Forging the Runes (5 page)

A Bit of Conversation
Chapter 4

The new day was bright and cheery as though there'd never been a battle from which to recover. Praise God that he could recover, Aedh thought, flexing a still-stiff swordarm, wincing at the pull on bruised muscles. Eithne had wanted him to stay in bed this day while she rubbed her herbal mixtures into his sore skin.

A pleasant thought, that, though I suspect we'd have spent more time rubbing those herbs off than on—ah well.

He'd refused, of course. Let the word spread that the High King was incapacitated, even for a day, and they'd all be having him ready for his grave. True, Aedh admitted, he was no boy to fight so fiercely one day and be untouched by strain the next. But he could still more than hold his own. The moment he stopped being able to lead his men like this—och, that day hadn't yet come, nor, God willing, would it come soon.

So, now. They'd come through the battle relatively unscathed: surprisingly few losses, while most of the wounded seemed, at least so far, likely to recover.
Looks like a good time to make some nice, pious public statement about God being on our side. Which I suppose is true enough,
he added with a wry little glance to heaven,
since we won. Besides, it won't hurt to let the clergy have something good to say about me.

Aedh lowered his head to look about his royal "conversation house"—stone walls to the small house, guarded door, slate roof on which no spy could perch. In short, thought the king, this was the one place in all Fremainn that he knew was secure from prying eyes or ears. The only other person in here with him just now was Fothad mac Ailin, and Aedh let the man wait and worry a bit longer before quoting sardonically:

"The Church of the living God, let her alone,

Waste her not.

Let her right be apart, as best it ever was."

He watched Fothad's slight wince, though at the same time Aedh caught the faintest glint of delight in the minister's eyes: the poet's involuntary joy that, no matter the circumstance, his words should have been so well remembered.
Can't separate the poet from the man, can we?
Aedh thought.
Never could.
He asked aloud, "Well?"

"I had to compose the poem. You know that."

"Did you have to recite it within everyone's hearing?"

Fothad reddened. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

"So I noticed. So everyone noticed."

The redness deepened. "I'm sorry for that, truly. You know I'm not usually so . . . well . . . impolitic."

"Good choice of a word, that. Impolitic."

"Aedh, please. I didn't mean to make things difficult for you, you know that. It's only that . . ." The poet shook his head helplessly. "The ancient bards were right about this: The words come when and where they will, and I don't always have a chance to control them. Besides," he added defiantly, "you know I was right. It was one thing for you to call up a full muster of Eriu's men to battle Leinster; that was well within your royal rights—"

"Thank you so much for reminding me."

"Och, well . . ." Fothad hesitated, not quite meeting the king's gaze. He and Aedh had once been tutor and pupil (with Fothad, who was not that much the elder, seared nearly foolish by the responsibility), but the poet was very obviously reminding himself that this wasn't an erring pupil but the High King.

"You are Aedh Ordnigh," Fothad continued at last, ignoring Aedh's impatient wave at the obvious statement, "Aedh the Ordained, proclaimed rightful High King by the Church, and yes, of that I do remind you. When you wished to involve that Church in secular matters—"

"Where they've certainly been before," Aedh snapped.

"Yes, but in this case involving them could not have been justified by any stretch of political maneuverings. And yes, yes, they might have joined in if you'd ordered it—but then again, they might not. And how would
that
have looked?"

"Embarrassing. Awkward. I agree on that point, and yet—"

"Aedh, please, listen: We both know that you've had quarrels enough with the clergy since the very first days of your reign. They don't care for your independence—"

"And I don't care for their meddling."

"Yes, but we both know that without the clergy's support, no king is going to rule for long. That is the way it is, like it or not. And High King or no, you cannot afford to antagonize the Church again!"

You always could cut right to the heart of arguments. And win most of them.
"Enough, Fothad. Enough! That poem of yours was damnably convincing all by itself. And," Aedh admitted reluctantly, "you are quite right." There were too many years of friendship between them for him to need to add more than the simplest of warnings. "Just don't embarrass me in public like that again, agreed?"

Fothad, mouth half-open to defend himself, shut it again, reddening. "Ah. Indeed," he said awkwardly.

Aedh accepted that for the apology it was. Besides, he thought, suddenly amused, Fothad's outburst of poetry hadn't done either of them any real harm; folk expected bizarre behavior from poets, and forgiveness to those poets from kings. "Onward."

"Onward," Fothad agreed with blatant relief in his voice. "What of King Finsneachta?"

