Forging the Runes (33 page)

"Hail to thee, oh mighty oak. I bid thee give this branch And into to send thy strength, To bind the might of bright rune . . ."

Which one? Which one? "Algiz!" the prince finished triumphantly.

He cut the mercifully small branch free with a determined slash of his dagger,
feeling
the little prickle of Power working right, thinking at the same time with a touch of Sidhe indignation that a royal blade was never meant for such menial work as this. Fortunate that its silver alloy was, like the blade of his matching Sidhe sword, remarkably resilient even in this human Realm.

Ae-yi, now to actually carve the runes. The prince scrambled down to the ground, leafy prize in hand. Einar had implied that the carving should ideally be done with the season and phase of moon in mind. Ardagh shrugged. There wasn't much he could do about the former, and as for the latter, ae, well, he'd just have to trust that his Sidhe heritage outweighed any such obstacles.

For a long while the prince lost himself in his carving work, sheltered from the drizzle under the oak's wide branches, unaware of anything but the cutting of the runes into green, slippery wood without cutting his own flesh as well.

This is complicated enough as it is. I
don't
want to risk adding blood—particularly not my own—to it!

Ah, there. At last. Ardagh wiped his dagger clean, sheathed it, and looked up from his work with a satisfied smile.

"Done?" Cadwal asked.

"Done." Granted, the runes he'd cut were rather unpolished, offending his Sidhe sensibilities by their crudeness, but they were as accurate as his Sidhe memory could make them. "According to Einar," he added, turning the bits of wood over in his hand, "I'm supposed to stain them with something permanent, preferably red paint, but the carvings alone will have to do."

"Now what? Any more ritual?"

Ardagh glanced up from the runes at the brittleness all at once in the human's voice. "Cadwal, I'm sorry," he said suddenly, rather surprising himself. "I never meant to drag you through all this madness."

"Och, well, doesn't look as though either of us had much choice in the matter. But thank you."

"You . . . could leave. Return to Eriu. You'd know better than I about such things, but I'd guess that there are fishing boats along this coast that could be hired."

"What, and miss seeing how all this craziness comes out? Besides," Cadwal continued much more seriously, "if I hadn't come with you, I never would have learned the truth about. . . you know . . . about Gwen. Yes, and sired a—a son, either. And as for Eriu, it's my sanctuary threatened as well as yours, remember." He shrugged. "Who knows? You just may need someone guarding your back while you're battling the sorcerer."

"Ah. Good point."

"Tell you what," the mercenary added with a sudden grin. "When we get back to Eriu, we'll have ourselves a good, rousing drunk."

That startled Ardagh into a genuine laugh. "I must admit that sounds positively splendid." He uncoiled back to his feet, scooping up the runes in both hands. "Right now there is one more ritual to be done: the one that sparks these things into life—or in this hybrid case links them with my Power."

"You sure it will work?"

Ardagh hesitated. "Not at all. But life is, after all, one big experiment, isn't it?"

"Heh."

The prince turned away. This was, for all that he was trying to make it sound reassuringly easy for Cadwal's sake, the most perilous point: the linking of two disparate forces into one. It might well work. But if it didn't, if the two forms of Power tore free—

If that happens,
Ardagh told himself with Sidhe pragmatism,
I won't be around to worry about it.

So be it. He might as well use his native language rather than trying to work with the double strain of unfamiliar magic and a foreign tongue. He was already changing the basic wording as it was. If this added an additional element of peril—

Again, so be it.

Taking a deep breath, emptying his mind of everything but the runes and his own will, Ardagh began his chant.

"I am a staff for rays of runic might.

I shape the might from the depth of the sea

I shape the might from the womb of the earth

I shape the might from the highest heights."

He took a second steadying breath and continued:

"Fiery Fehu flow through me,

Ur shape my rune-might,

Madr unbind the flow of Power,

Rune-might meet in me and blaze

where I will it sent,

Rune-might stream from me,

Rune-might stream to me,

Rune-might work in me!

Rune-might work through me!

Rune-might be mine!"

Ae, Powers, Powers, the wildfire blazing through him! It was agony and fierce delight, light, dark, fire, ice, all in one insane, wondrous rush. Ardagh stood with head thrown back, arms flung
up, feeling
strength flying from sky to earth, from earth to sky, with himself in the midst of it all, the center, the focus, the—

—sense that Something was aware of him, Something of the Darkness and—

—the next clear realization was that he lay crumpled on the ground with not the slightest memory of having fallen, with a panicky Cadwal standing over him, not quite daring to touch him.

