I
CEREMONIES AND CONFRONTATIONS
The hall was vast and airy, full of the clear, sunless light of Faerie and shaped by craft and illusion to seem a widely spaced forest of slender white trees that looked far too fragile to support the high, arched roof.
For all its size, the hall was also crowded. Males and females and those less easily classified thronged on either side of the wide central aisle, a sleek, sophisticated lot in finely draped gowns or tunics or wisps of mist, the colors soft as spring green, sharp as moonlight. Most there were tall and slender, their faces narrow, keen, elegantly planed, their eyes gray or smoky green, glinting with wit, magic, cruelty. Long, straight, shining hair gleamed with all the shades of gold (though here and there lurked some whose hair was green or softest blue, whose brows bore horns or backs bore wings).
None of them were human.
Ereledan, Lord of Llyrh, glanced sharply at his neighbors, his powerful form bold in a dozen fiery shades that quelled their pastels, magnificent red hair swirling like name about his strong face as he turned from side to side. “Well?” His whisper was hardly soft. “What are we waiting for?”
Those on either side subtly shifted away, careful not to rouse his notorious temper. Ereledan was a risky person to befriend, the last link to a long-ago deposed royal line.
Across the hall from the Lord of Llyrh, Charailis watched him and tightened her lips in distaste. Ereledan, you boor. The lady was all tall, slender coolness in subtle blue, hair a fall of moon-touched silver, eyes those of a quiet predator. She was also, much to her satisfaction and Ereledan’s discomfort, of higher status than he, bound by tenuous but true blood ties to the current royal line.
But Ereledan’s impatience had infected the crowd. Throughout all that ageless, glittering company the whispers flew:
“Will he come?”
“Dare he not?”
“Dare he offer open insult to our prince?”
Their prince was wondering the same thing. Hauberin, ruler of this one land among many in the convoluted Faerie Realm, was young, even as human folk counted years, his unfashionable back hair worn defiantly long, somber against the bright silver of the intricate royal crown, his unfashionable lack of height hidden beneath the folds of the robes of state, smooth as sheets of molten silver pouring down the sides of the dais. Straight-backed, regally enthroned and seemingly composed, the prince was well aware of that one blatantly empty space amid the crowd, and he was nursing a delicate name of anger within him.
Serein, cousin, don’t presume on kinship too much!
Of Faerie though this land undeniably was, its independent-minded folk held to fewer rituals than their tradition-bound neighbors. But some ceremonies couldn’t be ignored. This was the Second Triad, the sixth anniversary of Hauberin’s crowning—much as Serein might hate the fact. And, much as the man might hate it, Hauberin was his liege lord. He must do the prince at least token homage this day.
And if he doesn’t? asked a dry little voice at the back of Hauberin’s mind. What then?
What, indeed?
Alliar, a sleek golden figure perched on the lower steps of the dais, twisted bonelessly about to look up at him, saying in tactfully silent mind-voice, “You can’t wait much longer.”
Hauberin glanced down at his supple, beautiful, totally genderless friend. Alliar had never been born of flesh and blood; the being was a wind spirit bound by sorcery into tangible form years back.
“I don’t intend to wait.” The prince looked about in feigned indifference, sensing the swirlings of emotion from his subjects; some malice, some sympathy, mostly wild curiosity and a certain subtle delight at his discomfort: He, the half-blood prince. The part-human.
The prince smiled faintly. When one grows up surrounded by sly taunts, one learns to ignore them. Or at least pretend to ignore them. He let his glance rest, as though by accident, on Ereledan and Charailis, and his smile thinned. Ambitious, those two.
How fortunate they dislike each other even more than they hate me, the prince thought wryly. But how they would love to see me make some humiliating mistake!
He wasn’t about to gratify them—or Serein, either. The ceremonies would start now, and to the Outer Dark with his cousin.
Oh, but look: Here, with a nice sense of timing, came said cousin after all, swirlings of busy whisperings in his wake as he strode smoothly forward. As always Hauberin felt the smallest pang of envy, fiercely suppressed, at this reminder of how a proper prince of the realm should look. Serein was tall and glittering in coppery robes just a fraction less regal than those of his prince, his flowing golden hair bound back by a copper circlet just a fraction less intricate than the silver royal crown. Pride and insolence shown in every line of that elegant figure, and a sourly amused Hauberin thought that surely the man had changed very little from the naughty boy he had been.
But then Serein stepped clear of the crowd. His metallic cloak trailed out behind him, heavy and long enough to warrant a page to keep it from sweeping the floor. And that page was undeniably human.
The fact wasn’t extraordinary in itself; there were changelings enough throughout the lands of Faerie, and most of them—since even human children were cherished by a notably infertile race—were treated with more grace than they would have known in mortal lands. But this boy, obedient to Serein’s every move, was so plainly terrified of his master that many of the whisperings grew sharp with disapproval.