Aedh knew his grin must be downright predatory. "He has given me the usual hostages and pledges of good behavior. More importantly, since he is that unfortunate paradox, a defeated king, Finsneachta has suddenly discovered a religious vocation."

Fothad raised an eyebrow. "How convenient! That leaves . . . wait, now, if memory serves, he
has
no son to inherit."

"That's right. And don't give me that dismayed stare. I'm very well aware that his unfortunate lack means I'm going to have to split his land between his two nearest kinsmen. Yes, Fothad, just as I needed to do with the two royal sons in Meath three years back. And yes, I'm very well aware that splitting a land between two ambitious young men means trouble in the future—but as with Meath, there's no other solution short of murdering one or both of them. A nice thought, but hardly politically wise."

Fothad, who knew as well as Aedh that the king's ambitions stopped short of the downright ruthless, added flatly, "Or morally proper. Nothing ever gets truly settled, does it?"

"Not in Eriu!" Aedh held up his hands in a wry shrug. "But then, when has governing this realm ever been easy? Come, enough of Leinster. Tell me how the repairs are going."

Fothad glanced down at his scrolls. "You know that the . . . ah . . . storm, the one in which Bishop Gervinus . . . ah . . . died, did terrible harm to Corca-Bhaiscinn."

"Over a thousand folk dead there, God rest them, yes. And the island of Fitha is permanently split apart."

"Into at least three pieces, yes. Of course there's also been a sizeable loss of trees and flooding of coastlines. But aside from Corca-Bhaiscinn and Fitha, Eriu does seem to be recovering." Fothad opened another scroll, then another. "The harvest isn't going to be as good as we'd like—"

"No surprise there! I'm amazed that anything is left growing."

"We were lucky. But unless we're faced with another storm of that terrible force—the good Lord deny—no one, except in Corca-Bhaiscinn, is going to face genuine hardship."

"Mm. Make notes to send wheat there should they request it. Go on." Aedh forced out the next words from a suddenly tight throat. "No Lochlannach raids while I was away?"

"No. You seem to have stopped those Northern thieves."

"Hah!"

"Or at least thrown some fear into them."

"Again, hah. One little defeat of one little raiding party isn't going to frighten that lot. If the traders' stories are correct, the Lochlannach actually
enjoy
the thought of dying in battle. Such a death sends them, their pagan priests claim, straight to a warrior's heaven."

"Let it be straight to a warrior's hell," Fothad snapped.

"Amen to that." Aedh hesitated, wondering how to word what he wanted to say. "Your mistimed poem wasn't the only reason I sent for you."

Fothad frowned slightly. "The Lochlannach?"

"Exactly. They worry me, Fothad, they truly worry me."

"But they're nothing!"

"Well now, we seem to have swung completely about, haven't we?"

"I don't . . ."

Aedh held up a hand. "If I recall, it was originally
you
who tried to put worry into my mind about them, and
I
who scoffed."

"True, but—"

"But I've had a chance to actually face them in combat since then."

"And I have not," Fothad admitted. "Yes, granted, and granted that from everything I've heard from everyone the creatures are fierce enough—but they're still nothing more than seafaring thieves!"

"No. Think. My spies and loyal vassals give me warnings of trouble from any not-so-loyal vassal, and I have no doubts I can control each and any would-be traitor. But how can I possibly defend Eriu against sea raiders? Raiders who can strike without warning anywhere along our coast and be away again in those incredibly swift ships before we can so much as take up arms against them?"

"But . . ." Fothad began hesitantly, almost as though embarrassed, "the last time, Ardagh and I both received a warning from—"

"Ardagh is hardly a saint." Aedh nearly strangled in the sudden, unexpected effort not to laugh.
God, no! A
Sidhe
saint?
"And neither, my friend," he added hastily, before the unseemly laughter could break loose, "are you. How or why you two received that ghostly warning of the attack, well, we'll never know the truth of that."
Unless our Sidhe prince admits it.
"But we can't expect . . . ah . . . Heaven to send us a warning every time."

Fothad grinned ruefully, agreeing, "No. Alas. But you still aren't catching my point. Yes, the Lochlannach are a danger, no, their attacks can't always be predicted— but they are hardly organized enough to be a true threat."

"Not yet. And not in such small numbers. But we don't know just how many discontented, loot-hungry Northerners actually exist. We don't know where to find their home base or bases. Yes, and what happens when some ambitious, charismatic fellow turns up among them? What happens when he unites them into one force?"

