A Strange and Ancient Name (34 page)

There was only one road open. As the Fées charged him, Hauberin gave a shout of defiance and plunged into the corridor of his nightmares.

Almost at once, he was seized by a swirling dizziness that could only mean the thing wasn’t quite within the human Realm; he was being drawn across to the Powers only knew where, hearing the Lady’s voice as from a great distance, saying yet again: “Forgive us. Your foe has promised us the way home for this service.”

As the psychic gateway closed, Hauberin shouted back in frantic revenge,
“I
know the way back to Faerie! If you’d dealt honorably with me, I would have shared it!”

Had they heard? Hauberin drew back from what was now a blank wall of stone, and turned with slow dread to see the empty expanse of corridor stretching out before him, the far end misty in shadow. The walls were completely blank, with not the slightest slits for air or light, yet the chill, dry air was breathable enough, and the way was lit dimly by what every sense registered as an alien, alien Power.

The only possible way to go was forward. But for a long time, the prince couldn’t move, caught in the throes of sheer claustrophobic terror, the cumulative weight of all the nights or horror crushing him till he could do nothing but huddle against one cold wall and pray like a terrified child that this was only another dream, that he could awake . . .

At last, disgusted by his own fear, Hauberin straightened, sheathing the iron blade with not-quite steady hands—he didn’t trust himself not to accidentally jab himself with the thing in the state he was in—and forced himself to start down that blank-walled corridor.

But the dreams had conditioned him all too well. Terror would not be banished. It clung to him with every step, telling him that
now
he would surely hear the voice,
now
he would surely see his death,
now
—

Hauberin stopped short, gasping. Ah Powers, he couldn’t go on! How Serein would have laughed to see this, to see his poor little half-blood cousin so terrified he could hardly walk, trembling with fright when nothing had harmed him. How Serein would have taunted him:
“Timid little boy. Weak little half-human.”

But the familiar jeer had lost some of its bite. By now, Hauberin realized, he’d learned it wasn’t so terrible a thing to be human. Oh yes, humans had such piteously short lives, and some of those lives were squalid and cruel indeed. But he’d met some bright, happy souls as well: friendly, honest Aimery; the fisherman who’d pulled Hauberin from drowning without thought of reward; that gentle-eyed monk in the cathedral of St. Denis, a man without much fire, perhaps, but with genuine kindness towards a total stranger in need of help.

And . . . there was Matilde. All-too-human Matilde, forbidden to him by bars of blood and honor . . .

Hauberin started resolutely forward, refusing to think of what couldn’t be, trying not to think of what might be waiting. But the dreams’ miasma wrapped him close, tightening his nerves, hampering his breathing. For all his determination, the prince’s steps faltered, then stopped once more. Ah Powers, Serein was right, he was weak, weak.

Was he? One firm little thread of logic slipped through the despair, making him question,
was
he weak? What of those years he had ruled? His proud and independent people would never have suffered a half-blooded prince to live, let alone to sit the throne for
six
years, if they’d thought him weak. They certainly would never have sworn him fealty!

As even Serein had sworn, submissive as a servant before his “weak” cousin.

The prince stiffened as though he’d been slapped. Why, then, had he been blaming Serein all these years for something that was his own fault? The man had been genuinely petty and cruel, yes, but no one, as the saying went, could truly be tortured without inner consent. Had he, Hauberin wondered, let his cousin torment him because, secretly, he’d believed Serein, believed himself inferior?

Not exactly inferior. The prince gave a long, shuddering sigh, remembering long, lonely childhood nights spent lying awake, too frightened to go back to sleep. “Human” and never been the true problem, not even back then, no matter how much Serein’s taunts had hurt. In those empty hours, even though his night-keen sight had told the child-Hauberin nothing lurked in the shadows of his room, the stories of terrible cruel Others had seemed all too real.

Particularly when he knew that Other blood so terrible his parents never spoke of it ran through his own veins.

Particularly when he never knew when such blood just might turn him, too, to Other. When the very name or sight of his grandsire might be enough to spark the change—

Hauberin cried out in sudden fury. What in the name of all the Powers did such old fears matter now? Alliar and Matilde were risking their lives for him while he—he stood agonizing like a fool over What Might or Might Not be!

Ah, Powers, enough,
the prince thought wearily.
What happens, happens.

He was still very much afraid. But, sick with that inner cold though he was, Hauberin strode forward to meet whatever waited. One way or another, there would be an end to this.

