Forging the Runes (29 page)

Not much that he could do about it right now. Save pose like the arrogant Faerie being Thorkell expected and ignore the human, staring out to sea as though aware of far-distant wonders.

As the
Sea Raven
sailed on, Thorkell went astern to speak with Olaf, the steersman. Ardagh hesitated, then decided that a little more image-making never hurt anyone. It was, he knew, ridiculous to stand in the prow of a sailing ship, regardless of all those romantic visions in various tales of the hero looking bravely ahead; since the wind pushed the sail—and boat—forward, any foul odors on board were pushed forward as well.

And yet, and yet . . .
For the sake of drama,
Ardagh thought, and posed.

Drama, he quickly realized, didn't have long hair to whip it in the face. Drama also didn't get chilly.

This Tylwyth Teg clothing may be pretty, but it certainly isn't warm. I should have held on to my
brat
like Cadwal.

Who was, unfortunately, busy trying not to "feed the fish," as that charming human phrase put it.
Poor Cadwal! I only wish I knew some charm against seasickness!

Ah well. Hopefully the man's stomach would soon settle by itself. Ardagh returned to playing the noble Ljos Alfar, trying not to shiver.

"Would this help?" asked an eager voice, and the prince turned to see a woolen cloak being proffered by one of the Lochlannach, tall, slender and fresh-faced, his cheeks and chin covered with the downy growth that young human males seemed to sprout as their first beards, his eyes full of delighted awe.

"Thank you." Ardagh swirled the cloak dramatically about himself (why not go for the grand gesture, after all?) and pinned it quickly in place, deft after all this time in Eriu in fastening iron brooches without touching them. "You are . . . ?"

"Einar Sigurdsson, Einar th-the Scald."

Of course,
Ardagh thought with a touch of humor. He knew that a scald was the Lochlannach equivalent of a Celtic bard or a Saxon scop: a man of high talent and status. Logic told him that it was unlikely for a scald of any such status to be part of a raiding party. A
scaldling, then, a poet-in-the-making.
But, seeing the open wonder in Einar's eyes, the prince hadn't the heart to say other than, "I hope to hear some of your poetry someday."

"I can sing something now!" the boy said eagerly.

Ae.
"Here?" the prince countered. "Won't the sea air hurt your voice?"

"Oh, no! Not at all. Wh-what would you like to hear, my . . . ah . . . my lord? I know most of the old chants and tales and even some of the runic spells, and I also have some of my own—"

"The runic spells," Ardagh cut in sharply. "What are these? Something known only to your people?"

"Why, no," Einar said in surprise. "Runes are also used by other folk: the Angles, the Saxons, I guess some others, too. They're used for inscriptions and other things like that, but there's great magic behind them, too; you'd know, of course, how," his voice dropped dramatically, "how the great god Odhinn hung himself from Yggdrasill the World Tree to gain knowledge of the Power behind them."

Odhinn. This was evidently another Lochlannach deity, and one, judging from Einar's expression, of vast but perilous power.

But the youngster was waving that away. "That's all ancient lore. Never mind that now. Let me sing you
my
poems."

"Not just now, Einar, if you please. Wait till we can do them proper justice. And don't worry," Ardagh added. "We will definitely talk of these things again."

We shall, indeed.

Sorcha's first words to Ardagh as he initiated contact not long after were a flat, "Where are you this time?"

"Ah, this is a little bizarre—"

"More bizarre than finding you in a—a Tylwyth Teg lair?"

"In a way. Sorcha, love, Cadwal and I are sailing in a Lochlannach dragon ship. The
Sea Raven,
to be precise."

To his utter amazement, she burst into laughter.

"Sorcha? What—"

"We-we were right, King Aedh and I, we were joking that the next place you'd turn up would be on a Lochlannach ship, and—and here you are! This is all just too—too ridiculous, and—

"Och, but Ardagh, should you be talking with me? I mean, is it safe?"

