Forging the Runes (7 page)

Hopes and Dreams
Chapter 7

". . . and the highest Wessex nobles," Ardagh recited in a fair imitation of Fothad's most teacherly voice, "are ealdormen, who make up the Witan, the law council, while a rank below them lie the thegns, and . . ."

He paused, glancing at Sorcha as she walked the chilly autumn rounds of Fremainn with him. "And you have not heard one of three words I've said."

"I have!" she protested. "I'm glad to hear how quickly and well you've been learning about Wessex and its ways."

"But?"

"But what do you think? I can hardly take joy in anything that keeps reminding me how soon you'll be leaving. And I—och, my love, I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep whining about something that's unavoidable. It's just . . . I've said this before but . . ." She shook her head impatiently. "What it is, is that I feel so—so damnably helpless! I
hate
having to wait here like a useless little nothing and I
hate
the idea of not going with you. But most of all," she added, a touch more gently, "I hate, och, I hate with all my heart knowing I'll not be knowing what's happening to you."

He grinned. "Now that, at least, is a problem I think I can solve. See this? With any luck at all, we should be able to speak to each other through it."

"That?" She eyed the little clay thing skeptically, "Isn't this the amulet you tried using that other night? Just after the battle against—"

"Leinster? Yes."

"You said it failed."

"It did. Only, I think, because it just isn't strong enough to work anything as Powerful as opening a Doorway. But it still does hold its own tiny magic—and that, if I'm correct, will be enough for something as relatively simple as linking us two—"

"Simple!"

"Hush. It would be simple, since we're already linked on a psychic level by our love. In fact, it shouldn't take more than a drop or two of mingled blood to seal the charm." He raised a wary eyebrow. "Are you willing?"

"I'm not sure exactly what you're proposing, but I—I suppose so—Ouch!"

He'd pricked her finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the clay. Before she could protest, Ardagh pricked his own finger as well, murmuring the gentlest of persuasion spells, telling the clay that
yes,
it was porous, and
no,
what it was absorbing was not foreign to it, not foreign at all, but part of him, part of her, part of their being, part of their thoughts. . . .

The prince let out a great, shuddering breath. "That begins it."

"Are you all right?" Sorcha asked in alarm. "You've gone so pale!"

"Sunlight
truly
doesn't like Sidhe magic. Besides," he added in resignation, "I only said that the spell should work. I never said it would be easy."
Not in this magic-poor Realm, at any rate.
The prince glanced down at the amulet, which now showed not the slightest sign of bloodstains. "Fortunately, I won't have to do any more work on the thing until nightfall."

"And when it's done, we really will be able to—to talk from afar?"

"Yes."

"And distance won't weaken the contact?"

"Not as long as you continue to love me. And I, you."

That earned him a wary glance. "I assure you, I don't fall so easily out of love."

"Of course not. Nor shall I." Ardagh paused, considering. Ae yi, as well now as later. "There's something more I must tell you. King Aedh knows who and what I am. Don't look at me like that! I could hardly deny the truth, not after Aedh witnessed my battle with Gervinus."

"But he's never said—"

"No. The king has kept my secret."

Sorcha's smile was quick and wryly understanding. "Wise of him. He doesn't want to cause a riot—or to have everyone thinking him mad."

"Exactly. But I doubt he'd be surprised to learn that you, too, know about me."

"He would be spectacularly unobservant if he hadn't figured it out by now!"

"Ae, true. At any rate, I think the king would greatly appreciate your passing news along to him."

She took a deep breath. " 'Messenger' isn't as romantic a role as 'ambassador,' but yes, of course I'll do it. Though any personal messages from you I intend to keep that way!"

He grinned. "I would certainly hope so!"

But Sorcha paused, frowning slightly as she studied him. "There's one thing you must, you really must, let me do before you leave. No, no, let me correct that: before another day passes."

"What?"

"Do you love me? Do you trust me?"