XXVII

THE UNRAVELING

Distance was deceptive in that long, narrow, closed world. For a time Hauberin fancied wearily that the corridor had no end that his fate would be to simply walk and walk into death. He was too drained by the burden of fear by this point to really care.

But the perpetually straight corridor ended without warning in a sharp right angle, beyond which was a large alcove. And there, sprawled upon a pile of cushions, lay . . .

Ah, Powers, he couldn’t look. Every childhood fear had rushed to the surface, screaming
here is the demon, here is the monster you truly are,
and he just couldn’t turn his head to look.

“Grandson?”

It was so gentle a voice, so full of disbelieving wonder—so totally unlike the horror of his dreams—that all at once the tension sharpened beyond all bearing. With a gasp of surrender, Hauberin turned, and saw: Himself!

No. The resemblance wasn’t all
that
strong. This might be himself as he would someday look: the same slight, supple figure, the same olive-dark skin and sleek black hair, something of the same cast of features, but with quiet wisdom and experience in the dark eyes that could only come with age.

“Who . . . are you . . . ?” Hauberin breathed.

The slight figure, dressed in a rainbow of bright, silken robes, twisted about to study him, and the prince realized only now that the other was held to the floor by a network of narrow chains. A tender smile crossed the prisoner’s dark, elegant face. “Of course. You couldn’t possibly know me; your own mother never saw me.” He spoke the Faerie tongue with easy fluency, but the faintest hint of an exotic accent colored his words. “Nevertheless, I am your grandfather.”

“But . . . who . . . what . . .” Hauberin stopped with a shaky laugh, shivering. “You must forgive me. This is . . . you’re not what I expected.”

“Oh, I can imagine. Come, don’t be frightened. I’m of Faerie, too, a distant branch: the humans call my people
peris.”

Hauberin started. “The desert folk! The folk who prefer human Realms.”

“Exactly.”

“But how in the name of all the Powers did you come
here?”

The
peri
laughed wryly. “Not through my own choosing, certainly. As I slept, invisible and—I thought—undetectable, beneath the palms of my favorite oasis, a force, a Presence, snatched me away before I could defend myself. It left me here as you see me. To . . . ah . . . greet you.” He raised a slim hand as far as the chains would permit, indicating the few cushions and bleak surroundings. “I’d offer you hospitality, but . . .”

The prince couldn’t stop shaking. “Your name,” he pleaded. “Tell me your name.”

“In my language, Nasif-i-Khanalat. In yours, Moonflame.”

And it was true, it was all true, because Hauberin
felt
the curse shiver and fall away from him, leaving him so suddenly free he staggered back against a wall, fighting to keep from laughing like a fool from the wonderful, unbelievable, incredible relief, from the sudden erasure of all the years of childhood terror.

Free, oh, Powers, I never thought I’d see this moment, free . . .

As Moonflame was not. Giddy with shock, Hauberin bent over his
peri
grandfather, trying to find a beginning or ending to the chains. “Let me—”

“Wait.” A flicker of alarm in Moonflame’s eyes made the prince draw back in surprise. “First we should talk.”

“Talk! When that—Presence could return at any moment?”

“The Presence has not returned once in all the while I’ve been held here. I doubt things will suddenly change.”

“How . . . long has it been?”

Moonflame shrugged in a weary chiming of chains. “I’ve no way of knowing.
Peris
don’t live off fragrances, silly human tales notwithstanding, but I haven’t even felt hunger or thirst to help me keep track; this . . . place is quite outside time, as you’ve surely sensed. Waiting to see the son of my daughter—the grandson I never knew existed—was the only bright spot in it all.” The
peri
shook his head. “Ey-ai, I can’t keep calling you just ‘Grandson’!”

“Uh, no. I am Hauberin, son of Prince Laherin and—and your daughter, his wife, Melusine.”

“Ah . . .” The
peri’s
eyes were soft and achingly sad, seeing a time long past. “Melusine. Is that what you named her, my love, my dearest heart? Melusine. It has a sweet, magical sound to it.” His gaze sharpened. “And is she happy, my Melusine?”

“She—she’s dead,” Hauberin stammered out, more bluntly than he would have liked. “As is my father. But she—oh, my parents loved each other dearly. She was very happy.”

Moonflame sagged. “Both dead . . . mother and daughter . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Hauberin said helplessly. “Let me see about these chains, and—”

“No, not yet.”

“Don’t you
want
to be freed “

“Need you ask?” But the dark gaze wouldn’t meet his own. “But have you no curiosity as to how you came to be as you are?”