"I'm all right," Ardagh gasped out, hearing his voice come out strained and harsh. "Give me . . . give me a moment . . . catch my breath."

"Right. Anything you say."

Slowly the prince's swimming senses cleared. Slowly he came back to himself and left the wildness of the elements behind. And the . . . Darkness? Had that really been a touch of living Darkness he'd sensed? Ardagh could remember far too well his encounters with the demon Arridu. Had that one . . . ?

No. Impossible. There was no linking spell or ring or anything else between that ugly non-Realm and this. The sudden unexpected blaze of wildfire Power had confused even Sidhe senses.

Powers. Just how close did I come to burning out my mind?
He ached not so much in body as in being, and the new knowledge of the runes and how to use them lay like coils of fire along his nerves. Ardagh shuddered, shuddered again, willing himself back into peace with himself, sending a tentative wisp of will into his being, puzzling out what was changed.

Ah. Unfortunately, it wasn't that he had actually gained any Power; there wasn't that much new Power to be gained from this Realm. But what he had gained, Ardagh realized as his mind and body and
self
came back together, was a very real, very new way of using what magic there was.

It works,
he knew without having to test that knowledge.
What Einar taught me works. This strange new runic weapon is mine.
Granted, he would have to practice its use, get used to the
feel
of it; he wasn't vain enough to think himself totally proficient overnight.
But I do, at least, hold the weapon. I am armed against Osmod at last.

Old Friends
Chapter 33

Sorcha ni Fothad took a deep breath there in the fields of Fremainn, trying desperately to calm herself, very much aware that King Aedh was watching her, waiting with regal patience. This was the most suitable place for them to meet; king or no, it would not have been proper for them to be closeted together, no matter for what purpose. Aedh also had made it clear that he didn't wish anyone to think Sorcha a spy reporting to her employer.

Knowing the royal consideration for her status didn't make this any simpler to say. "It's true," she managed at last. "I've just come from speaking with him, with Ardagh, and—and—I know this sounds impossible, but he and Cadwal have left the Lochlannach ship after a storm that everyone thinks Ardagh caused but of course he didn't because—"

"Slowly, lass, slowly. You're overwhelming me."

"I—I'm sorry. I was a bit overwhelmed myself." She took another hopefully steadying breath, brushed a straying red braid back over her shoulder, then began again. "Ardagh and Cadwal left Cymru aboard that Lochlannach ship."

"Yes. You've already told me that much."

"Och, of course. But the ship was becalmed, and the raiders called on Ardagh to conjure a wind—"

"Which, I take it, he can't do."

"No."

"A pity," the king said blandly. "It would be so convenient to have him just . . . blow my enemies away. But please, continue. I assume they got their wind." He raised an eyebrow at her reaction. "More than a wind?"

"A good deal more. A storm, one that wrecked them. Ardagh and Cadwal escaped during the rebuilding, and as far as I can tell, are now back in Cymru." She waved a helpless hand. "Something about a stolen fishing boat."

"Cymru. They're
not
planning to return to Wessex and try a second shot at swaying King Egbert, are they?"

Sorcha shivered. "It's far more complicated than that. You see, after the storm, the Lochlannach were in awe of Ardagh."

"I don't blame them! The great and terrible sorcerer who can call down the storm winds—I'd be in awe of such a fellow, too. Perilous game, though; You're only as important as your last—no sacrilege meant," Aedh added with a wry glance heavenward, "miracle."

"Yes, well, Ardagh took advantage of it. And he— they—he—och, let me try this again. Ardagh got the Lochlannach to agree never to attack Eriu again."

That gave Sorcha the doubtful satisfaction of seeing Aedh actually stunned into openmouthed silence. At last he asked, very carefully, "Does he think this . . . ah . . . treaty will hold?"

"For a time, yes. The Lochlannach attitude seemed to be that it was no difficult thing to raid other lands instead."

Aedh let out his breath in a slow sigh. "He asks them to stop raiding us, and they agree. Raiders who have no fear of God or man, he asks them to stop, and they just up and agree." The king shook his head. "Bizarre. God, yes, but I can believe it. It's just bizarre enough to be true." He shook his head again. "Then our peripatetic prince will be heading back to Eriu after all."

"Ah . . . no," Sorcha said, and to her mortification, felt her eyes well up with tears. "He—he really is headed back to Wessex."

"Wessex! Why? If what he says about the Lochlannach is true—yes, yes, I know Prince Ardagh cannot lie. But doesn't he see that if those sea-thieves really are going to leave Eriu untouched, there's no need for a foreign alliance?"