Fothad snorted. "I've yet to see a charismatic Northerner."

"Hey now, we wouldn't look so pretty or smell so sweet either after a long sea voyage! Remember their elegant swords and axes and those lovely, deadly ships: the Lochlannach may be pagan thieves, but they're hardly primitive. Don't underestimate them."

Aedh broke off, trying not to see the dark image that his mind was all at once insisting on conjuring. "And what happens," he added slowly, "when the Lochlannach learn how badly the storm has hurt us? What better time for them to launch a raid or, worse, a series of raids on Eriu? What better time for those thieves to join together against us? Savage fighters without any Christian sense of morality, and very probably, judging from what we've heard of their homeland, with an equally savage lust for land."

"Och, they wouldn't . . ." But Fothad fell silent, eyes widening.

"You see the same vision I do."

"Devastation." It was a whisper. "Conquest or devastation."

"Indeed. The Lochlannach will come again, Fothad. That is as sure as the turn of the seasons. And I quite honestly don't know what we can do to stop them. Except," Aedh continued thoughtfully, "this. We have someone among us who studies issues from angles neither of us would ever imagine. Yes, and solves problems from weird perspectives as well."

Fothad's eyes glinted with instant comprehension. "Prince Ardagh."

"Exactly. Have him summoned, if you would. I suspect our far-travelling prince may well give us a new view of this problem. And—who knows?" Aedh added with a grin. "He may even come up with a solution."

The Sudden Ambassador
Chapter 5

Ardagh just barely stifled a yawn. King Aedh seemed to have an unerring knack for sending a servant for him at just the wrong time. After the full backlash of his failed spell had hit him, the prince had collapsed into a dreamless pit of sleep, but that sleep hadn't been quite long or deep enough. And the shadow of last night's despair still lingered, there at the back of his mind like a chill mist. He had very much wanted to do nothing but spend the day doing . . . nothing.

But the servant was watching him earnestly, looking like a nervous bird about to dart into the air, and the prince sighed and said, "Yes. I'm coming."

Aedh and Fothad both were waiting for him in the royal conversation house, the usual table piled with scrolls set between their chairs; a third chair waited. The two humans looked disgustingly alert and aware, watching him with identically keen stares, and Ardagh bit back the impulse to snarl something rude and thoroughly human at them and forced himself instead to bow politely.

"Please, Prince Ardagh," Aedh said, "be seated."

So formal? "Do I look that weary?" Ardagh asked.

"A bit, yes. You
are
recovered from the battle?" The delicate emphasis on the king's question made it clear that he referred to the bout of iron-sickness.

"There's been no lasting harm," Ardagh countered, just as delicately. "I merely had a less than restful night. King Aedh, what would you?"

"We were pondering a problem, Fothad and I, one that we thought you might help us solve."

What bizarre test was this? Prodding his still sleepy brain, Ardagh hazarded, "The Lochlannach," and saw by the humans' slight starts that he'd guessed correctly. "Yes, of course that's it. You fear that they'll return in greater numbers, and you don't know how to stop them."

Aedh's smile was wonderfully sly; he must be suspecting Sidhe magic at work. "No magic," the prince told him dryly, "merely logic. You would hardly have summoned me over something as trivial—your pardon, good Fothad—as my relationship with the lady Sorcha. Bishop Gervinus is most certainly dead, and the storm is ended. As far as I know, no other underking is foolish enough to mount a rebellion."
Yes, and no one,
he added silently,
witnessed my failed Gate-opening spell, so it can't be about that.

"Neatly summarized." Aedh studied him speculatively. "We were wondering if you, being who and what you are"—a glint almost of mischief flicked in the king's grey eyes—"remarkably far-travelled, I mean, of course, and from such a foreign culture—"

"Of course."

"—might not have some unique view of how we can stop the Lochlannach." Aedh's voice hardened. "Preferably forever."

"I doubt you could ever totally stop them," Ardagh countered. "Not without mounting a massive attack on their homeland. That, I take it, is out of the question?"

"Quite," the humans answered almost as one. Not surprising: Eriu had hardly struck Ardagh as a naval power.

"Besides our lack of warships," Aedh added, "there's no evidence that the Lochlannach come from any one kingdom. There are a good many hidden corners of the Northern lands where they could be breeding."

"Ah. Awkward."

"Very."

