Chapter 8
Revelations
Chapter 8
Osmod, alone in his bedchamber, crouched over the bits of rune-carved bone spread out on the clean white cloth, then let out the softest of frustrated sighs. His rank entitled him to this separate house, though of course it was barely an eighth the size of the royal hall, lacking elegant carvings or gilding, but it was still part of the royal compound. Which didn't give him much privacy, even when privacy was most vital. Such as now, with the runes showing him:
Nothing. Not the slightest trace of pending trouble. In fact, this reading was so very bland, as had been the two he'd already cast this night, as to seem almost a mockery. Granted, the days had been deepening into winter without his having sensed even the smallest hint of suspicion from the king—but Beortric was such an inoffensive fellow he wouldn't believe there was even an out-and-out rebellion till it struck him down.
As for Worr . . . Osmod tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. Out of the many castings of the runes, there had been one—though, disconcertingly only one—revealing trouble from the youngster.
A hint. Possibly not even a true one. Typical of the Lords of Darkness—assuming that They exist. No, no, They must exist; who else would be so frustratingly vague?
But that was the way things went. He dare not ignore the Darkness now that Midwinter was fast approaching. The darkest hour of the longest night of the year was, all the strictures claimed, the time when the Lords gave up the greatest Power to Their followers—but only in exchange for the greatest risk.
For one long moment, Osmod toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing. Plain, mundane political power was surely enough.
Of course. And he was a woad-blue barbarian.
A Midwinter offering could, by the rules, only be human. And for it to be of greatest risk, that could only mean performing the sacrifice right here within the royal compound.
Osmod swept up the runes and slipped them back into their soft leather pouch. So far, no one had missed the kitchen boy who'd been last year's offering, or the elderly servant of the prior year. But back then, there hadn't been the awkwardness of Worr planting doubts in the king's ear, either.
Ah well. He would simply have to be more cautious. Osmod scrambled to his feet, shivering a little; the hall's central fire had, of course, been banked for the night. He straightened, listening . . . yes. At this time of year, when the thin song of the wolves could be heard out there beyond the city's walls, it might not be considered too bizarre for someone to meet an unexpected end at the fangs of some starveling creature even within Uintacaester.
I hope You appreciate the dangers I'm facing, Osmod thought, only half-jesting. Let's hope that the Power I receive in exchange is worth the trouble!
Worr stirred restlessly, unable to sleep for all the bed's cozy warmth, and heard Beortric's drowsy protest. But now he couldn't get comfortable at all; the king had pulled most of the heavy furs to him and what was left wasn't keeping out the drafts.
It was more than mere physical chill, Worr thought in misery. Every time he did manage to close his eyes, he kept seeing the terror-stricken face of that poor little whore, even after so many days had passed. And sometimes he dreamed that Osmod loomed over her, smiling his charming, charming smile.
"Damn!"
It had been whispered just a touch too fiercely. Beside him, Beortric stirred, asking drowsily, "Worr? What's wrong?"
"I don't know. I don't. Maybe it's just the time of year."
"So close to Christ's Birth, you mean?"
"So close to the old pagan darkness," Worr corrected. "Maybe it's just that. But . . ." He turned earnestly to the king, staring into Beortric's sleepy eyes. "It's Osmod. Wait, wait, please let me finish, I don't know what— why—please, Beortric. We must see what he's doing this night."
The king's gaze sharpened. "You sound like some hysterical girl. If you've had a foul dream—"
Worr groaned. "It's not that. It's . . . I don't know what it is. I feel . . . I feel as though someone's been tampering with my mind: Osmod. Yes, yes, I know this really does sound like a girl's hysteria, and if I'm wrong, I—I'll accept all penalties for false witness. But—Beortric, believe this: I just don't think I'm wrong."
Osmod smiled thinly. It had been almost pathetically easy to lure the boy to him with gentle words and feigned kindness: the servant—what had he been, some young kitchen lad, perhaps?
No matter. He had been all too willing to believe that a fine, noble ealdorman should have taken a sudden interest in him. The boy had been pretty enough under the dirt for that to be credible, had Osmod's tastes run that way. Which, he thought with a touch of dark humor, they did not.
A pity I'm not Worr, he told the limp body. You might still be alive. A pity, too, that you were such an insignificant creature. No family, no friends, no one to miss you. So it goes.
He'd strangled the boy almost, but not quite, beyond life. Now Osmod delicately cut his prey's throat, finishing what he'd begun, enjoying the sharp taste of blood, the wild thrill of Power renewed. The servant had been better fed than the whore; his young life force was so much stronger that it was a pure delight to drink.