Ardagh glanced up to find Olaf the steersman staring at him.

The prince stared right back, and Olaf hastily turned away. "Safe?" Ardagh said with a laugh. "Love, right now, the more magic I show, the safer I am! You see, these folk all believe with all their barbaric enthusiasm that I am none other than a Ljos Alfar. That, Sorcha, is their name for a Light Elf, a very distant cousin-race. The Lochlannach may have my race wrong, but at least they've recognized me as a magical being. I'll come to no harm, believe me. And ae, but it feels wonderful not to have to deny what I am!"

"That's all well and good and I'm happy for you—but what in the name of all the saints are you doing there? Ardagh, I don't have to remind you—"

"That these are the enemy? Of course they are, and no, I do not, I don't have to remind
you,
turn traitor." Quickly, he summarized the escape first from the Tylwyth Teg—omitting only the reason why Princess Tywthylodd had wanted to keep him her captive—then from the pretty prison of the cliff-lined beach.

"I don't understand," Sorcha complained. "You're not some magickless human. How could you let yourself be trapped there at all?"

"Not trapped, driven, and not by the Tylwyth Teg. Sorcha, I have had, and am still having, the strongest of
feelings
that these people, enemies or no, will prove to be our allies."

"What! How can you—"

"No, I cannot explain. And no, I am not being coy; I really don't understand it yet, myself."
I'm not even sure if this has anything to do with Einar's runic spells— the spells that just might relate to the magic Osmod uses—or if there's something even more important to the
feeling
than that.
"It is as it is," the prince said after a moment, "I'm not mistaken, and I'd appreciate your not saying too many awkward words to Aedh if you can avoid it."

She was silent for a long while, then sighed. "I'll do what I may."

"I know that, love. Ae, but it's a pity these folks are our foes, for they do build beautiful ships. You should see this one, long and lean, with its bright sail and the . . ." He stopped short; the language of Eriu had no word for "rudder." "The great steering-oar," he improvised. "It gives the
Sea Raven
incredible maneuverability."

"Which is how they managed to escape Aedh's attack, even undermanned as you'd made them."

"That, understandably, is a subject I would really rather not discuss here and now."

Sorcha's chuckle sounded a little too amused for his taste. "It would be awkward, yes. But go on, do, about your wonderful new friends and their wonderful ship."

" 'Friends' is hardly the word, but yes, the ship is quite splendid. Granted, there's not all that much room aboard; it was definitely built for speed, not comfort. The men even hang their shields along the outer sides to get them out of the way. There is an attempt at a cabin for Jarl Thorkell: a canopy draped over a wooden framework, and that's where I'm supposed to be sleeping as well."

"It sounds charming." Irony dripped from her words.

"That's not exactly the word for it, as Cadwal would argue."

"First Saxons, then Lochlannach. He can't be too happy."

He enjoyed the Tylwyth Teg—or at least one of them— well enough!
"It's not just politics. Cadwal, alas, is no better a sailor this time than he was when we left Eriu."

"Och no, not again."

"Och yes. The Lochlannach find it hilarious. Fortunately, it seems that not all of them are immune to the sickness, either, so neither Cadwal nor I have to toss anyone overboard."

"Fortunately," Sorcha agreed. "Ardagh, have you any idea where you're
going?
"

"Not really," he admitted. "South is all I can tell you. I was hardly about to remind them of Eriu, even though we can't be that far from its shores. Though I suspect," the prince added wryly, lowering his voice just in case someone did overhear and understand, "that after that last attempt, Jarl Thorkell is just as happy to leave Eriu for another time. No one has actually said as much, and everyone's bright and cheerful, but there's a feeling underneath all the goodwill that Thorkell had better lead a successful raid this time."

"And will he?" There was a sharp edge to that.

"Not, I assure you, with any help from me."

"At least there's that." Her laugh held very little humor in it. "Sailing south. At this rate, you just may end up back in Wessex."

