A Strange and Ancient Name (35 page)

“Grandfather,” he murmured in the Faerie tongue, “you were very right: she’s half of Faerie, indeed!”

Matilde whirled. “What are you saying? And why are you all staring at me?”

“Tell her, my lord Ereledan,” the prince commanded. “You seem to speak the human language well enough. Tell her how you followed my father into mortal Realms. Tell her what you did there.”

All the defiance had ebbed out of Ereledan. “I didn’t know I’d gotten her with child,” he pleaded to Matilde. “I never would have abandoned her, or you. Please believe me.”

“Believe you about what? What are you trying to say?”

“That . . . that I’m your father.”

“But—no, that’s impossible! My father is
human,
only
human,
and my mother would never, ever have betrayed him!”

“Ah, my dear . . .” Ereledan’s voice and eyes were gentler than Hauberin would ever have believed possible. “How could it be a betrayal? She had never given her heart to the man. The marriage was a forced thing, a lie arranged by others.” He glanced at the prince. “Yes, I did follow your father. Or tried to follow; the transfer-spell worked for me, but I couldn’t quite control the differences in time.”

“And so you were years too late to interfere with him,” Hauberin said without expression. “But not too late to interfere with human lives.”

“I didn’t mean . . . Blanche was so lonely, so unhappy. And she was so lovely . . . When I first saw her, stolen out of her husband’s grim keep to sit in the moonlight, I . . .”

He hesitated, and Hauberin could have sworn he saw tears glint in the haughty eyes. “What betrayal there was, was mine,” Ereledan said dully. “She was human. And I—I . . . just . . . could not let myself love a human.

“It wasn’t until after I had abandoned her that I realized my mistake. By that time, of course, I couldn’t find my way back to her. Or to my . . . my daughter. Oh, please,” he begged Matilde, “you must believe, I never meant to hurt her!”

“I don’t know what to believe,” she murmured, glancing at Hauberin in desperation. “To learn after all this time that my father isn’t—that I’m a—bastard, and n-not even human . . .”

“It’s not such a terrible thing,” the prince murmured, and she smiled wanly.

“Ah well, at least now I know why Faerie called to me so strongly. If Gilbert only knew—”

But Alliar had come suddenly alert, cutting in on her words with a sharp, “Look!”

A tall, lean figure stood above them on the sharp slope, a dark-cloaked figure with hood thrown back: a most familiar figure.

Matilde’s cry could have been either of joy or pain. “Gilbert!”

But when she would have run to him, Hauberin, cold with sudden horror, caught her in his arms, holding her with all his strength.

“Hauberin! That’s my husband up there!”

“No,” the prince said as gently as he could.

“What nonsense are you—”

“Gilbert is dead, Matilde.”

“No, I—”

“He’s
dead,
Matilde. I
feel
it.” Hauberin shivered, thinking of a similarly . . . empty human boy, dead even as he struck at the prince, and added softly, “What you see up there is nothing, only an empty shell.”

As though his words had broken a spell, the baron’s body crumpled. In the next moment, a fierce, cold force swept down on them, wild with hatred, whirling dizzyingly about them, staring briefly, terribly, from Ereledan’s eyes, pulling at Hauberin’s will, forcing a gasp from Matilde, Moonflame, Alliar, snatching at their minds, trying in vain to control them in that sudden rush, then whirling back up into Gilbert’s body, which slowly staggered back to its feet.

“It was you,” Ereledan gasped, face white. “You, Thine, whatever you are. The times I couldn’t think, couldn’t act, thought myself mad . . . the time I dueled my prince and nearly killed him: it was you in my mind!”

The voice was all about them, mocking, hating, shattering into a thousand rough, overlapping shards, all grating painfully at once on their ears so they could hardly make out the words:
*Easy . . . so easy to control . . .*

What manner of Thing could possibly dominate Faerie minds? Fighting to keep his voice level, the prince said, “Then . . . it must have been you behind Serein as well. Of course it was. Those sudden, inept plots against me: that was you feeding his ambitions. Controlling him. Letting him murder a child.”

*The weak, wanting creature . . . simple to push it into the proper paths.*

Mockery echoed in the painfully alien voice, sharp as bits of ice stabbing at Hauberin. Grimly, the prince continued, “I never could believe Serein had found some mythical spell. You were the one who tore the spirit from his dying body, threw it across Realms into a human shell—why? And why abandon him?”

*A thing no longer useful is nothing . . .*

Alliar let out a sharp hiss. “No wonder we couldn’t make sense of the curse! The Power fueling it had nothing to do with Faerie.” The being stood tense as a predator ready to spring. “What are you, creature? A demon?”

