A Strange and Ancient Name (22 page)

XVII

THE TANGLED WAY

Matilde woke slowly, in stages, first aware that her bed seemed unusually hard and lumpy, then realizing it wasn’t a bed at all, then blinking in confusion, unable to think why she had been sleeping on bare ground, in her clothes, with only her riding cloak for blanket. The world about her was dim with twilight—

But that couldn’t be! She couldn’t have slept the night and day around, could she?

No. Of course not. This wasn’t the mortal world, but Nulle Part, Nowhere.

Matilde sat up carefully, stiff muscles complaining, and brushed wild hair back from her face, wishing irrelevantly (amid all the alien surroundings) for a comb, then froze, looking across the embers of the dying fire to where the . . . being that called himself—itself?—Alliar watched her.

Itself.
A spirit,
she thought,
a wind spirit,
and then, wildly,
How can a spirit be in physical form?

She didn’t quite have the nerve to ask.

A small, prim voice within her was scolding faintly that no, she shouldn’t merely be nervous, she should surely be terrified. Surrounded by strangeness, by heathen creatures, she should be lost in prayer, begging Heaven to protect her soul.

And yet, for all that a priest would thunder at her that this place was un-Godly, that
she
was un-Godly, Matilde knew she wasn’t afraid. She hadn’t truly been afraid since that first alarming moment of arrival. After all, she thought with a flash of dark humor, the creatures of Nulle Part only wanted to eat her, not condemn her or burn her at the stake—

But she wasn’t going to start babbling to herself like this. Matilde began to greet Alliar politely, but was hastily waved to silence. The being pointed, and she looked down to find Hauberin still curled in sleep, sleek black hair fallen forward to half-hide his face.

A pang almost of pain shot through her at the sight of the sharp, proud features now relaxed and defenseless. He had seemed so human back in her husband’s castle, dazzling them all with clever words and charming manners so they’d never really had a chance to study him at rest. Now there could be no mistaking the alien cast of his face: ever so slightly too high of cheekbone, too narrow of chin and pointed of ear for true humanity. And yet, she thought, he didn’t look overly exotic; at the moment, even with those elegant ears, he seemed more like any weary, travel-stained young man than a Faerie prince.

And here I always thought a Faerie prince would be all tall and fair and golden-haired!

But his black hair was beautiful, smooth and straight as a fall of water, so dark it had gleamed blue-purple in the sunlight. It must be silk-soft to the touch. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Matilde reached out a gentle hand to brush the wild strands back from his face, only to freeze at Alliar’s steady gaze. The golden face was expressionless, and yet she felt such a weight of quiet disapproval that she drew back.

“I wasn’t going to hurt him,” she mouthed indignantly.

But a moan from Hauberin caught her attention. Ah, poor man, his dreams seemed to have turned dark, because he was fighting them, murmuring broken phrases in what surely must be his native tongue, struggling to escape. Matilde was just about to wake him when he woke himself, starting up with a wild cry, face to face with her, dark eyes blazing into her own, wild and blank with terror. Helpless, Matilde stammered for words of comfort, but sanity returned with a rush to those slanted eyes, and the prince sat back with a weary sigh, head in hands.

Matilde hadn’t seen or heard the being move, but Alliar was there at her side, so suddenly she started.

“The dream?” the being asked softly, and Hauberin nodded, adding with weary humor, “I think I’m growing used to it; I wasn’t much further down the corridor. And at least this time I got some sleep.”

Matilde looked from one to the other in open confusion. “A recurring dream?” she asked hesitantly. “A . . . prophetic one?”

Hauberin rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Powers, I hope not. Ah, it’s too complicated to explain. Let’s just say my cousin cursed me with what I thought was his dying breath, and leave it at that.”

“The cousin who’s . . . wearing . . . Rogier’s body.”

“Yes.” The prince got to his feet, stretching, managing somehow, Matilde thought enviously, to look elegant despite rumpled tunic and dirt-stained cloak. Feeling suddenly hopelessly grubby, she tried to do
something
with her impossible hair, rebraiding it hastily into two tight plaits, muttering over the tangles, very much aware of Hauberin’s glance on her. Last night . . . No. She wouldn’t think of that; she was a married woman, and human, while he—no, again. That moment of—of whatever had almost happened between them was gone as though it had never been, and Matilde wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

But Hauberin was grinning. “Ah, I
do
remember!” he said with such evident relief that both Matilde and Alliar stared at him in bewilderment. He laughed. “No, I haven’t lost my mind. Last night I used the fire to find the way out of Nowhere for us, and it’s still set in my memory. Come, let’s take care of . . . ah . . . necessaries, and be on our way.”

