Forging the Runes Read online

Might as well look the part. As much as a Sidhe prince masquerading as a prince of Cathay acting as an ambassador of Eriu can.

  The day was still reasonably early. "The king is in his hall," a servant told Ardagh earnestly. "Will it please you to follow me?"

  And what would you do if I said no?

  Cadwal must have been thinking the same thing, because Ardagh heard the smallest of smothered laughs from him. The prince shot a quick glance his way (seeing the mercenary still, defiantly, totally, in his own non-Saxon garb) and received what was almost a grin.

  "Lead on," Ardagh said to the servant.

  Ardagh stopped in the doorway of the king's royal hall, not so sure of welcome in this foreign place that he didn't want to take a look about him first. He also, the prince admitted to himself, needed to give his system at least some chance to adapt to the presence of so many humans—and their iron—in a closed space. The first time he'd entered a hall back in Eriu, his stomach had rebelled; he had no intention of suffering a similar indignity here.

  The hall here was as large as he'd expected, all of wood, of course, sleekly fitted planks forming the walls, heavy beams supporting the roof. But it was also so dimly lit that it took a moment for his vision to adjust.

  Ha, no wonder it was dim. There were no windows, and sunlight slipping through the smokeholes far overhead could only do so much. A row of central fires, together with a candelabra hanging from a chain driven into a crossbeam, added some smoky, shadow-filled light.

  A pity there wasn't better lighting, Ardagh decided, because the hall was rather impressive, in a gaudy, crowded, human way. No. Not quite true. Aedh of Eriu depended on simplicity of design and plain, whitewashed walls to deliberately throw the emphasis on himself, the High King of Eriu who had no equals. This king, this Egbert of Wessex, chose instead to surround himself on all sides with exotic trappings. There was a barbaric splendor to the row of colorful round shields and equally bright woven hangings all along the walls, the intricate carvings ornamenting every wooden surface. The ubiquitous gilding was everywhere as well, glinting in the firelight. The high roof was held up by great square beams. With its many curved rafters, Ardagh mused, it looked like nothing so much as the overturned hull of a ship.

  The cold burning of iron—from blades, from tools, from just about everywhere—was as coldly unpleasant as he'd expected, but still within bearable limits. The overall feel of emotion from the humans . . . it wasn't the casual contentment of those in Fremainn; these folk were comfortable enough but, Ardagh guessed, not quite yet at ease with their new king.

  The smell, unfortunately, was every bit as heavy as he'd feared: a mix of human, smoke, grease and hound— he started as one of the latter determinedly pushed its cold, wet muzzle into his hand, presumably intrigued by his nonhuman scent.

  At least the creature isn't trying to attack me. That would be embarrassing.

  Ardagh gave the dog a stern pat to send it on its way, succeeding only in getting it to stop nosing him and stand at his side. So be it. He glanced down the length of the hall, seeing row after row of what could only be noble councilors and courtiers perched on padded benches. There, centered nicely in a bright red canopied chair, sat King Egbert of Wessex.

  And isn't he a splendidly barbaric sight?

  Barbaric in appearance, at any rate; Ardagh knew better than to judge by outer seeming, particularly where humans were concerned.

  Ae, but these folk did seem to like their bright colors! Egbert was clad in a scarlet tunic edged with glittering golden embroidery, the color just barely missing conflicting with the red of his chair and complementing the brightness of his golden hair; his leggings were deep blue, and gold and amber gleamed warmly from about his neck. He was nicely regal in bearing and handsome in what Ardagh was beginning to recognize as the sharp-boned Saxon norm. Only the faintest hint of shadow in the blue eyes revealed that this man, former exile and new king that he was, had already endured harsh lessons and learned much from them.

  Ambitious, Ardagh realized with a sudden shock of insight, very much so, and felt just the barest prickle of unease. But is he ambitious enough to be a perilous ally for Aedh?

  Nothing was going to be simple about this mission, was it?

  A bustling, anxious-looking Saxon who presumably was a royal herald, cleared his throat and proclaimed in a voice loud enough to echo off the high rafters:

  "His Royal Highness, Prince Ardagh, envoy from High King Aedh of Eriu!"