“Nothing so trite, I think,” Hauberin mused, and shards of alien laughter, empty and humorless, grated along his nerves in response.

*Would you know? Then, come,
feel*

And Power, dark and chill and dazzling, engulfed him. In one endless, terrible moment he knew—as well as any finite mind could know—the emptiness beyond reality, the nonspace between the boundaries of the Realms. He
felt
the thing that whirled and eddied there, nonliving yet alive, nonreal yet real, a force of living hatred left over from the dark side of Creation. He
felt
it swirling endlessly between those pathless boundaries, never able to enter any tangible world until—

Hauberin pulled free with a strangled gasp, realizing the truth: there hadn’t been any pathway till Prince Laherin, in the process of creating his transfer-spell, had accidentally created one. Laherin could only have realized what he’d done; he’d been too skilled a magician not to have known. And he would have moved quickly to shut the pathway again.

But he’d been too proud, too determined to cross from Realm to Realm. Prince Laherin had never stopped to realize he had left the smallest psychic crack unsealed.

“And you seeped through it,’ Hauberin murmured, and
felt
the Other’s painful nonlaughter stab at him. The Thing was all but mindless by any true-Realm standards, a segment of chaotic force: living hatred, indeed. It could never have felt anything as rational as gratitude for the one who’d let it into new Realms; hatred was all it could be. And so it had set out to destroy him for creating change.

*Yes, yes,*
the Other taunted,
*to destroy every trace of That One. This force was in the warrior that caught the male-form of That One as he crossed Realms and slew him. But first this force was the poison-illness that slew the female-part of him . . . *

Hauberin heard Moonflame cry out in pain, “Not, ‘female-part,’ damn you! She was my daughter! They were separate beings.”

That concept plainly meant little to the Other.
*The useful/not useful one this force possessed is destroyed, too,*
the thing continued blithely to Hauberin, referring, he guessed, to Serein,
*and those others this force brushed are here. Only your fragment is left of That One. It was pleasant to play with you/fragment, pushing this way, that. You/fragment nearly was destroyed many times, yet this force always let you still exist. Not for much longer.*

Alien hatred enfolded Hauberin, so sharply he hadn’t a chance to defend himself, hatred cold as the space between the Realms, pulling the air from his lungs, choking him. Dimly, he heard the others shouting, but he could concentrate only on the sudden battle to breathe.

As he staggered, Matilde snatched her dagger back from him. Murmuring, “Gilbert, forgive me,” she threw it with desperate accuracy—but the blade crumpled to dust in mid-flight. The crushing force vanished from Hauberin in a rush as the Other gathered back its hatred, doubled it with what it pulled from Matilde and hurled the deadly force back at her—

“No!” Ereledan screamed. “I won’t lose her, too!”

He hurled himself at his daughter to shield her. And the full spear of hatred struck him. Dead on his feet, Ereledan slowly sagged to the ground, leaving Matilde standing in wild-eyed horror over his body.

But Hauberin didn’t waste time on shock.
“Link!”
he screamed to Alliar, and in the instant in which the Other was distracted, still wearing its human shell, mind-joined man and spirit shouted the strongest Spell of Binding they knew. Even so Powerful a spell wouldn’t hold the too-alien Other for long, but for the moment their doubled strength was enough to trap it in Gilbert’s body, mortal as Gilbert had been mortal.

*No-o-o!*
The savage shriek tore at their minds. Raging, the Other hurled its fury at them, nonvoice splitting into simultaneous messages of hate. But Hauberin could no longer be hurt by ancient taunts of “half-blood, weakling, unworthy half-human,” not after that ordeal in the corridor, not after the relief of learning his true lineage. But, still partly linked with Alliar, he
felt
the being’s anguish at enforced memories of lost, lost freedom. Aching for his friend’s pain, the prince drew Power into a death-spell—

No! Not against something so alien! The spell would fatally recoil onto the flesh-and-blood.

But the damned thing is still trapped, still mortal, so . . .

Hauberin charged his foe, head down, colliding with Gilbert’s body with an impact that should have hurled it right off the mountain. But even in its mortal trap, the Other was far too strong for any one man. A backhanded slap sent Hauberin staggering back against a boulder, breath slammed from him. Before he could defend himself, the Other grabbed him off his feet as though he was weightless. For one dizzy moment, Hauberin saw a blur of empty space, mountains, the long, long drop to the valley below and a river that looked like a thin silver ribbon, then the Other threw him down at its feet with bruising force, nonvoice shrieking in an ecstasy of triumph,
*Fool, fool, this one cannot be hurt by you! This one cannot be slain by anyone of mortal birth!*

Inhumanly strong hands closed about his throat. Choking, dying, Hauberin heard a fierce, joyous, despairing voice cry, “Oh well, I suppose this is my job, then!”