"Oh, I will," Ardagh promised softly. "Believe me, love, eventually I will. And," he added, thinking of Einar and that cryptic mention of runic spells, "I doubt that Ealdorman Osmod will enjoy my return."

The Accident
Chapter 29

King Egbert of Wessex glanced about at the assembled members of the Witan's inner council, impatience hidden behind the regal mask he'd learned to cultivate so well. But he was thinking as he'd thought all too many times before: What good to be king, what good to have dreams of glory, plans of conquest, when you were pinned so very firmly to the mundane here-and-now? Of course a ruler must always be aware of the details of his land if he meant to keep his throne. Anyone who'd been anywhere near reality in the world of the court knew that. And of course there was a limit to what a ruler could safely delegate away to others.

But do I really need to know about every item sold in Uintacaester's markets or every ear of grain grown in Wessex's fields?

He let his mind wander just a wary bit, toying with the memory of the wayward prince of Cathay, the never quite resolved question of whether that had actually been an attempt at assassination. If not, what? If so, why? Much as he and Osmod would have loved to use it as an excuse to attack Mercia, the Witan had dragged its collective heels.

And unfortunately I have to agree with them.

It was simply too soon for such radical moves; the fact remained, dislike it though he might, that after so short a time as king, he just wasn't secure enough on the throne to successfully muster everyone behind him.

To arms, my people, to arms against the tyrant—now there's a ridiculous image.

Dishearteningly, his spies had brought him absolutely no evidence of a Mercian plot against him, not a plot that included anything as dramatic as assassination, at any rate. The day would come for Mercia, Egbert promised silently; he definitely meant to take advantage of that kingdom's weak ruler. But, alas, not just yet.

He'd resisted the urge to send a message to Aedh of Eriu. There just was no reason for the High King to want him dead, and Egbert was far from ready to stir up anything political in that direction.

Egbert reluctantly returned to the present. Bah, yes, they were still droning on about wheat and sheep. Osmod would surely have told this ealdorman what to do with his grain statistics and that one where he could leave his studies of the wool market, all the while with so charming a smile that neither noble would take offense.

After all, few are they who
can
take offense with him. Charming and cheerful, that's our Osmod and,
the king added with a touch of cynicism,
the amazing part of it is that most of the cheer seems real. As the man himself would say—

But Osmod wasn't here, was he? Egbert stifled a sigh that would have mingled frustration with a fair amount of anger at himself, and got to his feet. The startled councilmen fell silent, watching him in confusion.

"Enough facts and figures," he said, and forced a cheerful smile of his own. "I wish to see for myself how the land is doing." Egbert started forward, a confused swirling of guards and ealdormen in his wake. "Come, prepare yourselves. We ride."

It didn't take long to organize an expedition; Egbert refused to allow that. Mounted on a properly elegant if smallish horse, he allowed himself a random regal thought as they rode down into Uintacaester's crowded streets: he should see if he couldn't trade with Charlemagne for some of the larger Frankish steeds, improve the Wessex breed—bah, no, the newly minted Emperor would never part with them.

Ah, look, the surprised crowds were cheering him, and their enthusiasm sounded genuine.

Of course it's genuine. Osmod was right: until I do something unpleasantly regal, like raising their taxes, I am their golden young deity.

Osmod again. Egbert leaned down from his horse to examine the quality of the wool an earnest, red-faced merchant was offering for inspection, and tried to look as though he was genuinely interested.

Osmod. It was ridiculous to become dependent on the ealdorman, on anyone. Ridiculous? Downright perilous.

"Excellent wool," he said sharply, and rode on, leaving the gratefully bowing merchant behind.

It's not as though I truly rely on Osmod, or even trust him all that much, not that ambitious fellow.

Ambitious but charming. Charming to everyone. Sometimes it did seem as though court affairs only ran smoothly—which meant, Egbert admitted, the way he wanted them to run—when the ealdorman was present.