"I don't think that's why he's returning."

"God in heaven," Aedh erupted, "
now
what? A feud. He's started a personal feud. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I—I can't! I d-don't know what he's doing." And now, to Sorcha's horror, the tears did break free. "He—he wouldn't t-tell me."

"Och, lass . . ."

But Sorcha continued fiercely, "If he's doing what I think, if he's trying to—to protect me as if I was a—a— a stupid little girl, I—I'll show him a feud! I—excuse me."

At Aedh's sympathetic wave of a hand, she dashed away.

"Your pardon," Cadwal said, irony behind the words, "but we've been hiking through the forest for," he glanced up at the twilight sky, "nearly two full days now, and I haven't seen any signs of wondrous transport."

Ardagh shot him a wearily angry glare. "As you humans say, 'O ye of little faith.' I may be Sidhe, but even the Sidhe need time to absorb a new magical system." He'd been practicing and practicing again, struggling with the runes, with the whole bizarre system that was so unlike his own, trying to find the way to fuel Sidhe magic through human runes. It was almost working, but almost wasn't going to help him against Osmod. There was also that disconcerting, not-quite-perceptible sense of Darkness watching—no, no, too strong a word. Dimly aware, perhaps.

To the Darkness
with
the Darkness!
Cadwal wasn't exactly cowed by the prince's glare. "And now?" he insisted.

"And now, wait."

There wasn't the slightest guarantee that this would work, any more than any of his other attempts had succeeded. But, Ardagh told himself, the moment one began doubting a spell would work, it was guaranteed to fail. Drawing out the carved sigil known, according to Einar, as Reid, he studied it thoughtfully. The rune literally referred to riding, but it also involved the entire concept of journeying, both actual—which certainly made it applicable here—and spiritual. It also, the humans being as devious in their thinking at times as the Sidhe, involved aspects of control and self-control, and—

And he, Ardagh decided abruptly, was not going to spend all day puzzling over each and every interconnected possibility. He was of the Sidhe, he was an inherently magical being, what he wanted to do took very little Power, and there was not the slightest reason for even this hybrid form of magic to fail him.

Raising the rune aloft in one clenched hand, the prince began a Summoning, focusing his will through the twisted shape of the rune, seeing it glowing in his mind's sight, seeing it as a lure pulling and pulling, feeling the Power building with a small twinge of satisfaction because it was going just the way it should. . . .

Cadwal's startled bark of a laugh snapped Ardagh back to reality. There, half-hidden in leaves, were two shaggy grey shapes, their rough coats glowing in the dim light: wild ponies watching him with ear-pricked equine curiosity and feral wariness.

"Well, they aren't exactly my idea of wondrous transport," the mercenary said with a chuckle, "but they're better than walking. Assuming they let us ride them."

The two ponies had started at Cadwal's voice, and were sidling nervously, nostrils flared, ready to bolt at any moment. "You don't understand," Ardagh whispered to the mercenary, his voice quavering with excitement. "The runic spell worked. Maybe not as fully or as—yes—wondrously as it might. But it did work."

Oh, it had, in more ways than one. There was that slightest of shadows at the back of his senses. There was also—Ardagh tensed, hardly noticing the wild ponies dashing back into the forest. The magic he'd just cast had been as good as a beacon for some equally magical someone, no, someones:
Sidhe!

"Down," Ardagh hissed to Cadwal—no time to explain any further—and stalked silently forward, blazing with mingled hope and alarm, wary as a predatory wild thing. Crouching in the underbrush, he parted leaves ever so softly, hardly feeling their prickling. There, now, he could see—

Ardagh froze, staring, heart racing, in that one astonishing moment too stunned to do more than think a dazed,
My . . . lord . . . Iliach. Iliach,
here!

No doubt about it. However Iliach had managed it, that was definitely the scheming Sidhe courtier Ardagh remembered from his brother's court, tall and graceful as ever as he stalked warily through the human Realm. Iliach, fashionable as always, was clad in beautifully cut hunting leathers over elegant spidersilk—sending a pang of pure envy through Ardagh—and his hair was a dramatic blaze of gold against the forest's dark background.

Look at that: Elegant as though he's strolling through a park. But Iliach would never be alone in such a perilous place. There are others nearby; there must be.

He didn't have a doubt as to whom they were hunting. That they hadn't found him already Ardagh attributed to their unfamiliarity with the
feel
of this Realm. It would surely be confusing their sensing of his aura.

What a shame.