“Alliar, no!” the prince gasped out.

Swifter than any of mortal birth, the wind spirit surged forward, crashing into the Other, sending them both plummeting off the mountain.

“Alliar!”

Hauberin shot out a frantic hand—

But it closed only on empty space.

XXIX

REVENANT

Hauberin had no memory of having buried the dead (Ereledan alone; the river far below had, mercifully, washed away the others) or returned the living to his palace. He accepted the commiserations of friends and courtiers without emotion; there was no room in his numb mind yet for grief.

Only one thing was clear: he must destroy his father’s spell. Alone in his chambers, he took it apart, syllable by syllable (refusing to let himself remember the first time he had used it, with Alliar so nervously peering over his shoulder) and, syllable by syllable negated it, banishing each fragment from his memory as he erased it from parchment. With the erasure of the final spell-shard, there was the sudden sense of a distant door irrevocably, safely, shutting, and Hauberin sat for a time with head in hands, too drained to think.

But then the prince straightened. Oh, Powers, he’d forgotten about Moonflame and Matilde! He’d stranded them here without a thought. Matilde was off seeing to her father’s estate; Hauberin had thought giving her something positive to do might help her over the shock of double bereavement. But Moonflame was still in the palace, and the prince asked to see him.

“Grandfather,” Hauberin began uncertainly, “I . . .”

“Closed the Gate permanently. I know, I felt it.”

“But—”

“No, dearheart, you haven’t trapped me.” Moonflame’s smile was gentle. “We desert folk aren’t quite like you of green Faerie; with us,
peri
calls always to
peri.
I don’t need a formal Gate. All I need do to find a way home is . . . listen.”

“You miss that home very much, don’t you?”

Moonflame hesitated. “I didn’t want to bother you with it, not with your friend’s death so fresh in your mind, but . . . I’m sorry, yes. This land of yours is very beautiful but it could never be mine. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy seeing my daughter’s son in his rightful place on the throne. And it also doesn’t mean I can’t come calling on said grandson from time to time. If he’ll allow it.”

Hauberin had to smile. “Oh, of course. You’ll always be welcome.”

“Then,” Moonflame said, smiling as well and bowing his most intricate and formal bow, “I shall not say goodbye, only farewell for now.”

###

“Hauberin?”

The prince started, looking up from the scroll on which he’d been trying without success to concentrate. “Matilde.”

She was dressed in a gown of Faerie design dyed black in human mourning style; her hair was at last free of those restrictive braids, streaming gloriously down her back, but its brightness was covered by a black silk scarf. Her face was drawn with grief, her eyes shadowed. And, Hauberin thought with a stab of pain, she had never looked so beautiful.

“They told me you were out here on your terrace,” she said, “and that I was free to enter.”

“Yes. Matilde . . . how are you managing?”

“I don’t know yet. Too much has happened too swiftly. The moment I set foot on Erele—on my—my father’s lands, I realized I’d found my own heartland, the place where I
belong.
And that was wonderful. But at the same time . . .” Matilde turned away, staring out over the fertile green fields to the mountains beyond. “I can’t truly mourn my father; I never had a chance to know him. But Gilbert . . . I never really loved him, I won’t lie about that now. But he—he was a good man, he didn’t deserve to die like that, alone, unshriven . . .”

“The Powers won’t mind.”

She glanced at him. “Your people don’t have any churches, do they?”

He waved a hand at the beauty before them. “When we have that? Why insult the Powers with something artificial?”

“But I . . . ah . . . never hear anyone call on Holy Names.”

“By now you should know we never toy with Names of Power. That doesn’t mean we don’t have our own forms of worship. But you didn’t come here to discuss religion.”

“No. I . . . it’s . . . oh, Hauberin, I’m so sorry about Alliar.”

“Yes. I know.”

“I—I wish there was something sensible I could say.” She hesitated. “At least now—”

“If you’re going to say, ‘Now Alliar’s free,’ please don’t.”