Did she really want to go back . . . ? Back to hiding and pretending . . . ?

Oh, nonsense. Her husband was back there, and her good, safe, mortal life. She certainly didn’t want to stay in this gloomy twilight Nowhere forever!

A flicker of motion caught her eye. Matilde glanced at Alliar in time to see the being shimmer and change back into man-shape. Alliar shrugged. “It makes a better defensive form, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Matilde burst out before she could guard her tongue. “Changing shape like that, isn’t it . . . uncomfortable?”

Alliar chuckled, but Matilde surprised something unthinkably old and sad in the golden eyes. For a moment she saw the endless sweep of sky reflected there, the endless sweep of freedom . . . Freedom lost. Dizzy, she staggered, and the moment was past. “You understand,” the being murmured. “Why should one shape be more difficult than another, when all are forced?”

Bewildered, Matilde stammered over a deluge of questions, but Alliar only smiled and held up a hand. “I don’t want to be trapped in Nulle Part any more than you do. Let’s follow Hauberin, shall we?”

###

Faerie prince and wind spirit moved as smoothly through the tangled underbrush as fish through water. Panting, stumbling over roots, snagging clothes and skin on thorns, Matilde struggled after them, fighting back oaths she’d never realized she knew. The path (nothing as clear as a physical one) might be leading them back to the human world, but it was a Godforsakenly difficult one to follow.

Be thankful for small mercies,
she told herself. At least the weather remained clear and warm, and nothing was actively menacing them; even whatever birds might be in the forest were keeping still, unnerved by human or Faerie strangers.

Hauberin stopped short for perhaps the hundredth time, evidently questing for whatever psychic ribbon they were following. Matilde, head down, crashed right into his back, and recoiled with an embarrassed mutter of apology. Eyes opaque and alien enough to make her shiver, focused on something beyond the physical, he never noticed, only started forward again. With a great sigh, she followed.

What an unpredictable thing this forest was, now a dense tangle of underbrush, now an open progression of trees orderly enough to be part of some noble’s park.

It was in the midst of such an orderly stretch that Matilde gave up. “You may be of Faerie, my lords—Your Grace—

Jarred back to the real world, the prince stared at her as though seeing her for the first time.
(And what a sight I must be,
she thought,
red-faced and sweaty as a farmer.)
He blinked.

“Hauberin,” he said belatedly. “Forget the formal titles. We’re hardly in a proper court now.”

She dipped her head to him. “Hauberin, then. You may be of Faerie, but remember I’m only human. I . . . must rest.”

“Ae, of course.” The olive-dark skin flushed slightly. “Forgive us.”

She sank gladly to a rock, content for a time just to steady her breathing, then glanced about at the twilight-dim light that was beginning to wear on her nerves. Was this Nowhere always so gloomy? A flash of memory made her quote, “ ‘A land that seemed always afternoon . . . and add, “The stories say Faerie has no sun, either. Is your own land like this?”

Hauberin had perched on the opposite side of the rock. He shook his head. “Nothing even half so dreary. It’s true we have nothing like your mortal sun. But our very air is alive with light during the day, so beautiful. And at night—oh, at night a thousand, thousand stars light the sky—they blaze with color, red and blue and green, not like your simple Earthly stars—and the moonlight spilling down is pure, unstained silver.”

Such longing ached in his voice that Matilde turned with a faint, sympathetic smile, thinking that Faerie or human, homesickness was the same. “That morning on the castle wall,” she murmured, “when I said you looked like a man seeing his first sunrise . . . It really
was
your first, wasn’t it?”

He smiled in return. “It was. And oh, what a splendid sight . . .”

But he was looking full at her as he said that, and his eyes were dark as night . . . a warm, wonderful night . . .

