under her shaky feet, Alliar was shouting out what could only be a cry for help—in what she’d come to recognize as the Faerie tongue.

And in the next moment the room was full of people who were never human: tall, elegant, fierce-eyed men and women in exquisite, rainbow-bright robes, their hair like finest gold or spun silver, their faces—ah, she’d never seen anything quite so proud or wild-thing beautiful as those sharp-planed faces, more alien than that of Hauberin, with his tempering of human blood.

But for all their splendor, these wondrous creatures were crowding in just like any other panic-stricken courtiers, crying out their alarm, patently ignoring her (the dirty little human in her ragged chemise, with her bare feet and wild hair) as they pressed in around their prince, and Matilde stiffened indignantly. Oh, she didn’t doubt she looked like a beggar woman. But damned if she’d let them cow her, not after all she had gone through so far for their prince’s sake! All this panicky crowding wasn’t helping Hauberin any, either, so she pushed her way rudely forward to where the prince lay in the cornered, crouching Alliar’s arms and snouted out with true baronial ferocity: “That’s enough!”

Glittering eyes, green or blue or silver like so many uncanny gems, focused on her for the first time, radiating such Power, such hostility, that she had to lick suddenly dry lips before she could ask, “D-do any of you speak the human tongue?”

“No,” murmured Alliar, shooting her a grateful glance for keeping the horde at bay, “but I’ll translate for you.”

“Fine. Tell them—tell them their prince is wounded.
Don’t
tell them it was iron, or we’ll have true panic. Have them get the royal physicians or surgeons or whatever the term is here—and tell them to hurry!”

###

Matilde hovered nervously in the doorway of the royal bedchamber, which was far larger than any bedchamber she’d ever seen, spacious even with the reserved crowd of Faerie nobles standing to one side; much more elegant, too, with its ivory-and-silver bed and graceful tables and chairs.

The nobles hadn’t wanted her here, shooting her glances of genuine distaste even though someone (more out of aesthetic reasons than sympathy, she guessed) had thrown her a glamorous blue silk cloak to cover her disreputable chemise. Even now silvery-eyed dark-clad servants were still trying to convince her to leave, murmuring their disapproval, but she angrily shook them off, watching Hauberin. He had been lying still as death in that princely bed, but now, without warning, he began thrashing wildly in his fever, seeing who knew what foes, calling out words that made no sense to her, his eyes fierce and blank. The nobles stirred nervously, but none of them made a move. Alliar, at the prince’s side, murmured soothingly to him but, lost in the terror of his delirium, Hauberin fought all Alliar’s attempts to hold him still.

Matilde couldn’t stand it. Ignoring the nobles’ gasps, she ran to the bedside, just as Hauberin tore free of his friend’s arms. For a moment the savage, fever-hot eyes blazed into her own, the prince’s hand raised to gesture, insane Power swirling about him. Since she could hardly outrun a spell, Matilde said, as sensibly as she could: “You don’t want to do that. It’s only me, Matilde. You know I’m not going to hurt you. Now, why don’t you just lie down and rest?”

And to her unutterable relief, she saw sanity flicker behind the fever. “Matilde,” Hauberin said, quite reasonably. “I trust you are being treated well?”

With that, his eyelids slid down, and he sank limply back against the pillows. Alliar and Matilde sighed simultaneously in relief and exchanged quick, thankful glances. But before the woman could say anything, three others were suddenly at the bedside, wise-eyed folk who bore an air of quiet competency about them. These could only be the royal physicians, two slender, golden-haired men and an ageless woman whose hair was a soft, definite blue, and Matilde hastily moved out of their way.

As they leaned over him, Hauberin’s eyelids fluttered open again. He moaned, stirring in restless pain, and the blue-haired woman put a gentle, professional hand on his forehead, murmuring what Matilde guessed must be a calming spell in his ear. Yet Hauberin remained awake, uncomfortable. The physician tensed, her face too well-schooled to show alarm, then snapped out a few commanding words.

Matilde gulped. The woman
couldn’t
have conjured that goblet out of the air; she must have simply transported it.
(Oh, is
that
all?
her mind gibbered.) Hauberin drank the contents without quarrel, and after a moment sank back into drugged sleep. The physician straightened again, face still impassive, but Matilde, shaken, slowly realized she was feeling the woman’s worry as clearly as her own.

How can I . . . ?