  King Egbert, looking up as casually as if he hadn't already noticed Ardagh in the doorway, met the prince's gaze across the hall, and gave a gracious if slightly condescending wave of a hand.

  "Enter, underling," is it? Watch, human.

  Well aware of the demands of drama, the prince stalked forward with full Sidhe grace, Sidhe elegance, saying without words, Envy though you may, you can never be my equal, the folds of his brat swirling about him almost as dramatically as a spidersilk cloak. He heard the startled murmurs start up on either side; they most certainly had not expected such exoticism in an ambassador from Eriu.

  Good. Let them stay off balance.

  The king was not so easily impressed, nor had Ardagh, remembering Aedh's unflappable manner, expected him to be. One did not come to rule without first ruling one's self. But the prince did surprise a reluctant hint of something that might have been uneasy approval in the keen blue eyes.

  I win this round, do I? Human, they played such games at my brother's court, too. Games I always won.

  Save, his mind reminded him with brutal honesty, for the last.

  He had never yet bowed to a human; he was not about to start now. Ardagh gave the smallest, most polite and politic dip of his head, royalty greeting royalty, and received the same from Egbert in return.

  "Prince Ardagh."

  "Prince Ardagh Lithanial, whom some" though never me "have named Prince of Cathay."

  A golden eyebrow shot up. "So-o! You are far-travelled, indeed!"

  You've heard of Cathay, then. Hopefully "heard" is all.

  "Indeed," Ardagh agreed with perfect truth.

  Egbert settled back in his chair, fingers steepled. "A prince makes an unusual envoy."

  Ardagh smiled his most urbane smile. "Who better to understand the game of politics?"

  "Than one who must always play it. Granted."

  "Besides," the prince added, still the essence of charm, "King Aedh has shown me much kindness. How better to repay his hospitality than by serving as his envoy?"

  Egbert's smile was wary. "How, indeed? It's the 'why' of it I wish to learn. No, not just now, Prince Ardagh. You and your men must be weary and hungry from your travels."

  "It has been a tiring journey."

  But then Ardagh forgot all about politics and delicate duels with words. He saw, and felt before he saw, and in that moment the world seemed to freeze about him.

  There at Egbert's side, standing a bit behind the royal chair, was a richly clad ealdorman whose face was pleasant and warm as the springtime sun—and whose blue eyes held the same stunned disbelief Ardagh knew was in his own:

  The ealdorman who bore the strongest innate Power Ardagh had ever sensed in a human.

  The ealdorman who was, without the slightest of doubts, the most cold-blooded of sorcerers.

  Storm Warnings

  Chapter 12

  It took every bit of his Sidhe will, but Ardagh managed to force his attention away from the staring, equally stunned sorcerer back to King Egbert. Luckily, since the moment of magical recognition had been on the psychic level and taken almost no time at all, neither king nor court had been aware of it.

  Egbert, Ardagh realized, was making some polite conversation about, fortunately, nothing much. The prince answered with similar trivialities, all the while feeling the sorcerer's Power still tingling against his own and wondering. It was true that Queen Eithne bore a touch of innate magic, but only a touch. Here . . . granted, this was still relatively weak Power, weaker by far than anythin
g to be found in the Sidhe Realm—but that it should be found at all in one of the human kind—

  Ae, he was letting his mind wander again. King Egbert was inviting him to dinner. Ardagh once again forced his concentration full back to the king and dipped his head in courteous acceptance.

  A dinner that includes the sorcerer? That shall be . . . interesting. Who is he? Someone of importance, judging from his proximity to the throne. Egbert's pet advisor? And how does his presence alter matters?

  Who could tell? And time enough to mull things over later. First he must be sociable, and use the opportunity to learn more about Egbert.

  Ambitious Egbert.

  With an ambitious sorcerer as well?

  And here I thought matters were already complicated beyond untangling. Nothing's ever simple in this Realm, nothing!

  Lords of Darkness, Lords of Darkness . . .