Ardagh cocked his head in Fothad's direction, seeing the hint of wondering in the poet's eyes. "I'm afraid not," the prince said. "We can't hope to receive a warning from . . ." the prince paused almost imperceptibly, dodging falsehood, "from the Other Realm before every attack." Worded this way, it was quite true; the last warning they had received, though Fothad hadn't realized it, hadn't been from the human Heaven but from the Sidhe Realm.

"A pity." Aedh's tone was ever so slightly cynical. "But here we are at the point where Fothad and I got mired. Since we can't mount a frontal attack or sit back and beg for Heavenly intercession—what would you do, Prince Ardagh?"

There was no hoping that Aedh could muster all the kingdoms into a coastal patrol; Ardagh had already seen that the natural way of things here was for each king to be at war with the next.

No. Anything useful was going to involve some strong equivalent to the Ard Ri of Eriu. "What if," Ardagh began warily, "the next time the Lochlannach come raiding, they find not one isolated community but an alliance? One powerful enough to block their ships, deny them landfall no matter which way they turn."

Fothad blinked. "Are you speaking of a political alliance? With other kingdoms?"

He sounded so incredulous that Ardagh just barely bit back a sharp,
Powers Above, man, what else did you think I meant?
"Yes, of course," the prince said with great restraint. "Eriu can't be the only land in danger from the Lochlannach. I should think any kingdom with a coastline would be glad of a chance to stop those raiders."

"Prince Ardagh, you wouldn't be aware of this, not being native to this land, but no king of Eriu has
ever
tried an alliance with another power."

"That can't be right! Father Seadna told me once that it was Eriu's missionaries who spread your faith through Britain!"

"
Oh
yes," Aedh interjected, "over the last two centuries or so, the good friars have turned many a pagan Sacsanach into a proper Christian. But friars are hardly political emissaries."

"In all our recorded history," Fothad continued, "we've never had nor needed an ally."

"Not a human ally, at any rate." Aedh raised an eyebrow at the startled prince. "And no, Prince Ardagh, I'm not getting mystical; I'm speaking of the sea. It's kept Eriu nicely isolated all these years. It protected us, for instance, back in the old pagan days when the Romhanach armies were swarming over the mainland and conquering everyone else. The sea protected us again when those armies were followed into Britain three centuries later by the Sacsanach hordes."

"I gather," Ardagh commented blandly, "that neither of those groups were seafarers. The Lochlannach undeniably are."

"There is that."

This is like wandering through mist!
"Then what's the problem with an alliance? Granted, you always need to be cautious: too weak an ally is useless, too strong an ally is perilous, but—" Ardagh stopped short. "Am I missing a point? Is there some law that out-and-out forbids alliances?"

Fothad's gaze went remote; he was clearly searching through mental archives. "Och, no," he said at last. "At least not so far as memory serves."

Ardagh stretched weary muscles. "Then I fail to see why you're both being so reluctant. 'Because it's never been done before' just isn't a convincing argument."

He didn't like the sudden smile on Aedh's lips. "I assume," the king said, "that you aren't expecting us to jump blindly into the political sea."

So that's the way the wind blows, is it?
"Why, King Aedh," Ardagh purred, "you've thought this all out already, haven't you?"

"Why, Prince Ardagh," Aedh purred right back, "of course I have, long before this meeting. An alliance is
not
going to be a popular idea with my advisors. I can win them over—but only if they're sure that I'm not involving Eriu in something we can't control."

"Go on," Ardagh said flatly. "There's more."

"I think we'd both agree that the only way I can get everyone's approval is not to do anything too dramatic, but to simply send out someone as an informal, or even an unofficial, ambassador."

Ardagh raised a slanted eyebrow. "Someone doing nothing more suspicious than sending innocent greetings, I take it, one king to another? And in the process seeing how things stand? May I remind you that I'm not one of your subjects?"

"That's exactly the point I was about to make." Aedh leaned forward in his chair, grinning like a wolf. "I think that our unofficial minister
can
only be you. With your permission, of course."

Ardagh's first thought was a quick, panicked,
No! I don't dare leave Eriu, not when the Doorway home lies here!
But then the prince snapped at himself,
And what good does a so thoroughly sealed Doorway do you? Or are you waiting like a dog at a locked gate for Eirithan to throw you a scrap?
Besides, a new land just might mean new spells. . . .

Ardagh kept his face Sidhe calm, but he could feel his heart begin to pound. "Why me?"