One of the men asked Alliar brisk questions, which the being answered with increasing reluctance, and Matilde, frustrated by her lack of the Faerie language, could only guess from the shock and terror on the physicians’ faces that the being was mentioning that iron arrowhead. The three drew back from the bedside, glancing over their shoulders at the uneasy nobles, then set to work, but even as they efficiently cleaned and dressed the prince’s wounds, Matilde, with her bewildering new sensitivity,
felt
a frightening air of hopelessness already about them. They joined hands and began to murmur over him, and she just barely choked back a startled cry, seeing magic shimmer from each to each,
feeling
it echoing through every nerve. Power surged up in a glowing blue wave till Matilde could have screamed from the tension, thinking wildly that it would heal him, iron-wound or no, so much magic
must
heal him, praying for tension’s release.

But there was no release. The Power, maddeningly, simply . . . faded. Matilde knew, even before the physicians staggered back, faces drawn and eyes despairing, that their spell had failed. One of the men murmured to Alliar, who gave a fierce cry of denial, echoed involuntarily by Matilde. Startled, they turned to look at her, and she, just as startled, said defiantly: “W-well, you can’t just give up on him!”

The physicians studied her silently for a moment, so intently her heart began to pound, then the blue-haired woman moved to her side, drawing her aside with a cool hand on her arm, asking her a sharp question. Matilde, held by the sharply slanted blue-green eyes, alien and unreadable, shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you.”

The woman sighed impatiently, studied Matilde a moment more as though judging endurance, then moved so that her palms lay flat against the sides of Matilde’s head. The unfathomable eyes burned into hers till there was nothing to the world but those blue-green depths. Power encircled them in a swift, dazzling, dizzying wave . . . When the physician suddenly removed her hands, Matilde staggered and nearly fell, head aching fiercely.

“The effect will pass quickly.”

Matilde straightened in shock. “I . . . understood that.” And then she stopped in renewed shock at the once-alien now-familiar sounds coming from her own mouth.

“Of course. Now tell me: You are Matilde?”

“Yes, but what has that to do with—”

“Our prince has called your name, his mind to mine.”

“But—”

“An
ainathanach
must know something of our language.” Unspoken was: human though you are. “We had no time for standard teaching. But you, with your seeds of Power, absorbed enough.”

Seeds of . . . Power? “What is an . . . uh . . .
aina . . . ainathanach?”

The woman hesitated, then said evasively, “The language spell is not all-powerful. But you’ve learned as much of our tongue as you need.”

“Uh . . . thank you, but—wait, where are you—”

The three physicians had already faded back into the shimmer of glamor from which they’d come. Matilde hurried back to the bed. “They
can’t
have given up!” she began.

Alliar wasn’t seeing or hearing her. Head thrown back, the being keened in anguish, the sound high and shrill as the wind, eerie enough to send the hair prickling up on Matilde’s arms, echoing on and on till she, too, could have screamed, till at last Alliar collapsed at the bedside, panting. “What more can they do,” the being murmured in a soft, broken voice, “save dull his pain? There is no cure for iron-poisoning.” Alliar reached out to smooth disheveled locks of hair back from Hauberin’s face with such a tender hand the sight nearly broke Matilde’s control.

“Alliar . . . ?” she asked uneasily, because if she didn’t say something, she’d weep. “What does . . .
ainathanach
mean?”

The being glanced sharply at her, eyes too bright. “You are one. I am the other.”

“Yes, but what does it
mean?”

“It’s a ritual position. Though others will come and go, the two
ainathanachi’al
must stay till . . . till they are no longer needed. The word means death-watcher.”

“B-but he’s still alive!”

“Ae-yi, what more do you want of me? I’ve told you: there is no cure.” The being sank back to the bedside. “There is nothing left, nothing but . . . waiting.”

Alliar’s total surrender terrified her. “I can’t accept that! I saw the wound when they were cleaning it—oh yes, there was infection, but if he had to be hit by an arrow, he couldn’t have been more fortunate about it: no veins torn, no damage to the bone; in a human, we would call it a flesh wound, nothing that can’t heal—”

The being roused at that, glaring at her so savagely she flinched “He is not a human. And iron-wounds do not heal. You saw how the drac died from your knife’s cut. Or had you forgotten?”

“Alliar, please. I couldn’t forget. It was a terrible thing. But it took only a few moments.”

“Iron-poisoning is swift.”

“That’s exactly my point! Hauberin isn’t dead!”

The being gave a long, infinitely weary sigh. “Ah, Matilde . . . you mean well, all human-hopeful. I wish I could hope with you. I don’t know why Hauberin’s mind picked you of all people as
ainathanach
—Ach, no, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded; I’m just . . . fragile enough to break right now. Matilde, we can only do this one thing, serve him this one final time: as loving
ainathanachi’al.
Accept.”

Looking at Hauberin’s too-quiet face, Matilde was suddenly overwhelmed by such sheer weariness of body and spirit together she sank to the floor. Oh God, God, they’d undergone so much together; she could not accept his death.

But . . . what else could she do?

###

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 . . .