Forging the Runes (2 page)

Her strangled little gasp of anguish stabbed through him. "Sorcha . . . I'm sorry." It didn't come easily. "I tend to forget that I'm merely a . . . visitor here, while you've been trapped in this society's rules all your life. You know I would not hurt you."

"But you are! You're hurting me because you're hurting yourself!"

"I . . . it's simply that I . . . cannot find my way and . . ." Ardagh paused, hunting for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "Sorcha, I am afraid," he finally admitted, "sorely afraid not so much that I will never be at home in this land—but that I may."

"Ah . . ." It was the softest exhalation. "Ardagh, no. A hawk caged is still a hawk. You can no more stop being what you truly are than—than the trees could fly off into the sky. Give me something I can do, something that will help you."

"Ae, Sorcha. There is nothing." He saw her eyes suddenly turn suspiciously bright, and touched her face with a gentle hand. "Forgive me. I don't wish to seem like some self-pitying fool of a—"

"Human. You were going to say 'human,' admit it."

Ardagh had to grin at that, and saw a reluctant little smile twitch at her lips as well. He bowed. "I yield to my most perceptive lady." But as he straightened, Ardagh let his grin fade. "Yet I am going, Sorcha."

"Into battle. Against men with iron swords."

"I've fought against such before, yes, and survived unscathed."

"You can't expect such luck every time!"

"Hey now, grant me a
little
skill!"

But this time he couldn't coax even the smallest of smiles from her. "You are a prince, not a warrior," Sorcha said coldly. "And I expected more from one of the Sidhe than this sudden mindless need to kill."

"Give me strength against this woman!" That had erupted in his native tongue. Switching quickly back to the human language, Ardagh added, "I do love you. I do. But do not presume on that love too far. I am what I am, Sorcha, as you remind me, and human has no part in it."

"Go, then," she said flatly. "Go. Fight. Kill. Only return, alive, unharmed. That's all I ask."

That's all I ask as well!
Ardagh thought. But he would not say that, and he could find nothing else.

Cadwal ap Dyfri let out his breath in a wary, soundless sigh as the prince and Sorcha ni Fothad went their separate ways. The last thing he'd intended was to be trapped in a corner like this, hiding like someone in a silly tale and horribly embarrassed lest the prince's keen night sight spot him. He most certainly hadn't wanted to be an eavesdropper.

But then, Cadwal thought with a rueful shake of the head, he doubted that either of the two would have noticed, lost in the heat of their lovers' quarrel as they'd been, if he'd paraded them painted all in blue woad.

"Fools," he said, but so softly it was no more than the faintest whisper. "Ah, fools. Don't they know?"

No, of course not. They had no idea, they
could
have no idea, how frail a thing was love. . . .

Cadwal realized suddenly how he was clenching his fists and very deliberately forced his hands to relax. He would
not
be ruled by memories. Or . . . dreams. (Gwen, his Gwen, calling,
help me, Cadwal, help me—)

No. Ridiculous. Gwen was long dead, and dreams were . . . only dreams.

Even if they hurt so fiercely.

"
Damnio,
"
Cadwal muttered and started blindly forward. He knew why Prince Ardagh burned for battle, even if Sorcha did not; he'd felt the same madness. It was all too easy for an exile to fall into a frenzy of despair, to act with a wildness that said, clear as words,
what does my life matter?

It mattered to Sorcha. The prince should remember that. But then,
cu glas
as Prince Ardagh was, what hope was there on that point?
Pw,
his own people had their codes of honor, of course they did, but these folk of Eriu had more such codes than any sane man needed!

"I must be at the king's side," Cadwal said to the absent prince. "I can't watch over you, too."

Still, Prince Ardagh was a more than decent swordsman, and he'd been training now and again with Cadwal; for a prince, someone who hadn't needed to fight for his life—at least not with a sword—he wasn't a bad warrior. Besides, there was that uncanny grace and speed of his, a definite asset.

Uncanny.

Cadwal stopped short, uneasily considering the word. Uncanny, yet. And what, specifically, had he overheard amid the quarrel? Something odd, something of magic . . .