"Yes, yes, those are excellent vegetables," the king agreed with a weather-beaten, beaming farmer. "There's been just enough rain, hasn't there? Ah yes, and I see your hens have been producing nicely; plenty of grain for them to eat."

My, how these little tidbits of personal interest seemed to delight everyone! Those dull statistics droned over by the Witan did have politic uses. He should have done this before, gotten to know the common folk a bit, done his own stint of charming everyone the way Osmod charmed everyone.

Osmod again. The king rode on, trailed by his procession and waving and smiling at the crowds. Odd, how without Osmod's presence, the idea of invasions and expansion didn't seem quite so insistent. Or maybe it was just being down here among the earnest, bustling life of the city. His prosperous, relatively peaceful city. And yet . . .

Egbert gave a mental shrug. He could only show so much interest in common affairs. The limits of Uintacaester, of Wessex, would be boring him soon enough; he knew himself. But Osmod was wrong. It made no sense at all to try stirring up things towards war. Not yet. You didn't make any such drastic moves till you were sure of men—in loyalty as well as numbers—of resources and, yes, political stability. There was a ridiculous thought: stability among these his quarrelsome folk. Osmod would say that—

Osmod again. "Enough," Egbert said shortly, turning his horse. "Back to the royal hall."

Dammit, I really have let myself get too dependent on the man.

Easy enough to do. The ealdorman was so—convenient. The only member of the Witan who owned, or at least revealed, more than a token of common sense, he knew how to cut right through the web of court bureaucracy with just a few out-and-out sensible words. Surely it wasn't overly dependent to want someone at court who could take so much of the tedious off the royal shoulders.

Where are you, damn you? Or rather, where is your mind these days?
Octa had assured him that the ealdorman had suffered no permanent harm from his illness, and the physician had a respectably high number of cures to his credit.
Don't make a liar of him, Osmod. I may not always trust you fully—but I do need you by my side!

Osmod sat staring bleakly at the runes, as he stared at them whenever he was awake, ever since that first horrifying revelation.

And, as it had been then, so it was now.

Nothing. Not the slightest trace of Power. Nothing. Nothing was real, nothing meant anything, nothing . . . dimly, he knew the world remained outside this one room; dimly, he knew that life and the Witan and all of Wessex continued as ever it had. Osmod tried to rouse himself, telling himself that this sudden terrible loss meant nothing; he was still who he'd been, a man with high status at court, great influence on King Egbert of Wessex—

No. Nothing. It meant nothing. Without Power, it all meant . . . nothing.

The softest, most hesitant of coughs cut into his dull despair. "What?"

"My—my lord?"

"Yes! What is it?"

"My lord, it's Bosa."

"I can see that it's Bosa! Now what do you want?"

"It's King Egbert, my lord," the servant said warily. "He sends his greetings and—and wonders when you will be ready to return to court affairs."

When, indeed? This helpless languor was growing worse than tedious; it was getting downright perilous. The longer he waited, the weaker grew his hold over Egbert. He must show the king that he was fully recovered, fully his old, trustworthy, ever so loyal self again.

How? How can I lie so convincingly?

"
Yes,
"
Osmod said before Bosa could prod him. "Tell the king that I will be attending his council as usual. Tomorrow. Tell him that. Tomorrow."

"Yes, but—"

"Tomorrow, Bosa. Now, go!"

Tomorrow. Somewhere between then and now, he must regain his Power. Useless to pray to the Lords of Darkness. Even assuming that they were real, that they would listen, they would hardly be the sort to grant a supplicant's prayers.

No. He must regain his lost Power on his own.

Blood. A life. There was the proper path, surely.

But whose life? Something as vitally urgent as this could hardly be won by that of a mere child or servant.

Someone important, then. But . . . who? And before tomorrow? Impossible.

"Bosa," Osmod called. "Bosa! Ah, there you are. Tell the king that yes, I will be attending his council today."

"But you said—"

"Today, Bosa."