A cough from Alliar jarred them both back to reality. Hauberin snapped something short and sharp to the being who, not at all discomforted by the princely rebuke, raised a shoulder in the slightest of shrugs, as though to say,
someone
has to be sensible. Matilde bit back a little laugh, seeing the easy warmth behind the sharpness, reminded of the comfortable, friendly joshing she’d seen between some of her husband’s men-at-arms, astonishing herself by the envy she felt.

“You
are
friends, aren’t you?” she asked unnecessarily.

Hauberin raised a wry eyebrow, eyes alight with humor. “Would I suffer such insolence from anyone else?”

But something he had mentioned earlier was nagging at her memory. Carefully Matilde began, “Would you . . . be offended if I asked you a question?”

“Probably not. Ask.”

“Yesterday, you told me you were in my husband’s castle tracing your ancestry. And later, you mentioned that your own mother was—was called a witch. Are you . . . ? Was she . . . ?”

“Human?” The dark eyes blazed with such sudden anger that Matilde realized too late she’d broken a rule of Faerie etiquette: asking one of his ever-truthful race a question he couldn’t avoid answering. But then the prince sighed and moved a hand in an odd, ritualistic little gesture, murmuring,
“Athenial ne thenial: you shared thoughts with me, I share with you.
Ae, yes. I am my father’s rightful heir, but my mother was of your people. Now, are you rested enough to go on?”

“I did offend you, didn’t I?”

Hauberin glanced sharply at her. “You didn’t mean to. And I’ll admit I’m not always comfortable about my mixed blood.”

“But your subjects accept you, don’t they? And—”

His laugh interrupted her. “Believe me, if I hadn’t inherited magic, I doubt I would have reached my majority, let alone ruled.”

“I—I didn’t realize . . .”

“Ach no, it wasn’t as bad as I’m making it sound. What royal court—including, I’ve no doubt, human ones—isn’t full of intrigues? Of course I had—and have—enemies.”

“Including,” Matilde added daringly, “your cousin?”

“Including my cousin. Serein. Whom I intend to oust from his stolen home as soon as we return.”

“He . . . killed Rogier, didn’t he?”

“Oh, probably. Any man who would stoop to child-murder—” he said it as though it was the foulest obscenity (which, thought Matilde, it was) “—wouldn’t shrink from killing a grown man. A . . . mere human, to boot.”

Matilde bit her lip. “I shouldn’t want him for a foe.”

Hauberin shrugged. “One can’t, as the saying goes, pick one’s relatives. Serein only once dared attack me openly, and I—thought I’d put an end to him. Look you, I did have—what shall I say?—friendlier family, too, and friends. I still do have my friends,” he added with a quick grin at Alliar, who made him an elegant little bow. The prince stretched restlessly, then got to his feet. “Enough of this. No, it’s not easy being part-other-than-Faerie; no, I’m not really bitter about what I can’t change; and yes, I do love my land and people very much and most of them seem quite content with their prince, human blood or no. Now, let’s do something about getting out of Nulle Part.”

Wearily Matilde got to her feet and followed. The open progression of trees narrowed all too soon for her comfort, the way becoming overgrown once more. At last she found herself trailing the others down a narrow corridor lined with a maze of intertwined bushes taller than her head: walls of heavy, dark green leaves looming over her on both sides, so close they brushed her arms like so many moist, chilly hands. Matilde shuddered, pulling her cloak about her, and the leaves left damp streaks on the thick wool. The air was heavy with the odor of dank, overripe growth, and she could swear the ground squelched faintly beneath her feet. Dear saints, did Hauberin really know where he was going? Was he deliberately leading them into a swamp? Or maybe even into a trap . . . ? He was a Faerie man, after all, not really human . . . Soulless, the priests would say. As if priests knew anything about Faerie.

The thick, dank air was wearing on her nerves. Matilde all at once could have sworn that something was watching them, keeping pace with every step. The
galipote?
Something worse? But when the young woman glanced wildly about, she saw nothing but the heavy vegetation and heard nothing but her own squelching footsteps.

Don’t be a fool,
she snapped at herself.
I’m with two magical beings. If there was any real danger, they’d know it.

It wasn’t too comforting to see that both Hauberin and Alliar were alert as two wild things. Something disconcertingly close emitted a sobbing cry, and Matilde jumped violently, barely biting back a cry of her own, vaguely gratified to see prince and wind spirit start, too.