Nonsense. He'd once drunk with Prince Ardagh when the weight of their respective exiles had burdened them both beyond solitary endurance. Yes, and they'd gotten a little drunk, too, talking like old comrades fully half the night. Nothing uncanny about that!

"Nonsense," Cadwal repeated aloud, and turned his mind grimly to the forthcoming battle.

It was a fine, bright day. A good day for a combat. Aedh had chosen the site well, forcing King Finsneachta's men to fight uphill, the sun in their eyes.

For all and all, Ardagh thought, trying not to pant, it wasn't shortening the fight.
Sorcha was right. This is
not
my battle.
The prince fiercely parried a sword cut meant to take off his head, feeling the shock of blade against blade shudder all the way up to his shoulders.
This is not my land.
He twisted aside to let a second blow whistle past, very well aware that his armor was of leather while everyone else—including this cursedly enthusiastic foe—was clad in iron; no way around that liability, not for one of the Sidhe.
This is not even my
Realm,
curse it!

All around him, the clash of sword on sword and the roar of men's battle-mad voices tore at the air. Powers, how long was this battle going to last? Finsneachta of Leinster must surely know by now it was hopeless; Aedh had mustered far too many allies against him. And yet, Leinster fought on.

Oh yes, and I went into this stupid human fray with equally stupid enthusiasm. Though
why
I ever wanted to—

Ae, time enough to scold himself when he was safely out of this tangle.

If ever he was. By now, Ardagh's swordarm was brutally weary, his head pounded, and his side ached from someone's direct hit on that barely adequate leather armor. Only Sidhe reactions, swifter than anything human, had kept him unhurt so long. And now, somehow in the crush of bodies, he'd gotten himself separated from King Aedh.

Ardagh spared a second's glance to hunt and (with a little surge of relief) find Aedh mac Neill, there on a slight rise, fighting with the zeal and strength of a much younger man, iron helm hiding his silver-streaked red hair, and apparently totally unharmed. Yes, he'd brought this battle to the rebellious Finsneachta to teach that underking some humility. But no such serious motive could have been read from Aedh's face; he was very clearly enjoying the fight.

Hastily refocusing on his foe, Ardagh parried a new slash, then cut at the man, left, right, left again, trying to find an opening in that cursed iron mail. He didn't dare glance away again, but a part of his mind noted that it wasn't very long since the matter of the late, villainous Gervinus; Aedh was probably delighted to be fighting a battle that didn't involve sorcery.

No need to worry about the king, at any rate. Even if Aedh hadn't been so fine a warrior, Ardagh knew that at his side was Cadwal ap Dyfri; no joy of battle in Cadwal, only a grim and very professional efficiency that had kept the man alive so long.

It's his job, keep the king safe. Does it well, too. It's not
my
job though, and—

Suddenly his hair, admittedly far too long for battle, tore free from its thong, sending a black wave across Ardagh's face, nearly blinding him. He sprang back, clawing frantically at the strands with his free hand to clear his sight, struggling to parry at the same time, just barely managing both.

Damn and damn!
It was sworn in the human tongue; the Sidhe language was too elegant for raw words. Still half-blinded by his own hair, Ardagh lunged savagely forward, driving his startled foe back and back again, hoping the human would slip on the wet, grassy slope. But now a second foe was trying to close with him as well. Ardagh sprang aside with inhuman speed, hearing the two humans crash into each other—and hopefully spitting each other on their weapons—only to find himself facing a new swordsman.

He looks as worn as I feel. Fortunately.

At least he'd finally gotten the hair out of his eyes. But without warning Ardagh felt the first blaze of iron-sickness burn through him. He staggered back, reminded—as though he really needed reminding—just how much of that cursed metal was around him. A small amount of iron was no problem, but there were limits—and his body had clearly just reached its. In another moment, Ardagh knew, he was going to have to flee or be ignominiously ill—and get himself killed during the latter. Did he care if the humans thought him a coward?

Not a whit!

Ardagh lunged to give himself room. The human drew back, expecting a charge, and Ardagh turned and fled the battlefield. His legs gave out halfway down the slope and he collapsed under a scraggly oak, struggling with nausea, struggling to draw new strength up from the native Power of the earth. If any stragglers found him here, helpless, he was dead. A stupid, stupid way for a prince of the Sidhe to die, even a prince who was, through no fault of his own save stubborn honor, trapped in exile in this human Realm.