The prince waited with predatory patience until Iliach had moved past him, then slipped out of hiding to stand leaning in apparent lazy ease against a tree. A good, sturdy oak, this, and he intended to keep his back safely against its broad trunk. "Looking for me?"

Iliach whirled with a startled hiss, golden hair swirling. But after that second of alarm, he had himself back under Sidhe self-control, revealing his shock only by the slightest widening of his eyes. Still, thought Ardagh, that tiny reaction said volumes.

"Why, my lord," the prince purred, "aren't you glad to see me? Or have I changed so very much?" Gesturing to his worn, disheveled clothing, some of Tylwyth Teg weave, some Lochlannach, he added, forcing his voice to betray none of his inner turmoil, "What, does my appearance alarm you?"

"You . . . are somewhat different than when last I saw you." Iliach admitted in what Ardagh mused was surely a masterpiece of Sidhe understatement.

"And you are exactly the same as when last I saw you, my lord."
Just as sly, just as perfidious.
"Tell me, my lord, what brings you to this outre land?"
And how did you get here? A Portal? A Portal that I can use?
No. Iliach would never be so careless as that. "Surely it wasn't merely from some casual whim. For that matter, how were you able to find me?"

Iliach's smile was a nasty thing. "Oh, distant cousins aided me."

Distant cousins. Tylwyth Teg.
Thank you, Tywthylodd. You've found a nicely devious way to strike back at me, haven't you?
"How charming of them. But surely," the prince continued, putting the barest edge to his voice, "you have not come here alone—ah, no, indeed you have not. Good day to you, my lord Charalian, my lady Tathaniai. You may step out of hiding now."
Are there others, lurking there at the edges of Power's scan? I can't be sure.
"And to what, pray tell, do I owe this visit?"

Lord Iliach glanced ever so subtly at the others, then began, "Prince Ardagh, I shall be blunt."

"What a wonderful change."

"Ah. Prince Ardagh, you nave been most sorely misused by your royal brother."

"You've just decided this, have you? After all this while? After you, my lords, my lady, played such a large part in my ousting? Come, come, don't play the hypocrite, Lord Iliach. The role fits you far too prettily."

Ae-yi, look at the anger flash in those elegant blue-green eyes—but just for a moment. "I can't fault you for your bitterness, Prince Ardagh," Iliach said smoothly. "Indeed, it is only to be expected. But . . ." This time the glance he exchanged with the others was a touch longer, a touch more uneasy. "The past is exactly that, and surely the current need overwhelms it."

"Meaning?"

"Prince Ardagh, have you had any communication with our Realm since . . . leaving it?"

"Since being exiled," Ardagh corrected dryly. "And yes, I have. From my brother. Warning me about treacherous nobles. Why do you ask?"

"Enough, Iliach." That was Lady Tathaniai, her face impassive, her eyes as icy-chill as ever. Not a shred of softness in Tathaniai. "Prince Ardagh, blunt we shall be, indeed: Your brother is rapidly proving himself unfit to rule."

"Is he? In what way?"

"There are whispers throughout the Realm of irrational decisions, unfair edicts, suspicion of everyone and everything—the word is even that he plans to put aside his wife."

Karanila! Now, there was shocking news—if, indeed, Ardagh reminded himself with a jolt, it was true. The prince smiled slightly, never moving from the sheltering tree; he'd half forgotten how to play the game of never quite saying truth while ever avoiding falsehood. "Interesting. And now many of you, I wonder," he added, glance sweeping over them all, "are in my brother's employ?"

Not a Sidhe muscle so much as twitched, but that, of course, meant nothing. "So far," Ardagh continued, "you've given me some nice little snips of gossip, but not one word of solid fact."

Lord Charalian sighed as though in genuine regret.

"Facts are difficult things to catch at court, as you know. Suffice it to say, Prince Ardagh, that were one of the blood royal to return, there would be those who would gladly support that one, even as far as . . . one might go."

Ardagh shook his head lazily. "Tsk, you never do learn, do you? I will
not
be a puppet, not of you, not of anyone."

"Yet," Iliach commented, "you would seem to be doing the humans' bidding."

"Such spite, my lord! For shame!" He leaned forward ever so slightly to put a physical emphasis to his words. "I repeat, and this time please do listen fully, for I shall not repeat myself:
I will not be your puppet!
And
I will not be an oathbreaker to my brother!
"
He leaned back against the tree, watching them through half-lidded eyes. No reaction. Well now, he'd expected none. "And why, while we're on the subject, would you ever expect me to trust you or work with you after you betrayed me?"