Forging the Runes (23 page)

"Is neither soft nor untouched by evil. Got it."

Ardagh glanced sideways, not liking the shadow he saw in Cadwal's eyes. "She could never have returned," he said very gently. "Even if your lady's soul really had been snared, freeing her would have meant sending her on to . . . to wherever."

"I know that," Cadwal snapped, then shuddered. "Didn't mean to attack you. And at least now I know Gwen really is safe. It's just . . .
damnio.
I almost wish Morfren
had
killed—"

"While we're on the subject of killing," the prince said hastily, "why did you let Morfren live?"

What was left of animation drained from Cadwal's face. "I could have killed him;
Iesu,
but I wanted to. It's not so much what he did as the way he did it! Honest revenge is one thing; even a feud, one clan against another, still has something of honor about it. But that . . . using Gwen to get at me, fouling her memory—I wanted to tear the life from him with my hands.

"But it wouldn't have ended there. Morfren has an heir. A son. Told me so during his taunts, and he'd no reason to lie. It wouldn't have ended there, no. Before I could end my exile, I would have had to go and slay his son as well. End the line. Murder a baby. I—I—no. Not even to end my exile. I won't stain my soul like that."

Cadwal cut the air sharply with a hand. "Enough. More than enough. Let him live out his miserable life tormented by his bitter bitch of a mother, may her curses stay within their fortress walls. And
God,
let's get out of this place!"

"And quickly. Just because we dodged the hunt once doesn't mean the hunters aren't still after us." They weren't deep enough into the forest's shelter yet; Ardagh glanced uneasily up at the ever-brightening sky, the streaks of light staining the east. "Particularly since now the warriors can see where they're going—"

"Damn them," Cadwal snarled, "they certainly can. Here they come—and this time they've brought hounds!"

Cousins
Chapter 23

Osmod groaned. How long had he been wandering, hunting, fleeing? All about him was flame, nothing but ugly, alien grey and black and yellow flame, a forest of fire, a wilderness, a world of it—Hell? He had never really believed in the formalized Place of Punishment preached by the priests. But now he had to wonder. Had he died? Was this really Hell after all and was he damned?

Ha, but if he was, then his enemy was dead and damned as well, for Prince Ardagh was here. Osmod raced through the world of flame, hunting the prince— even as the prince hunted him in a never-ending circle of frustration and fear and rage. And all the while, the flames burned and burned unchecked.

Royal Physician Octa, a solid, balding man well into middle years, straightened with a sigh of weary frustration. Behind him in the ealdorman's bedchamber, two servants, one belonging to Osmod, one to the king, crowded together in the doorway, and Octa admitted reluctantly over his shoulder, "Before you ask, no, I don't know what to say. In all my years of practice, I've never seen anything quite like this."

"A brain-fever . . . ?" one of them asked doubtfully.

"Ach, yes, of course it's a brain-fever—but one of no natural sort."

Out of the corner of his eye, Octa saw both servants nervously sign themselves, and turned to glare at them. "I didn't mean that. I don't think there's anything demonic about this." He paused. "And yet . . ." Octa glanced at his noble patient again, watching the ealdorman twisting in restless sleep, almost as though pursued by something terrifying—demons?—and shook his head. "And yet . . ."

"Will he live?" That was Osmod's man.

"That's what King Egbert wants to know." That was the royal servant. "Will Ealdorman Osmod live?"

"What do you want me to say? I'm not God!" He wasn't about to tell these underlings that he'd already done all he knew: bled the ealdorman (the moon being in the right quarter for that), plied him with potions, even tried reciting some of the more potent healing charms, all without much success. "If the fever breaks, and quickly," the physician continued, "yes, there's every chance for a swift, complete recovery. If not . . . ah well, we're all in God's hands, now, aren't we?"

But Octa felt the smallest of superstitious chills steal through him. Some of the things the ealdorman had murmured in his feverish sleep had been alarmingly dark, no, no, almost terrifyingly dark.
A delirious man may say many horrid things,
the physician reminded himself sternly,
and mean none of them.

That was surely the truth here. Of course it was! Nothing but fever dreams, mindless delirium. Ealdorman Osmod was such a charming, pleasant man, after all. He never would even think of such evil deeds—he'd be out-and-out horrified to learn Octa was even considering it. And that was the truth of it.

Wasn't it?

Live,
Octa told his patient silently.
Live and prove the lie to what you've said here.

Live.

Ardagh flung his head up, listening. "Curse them. They've caught our scent again."

Cadwal groaned from where he'd flung himself down. "Can't you do something? Cast a spell or some such?"