Ardagh looked up with a gasp, suddenly aware of someone standing over him, and saw King Aedh, his mail stained but not so much as dented, his face still fierce from battle.

"Iron?" the king asked succinctly, too softly for any human to hear; Aedh knew his Sidhe guest's keen senses, and a disconcerting bit of his weaknesses as well.

Ardagh nodded, but before he could say anything, Adeh added a curt, "You're lucky to be alive," and turned away, shouting commands to his men and his allies, working order on chaos by sheer force of voice and will.

Victory,
the prince thought.
Of course victory. Finsneachta didn't have a chance.

By ancient law, any king who'd been defeated—as Finsneachta of Leinster clearly had, could be deposed. But Aedh would hardly want to replace a known but at least temporarily cowed threat with an unknown, and possibly greater, menace; the High King, clever man that he was, had almost certainly already worked out some nicely convoluted treaty by which Finsneachta could keep at least a good part of his honor, and he—or at least his heir—could keep the throne. It would take some time to get the living sorted out into their respective royal armies, but soon enough everyone but the dead and the badly wounded would be riding back to their fortresses, and peace would once again fall over Eriu.

For the moment. Ardagh rubbed a weary hand over his face. These humans were more volatile than any nobles at his brothers court, and Aedh had more reason to be constantly on his guard than ever did Eirithan.

And what in the name of all the Powers did I think I was doing?
"
Lucky to be alive,
"
indeed. What was I trying to prove?

Ardagh sighed. Difficult at times to be of the Sidhe, unable to lie even to one's self. For nearly two years of mortal time now—a mere instant by Sidhe standards but tediously long when one was living through it—he'd been trapped here, with not the slightest sign of a way out of exile. Unable to go home, unable to live here, unable to wed or even bed his lady—no wonder frustration had blazed out into battle-rage!

But . . . the very existence of such frustration and rage was a foreign thing, a . . . human thing. Why should he be . . . how could he be . . . Even as he staggered to his feet, tying back his wild hair with weary hands, Ardagh felt a chill stealing through him. A human thing, a human emotion . . .

I am not human. I cannot
be
human. But . . . what am I? What have I become?

As he watched Aedh's men sorting themselves out, tending to the wounded, counting the dead, the prince could not pierce the veil that seemed to have fallen between himself and them. He had lived among these humans, eaten with them, laughed with them, but right now all he could see were alien folk, so very alien. . . .

Ae, enough. With a great effort, Ardagh tore himself from what he knew could too easily turn to blank despair, and went to join the others. He had no great Power, not in this all-but-magickless Realm, and he couldn't risk showing those gifts he still possessed, not and keep up the convenient fiction of being a human prince from Cathay. But he could subtly ease pain here and there, speed up the organizing of the aftermath. The sooner matters were settled here, the sooner they were away from this cursed place, and—

Ardagh froze, suddenly still as a stalking cat. He had just sensed . . . what? The prince dropped to his knees beside a dead Leinster warrior, staring. About the warrior's neck hung a small clay amulet—and it bore Power.

Hands shaking slightly, Ardagh cut the leather thong with a quick slash of his dagger, closed his hand about the amulet. Yes, ae yes, the small thing did hold Power, just the faintest, faintest traces, but Power nonetheless. From where? No skilled sorcerer, surely; that would have left a definite psychic trace. Besides, Ardagh thought, opening his hand to study what he held, any sorcerer worth the name would be ashamed of such crude work. No, whatever self-claimed magician had created this had accidentally blended a touch of the earth's natural magic with the protective spells he'd cut into the amulet.

The not quite accurate spells.
Ardagh glanced wryly down at the dead warrior.
They didn't do this fellow much good.

Still, it was Power, no matter how slight. More important, it was solid, tangible,
fixed
Power. And what might not happen if he combined it with a spell? With one of the many, so far useless, Doorway spells he'd gleaned from human tales?

Ardagh's hand clenched shut. Though he had never guessed it,
this
was why he had entered the battle, not out of some foolish imitation of human frustration but from some arcane sense so faint he hadn't even known it. This was what he'd been seeking.