Of course he was surrounded by well-wishing idiots— and those who were too politic not to seem well-wishing— the moment he stuck his head into the hall. Osmod had expected no less, and played the role of the earnest invalid with all his might: yes, I am still weak, yes, I am so pathetically weary, but yes, I am such a loyal ealdorman I forced myself from my sickbed to attend my king.

Why, look at this: I'm almost a saint,
Osmod thought sourly.
Faugh, I'm sweet enough to make myself ill!

Someone else wasn't quite accepting the act. Osmod glanced from the throng to where Egbert watched, wry skepticism in his eyes. The ealdorman smiled ever so slightly, and saw the king dip his head ever so slightly in return. Egbert was willing to cede that Osmod's illness had been genuine, even if he wasn't agreeing with this "poor, pathetic martyr" performance.

"It's a fine thing to see you up and about again, ealdorman," the king drawled. "Now sit, before you fall."

Osmod sat, trying to ever so delicately pick up the strands of his Powerful influence . . . no. Still not even a spark.

Blood, then, no doubt about it. A life to be given, the life of someone important. Whose?

For a time, listening to the various Witan members droning on about this inconsequential matter and that, Osmod let his thoughts wander, pondering Egbert's dull-witted mistress. . . . Whatever her name was. Leofrun, that was it. Leofrun was certainly slow-brained enough to run into trouble all on her innocent, well-meaning own.

Ach, no. There was absolutely no way to safely get the woman alone, no way to safely dispatch her and dispose of the body.

Who else? Who else? One of the Witan? Now there was an entertaining thought. Osmod let his gaze rove over them, settling lightly on this man and that as though by idle chance. Cuthred, perhaps? Honest as sunlight, that one, yet bland as an ox. No one would miss him since no one really noticed he was there. But then again, that hardly would make him a fitting sacrifice.

What about Eadwig, then? Nothing bland about him: large as a warrior, florid of face, red of hair, loud of voice. The court would be a good deal more tranquil without him.

Alas, no, again. He would never die quietly. No, in fact, to all of the Witan. Oh, it would be easy enough to get any of them alone, and there were certainly enough pompous idiots among the ealdormen who'd improve the quality of the court by their deaths, but—

But what? What was missing?

Logic, Osmod decided. If he was to gain the optimum amount of Power out of this, there must be a logical reason for the sacrifice of whomever he chose to—

Wait, now . . . logical. Who would be the most logical person to visit him up in his sickroom? Who had already shown disconcerting hints of dark suspicions?

"Octa," Osmod murmured, so softly that no one heard. "Physician Octa. Yes."

Perfect, so perfect. A physician, a healer, a practitioner of—of goodness. What a perfect offering to the Lords of Darkness—and how much Power would be in that goodly blood! Now, Osmod told himself, he merely had to puzzle out how in the name of those unfeeling and possibly unreal Lords he was going to manage this. The murdering of someone so important must look like an accident.

An accident . . . the slipping of a tool . . . no. Hardly anything to do with weaponry, not where a physician was concerned. And Octa was never the sort to accidentally poison himself with one of his own potions. There must be some other way. A fall from a horse—no. Octa almost never rode. A fall, though . . . a fall . . . surely he was on the right path with this—

Ah, the answer was so obvious it practically screamed at him to use it! Osmod smiled, pleased as he'd not been for days. He might be Powerless—for the moment—but that didn't mean he'd lost his cleverness. Oh no, he'd not lost that at all.

Poor me,
he thought.
I fear I am about to suffer a most unfortunate relapse.

Outside, the evening sky was heavy with ever-thickening clouds. Portentous clouds, thought Osmod, lying in bed with the nervous Bosa hovering nearby. Ha, yes, there came the first flash of lightning. He waited, counting off heartbeats . . . yes, there was the first deep rumbling of thunder. The storm was still a goodly way off, but definitely heading this way. Portentous, indeed. And, if the rain came along with the drama, convenient as well.