"What would you have me do? Turn them all into pretty blue butterflies?"

"Just make them not see us, that's all."

"The humans, yes, not a problem, even with this Realm's weaknesses. The hounds—can't fool an animal for long, not one who tracks by scent. And no, I cannot change our scents! But can't
you
do something?"

"What? You see any army with me? And I sure can't set a snare big enough to catch that whole swarm of hunters." He got to his feet, stretching what were obviously weary muscles. "Come on, time to flee. Again."

This, Ardagh thought breathlessly, racing wildly through the forest with the equally breathless Cadwal panting at his side, was rapidly growing beyond all bearing. He hadn't yet had a respite long enough to let him regain his magical strength and Cadwal and he were coming straight from a battle, which meant the brief snatches of rest hadn't let them regain their physical strength, either—and here they were being chased by hounds and humans like two hunted stags!

How long have we been hiding, running, running, hiding?
He caught a quick glimpse of the sky through leaves, not really surprised to see the light already fading.
All the day, curse them!

Chased all the day, yes, with barely time to snatch those few precious moments of rest, to eat or drink or, worst of all for a Sidhe, to restore his Power while there was all this wild forest Power so tantalizingly around him.

Morfren, Darkness take his vengeful little soul, is showing a downright obscene determination!

Useless attempt at wit. Humor wasn't helping. He was just too tired. His throat was burning for lack of water, his head was aching—his whole body, legs, lungs, all, was aching. And the hounds—the hounds, Ardagh realized,
liked
his scent, just like that fool of a dog back in Egbert's court, they found his alien Sidhe scent so intriguing that they didn't want to lose him even though the forest's shadows were rapidly deepening.

Darkness take them!
Ardagh didn't mean the earthly night.
Darkness take them all!

He risked a quick glance at the mercenary. Cadwal wasn't going to last much longer; in addition to that same sheer exhaustion plaguing Ardagh, Cadwal was still on the edge of shock from having found and lost his love a second time.

And I . . . I'm not going to last much longer . . . either. Have to stop. Rest. Restore my Power.

Not a hope of that. Yes, yes, and what made it more maddening yet was knowing that this hunt, in fact this whole chaotic mess, was caused, when one came down to it, by Osmod—ae, yes, it always did come back to Osmod, didn't it?

Your death,
Ardagh promised him. Your
death.

Oh, of course. Simple. He merely had to find a way to fight an unknown Power, a magic of which he'd never even heard! No trouble at all. And before he could do that, he first merely had to find a way to escape these stupid, vindictive, preposterous
humans!

How dare they?
he thought in a sudden blaze of fury.
How dare these mere
nothings
chase a prince of the Sidhe?

And all at once it was past the point of any enduring. "Enough!" the prince cried, skidding to a halt, dragging the startled, alarmed Cadwal back with him.

"What the hell—"

Ardagh ignored him. "Tylwyth Teg! Hear me, Tylwyth Teg!" It was shouted in the Sidhe tongue, which was, he hoped, close enough to their own for them to understand him. "I know you hear me, sense me, see me! I am Ardagh Lithanial, Prince of the Sidhe"—he was hardly going to mention his exile, not here, not now—"and I place the Bonds of Sanctuary on you!"

That was an archaic ritual, but the only one his tired brain could find. Unfortunately, it
was a
ritual more often ignored by the various branches of the Folk than honored—and it was ignored now.

Damnation.

"Tylwyth Teg!"

He could hear the baying of the hounds, alarmingly close, he could hear the crashing of bodies tearing through underbrush, and Cadwal murmured uneasily, "Hope you know what you're doing."

So do I!
"Tylwyth Teg! Listen to me, cousins!"
Most distant cousins.
"Would you let even so distant a kinsman die like this? Would you let one of the Folk die at the hands of
humans?
"

"Thee be of bringing them all down about our heads, that shouting of thine," a woman's voice said quietly. Her accent was strange to Ardagh's ear, her syntax more so, but it was still understandable enough.

"Yes it is and a human with you, you've brought," murmured another woman. "Fine, sturdy fellow, this," she added, a touch of forthright admiration coloring her soft voice, "but human be he still."

The prince straightened, frowning, his Sidhe vision seeing through the growing darkness without difficulty. Ah yes, there they were, standing in the twilight shadows as though merely part of the forest, a few slender, graceful shapes, men and women both. They were somewhat smaller than the Sidhe, but just as slanted of eye; their pale skin glowed faintly in the darkness. A shimmer of magic surrounded them, a fog of glamour, Ardagh realized, to make them invisible to human eyes, inaudible to human ears, though of course they were conspicuous enough to one of his race.

