Forging the Runes Page 6

  Sorcha grinned, a little too sharply for true humor. "What say you? Think you could smuggle me along in your gear? Or maybe I could take a scene from a bard's tale and disguise myself. Think I'd make a convincing boy?"

  He had to laugh at that. "Powers be praised, no!"

  "Ah well." The not-quite humor faded from her eyes, leaving them bleak. "Then, hate it or not, wait I must. When do you leave?"

  "Not till the spring, at least. It's already too late in the year for travel. Besides, as I told the king, I may be a swift learner, but even I need some time to study a new land." He paused, listening to a faint, distant clamor. "Yes," Ardagh continued, "and before we can commit to anything, the king's council must first finish their debate."

  To his surprise, Sorcha threw back her head with a genuine burst of laughter. "And here I was worried! That could take years!"

  I doubt it, Ardagh thought. But he, bemused anew at the human way of trying to avoid the unavoidable, said nothing. Of course the council would make its decision, and of course it would rule as Aedh wished; they did not often go against the High King's will. Like it or not, the prince knew that he would be leaving this land in the springtime. He must.

  But he would, all the Powers grant, return.

  A Small Murder

  Chapter 6

  Muffled in a hooded cloak, runes in a pouch at his waist, Osmod made his unchallenged way through the darkening, nearly empty streets of Uintacaester. Coins slipped to the guards had gotten him easily out of the royal compound (he'd heard their snickers: "Not the first noble to go hunting common fun."). The rune Eolh would protect him from unwanted attention and Ger would see him safely back again.

  He glanced about, hunting. If he was to ensure that Worr truly never remembered what had happened back in the forest, this nuisance of a task must be done.

  If only everyone's will was as easy to snare as that of Edburga. But then, Beortric's queen half wanted to be snared; an arrogant woman, that, who must always have someone over whom she, the daughter of the late, mighty Offa, could feel safely superior. Beortric, on the other hand . . .

  Osmod shook his head. Soft Beortric might be, but he was discouragingly content with himself and his lot: such a will was, in its own complacent way, strong and smooth as stone. Stone could, of course, eventually be shaped, but only so very painfully slowly. Ah, those tales of the sorcerers of lore, able to work their wishes with nothing more than flicks of their will!

  He gave a snort of disgust and hurried on. The air was still full of the scents of cooking fires and food, and there was a sudden burst of laughter from this house, a soft snatch of song from that. But the city was definitely settling down for the night; there would be no witnesses.

  There, now. That rather ramshackle building in this decidedly less desirable corner of the city was definitely an inn of the common sort. And where there was such an inn, there was prey. First, of course, he had to go through the farce of actually wanting to be in such a place, sitting at a rickety table in the crowded, dark, smelly common room and pretending to be drinking a watery and probably outright unclean horn of ale. Yes, but there was his goal, that young woman: a scrawny, sad-eyed creature, her blond hair braided in what she probably thought a fashionable style, her tunic a worn but still gaudy yellow that branded her for what she was. A pity she didn't have more meat on her, but . . .

  The whore forced what was definitely a false smile of welcome onto her lips as she saw him. Osmod beckoned to her.

  "Never mind the games," he said shortly before she could start the tired old bantering of seller-and-client. "You see," he added, jingling his purse, "I have coins enough."

  She blinked, clearly a little startled at his bluntness. "There's a room nearby, my . . . ah . . . my lord, and—"

  "No. I would rather not risk vermin." Too brusque. A wise hunter didn't frighten off the prey. Osmod hastily softened his voice to a charming croon. "The night's warm, my dear. We can find us a more pleasant place. Won't you come walking with me?"

  Of course she agreed; she needed those coins badly, judging from the skinny body pressing up against him in simulated passion as he wrapped his cloak about both of them. Ignoring the not-quite-clean smell of her, Osmod strolled with her out into the night and took what he hoped wasn't too obviously a relieved breath of clean air.

  "Now, isn't this better, my dear . . . what is your name?"

  Her voice was a surprisingly shy whisper. "Emma, my lord."