"Yes! Sorcha, what—"

"Then," she said firmly, "you are going to finally let me trim that wild mane of yours! And no," she added, "I have not accepted that you're leaving. No, I never will. But—cursed if I'm going to let you go off to a foreign land, let alone wander around Fremainn any longer, looking like a shaggy barbarian!"

Alone in his guest house that night, Ardagh sat studying the amulet, running a hand absently through his hair. Sorcha had been almost as elegant at her self-imposed barbering task as a Sidhe; though she'd left his hair fashionably long, he no longer felt like a wild pony with a burr-snagging, jagged mane.

Should have had it trimmed long ago. But the thought of trusting my throat anywhere near humans bearing iron . . .
Ardagh shuddered.

He was wasting time. This wouldn't be a fraction as difficult as opening a Doorway, nor would there be the slightest likelihood of failure. Clenching the amulet in his fist, the prince shut his eyes. He drew his breath in sharply, visualizing the spell he was about to use. Yes . . . it shouldn't need more than his own will, and not too much of his strength.

Opening his eyes, Ardagh began his chant, seeing the amulet and only the amulet, shutting out all the rest of the world and quietly convincing the clay that it was no longer
it
alone, it was part of
him,
of
her,
of
them,
chanting . . .

. . . and chanting . . .

. . . and . . .

He came sharply awake, staring into blackness. What—Yes . . . he had finished the spell . . . ae yes, and it had worked. The amulet, split as neatly in half as though he'd cut it with an axe, was definitely charged with Power. Ardagh wrapped each half separately in a precious square of spidersilk cut (not without a pang) from his one and only Sidhe tunic, then paused to yawn and rub a hand over his tired eyes. Not surprising that he'd fallen asleep for a moment; he'd used a fair amount of magical energy. More than should have been necessary.

Every time I think I've adjusted to this cursed Realm. . .

The spell had also taken far longer than it should. The hour was now somewhere in the deepest part of the night, judging by the
feel
of it. Ah well, at least the work was done and he could hie himself to bed and a much more comfortable sleep than—

The sound of a hesitant knock on the door brought Ardagh starkly alert. Who would possibly be calling at this hour?

Cadwal. The
feel
of his aura was unmistakable—as was the unexpected cloud of misery shrouding the man. Ardagh brushed back his hair, straightened his rumpled clothing and, face composed into a mask of Sidhe calm (even though, he jibed at himself, the human probably couldn't see him in the darkness) called: "Enter."

The door swung open. Cadwal stood in the entrance, peering into what, to him, would have seemed total blackness. "Prince Ardagh?"

"Of course."

"I . . . ah . . . thought you might be still awake. Hoped you were, anyhow. I wouldn't dream of disturbing you, particularly not at this hour, but . . ."

"But you have some trouble weighing you down. And obviously it's nothing you can share with a priest—or with King Aedh—or you would already have done so. Come inside, man, and shut the door."

Since Cadwal couldn't very well see what Ardagh was doing, the prince didn't bother looking for flint and steel, but lit an oil lamp with a simple flick of will, blinking in momentary discomfort as the sudden small flare of light burned at his darkness-adjusted sight. The flame quickly settled down to a steady little yellow glow, and Ardagh gestured to the room's other chair. Cadwal sat as warily as though he expected the thing to suddenly sprout fangs, and Ardagh fought down a sigh and asked, "Why come to me?"

"Because . . . oh hell, this sounds ridiculous and I wouldn't blame you for throwing me out, but . . . do you have a spell or something that lets a man sleep without dreams?"

"A spell!" That, Ardagh thought, feigned astonishment nicely. "What makes you think I would know such a thing?"

The mercenary shrugged, a little too casually. "Hell, I don't know. Just that . . . you being so foreign, the ways of your land being so strange . . ."

So foreign.
You know, don't you? You know on some deep inner level what I am, and don't want to accept that you know. Ae, humans.
"Dreams," Ardagh said without expression. "Foul ones, I assume."