But even as he luxuriated in this hot new strength, Osmod kept one corner of his mind clear on what would come next. When he was done, he would disguise the body in a roll of worn cloth, see that it was burned like so much trash. And if any should discover the contents of that roll, why, all he need do was feign surprised horror with everyone else.
Yes. And that burning would complete a symbolic triple death: just the devious type of sacrifice the Lords of the Underworld were said to like the most. And the whole thing was being done right under the noses of the royal court. The Lords should definitely like that as well. Maybe this time the Power wouldn't fade; maybe this time he would be as magically strong as he wished. And then, and then . . .
Osmod shut his eyes in ecstasy.
"Oh God!"
His eyes flew open at that shout of horror. Beortric! Beortric, and that damnably honorable Worr at his side like a faithful hound. Osmod let the body fall, snatching up his pouch of runes. No time to hunt for the ones he wanted: he thrust his fist about them all, praying that would be enough. Before Beortric could do more than draw in breath, Osmod cast all his hastily summoned will, all the strength he had just gained from the sacrifice into this one desperate cry:
"You have seen nothing odd, nothing. You have seen nothing. You have seen nothing. Nothing. Nothing!"
Sobbing with the effort, Osmod fell limply forward over the body, too drained to move, sure harsh hands were about to seize him. But . . . there was nothing. Just as he had willed it: nothing. Blank-faced, Beortric and Worr both were walking away.
With a gasp of relief, Osmod let himself slide into exhausted darkness.
He woke aching and sore and frighteningly . . . empty. Terrified that the effort of controlling both Beortric and Worr had destroyed his magic, Osmod fumbled with numb fingers for the pouch of runes. Nothing, he felt nothing—
No. The touch of Thorn sent the faintest of tinglings through his mind. The magic was still within him, but sadly worn.
Not surprising he thought with weary humor. It takes a bit more Power to erase the memory of a human slain than of a rabbit!
With a groan, Osmod rolled over onto his back, stretching out tired muscles, admitting reluctantly that the perilous memory hadn't truly been erased. Ah no, he'd merely placed a patch over a pit. Sooner or later that patch was going to give way, and then—
Ah well, Osmod told himself, deliberately forcing a light mood, the time for change was long overdue. You knew that. And Egbert will make a fine ruler.
But first Beortric and that awkward and damnably too-honorable Worr must die. Osmod had seen enough folks die by now, many by his own hand, not to be squeamish.
Yet those victims had been nobodies. These two, king and noble . . . how could he . . . ? Yes, and it must be done in such a manner as to attract not the smallest shred of suspicion to him.
How, indeed? A tool. A tool. Who could he use, who—
"Edburga!" The answer came to him so suddenly he nearly staggered, wondering for an uneasy instant if this had come directly from the Lords of Darkness.
Bah, of course not. It was such an obvious, logical choice. Edburga had no friends at court, thanks to her bitter, savage nature. There would be no awkward political complications. She already, not surprisingly, loathed Worr; it was evident enough to be a common part of court gossip. And she was, Osmod thought, most conveniently under his control.
Ah yes. Edburga would make a splendid assassin.
What, Ardagh Lithanial wondered absently, testing the weight of the practice sword, was winter like in Wessex? It certainly couldn't be more disagreeable than winter here in Eriu, which had turned into its usual damp, dank, chilly self. Never a decent snowfall, never a nice, crisp, bright-skied day . . . never anything even remotely like the clear, crystalline Sidhe winter—
No. Let yourself sink too deeply into what Cadwal called hiraeth, the bittersweet longing for what couldn't be, and you lost all hope for what was.
Cadwal, yes. Ardagh watched the man's approach with a slight smile. At least that silly little charm for sweet sleep seemed to have helped him.
It had helped, hadn't it? Ardagh felt his smile fade at the sight of the weary, troubled eyes. But Cadwal didn't volunteer any information, asking only, "Ready to go a few rounds?"
Ardagh saluted him with the sword. "Of course." Very much aware of how survival in this land depended on weapons skill, the prince practiced his swordplay whenever he and Cadwal both had the time free. And preferably, Ardagh thought, whenever they could manage to avoid an audience.
Nothing like a cold, dank grey day for that.
A little more perilous to duel with even these blunted iron blades, but a touch of danger did make things more realistic. Besides, there wasn't enough of the cursed metal to sicken him.
They fought in silence for a time, working their way gradually up from the basic warm-up exercises to genuine swordwork. Ardagh could feel himself starting to smile, enjoying the elegant, quick dance, enjoying the fact that his Sidhe reactions hadn't been slowed at all by this human Realm. Of course, things might be different in Wessex.