  Osmod, alone in his hall, the servants having been summarily banished, clenched his teeth to keep the half-hysterical litany from escaping. But, Lords, Lords, who would have expected that? Who could have expected that? The envoy, the so very exotic envoy from Eriu, the prince from far-off Cathay—who would have expected that he would also be someone who fairly radiated Power? Osmod shuddered convulsively, remembering. Almost, almost, he'd screamed out his shock.

  And wouldn't that have been stupid? Stupid and fatal.

  But somehow, he thought, marvelling at his own self-control, he'd managed, somehow he hadn't cried out, "Sorcerer!" there before them all, but had stood as calmly as anyone else.

  Oh yes. Calmly. Until at last my nerve broke and I scurried off like some idiot of a terrified boy, almost before Egbert gave me leave.

  No real damage done. He'd managed to make it look like some frantic call of nature, embarrassing but thoroughly understandable. Besides, the prince had already left. And had he sensed Osmod's Power even as Osmod had sensed his?

  How could he not?

  Yes, yes, but what would that recognition mean? There had been nothing to sense but the bare fact of Power present. Just how much had the prince been able to learn from him?

  "Lords of Darkness," Osmod whispered, then stopped short. The Lords, assuming that They existed, did not like Their worshipers to show such weakness. And yet, how could he stay calm? Possible change, the runes had promised, possible danger, they had warned, and oh, this once they had been very honest!

  Does Egbert know what he's welcomed into his court? No, no, of course not. To him, this newcorner can be nothing more than the ambassador he claims to be, a little more unusual than most, perhaps, but no one to alarm a king.

  Yes, and what of Aedh of Eriu? Did he know? Bah, who could tell how those barbaric Celtic minds worked? But how could Aedh not be aware that the man he sent here as his envoy fairly blazed with Power?

  The envoy who called himself Prince of Cathay. Remembering those cool, slanted, alien green eyes, Osmod felt a shudder half of alarm, half of wonder race through him. Cathay? It was, he supposed, possible. After all, who knew what went on in a land so far away it seemed almost mythical? Maybe Prince Ardagh really was from Cathay. Maybe all the members of his royal house were magicians. Maybe they'd sent him first to Eriu and now to Wessex because they were plotting to—

  To what? Invade? Overwhelm the world? You sound like an overwrought idiot!

  Of course there wasn't any dark international plot. He certainly would have sensed any deception so very overwhelming. No, for whatever reason, the prince was just what he claimed: the envoy not of his exotic homeland but of Eriu.

  Really? What would a Prince of Cathay be doing so far from home? Unlikely that he was wandering so far by choice; royalty didn't have that option.

  And slowly, Osmod began to smile. Well now, wasn't this interesting? The only other option was that the man was, prince or no, an exile, one taking shelter where he could find it. The smile sharpened into a grin.

  Exile. How perfect. This meant that the oh-so-mysterious prince of Cathay dared not do anything to upset what could only be an already precarious position. Reveal an ealdorman's sorceries? Ah no, Prince Ardagh would dare say nothing of the sort!

  Of course that means I can't say anything about him, either, not without raising some interesting questions as to how I come to know about sorcery.

  Ah well. There were other ways than the most obvious to deal with problems. First he would wait and see what Aedh's ambassador actually wanted of Egbert. Who knew? It just might be something of use to the king—

  And to me as well.

  Indeed? Then why can't I believe it?

  Osmod let out his breath in a long sigh. The runes hadn't been particularly helpful so far, but perhaps this time . . .

  He wasn't at all surprised when they told him just what they'd been saying all along: Possible danger. One more casting, Osmod thought. For . . . luck.

  But this time what he got was an unqualified: Danger.

  Wearily, Osmod scooped the runes back into their pouch and got to his feet. Lovely choice. Possible danger or outright danger. As though the runes were teasing him. Well, he'd not really been expecting much else.

  Dinner should be interesting, to say the least.

  Ardagh looked about with sharp curiosity. Well now, if the king's meeting hall had been grand in its gaudy human way, the royal banqueting hall was even more so. It was almost fully twice the size of the first, though with the same arched roof like the upturned hull of a boat. The far end of the hall was mysterious with shadows despite a multitude of candles, and the whole place was certainly twice as splendid as the meeting hall, rich with intricate carvings, bright with gilding, hung round with a glittery rainbow of weavings heavy with gold thread.