“Of course I do, but—”

Moonflame was already beginning, “I never thought to owe my life to a human, let alone a
ferengi
from the West . . .”

With an impatient sigh, Hauberin settled down to listen. And soon, despite himself, he was engrossed in the intricate oriental tale of a
peri
trapped by an enemy he’d made among the
djinn,
“dark and cruel as the storms that sweep across the sands,” of a fair-haired foreign knight, separated from his fellows “during one of the humans’ incomprehensible wars,” Moonflame said with a disparaging wave of a hand, “some crusade or other,” who came to the
peri’s
aid and slew the
djinn
with cold iron after a fight worthy of a true hero.

“Human or not,” the
peri
mused, “he was a good man, this Gautier. I tended his wounds and did my best to comfort him while he raved in fever of his longings for home and wife. The fever broke; he seemed well along to recovery. But . . . the
djinn’s
blood had touched him, burned him, poisoned him. As the days passed, I could do nothing but watch as Gautier weakened and . . . died.”

Moonflame paused, eyes shadowed. “We had become something close to friends, human and
peri,
in that brief time. I buried him with as near to
ferengi
rites as I could manage. And then honor demanded I travel the winds to Western lands, to bring the sad tidings myself to Gautier’s widow. The Lady Alianor.” The
peri’s
voice caught in his throat. “She was so beautiful . . . beautiful in her foreign human way, not delicate and dark like our
peri
women, but tall and strong, with hair the color of mortal sunlight . . . Neither of us ever expected, human and
peri,
that love might touch us. But . . . as soon tell the lightning not to strike or the moon not to rise.”

“I know the rest,” Hauberin said softly. “Her brother found out. And banished you.”

“With iron,” Moonflame added bitterly, “and—secretly, so no one would doubt the purity of his oh-so-clean mortal soul—with bought-and-paid-for sorcery. After long and long I managed to return, briefly, though it cost me great pain, only to learn my love was—he had—Aie, damn him to the humans’ Hell, damn him forever!” Moonflame broke off, choking. Hauberin looked away, giving the
peri
a chance to recover control. At last Moonflame continued quietly, “He died not long after, not, alas, by my hand. In a hunting mishap. I blessed the horse that had crushed him and, since I could no longer endure the double charm of spell and iron still binding me, I went my way. I . . . never saw my daughter.” Moonflame smiled faintly. “But at least I’ve lived long enough to see you, my regal young grandson.”

“And I’m honored to meet my grandsire, and all such courtesies. Now, will you please be still and let me free you?”

He bent over the intricate tangle of chains once more. Moonflame said not a word, but Hauberin caught a quick glimpse of the
peri’s
eyes. And in their depths burned such sudden bitter despair that the prince drew back in alarm.

“It’s a trap, isn’t it? And you’ve been bespelled so you can’t warn me.
That’s
why you kept talking: you’ve been stalling desperately, haven’t you? Trying to protect me.” Though Moonflame never spoke, the love in the dark eyes gave Hauberin the answer. “But protect me from what? Not you, surely,” the prince continued, watching his grandsire closely. “The chains?” He saw pain flash across Moonflame’s face as the
peri
struggled against the mind-binding spell, and cried out in dismay, “Ah, don’t!”

“Can’t . . .” Moonflame gasped out in anguish, “don’t . . . chains, don’t touch . . . chains . . . Sorcery . . . Touch them, and die . . .”

“Ah.” But after a moment, Hauberin grinned sharply. “I won’t touch them.
This
will.” He drew Matilde’s belt-knife, and saw Moonflame stare in horror at the deadly metal in this grandson’s hand. Silently blessing Matilde, the prince attacked the chains with cold iron, careful not to scratch the
peri.
As he’d hoped, sorcery crumbled at the contact. A stunned Moonflame staggered to his feet from a nest of shattered chains and drew his grandson into his delighted embrace.

In the next moment, the not-world of the corridor shattered as well, tearing itself apart in a wild screaming of wind—

—that left them standing dazed on a windswept, barren slope nearly at a mountain peak jagged as a broken sword. On one side of the slope a tangle of huge boulders lay where they’d broken off from that peak in some long-ago upheaval of nature or magic. On the other sides . . .

Hauberin pulled away from Moonflame, staring out at a wilderness of savage gray mountains stabbing like knives at the sky—the clear, sunless sky. And the prince laughed aloud, a sudden rush of returning Power telling him what he already knew: this was one of the primal lands at Faerie’s very edge.