Wessex. The thought hit him like a shock of icy water that very soon now he would be heading once more into the unknown, alone and friendless as before—
Ardagh gave a startled yelp as fire raced along his arm. Cadwal was instantly at his side, wild-eyed—presumably seeing his head on a pole for injuring a princely guest—and trying to see the wound even as Ardagh tried to keep it hidden, insisting to the mercenary, "My fault, not yours. I let my mind wander. It's all right, really—"
"It's not all right, dammit—"
"You don't have to—"
"I do!"
Cadwal had already grabbed his arm and pulled back the sleeve before the prince could stop him. Ardagh saw the worry in his eyes change to . . . what? Shock? Horror? The horror of a man seeing the solid world turn to mist? "There's no blood." It was almost a whisper.
"No," the prince agreed.
"There's a burn. The sword burned you. The iron burned you."
"Cadwal," Ardagh said softly, "I think you had best sit down." Swallowing dryly—iron burns, he was coming to learn, tended to hurt out of all proportion to their size— he added, "I think we had both best sit down."
"I think we must, indeed. I've got some salve in my chambers, stuff that's good for burns—that is the sort of burn that can be healed?"
Ardagh nodded. "Lead on. I really would like to sit down."
Cadwal's quarters were spotless as ever; the mercenary refused to give himself the slightest chance to slide into an exile's apathy. He busied himself with finding the pot of salve and a clean strip of cloth, then stood hesitating so long that Ardagh finally took the pot from him and treated the burn himself.
"It's not serious," he assured Cadwal. "A scorch. I've gotten worse." He glanced up. "Sit, man, before you fall."
Cadwal sat, staring.
"Go ahead," Ardagh said after an awkward moment of silence. "Say what you're thinking."
The mercenary gave a gusty sigh. "What I'm thinking is that you're something other than anyone would believe."
"And that is?"
Cadwal never flinched. "I'm not sure exactly what. Maybe . . . Tylwyth Teg."
"No." Ardagh's mind was racing through a hasty Should I? Should I not? But there was the evidence of the iron burn to explain. And . . . there had once been a lonely night and this human's comforting welcome to a fellow exile. The prince added frankly, "Not Tylwyth Teg. But they are distant cousins."
"You mean I'm right?"
It came out as such a squawk of astonishment that Ardagh couldn't hold back a burst of laughter. "Didn't you expect to be?"
"Well, yes, but . . ."
"Ae, I'm sorry." Ardagh forced himself back under control. "I have no business laughing at you. And before you collapse from the weight of curiosity, my race isn't Tylwyth Teg but Sidhe. I really am a prince, my brother really did exile me for what he falsely thought was treason, and I really do wish no harm to these folk who have given me sanctuary. Does that satisfy you?"
" 'Satisfy' isn't quite the word." Cadwal was looking as dazed as if Ardagh had grown wings and flown away. "Dewi Sant. Sidhe." He shook himself like a dog shaking off water. "I knew it but didn't know it, if that makes sense."
"It does."
"Damnio. The world's stranger than I dreamed."
Aedh, Ardagh mused, had said almost exactly the same thing when he'd learned the truth.
But Cadwal was once more regarding him with that wild horror. "If you're real, the Sidhe I mean, that means all the Others are probably real, too."
There was a desperate edge to his voice, the sound of a man hunting frantically for solid ground, and Ardagh said, "Probably. But not necessarily in this human Realm. You don't have to worry that reality is falling to pieces about you."
"Glad to hear that." The tone was light, but genuine relief glinted in Cadwal's eyes. "Sidhe," he said again, this time with less shock in his voice. "No wonder you won't wear iron armor! Yes, and here you've been going into battle against iron blades. Your pardon, but that's a damnably foolish thing to do!"
"So Sorcha told me. Cadwal, stop staring at me. I have some resistance to the metal; I'm not going to fall to ash." No. All I do is collapse if there's too much of the cursed stuff about, or now and then burn myself if I get overconfident: certain smeltings seem to be more treacherous than others, with no way to know which is which in advance. No problem. Hah.
Cadwal, regardless, was still staring. "Sidhe," he repeated yet again. "And there I was the other night bothering you with my human problems. Asking if you knew a—a spell, Iesu, and wasn't that a stupid question?"
Ardagh frowned slightly. "A spell that isn't working for you any longer, I take it."
"I . . . no. Not for the past three days or so." The man shrugged. "It's nothing."
He plainly wasn't going to say any more without prodding. Cursing human stubbornness, Ardagh said, "You've been humanly kind to me—ae, don't look so embarrassed; you have. And the knife-fighting you taught me saved my life. I haven't forgotten. Be honest with me. Why did you come to me that night?"