Aedh's smile never faltered. "Prince Ardagh, please don't take offense at this, but you are a man of honor who can yet be as cunning as a rogue and smoothtongued as any bard. You can talk almost anyone into or out of almost anything. What's more, as a foreigner, you have no awkward political or kinship ties to anyone at any . . . ah . . . western court. Besides," Aedh added, "if you can't manage to snare us some aid with your sleek words, then no one can."

"That," Ardagh said in genuine admiration, "is the most convoluted and backhanded compliment I have received since my days at my brothers court. King Aedh, I salute you." He bowed in his seat, received Aedh's ironic little dip of the head in return.

"Then you agree. You are the only choice."

"Perhaps." Ardagh glanced slyly sideways. "And is that relief I see on your face, Fothad mac Ailin? Are you that glad at the thought of separating me from your daughter?"

"You know that's hardly true."

"And if I was anyone but
cu glas,
you'd welcome me into the family."

"Yes. No. I—that's an ugly way of putting it, but—" Fothad stopped short, shaking his head. "A smooth talker, indeed!"

"One does what one can," Ardagh said sweetly, and turned back to Aedh. "And of course, since
I am a
foreigner, you have another advantage: If something happens to me on my mission, why, I'm none of yours, so you need do nothing but say, 'What a pity' and go on with life as before."

Aedh smiled but did not deny it. Ardagh mirrored that smile, thinking that he could hardly take offense at something so beautifully, cold-bloodedly, practical; it was almost as properly devious as a Sidhe plot! "And of course you know that since I never lie, when I say I won't just . . . run off and not return, there's no danger of my abandoning your cause, either."
Or rather, of abandoning Sorcha.
"So, now. Where is your most informal and smooth-tongued minister to go?"

Was his easy acquiescence surprising Aedh? The well-schooled royal face showed no sign of it.
You think I've turned into your obedient tool,
Ardagh told him silently.
You have no idea I'm using you as well.

"Now that," the king mused, "is an entirely new problem. We can eliminate one ruler under the 'too powerful for safety' category: the Frankish soon-to-be-Emperor Charlemagne. Trading with the Franks is one thing; we don't want that ambitious fellow sniffing at Eriu's borders! No, let him play his political games on the mainland. At any rate, the Franks haven't been threatened very much by the Lochlannach."

"Yet," Fothad muttered, bent over a scroll.

Ardagh straightened. "Is that a map you're studying?" As Fothad nodded, unrolling it fully, the prince got to his feet to lean over the poet's shoulder, pretending a casual interest but actually trying to make sense of the inked-in lines without revealing his ignorance of the human Realm beyond Eriu. "There, now," the prince said, guessing wildly. "Is that not Cadwal ap Dyfri's homeland, Cymru?"

Fothad glanced up at him. "Of course."

"It seems to lie relatively near Eriu, without too much water between. Mm, yes, and it has quite an extensive, if convoluted, coastline. Why not—"

"Because there's no such thing as Cymru," Aedh cut in. "No one such thing, rather. The land is sliced into several small, often warring kingdoms—Cadwal would know the lot of them," he added offhandedly. "None are strong enough to do us much good, and there's no one High King to unify them." Contempt tinged his voice. "Besides, that convoluted coastline is far too rocky to suffer many Lochlannach landings."

And you, oh king, like everyone else in Fremainn, are too prejudiced against those Cymric cousins of yours to even consider making peace with them.
"Who else, then?"

"It will need be one of the rulers of the Sacsanach— Saxons, in their tongue."

"Offa of Mercia was certainly the strongest king in Britain," Fothad murmured, "possibly too strong for any safe alliance, but at any rate he died four years back."

Aedh snorted. "Too strong, indeed. He signed some manner of pact with none other than our ambitious Frankish Charlemagne. Yes, and if rumor's right, Offa died just as he was making his own plans against the Lochlannach. Well, with Ceolwulf on the Mercian throne, those plans are certainly lost! He's not half the ruler Offa was."

"Just as well, I would think," Ardagh murmured, and received a wry glance from the king.

"Beortric," Fothad said suddenly, looking up from his map.

"Beortric!" Aedh echoed in delight. "King Beortric of the West Saxons—yes, of course: powerful but not too powerful, ambitious but not obnoxiously so. He's said to be a singularly affable fellow; he's reigned rather peacefully for . . ."

"Sixteen years or so," Fothad supplied.

"Yes, and if I'm correct, he's married to one of Offa's daughters . . . Edburga, I think her name is."