Chapter 1
Old Storms and New
Chapter 1
Ardagh Lithanial, exiled prince of the Sidhe—green of slanted eye, tall, elegant and almost too blatantly Other to be passing for human as he was—sat a horse on a hill in this human land of Eriu, and stared out at devastation. The wind was strong enough to scream in his ears and whip his long black hair stingingly about his face, but it was an ocean-borne wind, cleanly scented and no more than natural. The forest that lay before him had been torn apart by a force far greater than that, trees thrown aside like so many broken spears.
Arridu, the prince thought, remembering that demonic force nearly crushing the life from him, and just barely kept his hand from rubbing newly healed wounds. Arridu and Gervinus. Bishop Gervinus, human lie though that title was. Ae, let the demon rend him forever!
Ardagh's horse stirred restlessly, calling a rumbling greeting to another. A second rider was coming up the hill, a solidly built man, no longer quite young, at least as humans rated such things, his red hair streaked with silver: Aedh mac Neill, High King of all Eriu. Reining in his horse beside Ardagh, Aedh looked out over the ruined forest and drew a shuddering breath.
"Dear God." It was said with soft, fervent horror. "Dear, loving God." The king shook his head as though trying to deny his own vision. "Each time I dare to think, no, the damage couldn't be that bad, and then . . . Eriu has always been storm-racked; we're surrounded by sea, after all. I've seen my share of tempests, and some of them monstrous enough to seem truly sorcerous. But . . . I have never seen anything to match the fury of . . . that."
"Nor are you likely to see such a storm again," Ardagh said, and felt Aedh's keen grey glance turn his way. "Not if I have any way to stop it."
"Are you expecting another sorcerer?" the king asked sharply. "Yes, and since when has a prince of the Sidhe developed such concern for a human Realm?"
"No, to the first. And since he's had to take shelter here, to the second." But then Ardagh stretched wearily in the saddle. "Ae, that's not the whole of it. King Aedh, this can never truly be my homeland, we both know that, but I have . . . grown fond of it. I would not see it harmed."
Aedh snorted. " 'Grown fond.' I wish you could have been fond enough of Eriu to keep that—that storm demon from—"
"I did what I could."
"And nearly got yourself killed in the process. Yes. I know."
The king turned away, looking out over the ravaged land again. "I'm not accusing you. You saved us all from God only knows what further horror. And if it were simply this one forest devastated, och, well, we could all say, 'Was that not a terrible thing?" and go on with life. But I'm beginning to think that the whole land's been changed!"
"Surely not—"
"Surely yes! You've heard of the island of Fitha? No? Our tour hasn't included it, but there've been enough witnesses to swear that the cursed storm tore it to shreds! And so many people slain . . . my people . . ." Aedh's face was rigidly impassive, but he could not keep the anguish from his voice. "Over a thousand dead in Corca-Bhaiscinn alone." He glanced at Ardagh. "How can you look so composed?"
"My brother," Ardagh said softly, "once went to war with a traitor." He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. "A genuine traitor, not someone betrayed by false courtiers into only seeming an Oathbreaker. The war didn't last long; magical battles seldom do. And Eirithan was, of course, the victor. When he was done, the traitor's lands looked . . . far worse. Nothing ever grew on them again."
"This land will recover," Aedh said, almost defiantly. "I don't think I would like to see your people's idea of war. Or peace."
"Ae, no, there are long periods of tranquillity, of beauty that would, I think, make even you weep. As for a Powerful war—you saw it, or at least a hint of it."
"Ah." Aedh looked out again at the ruined forest and shuddered. "That was more than enough of—ha, who is this?"
A horseman was riding frantically up the hill. "News, King Aedh," he called out, "foul news!"
"What, worse than this?" the king retorted. "Then we are sorely pressed, indeed!"
But he signalled to the messenger to approach.