“But—”

“If I knew for certain Li was free and happy, believe me, I would rejoice. But I
don’t
know!” Hauberin turned savagely to her. “Because of that thrice-damned sorcerer thrice-damned spell, a violent death such as Alliar faced might not have meant freedom, but total obliteration! And I . . . I’m sorry,” he added, seeing her horror, “I didn’t mean to put that weight on you.” Hauberin breathed deeply, trying to regain control. “Matilde,” he said softly, “I’m afraid I have something else to tell you. I’ll be blunt: the Gate back to your Realm is closed. Forever.” The prince hesitated, hunting in vain for comforting words. “Moonflame couldn’t take you back with him; since you haven’t a drop
of peri
blood, he assured me the transition would be fatal. I . . . forgive me. I can’t return you to your native land.”

But she didn’t even flinch. “Weren’t you listening to me?” Matilde asked gently. “I don’t want to go back there; I don’t belong there anymore. Hauberin, my land is here.”

###

The slow days passed. Hauberin, to all outward seeming, took up his fife once more, sitting in court, settling what needed to be settled. Matilde, formally ceded the late Lord of Llyrh’s lands and title after one of those sessions, was, he knew, settling into Faerie with wary joy, chattering with Aydris as though they were sisters of one birth and charming his people, learning the forms and strengths of her Power, even working her first careful healing spells under Lady Kerlein’s haughty supervision. With all three possible rivals for the throne dead, the land and court were at peace.

But, alone in his chambers, Hauberin, unable to find relief in tears for all his bitter loneliness, mourned for his lost friend as for a brother.

A sudden voice asked, “Hauberin?”

The prince looked up, startled at this invasion of privacy. And then he was flattening himself against the far wall without realized he’d moved, staring out at this—this apparition, this seeming of—Oh, Powers, no, it was impossible. Panic-stricken, Hauberin rummaged through his memory for a spell of banishment, sure his mind had finally given way and—

“Oh Winds,” the apparition said, and darted forward to catch him firmly by the arm. “Now, does
that
feel like a ghost?”

The hand was cool but undeniably solid. “Alliar . . . ?”

“No, you are not hallucinating, and yes, I really am here. Come, sit before you fall.”

“But you—I saw you—”

“I . . . think I really did . . . die,” the being said hesitantly. “I know the Other did.”

“Of course it died; it was still mortal when it fell. Never mind that now. What happened to you?”

“I’m not sure. I remember falling, and then . . .” Alliar shrugged helplessly. “It’s the first time I actually lost consciousness. Now
that,
you know, is a truly bizarre sensation. I don’t see how you flesh-and-blood folk stand it every night.”

Hauberin groaned. “Now I
know
it’s you. Alliar, please,
what happened?”

“Death or whatever it was apparently shattered the sorcerer’s spell. The next thing I knew, I was free of solidity, whirling up into the sky. And oh, it was glorious for a time . . .”

“But you returned.”

“Ah. Well. You see, I’ve been tangible too long. I’ve learned too much of flesh-and-blood emotions, and . . . Ah, I never was able to put this into easy words. Hauberin, wind spirits, true wind spirits, have no sense of
I
, no real understanding of the concept. They’re totally boundless, incorporeal in a way you’d find terrifying. But as
Alliar,
as
myself,
I’ve gained too true a personality. After a time I found myself longing for a body. And that was when I discovered Ysilar’s spell wasn’t quite broken after all. Just as he’d done to me, I used it to build myself a body out of motes of light and matter.”

“Alliar . . .”

“Winds, don’t feel sorry for me! You’re missing my point: this time I wasn’t forced to do anything. I freely
chose
to be Alliar again. And now that it’s totally my choice, I realize that I
like
being Alliar. I suppose,” the being added smugly, “that means you’re stuck with me.”

There had been too many shocks in too short a span. Overwhelmed, Hauberin let out a joyous whoop of a laugh and threw himself into his friend’s embrace. There, to his mortification, he felt the long-postponed tears finally starting. Alliar said nothing, only held him patiently, pretending not to notice, till the prince had recovered.

“Sit,” the being commanded. “The wine’s still kept in this cabinet? Ah, yes.”

Alliar filled two goblets and handed Hauberin one. They hesitated, then clinked goblets in the human style, sipped, and burst into laughter.

“Now,” said the being like a good gossip once they had settled back into comfortable quiet, “what about you and Matilde? Is there anything between you two?”

Hauberin, about to deny it, stopped short, realizing with a shock that Matilde had completed her human rites of mourning some time back. She was quite honorably single by anyone’s standards. And since he was now officially three-quarters of Faerie and she—that bright, brave, lovely lady—was at least as much Faerie as human . . .

“Why, there may be,” the prince told his friend, “there just may be at that,” and smiled.