The boy was small for his age. And slight. And dark. The whispers died one by one as he passed, and Hauberin, stunned by sudden fury, felt the weight of countless startled eyes on him. On their prince who was so lacking in height. On Hauberin of the unfashionable black hair and eyes and olive-dark skin. Hauberin, who looked most not like his regal golden father, but like his small, dark, very human mother.
No one there could miss the similarity. Or the insult. Hauberin heard Alliar’s soft hiss of anger, and drew in his own breath for a shout of sheer rage—
No. Oh, no. That was surely just what Serein wanted. Hauberin clenched his teeth, struggling to keep his face impassive, remembering all the boyhood years of being the butt of Serein’s sly, subtle, never-quite-treasonous jests, of never quite knowing how to defend himself against his older, glamorous, ambitious cousin. If he lost control now, Serein would become, as always, most innocently, most ingratiatingly humble, leaving his prince looking like a fool—worse, like a half-human ranting in totally human rage.
So Hauberin merely . . . smiled. “Welcome, cousin.” For all that he ached to shrivel Serein with one well-worded spell, and the rules of law be damned, the prince kept his voice smooth and bland and level. “You come late to our court. So late that we wondered, foolish thought, if you had some reason to fear us.”
He caught a flicker of unease, of anger, in the beautiful sea-green eyes. But Serein quickly broke the contact before Hauberin could read any deeper, sweeping down into an overly respectful bow.
“Fear you, dear cousin? Why, no. Never.” His smile was as fixed as Hauberin’s own. “For are you not known as a most . . . merciful and . . . gentle prince?”
The faint, deliberate hesitations were an insult in themselves, implying not mercy, but weakness. Hauberin refused to be baited. “How sweetly spoken.” In sudden inspiration, he added, “And how kind of you to bring me so amusing a gift.”
Ha, that surprised Serein! “A . . . gift, cousin?”
“The boy, of course. The little human. He is a gift, is he not?”
He most certainly was not, and they both knew it. But Serein, sensing his mockery going awry, covered quickly with, “Why, what else could he be?”
“How you jest, cousin.” Hauberin raised his head slightly, a prince inviting his court to join in a mild pleasantry. “And isn’t it charmingly rare for one among us to be given a chance to see himself returned, as it were, to childhood?”
There was a puzzled murmuring from the court, half of them confused over their prince’s motives, half more concerned with trying to remember back over the uncounted years to their own nigh-forgotten childhoods. Hauberin laughed silently. Good! Let them stay confused.
“Lady Aydris,” he called.
The young woman, warmly curved and pretty, if somewhat plumper than that slender race’s fashion dictated, came forward from the front edge of the crowd, giving her prince a cheerful curtsey and a smile; she and Hauberin, both young, both outside the fashionable norm, shared an amiable friendship and, on occasion, a bed. “My prince?”
“Kindly take this boy—Ah, his name, cousin?”
Serein’s eyes were smoldering. “I fear you must learn that for yourself, Cousin. I’ve not had the boy long enough for him to have learned our tongue.”
“A pity. Lady,” Hauberin said formally to Aydris, “do you take the boy under your care.”
Aydris, who had been studying the boy with a motherly eye, gave him an unfeigned smile. “At once, my prince.”
Hauberin turned his attention back to the fuming Serein. “And as for you, cousin, do you take your proper place.”
“Look you, I—”
“Take your place!”
The words were knife-sharp. They were also edged with more than a little compulsion-magic. Caught off-guard, Serein was snared; for all that he fought the spell wrapping itself about his will, it had already taken hold. It would fade again in only a few moments, but for now Serein had no choice. Smiling grimly, Hauberin watched his furious cousin helplessly obey him.
The smile faded. Ae, Serein, what game are you playing? Hauberin wondered. Are you really as foolish as you seem?
In these six years since he had come to reign, Hauberin had been waiting, watching for some open attack from Serein who, being his closest kinsman, was so much more of a threat than Ereledan or Charailis. And yet, for all his cousin’s blatant hate and envy, Serein had never tried anything stronger than this childish mockery.
Hauberin bit back a weary sigh, sick of the subject. Oh, yes, the man was tall and fair and golden, as he, himself would never be. But how could he envy Serein that shallow, petty mind?
Serein had reached his assigned place by now, turning sharply to face the prince again, the heavy, elegant coppery cloak whirling dramatically out behind him.
But, just for an instant, as the last of the brief compulsion-spell slid from him, Serein’s self-control seemed to slip. Just for an instant, his eyes were not those of the malicious, superficial courtier, but harsh as winter ice, the will behind them cold, implacably cold. Stunned by the sudden transformation, chilled to the heart, Hauberin heard without words:
“I will have your death, princeling. One way or another, I will have your death.”
###
“On this first day of the Second Triad of your reign, I accept you, Hauberin, son of Laherin, as Prince of the Realm.”
“Oh this first day of the Second Triad of my reign, I accept you as subject of the Realm.”