Cadwal's eyes were all at once the eyes of a trapped wild thing. "Because . . . I . . . because . . . damnio. Because of Gwen."
"Gwen!" Ardagh straightened in surprise. "But you told me she was dead."
"She is." Cadwal's voice was rigidly controlled. "But maybe you can tell me why she keeps coming back." The control slipped ever so slightly. "A-at least, I think it's she. The dreams or whatever they are stopped for a while after you'd taught me that spell, and I dared to think that was the end of it, but now . . . Look you, what's happening is that every night I've been hearing her voice calling to me in my sleep, all the way from Cymru, Gwen's voice pleading with me to free her, free her soul."
His eyes were suddenly painfully bright. "I'm no mystic, Prince Ardagh, I'm a mercenary. Give me a battle, sword to sword, and I know exactly what to do. This . . . if Gwen's soul really is trapped . . . I don't know how to help her! Prince Ardagh, you'd know more about such things than any of us. Is it true? Can my Gwen really be someone's prisoner? Or . . . am I just going mad?"
"You're not mad. I'd have felt the psychic chaos the moment you approached. As for anything else—I don't know."
"But—"
"I can hardly know very much about human souls or ghosts. And if she really is calling to you from Cymru, I certainly can't prove anything from this far away."
"Figured. That's why I decided I'm going to have to go with you."
Ardagh stared. "But there's a death sentence waiting for you if you're caught in Cymru!"
"There's insanity hanging over me if I stay here, and maybe the damnation of Gwen's soul. Look you, it's not as if I'm abandoning King Aedh. My men are loyal to him; you don't often get an employer who treats mercenaries like honorable folk, and they appreciate it. This won't be a long journey, God willing. Dyfrig can lead them well enough while I'm away." Dyfrig ap Gwilim was, Ardagh knew, Cadwal's second-in-command. "Not a scrap of humor to our Dyfrig, but he's honest as rock and a good, clever fighter; he'll keep the king safe."
"I won't be stopping in Cymru."
"Not on the way out, I know that. But you're not going to be in Wessex all that long, God willing. Figure I'll have my chance after you've met with King Beortric."
"You've worked it all out, haven't you?"
"Tried to. You're going to need some sort of escort other than pretty courtiers." Cadwal shrugged. "Might as well be me."
"In other words, you're going, with me or without."
"You got it."
"And it doesn't bother you that your travelling companion won't be human?"
Cadwal winced. "I can't swear to that. But I'm going, no matter who's my companion."
Ardagh sat back, studying the man. "I can't guarantee your safety. I can't even guarantee my own!"
"I don't understand. Why not just magic us there?"
"Think, man! Do you really think I would be languishing in this human Realm if I could wield that much Power?"
Cadwal blinked. "There is that."
The prince sighed, seeing stubbornness and honesty both in the man's eyes. "I can trust you." It was as much command as comment. "In my native Realm, yes, I could magic myself, as you put it, here or there with little more than the wish. Here . . ." He shrugged slightly. "Let's just say that in this Realm, my abilities are rather restricted."
"But you're not without magic?"
Ardagh laughed shortly. "You sound like a small boy hoping for wonders."
That roused a wary chuckle. "Och, I do, don't I? But you have to admit this sort of thing is far from my experiences."
"Mine, too," the prince drawled. And yes," he added, relenting, "I do have some Power left to me, though it's nothing spectacular." Ardagh could see skepticism plain on Cadwal's face and gave a mental shrug. Humans would believe what they wished, regardless of facts. "Which," the prince continued, "is why we'll be making the journey to Wessex by perfectly mundane means."
" 'We,' eh?"
"We. You already told me as much. So be it." Suddenly Ardagh smiled, and saw Cadwal's puzzled frown. "I was just thinking of that journey. And the human societies about which I still know so very little."
"I speak the Saxon tongue. Know your enemy and all that."
"Enemy?" Ardagh echoed uneasily.
"Och, not to you and not to Eriu." Cadwal's voice was wry. "Let us just say that Cymru has had more dealings with the Saxon folk than Eriu and leave it at that. I know a fair bit about how they live, too."
"And you won't let prejudices get in the way, I trust."
Cadwal snorted. "You know me better than that."
"Im glad to hear it." Ardagh got to his feet, stretching warily. Under the soothing salve, the burn had almost stopped hurting, and he was all at once too restless for further conversation.
But he suddenly stopped at the doorway and turned back to the watching human. "Quite frankly, friend Cadwal," the prince said, "I was not looking forward to travelling alone—yes, yes, I know the king will send an escort with me. But there will be none among them with whom I can speak freely. Save for you. Cadwal, I admit it: I will be very glad of your company."