  "Emma," he purred. "A pretty name. Have you no family, poor Emma?"

  She shook her head.

  "Tsk, poor Emma, all alone."

  Osmod glanced about. No one in sight. He suddenly pushed the startled woman off her feet into a narrow, not-quite alley, blank wooden walls on both sides. She twisted about where she'd fallen, trying frantically to recover her false smile of welcome, but Osmod could scent the exhilarating smell of her fear. Yes, ah yes, the Power was stronger when the prey was afraid. He threw himself down on her, slapping her when she struggled, seeing her eyes widen as she stared up at him and realized the truth for the first time, seeing her terror rise. Before she could scream, he had a hand over her mouth, whispering, "No, ah no, no sound, fear me, yes, fear me but silently."

  Now. Now her terror was at its peak. Osmod slipped out his knife and neatly slashed the jugular vein, ready for the spurt of blood, careful not to stain his clothing. He drank as she struggled, tasting the salty sweetness, feeling the intoxication of her life force feeding his, and the Power, the wild, wonderful Power rising within him. . . .

  The prey went limp beneath him. Osmod got to his feet, shaking slightly, fastidiously wiping his mouth with a scrap of cloth. He was growing very weary of this, of having to slip down into the city at night like some young idiot on the prowl, pretending to be interested in this whore so sadly without family, or that lonely beggar no one would miss. He was most definitely growing weary of finding places to safely dispose of same. Life must have been far, far simpler back in the days of slavery. Then, no one kept track of a man's belongings, human or otherwise, save himself. No one would have noted or cared if a slave or two quietly disappeared.

  Ah well.

  He knelt again, tracing a quick circle about the corpse. Rummaging in his pouch, Osmod drew out the runes Thorn and Haegl, symbolic of Chaos and Destruction. He didn't really believe in the Dark Forces, not as personified beings, but it never hurt to be careful. "For you, Lords of the Underworld," he whispered, touching the runes to the late whore's head and heart, "blood and a life for you. I worship you, I worship you, I worship you."

  There. That should be sufficient. He scuffed out the circle, leaving the corpse where it lay; there was blood enough still draining out of it to make a suitable sacrifice to Whatever. A quick glance to be sure he'd left nothing behind . . . no.

  He shuddered suddenly. How many times now had he done this? Osmod could vaguely remember the first, slain with his father's help. At the time, Osmod had been little more than a boy awestruck at being allowed to join that so very secret cult, to take part in so drastic a ritual. But as he'd tasted that first victim's blood and life, he had felt the first wild rush of Power, felt his own not yet suspected magic stir and wake and knew in that moment just how different he was, how pleasingly superior. He'd been wise enough to keep his mouth shut about it, watching, learning. The others, even his father, had quickly proven themselves to be frauds, decadently cruel for decadence's sake. There had been no Power in them. But he . . .

  Smiling slightly, the ealdorman headed back towards the royal compound. He was, as far as he knew, the cult's last surviving member. Charlemagne had exterminated the rest—and had been quite right to do it, not on any ridiculous moralistic grounds but simply because its members were too incompetent to live. If one must kill, there should be a point to it; any mindless beast could slay.

  Power, now, Power was definitely worth it all. If only there was some way to fix the magic, hold it at this higher peak! But it would drain awa
y all too soon, leaving him needing yet another hunt, another victim.

  So be it. Right now, he had spells to work, traps to set.

  I don't wish to be king; I don't need that pomp or peril. But if only I can find a way to catch and hold the Power, ah, then I become true ruler of the land.

  If only. Bah.

  Worr woke suddenly, as he often did, staring up into space. Beside him, Beortric was still asleep, his heavy, middle-aged face defenseless and relaxed as that of a boy, and for a moment Worr could not move, overwhelmed by an unexpected rush of tenderness. Ah, he was so lonely, this king, this man, so grateful for any sign of affection.

  God knew he didn't get it from his wife. Edburga did her best to rule her husband, and Beortric . . . Worr sighed. Beortric was too gentle a man to fight her.

  It isn't right, it isn't just.

  But that was Beortric, like it or not. Gentle. Caring.