“Hauberin!” exclaimed a startled voice. In the next moment, Alliar, sleekly golden, human guise dropped, came leaping spryly down the mass of boulders, calling back, “Matilde, he’s safe!”

“Oh, thank the lord.”

As the woman started down more carefully, Alliar impatiently scrambled back up to practically carry her down, pulling her along to Hauberin’s side. Fairly blazing with excitement, the being chattered, “One moment I was surrounded by Fées, then I was here, and Matilde was with me, and the Fées, for all I know, are still trapped back there, while you—How did you—What did you—”

“Alliar,” Matilde said softly.

“Eh?” The being stopped short, staring, as Moonflame moved to the prince’s side. Hauberin grinned.

“Grandfather,” he said formally, “may I introduce the Baroness Matilde, and the wind spirit, Alliar. Matilde, Alliar, this is the
peri
lord Nasif-i-Khanalat.”

“Moonflame,” the
peri
added.

“Grandfather . . . ?” Alliar’s eyes widened. Then, as the implications sank in, Li let out a high, shrill, wind-sharp shout of delight. “The curse is broken!”

“Quite.” Moonflame smiled, and bowed with intricate oriental courtesy. “You are, I take it, my grandson’s friend?”

“Oh, I am!” Alliar imitated the bow flawlessly. “And delighted to meet you, believe me.”

Moonflame repeated his bow for Matilde, his dark eyes so
appreciative that she reddened. “And this, I would think,” the
peri
murmured warmly, “is my grandson’s lady.”

“Ah . . . no.”

“No? A pity.” With true Faerie suddenness, Moonflame had forgotten all about danger, his smile only for Matilde. “You are half of Faerie, too, oh flame of delight?”

“N-No. I’m human. Only.”

“Oh, don’t belittle yourself, lovely one. It’s not ‘only,’ but—”

“Grandfather,” Hauberin cut in impatiently (telling himself that no, he was
not
jealous), “this is hardly the time for flirtation.”

Moonflame sighed. “Forgive me. I have been away from . . . gentle matters too long, and—” The
peri
tensed. “We’re not alone.”

Alliar had already disappeared, stalking. There was a startled shout, a curse, the sounds of a fierce struggle, and then Li was forcing a man, arm twisted behind his back, out from behind the wall of boulders, to the accompaniment of much fury.

“Damn you, you misbegotten wind-thing, let me go!”

“Not yet,” Alliar snapped. “I don’t like spies.”

“I wasn’t spying, curse it!”

“That’s for the prince to decide.”

Hauberin saw a powerful build (not quite as powerful just then as the strength of an angry wind spirit), disheveled red hair—

“My lord Ereledan! What are
you
doing here?”

The Lord of Llyrh finally managed to pull free, glaring at Alliar, too proud to rub what must have been a sore arm. “I think you know more about this than I, my prince!”

“I don’t.”

The fuming Ereledan ignored that. “I was hunting in my woods, minding my own affairs, when—whoosh,” he waved an angry hand, “I’m here. What game are you playing, my prince?”

“I’m not—”

“It was bad enough when Charailis was trying to confuse my mind—it
was
Charailis, wasn’t it? Or have you been experimenting on me?”

“Look you, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, don’t you? I’ve sworn fealty to you, but if you have been practicing spells on me—”

“Enough!” Hauberin snapped. “I have
not
been bespelling you, I do
not
know what you’re talking about, and I—Now, what?”

Ereledan wasn’t even looking at him. Matilde had moved from behind Hauberin, and the Lord of Llyrh, face gone deathly pale, stared at her almost as though he saw his death. “Oh, Powers . . .” It was the barest whisper. “Blanche . . .”

“I’m sorry,” she said in the human language, “I—I don’t understand. Blanche was my mother’s name, but—”

“A daughter,” Ereledan breathed. “I never knew, I never dreamed . . .”

To Hauberin’s astonishment, he said it in the human tongue. The prince glanced swiftly from Ereledan to Matilde and back again, stunned to suddenly realize why Matilde bore Power, why she had a Faerie-strong love for music, why she had always seemed so vaguely familiar.
Idiot! How could you have missed it?
Those subtly Faerie features, that blazing hair—he’d even compared its redness once to that of Ereledan, yet never once stopped to think—it seemed so obvious now, like the trick of some small sleight of hand which, once revealed, can’t
not
be noticed.
How could you never have guessed?