Ardagh glanced subtly about, recognizing this man, that. The audience chamber here in Fremainn, Aedh's royal fortress, was walled with stone, one of the few buildings not of wood, and crowded now with men: advisors, courtiers, all of them murmuring like an angry hive of bees. Ardagh sat among them with total Sidhe stillness—which meant that the humans around him had nearly forgotten his presence—but he, too, was feeling a sympathetic stirring of anger as he watched King Aedh. The king, too well schooled in regal ways to pace, fairly blazed with rage, nearly blinding to Ardagh's Sidhe sight.
"Leinster dares attack us now, now! Does King Finsneachta think us broken by the storm?"
That brought a roar of denials. Aedh held up a hand for silence and continued, "He is obviously blind to Eriu's pain, or so jealous for power that he doesn't care about the wrecked land, the ruined harvest—he would starve his own people to attack us! What shall we do about this, eh? What shall we do?"
Clever, Ardagh thought. They can hardly fail to shout for war. And I—I cannot help this time but agree. Pitching his voice to carry over the turmoil, the prince said (feeling his neighbors flinch in surprise at his sudden coming to life), "It seems to me that the only choice of honor is to take the fight to Finsneachta—but after he has made the first move."
"Wait?" shouted someone.
"We cannot wait!"
"We dare not wait!"
But Aedh held up a hand again, and the shouting gradually died back into silence. "What would you have us do, Prince Ardagh?"
"I will not pretend to fully understand your" human "ways. But it seems clear to me that Finsneachta did, indeed, mean to catch you with your guard lowered." He glanced about, seeing every man watching him intently. "Very well, then, let him start on the march. Then he is the aggressor, the one in the wrong, not you. Gather a force, not just of your own men but of those from your vassal kings as well, to show that all Eriu is outraged by his action."
From the light blazing in Aedh's eyes, he'd already decided on that. "Exactly! Laity and clergy both shall meet him on the field of battle—and it shall be our choice of battle, our choice of field!"
"Not the clergy!" protested one voice. "The Church has no part in this!" It was Fothad mac Ailin who spoke, Aedh's Chief Poet and Chief Minister. Wise Fothad, with his clear gaze and deceptively ordinary face. Fothad, thought Ardagh, father of Sorcha, my Sorcha. "You must not involve the Church!" the poet continued to protest as they all began filing out of the audience chamber.
But the others were too mad with battle-hunger to heed. And only Ardagh, the prince thought, even heard him.
Eithne, queen and wife to Aedh mac Neill, stared bitterly up into darkness and told herself this was no different from all the other times she'd lain awake beside her husband, hearing him sleep and knowing he would ride out tomorrow. Ride out into battle. Ride out and maybe not return—
"No," she whispered, softly so Aedh would not hear, "gods above, gods below, no, not that."
Aedh had no idea that his wife held this one secret from him, Aedh had no idea that Eithne still belonged to the old religion, the ancient faith. And he most certainly had no idea that she practiced the smallest, weakest but very real magics.
Eithne reached out a tender hand to stroke her husband's bearded cheek and heard him murmur her name in his sleep. "Whatever magics I possess are for you, my love," she whispered.
If only they were enough! If only they could wrap Aedh and their children, their Neill and little Fainche, safe forever . . .
There was no such thing as "forever" for mortals. And she'd known when she'd wed him that a High King must almost always be at war. Eithne shivered, wriggling closer to Aedh for warmth. He murmured again, wordlessly, and an arm, heavy as a log, fell across her. Eithne squirmed into a more comfortable position under the weight, feeling the heat of his body, smelling the familiar scent of him.
Mortal, she repeated silently, and that brought her to the next thought: Prince Ardagh, who knew nothing of the word. Prince of the Sidhe that he was, he should, were there any justice, bear magic enough to Ward all this land. But in this mortal Realm, he had little more Power than she.
I've kept your secret, Eithne told the prince silently, never quite sure if he might actually hear her. And you've kept mine. Our pact remains. I'll work what spells I can to keep Aedh safe—but you, och, you, too, must do what you can.
With the softest of sighs, Eithne burrowed her head against Aedh's broad chest. Let the night pass, and the following day. Let the battle come and go and let Aedh win and be unharmed.