  The room was filling with the first grey light of morning. Reluctantly, Worr slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping king, then stood for a moment looking down at him, not at all sure of his emotions. Without warning, he was stabbed by the all too familiar knife of guilt. This was sin, what he and the king did together, all the priests said it was sin—yet it hardly felt like anything at all evil. And besides, how could he resist? Beortric had always been so kind to him, and if this brought the king some comfort in return . . .

  I don't love him . . . do I? This is purely out of service to my king—bah, what nonsense! Of course it's more than that. I—I don't know what I feel about him, but it's certainly more than cold duty.

  But the guilt remained, a burden weighing down his soul. Hastily, Worr dressed before anyone chanced to find him here. He brushed a gentle hand across Beortric's brow, then sighed and slipped away. The two warriors watching the door had been carefully chosen to uphold the fiction that Worr was merely guarding his king; they let the ealdorman pass without so much as a glance, and Worr hurried on to his own quarters.

  Ah, but now he was far too restless to abide. He should go to the royal chapel, pray for forgiveness.

  For what?

  I cannot see it as sin, I cannot!

  Worr roused a sleepy servant and had the man fetch his horse. He wouldn't be needed in court this morning; maybe a brisk ride would ease his soul. Worr set his horse to a brisk trot down through the city. The streets were just beginning to fill, and the first merchants' cries met his ears:

  "Fish! Fresh, fresh fish!"

  "Vegetables fit for a royal table."

  "Ribbons! Ribbons!"

  The music of Uintacaester, Worr thought, and smiled in spite of himself.

  But one thin, shrill thread of sound didn't belong to that music. The ealdorman reined in his horse, listening. A scream . . . someone wailing in horror . . . it wasn't his business, surely, and yet . . .

  It was. He was an ealdorman, a noble of the ruling class. What happened in this city, even to the commonest of folk, could not be ignored. Worr sighed and turned his horse in the direction of the screams. He felt his nose wrinkle despite his best intentions; this was far from the best corner of the city, and it stank.

  But there was the screaming woman, crouching at the mouth of what was far too narrow to be called an alley. She was of the commonest sort, judging from that too-brilliant tunic, but the horror in her eyes pulled him from his horse.

  "What—"

  But then he, too, saw the body. A woman, a dispassionate part of his mind noted, young, dead. No, not just dead: murdered. Whoever had killed her had done a rather alarmingly neat job; her throat had been cut as daintily and cold-bloodedly as though she'd been nothing but a rabbit—

  A rabbit. The memory hit him with the force of a blow. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment? That rabbit, with its neatly cut throat pressed to a man's mouth. To ealdorman Osmod's mouth, yes, and him with the look of a sated demon.

  A ritual killing. He'd thought that then, for the brief moment he'd thought clearly about it at all. A ritual killing—like this one. And that meant that the poor woman's blood had also been . . .

  But Worr couldn't bear to finish that thought.

  Beortric must know of this, he thought blindly, Beortric must be told.

  Hopes and Dreams

  Chapter 7

  ". . . and the highest Wessex nobles," Ardagh recited in a fair imitation of Fothad's most teacherly voice, "are ealdormen, who make up the Witan, the law council, while a rank below them lie the thegns, and . . ."

  He paused, glancing at Sorcha as she walked the chilly autumn rounds of Fremainn with him. "And you have not heard one of three words I've said."

  "I have!" she protested. "I'm glad to hear how quickly and well you've been learning about Wessex and its ways."

  "But?"

  "But what do you think? I can hardly take joy in anything that keeps reminding me how soon you'll be leaving. And I—och, my love, I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep whining about something that's unavoidable. It's just . . . I've said this before but . . ." She shook her head impatiently. "What it is, is that I feel so—so damnably helpless! I hate having to wait here like a useless little nothing and I hate the idea of not going with you. But most of all," she added, a touch more gently, "I hate, och, I hate with all my heart knowing I'll not be knowing what's happening to you."

  He grinned. "Now that, at least, is a problem I think I can solve. See this? With any luck at all, we should be able to speak to each other through it."