Not, naturally, to Cadwal, who, being human, was blind and deaf to their presence. "Don't know what you're doing," he muttered, "and I hope it's not just talking to empty air, but whatever it is, you'd better hurry up at it. I hear the damned hunters again."

So did Ardagh; no mistaking the shouts of men hurrying after their hounds—and the sound of hounds who had just sighted their prey.

But I can't hurry, curse it! If I'm to claim sanctuary, the proper rules must be followed—ridiculous though it seems right now!

Heart racing, desperately keeping his face a mask, the prince bowed slightly in the Courtesy of Regal Blood to Those of Unknown Status, wondering if the Tylwyth Teg would even recognize the gesture. "This man is with me as a friend. The humans want both our lives, and I ask shelter in both our names."

A sigh, soft as the twilight breeze. "Pity, it is," someone murmured.

"For aiding does he beg, far-flung cousin of ours?"

"Do they insult me, far-flung cousins of mine?" Ardagh retorted coldly. "Surely they are wise enough to know the Sidhe never beg."

"Dammit, man," Cadwal muttered, staring at the hunters, "they've
got
spears. Swords aren't going to help us. We've got to get out of here
now!
"

Don't I know it!
But the prince forced his voice to stay as cool as though merely discussing the weather, his face a still, regal mask. "Are my cousins afraid, perhaps?" he asked sardonically. "Afraid of the human folk?" Ardagh let just the barest edge of sharpness into his voice. "Have you come to that, my cousins? Would you turn aside a kinsman out of fear of humans? Let him be slain like some common thief because you fear their vengeance?"

Powers, the hunters were leashing their hounds, pulling the dogs back out of the way of the spears.

And here we are, perfect targets!
No time for more: he either won or lost, as Cadwal might say, on this one last throw of the dice. "Are you mere
servants,
then?" he snapped at the Tylwyth Teg. "Are you humans'
slaves?
Bah, I am ashamed to call you kin!"

"Softness, quietness," a man purred. "Jesting we did, only that."

"Come," said a woman sweetly. "Shelter, yes, we grant you this."

A spear cut through the air, stabbing into a tree just by Ardagh's ear, but he stood his ground, grimly refusing to flinch. "Shelter for
both
of us."

A sigh, heavy with resignation. "For both. The human, if so it must he. Come."

No,
he thought in sudden wariness, knowing just how devious the minds of the Faerie Folk could be. "Shelter" wasn't a strong enough word; "shelter" held the uneasy implication that they could still be thrown out again to face the hunters, maybe after only the briefest moments of safety, without making liars of the Tylwyth Teg. Ardagh insisted, "Do you grant us sanctuary?" And he used a very ancient, very Powerful word,
seilnathal,
which meant a vow of provided safety.

Did the Tylwyth Teg know the word? Yes. He saw a startled glint in their eyes. Would they swear by it? For one long, unnerving moment no one spoke.

And then: "Yes. Granted it is."

The masking glamour expanded to include Ardagh and Cadwal, falling over them like a shimmering veil.
Oh yes,
the prince thought indignantly, sensing the Tylwyth Teg conceit, their feeling of superiority over the mere Sidhe, that went with it,
easy enough to cast such a thing when you haven't already lost Power defending yourself and have several of you pooling the magic to work it!

But that wasn't going to stop him from being glad of the shielding. Ah, listen to the humans' confusion! The poor, terrified little hunters, they'd just seen their prey vanish in plain sight, hadn't they?

Yes, but wait, this was no time for complacency! Something was wrong, very wrong, and Ardagh glanced about, glanced up,
feeling
the truth of it, knowing in sharp alarm, "This spell of yours isn't going to last! You've stretched it too far, you've overreached your Power!"

Did they understand? Yes, yes, they could hardly fail
to feel
the growing flaw in the spell. But were they going to waste time in arguing? Ardagh braced himself for a renewed flight, but—

"True," the Tylwyth Teg snapped, just as the masking fog began to shimmer and fade. "Yes, come!"

The fog was fading—the fog was gone! Ardagh heard a great shout of pure superstitious terror from the hunters.

Right. Their prey suddenly reappears, and with Others as well—they probably think we're demons cast back up from their Hell.

And in their utter terror, their sudden panic-stricken religious fervor, they wouldn't hesitate to attack those "demons." Ardagh took a firm grip on Cadwal's arm. "Don't trust your eyes. Trust me. I'll explain when we're safe."