Let it be so. Let it be so. Let it be so.
"Cadwal."
No, ah no, Dewi Sant, not this dream, not again. Cadwal ap Dyfri, leader of the High King's mercenary band, groaned in his sleep and fought to wake. And yet the voice called to him:
"Cadwal, cariad, Cadwal."
The voice was so real, the endearment so familiar.
"Cadwal, dearest heart, hear me. Know me. Cadwal, you must hear me!"
"Gwen?" he asked softly. Now Cadwal knew for certain it was a dream: His Gwen, his Gwenith, was dead these many years, falsely accused of sorcery and put to death. Murdered. All for having fought off the lord who'd tried his hand at rape. Cadwal had slain that lord, his own liege lord—and in the process gotten himself thrown into exile. His only comfort in all these years since had been the surety that Gwen was up there with God and His holy ones. And: "Och, Gwen," Cadwal said with a dreamer's certainty, "you can't be here. Your soul is safe in Heaven now."
But the voice continued, as he knew it would, as it had continued these three nights running: "Cadwal, no. I am not safe. I am not safe. Come to me, Cadwal. Free me. I beg you, love, save me. Free me.
"Free me . . ."
Cadwal woke gasping, sitting bolt upright in his lonely bed, then swore, harshly and steadily. He was that rare thing, a mercenary of middle years, and he hadn't made it to this age by allowing weakness of body or mind to steal into him. A dream, curse it, this was nothing more than a dream! And why he was letting the thrice-damned thing haunt him—
Because it felt so real, so very painfully real, Gwen's enslaved soul calling for his help . . .
Pw, what nonsense! You're a warrior, Cadwal snapped at himself, head of the High King's mercenaries—yes, and a fine bit of good you're going to do Aedh letting dreams get the better of you.
He shot to his feet, fiercely splashing his face with water from the pitcher at his bedside, letting the icy water shock him fully awake. Still dark out there, still a good way from morning, but Cadwal knew he was not going to sleep again this night.
Aedh, now. Aedh mac Neill had always dealt well with him, treating Cadwal not like an exiled mercenary, but like a man of honor fallen on difficult times.
"And damned if I'm going to betray that trust!"
Throwing on his clothes, Cadwal stalked out into the night. A walk would stir the blood, get him back to— to reality. Away from . . . dreams.
"No," Sorcha said and, "no," again. "Ardagh, no, you can't mean to go—"
"I can. I will." Sidhe vision keen even at night, Ardagh glanced down at his human love with her fierce face and lovely deep blue eyes, then turned sharply away. No one dared say to a prince, you must not do this thing, certainly not a mere human—
Save this one. "What else is there for me to do?" Ardagh asked, still not looking at her. "Return to my own land? I would most dearly love to do that. But thanks to my oh-so-suspicious brother and his oh-so-treacherous court and that one necessary spell they stole from my mind, I cannot. These folk have given me sanctuary. What else is there for me here but to aid them in turn?"
"As what? Ardagh, you're not a-a warrior! And I thought we—"
He whirled back to her at that. "Ae, 'we!' What is there of that? You know I've sworn a vow to harm no one here—and thanks to that vow and your people's code of honor, I cannot even exchange more than chaste words or a few stolen kisses with you! Anything more would harm your honor, and that would hurt you." And you are human, short-lived human, and I—I—will not think of that. Despair feeding his anger, Ardagh continued, "And if any suspected we walked together alone at night like this—ae, I can imagine the outcry then! Prince I may be, Sidhe, yes—but in the eyes of these folk I am nothing more than a cu glas, a grey dog, a landless, clan-less exile—"
"And do you think it's so easy for me?" she snapped. "Do you? I'm a widow, not a simpering maid, I'm a thinking, feeling person, not just the daughter of Fothad mac Ailin, I'm not just some ridiculous symbol of honor or purity or-or—"
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.
I dare not hope. But I do, Powers help me, I do indeed!