"Very. I know," Cadwal added fiercely, "it's a weakness, but it's one I damn well can't afford. And before you ask, yes, I did try going to priests and all that, but I don't dare let everyone know I'm getting soft or—"

"Anyone," Ardagh cut in, "may suffer from disturbed sleep."
Particularly a human who has led such a harsh life.
"It's hardly a sign of failure."

"But—"

"But I certainly agree with you: The leader of the High Kings mercenary band can't afford to be weakened by lack of rest."

His very matter-of-factness seemed to be more soothing to the human than any soft words might have been; Ardagh saw not a muscle twitch in Cadwal's weatherworn face, but the faintest spark of hope flickered in the mercenary's eyes. "Then . . . you can help?"

Ardagh hesitated, considering. "No one may be totally without dreams," he said at last, which was certainly the truth. "And I can promise nothing."
Which is undeniably true as well.
"But . . ." Ha, he'd found the memory he'd been hunting. "Yes, I do know a charm for sweet sleep. Something even a . . ."
human
". . . a man not of Cathay can perform."

It was a very basic spell, a charm taught to every Sidhe child. Whether or not a magickless human could get it to work . . . who knew? But the charm required no special movements, no surge of Power, and Cadwal couldn't possibly do himself any harm.

Besides, even if the magic isn't sparked into life, the thing still might work by the simple power of suggestion.

Cadwal was a quick study. It took only the shortest of time before the words were set in his mind. He started to stammer out thanks, but Ardagh, all at once embarrassed at the human's embarrassment, shook his head. Deliberately brusque, he said, "The hour is late. I wish to sleep."

That was true enough. But once he was alone again, the prince sat musing over what had just happened.

Ah well. Humans had such self-tormenting minds. Not surprising that some long-buried horror or sense of guilt might unexpectedly spring up to torment a dreamer.

Then why do
I
feel troubled? I'm certainly not worried that Cadwal's going to blurt out
"
The prince isn't human,
"
or some such nonsense. No
. . .
this has nothing to do with him. . . .

Nothing, indeed. Something to do with the journey, then? The Wessex lands? Ardagh frowned, frustrated. He had never been talented in prescience, even in the Sidhe Realm. And yet there was something . . . something. . . .

Nothing. The danger, if danger there was, had no true form, or else was so distant even scrying would hardly detect it. Or maybe it—

Maybe it doesn't even exist. The hour,
the prince repeated to himself,
is late. Go to bed, you idiot. Things in this Realm always do look brighter in the morning.

Things, Beortric of Wessex mused, rarely did look brighter in the morning, no matter what folks believed. He stood in the doorway of his hall, to anyone watching merely a man enjoying the brisk bite of the clear air, but his thoughts were dark. Worr had come to him yesterday with so bizarre a tale that had it been anyone else reciting such nonsense, Beortric would have ordered him away. But Worr . . . Worr, the king thought, would never lie to him. Yet . . . that tale . . . to accuse an ealdorman of such a thing as murder, no matter that the slain had been no more than some common whore, to accuse him of the darkest of sorceries . . .

What am I to do? What am I to do?

Edburga would know. Oh yes, Edburga never hesitated to pass judgment. She would rant and rave as she always did, and in the end he would give in to her, as he always did, just to keep the peace. Beortric snorted. His wife would rule the land if he let her!

Yes, and he could just hear Edburga shriek that he was dithering again, stalling when he should be acting. Something must be done about Osmod. But what?

Beortric let out his breath in a shuddering sigh. And now Edburga would accuse him even more shrilly of stalling. Maybe he was. But you could hardly up and indict an ealdorman of such fantastic charges. Not unless they were true.

Enough of this. He would bring Osmod and Worr both before him, and see how matters went from there.

Osmod just barely managed to keep the look of bewildered innocence on his face as he listened to Worr's horrified accusations. What wild things the youngster was spouting—even if they were true. At least Beortric had shown the good taste—or perhaps the cowardice—to keep this a private matter between the three of them. It would have been very awkward, indeed, if the king had decided to bring the affair before the entire Witan.