  Twice as splendid, yes—but twice as smoky, Ardagh reflected, thanks to that row of central fires. Phaugh, and one could cut the smell with the proverbial knife: men, grease, food and who knows what else.

  No. He was letting Sidhe prejudices overwhelm him. This hall was, when he stopped to analyze it all, no worse than what he knew from Fremainn. In fact, there was a definitely sophisticated aspect, what with the rows of trestle tables covered with nicely bleached linen and gleaming with that elegant Saxon glassware, jars and goblets in various shades of blue or green or glowing gold. No tableware, of course; he hadn't expected any after living at Fremainn.

  There was the royal table. No mistaking the canopied chair, as red as Egbert's council chair, set midway down its length. No other chairs; everyone else, it seemed, sat on communal benches that looked comfortably cushioned.

  No one was seated yet, but a crowd of nobles milled about, chatting together: he was, judging from the looks he was intercepting, almost certainly the main topic of conversation. Ardagh noted a separate little group of women, and smiled to himself to see their shy—or not so shy—glances his way.

  Some things do reach across cultures. Or races.

  The blast of a horn cut into his thoughts, evidently the formal call to dinner. Nobles bowed like so many reeds in the wind as King Egbert, splendid in a gold-brocaded tunic so deep a red it was almost purple, entered and took his place. A deferential servant guided Ardagh to a seat beside the king; the prince had expected no less. The rest of his entourage was shown to lesser places, but Cadwal, refusing to be shaken off, grimly took up a position behind him.

  "Are you planning to stand guarding my back all night?" Ardagh whispered over one shoulder.

  Cadwal's mutter sounded suspiciously like, "Damned right."

  He just cannot bring himself to trust these folk!

  Not, Ardagh admitted to himself, that he was so trusting, either, not in a strange court in a strange land. Most certainly not since the sorcerer was being seated on his other side.

  Not the dining companion I would have chosen.

  The king glanced from one to the other, presumably wondering at their sudden edgy tension, and said, "Prince Ardagh, I don't believe I've introduced Ealdorman Osmod to you."

  Ardagh exchanged a polite nod with
the ealdorman, very much aware that Osmod was as uneasy as he. Egbert, of course, could hardly sense anything on the magical level, but he must have felt at least a trace of the wary hostility between the two, because he gave a grin that might almost have been genuine and added, "Our Osmod is a very valuable fellow, one of my most trusted advisors."

  "How . . . pleasant."

  That slight, quite deliberate hesitation thinned the too-cheerful grin a bit; Ardagh, glancing sideways, caught a hint of annoyance in Osmod's eyes as well, and smiled demurely.

  "Osmod," Egbert continued to the prince, now almost as though in warning, "shall be included in our council meeting tomorrow. I'm sure we will all benefit from his wisdom."

  "Wisdom is always welcome. And, alas," Ardagh added, glancing again at Osmod, "is so rarely found."

  There was that so very satisfying glint of not-quite anger in the ealdorman's eyes, but Osmod dipped his head as though accepting a compliment. "I shall do my best."

  "Which, I'm sure, will be most intriguing." Ardagh added smoothly to Egbert, who was showing clear signs of annoyance himself by this point, "And I agree, tomorrow will be a fine time to discuss why I am here."

  While tonight will be a fine time to puzzle out the truth about your sorcerer.

  Ah, but enough delicate dueling. Customs here were going to be difficult enough without adding the edge of subtle combat.

  There did seem to be some quirks to dining. For one, Ardagh had hardly expected to find the women segregated from the men, seated at the far ends of the hall, but there it was.

  I can hear Sorcha's comments about that!

  As for the men, they were clearly placed according to rank: the closer to the king, the higher in status. Not surprising; Aedh practiced something of the same arrangement. Before any food was served, servants came around with basins of water.

  "For washing one's hands," Osmod said to the prince with exaggerated kindness, as though speaking to a child—or a barbarian.