  "That?" She eyed the little clay thing skeptically, "Isn't this the amulet you tried using that other night? Just after the battle against—"

  "Leinster? Yes."

  "You said it failed."

  "It did. Only, I think, because it just isn't strong enough to work anything as Powerful as opening a Doorway. But it still does hold its own tiny magic—and that, if I'm correct, will be enough for something as relatively simple as linking us two—"

  "Simple!"

  "Hush. It would be simple, since we're already linked on a psychic level by our love. In fact, it shouldn't take more than a drop or two of mingled blood to seal the charm." He raised a wary eyebrow. "Are you willing?"

  "I'm not sure exactly what you're proposing, but I—I suppose so—Ouch!"

  He'd pricked her finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the clay. Before she could protest, Ardagh pricked his own finger as well, murmuring the gentlest of persuasion spells, telling the clay that yes, it was porous, and no, what it was absorbing was not foreign to it, not foreign at all, but part of him, part of her, part of their being, part of their thoughts. . . .

  The prince let out a great, shuddering breath. "That begins it."

  "Are you all right?" Sorcha asked in alarm. "You've gone so pale!"

  "Sunlight truly doesn't like Sidhe magic. Besides," he added in resignation, "I only said that the spell should work. I never said it would be easy." Not in this magic-poor Realm, at any rate. The prince glanced down at the amulet, which now showed not the slightest sign of bloodstains. "Fortunately, I won't have to do any more work on the thing until nightfall."

  "And when it's done, we really will be able to—to talk from afar?"

  "Yes."

  "And distance won't weaken the contact?"

  "Not as long as you continue to love me. And I, you."

  That earned him a wary glance. "I assure you, I don't fall so easily out of love."

  "Of course not. Nor shall I." Ardagh paused, considering. Ae yi, as well now as later. "There's something more I must tell you. King Aedh knows who and what I am. Don't look at me like that! I could hardly deny the truth, not after Aedh witnessed my battle with Gervinus."

  "But he's never said—"

  "No. The king has kept my secret."

  Sorcha's smile was quick and wryly understanding. "Wise of him. He doesn't want to cause a riot—or to have everyone thinking him mad."

  "Exactly. But I doubt he'd be surprised to learn that you, too, know about me."

>   "He would be spectacularly unobservant if he hadn't figured it out by now!"

  "Ae, true. At any rate, I think the king would greatly appreciate your passing news along to him."

  She took a deep breath. " 'Messenger' isn't as romantic a role as 'ambassador,' but yes, of course I'll do it. Though any personal messages from you I intend to keep that way!"

  He grinned. "I would certainly hope so!"

  But Sorcha paused, frowning slightly as she studied him. "There's one thing you must, you really must, let me do before you leave. No, no, let me correct that: before another day passes."

  "What?"

  "Do you love me? Do you trust me?"

  "Yes! Sorcha, what—"

  "Then," she said firmly, "you are going to finally let me trim that wild mane of yours! And no," she added, "I have not accepted that you're leaving. No, I never will. But—cursed if I'm going to let you go off to a foreign land, let alone wander around Fremainn any longer, looking like a shaggy barbarian!"

  Alone in his guest house that night, Ardagh sat studying the amulet, running a hand absently through his hair. Sorcha had been almost as elegant at her self-imposed barbering task as a Sidhe; though she'd left his hair fashionably long, he no longer felt like a wild pony with a burr-snagging, jagged mane.

  Should have had it trimmed long ago. But the thought of trusting my throat anywhere near humans bearing iron . . . Ardagh shuddered.

  He was wasting time. This wouldn't be a fraction as difficult as opening a Doorway, nor would there be the slightest likelihood of failure. Clenching the amulet in his fist, the prince shut his eyes. He drew his breath in sharply, visualizing the spell he was about to use. Yes . . . it shouldn't need more than his own will, and not too much of his strength.

  Opening his eyes, Ardagh began his chant, seeing the amulet and only the amulet, shutting out all the rest of the world and quietly convincing the clay that it was no longer it alone, it was part of him, of her, of them, chanting . . .