As he repeated the ritual words of acknowledgement yet again to yet another courtier in the seemingly endless line waiting to pay their respects, Hauberin fought down an urge to squirm like an impatient child. How many times had he heard the first half of the formula so far? How many times had he replied with his half of it? At least he wasn’t expected to mention everyone by name; by now, he wasn’t sure he could remember anybody’s name.
There had been only one small moment of suspense, right at the start, since Serein, as Hauberin’s direct kinsman, was expected to swear his oath first. But, after a brief, bitter pause, Serein had yielded and sworn, though the words nearly choked him.
The prince bit back a sigh, telling himself he should be thankful neither he nor his people had a true taste for formality. He could remember all too well swearing his own oath before the High King and Queen of Faerie in their magic-glittering court soon after taking the crown. It had been an act more of politic courtesy than anything else, since his was an independent land, but even in that somewhat abridged ceremony, the oath had been couched in the high ceremonial tongue—an elaborate, archaic language in which each change of tone carried at least a dozen meanings—and had occupied a full twenty scrolls.
“On this first day of the Second Triad . . .”
Hauberin came back to himself with a jolt at this new voice. “Don’t worry,” teased Alliar’s familiar mind-voice, “it’s only me.” Amusement glinted in the being’s eyes. “And—rejoice! I’m the last one. Which means your work is done. Now it’s time to play!”
###
By moonrise, the festivities had spilled out from the royal palace down to the level green valley below. Folk whirled about in dance, gleaming, glittering in countless shades of reds, blues, purples, of citron and jacinth and colors known only to Faerie, muted by the light of the full, unstained moon, brightened in flashes by the sparkling flames of silver, blue, and bronze from the festive, frivolous torches set all about (frivolous, since a night-sighted race hardly needed their light). The hems of gowns and cloaks whispered against the long, silky grass, a soft counterpoint to the music of harp and crystalline flute and singers like so many silver birds. Those who chose not to dance sipped wine fragrant as the flowers scenting the warm night air or sharp as the sophisticated wit being exchanged.
Hauberin sat in his chair of state and seemed at ease, and all the while kept his attention on Serein.
But Serein did nothing more alarming than sit in shadow, long legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle, and drink moodily from the silver goblet in his hand. Not a trace of hatred now, not a trace of that icy, savage will: Serein was very much himself again, all sullen innocence.
And how can I make accusations against that?
At last the prince sighed, and signaled proud Kerlaias, captain of his guard, fiercely blue of eye and hair, all loyal, brave, and shining in his Faerie mail. “Keep my cousin under your eye,” Hauberin commanded softly, and put Serein at least partially out of his mind, looking out over the festivities with a more genuine smile.
Beyond the charmed circle of laughter and music lay the quiet, fertile fields and, beyond them, the line of towering mountains, snow-capped, starkly beautiful under the Faerie moon. Hauberin felt a sudden surge of love for them, for his whole beautiful land and the stubborn, quicksilver-humored people on it. Ae-ye, since that stunning night six years past, when he’d awakened quivering with shock, knowing his father was dead, he had tried to be a good, wise, just ruler. Had he succeeded? The court sages were still wary of his youth, his human blood. But the land was at peace and prospering, the people as content as such quarrelsome, magical folk could be.
And, damn you, Serein, neither you nor anyone else is going to take this from me!
Music caught his attention. There were at least three different groups of singers by the sound of them, to say nothing of the music from the royal musicians, all of them on separate melodies that somehow managed to blend into a harmonious whole. The dancing continued in intricate, ever-changing patterns, and just beyond the adults, a group of youngsters had started up their own boisterous round, stumbling a bit on the complicated steps, half-drunk on moonlight and excitement and their own youth.
Hauberin realized with a start that he wasn’t all that much their senior. Ae, let him, for this night at least, be young. He had been able to shed the cumbersome silver robes of state back in the palace. Slim and lithe in wine-dark silk, the prince stepped down from the dais and slipped into one of the dances, laughing lightly with this lady and that till—by chance or design?—he found himself partnering Charailis.
For a time they moved through the steps of the dance in silence, equal in grace for all that Charailis was a good head taller than the prince, on her elegant face a smooth, secret smile.
“And what might you want of me, my lady?” Hauberin asked softly.
“My prince?”
The last swirling chords of the dance had left them—again, by chance or design?—apart from the others, left them standing so close that Hauberin was very much aware of the subtle, not-quite-sweet scent Charailis wore, of the faint woman-scent beneath that. She was beautiful as ever, the clear flood of moonlight seeming by its very coldness to add warmth in contrast to her coolly perfect features, fire to her lovely eyes. Wondering, Hauberin tried to move, whether closer or away, he wasn’t sure, and only then realized that strands of Charailis’ long, pale hair were clinging to him.
Like spider strands. Jarred back to reality, the prince remembered who and what she was: not so far from the direct royal line she couldn’t desire a crown. With a sudden prickle of distaste, he set about gently disentangling himself. “Why, lady! Are you trying to snare me?”
Her eyes glinted in the moonlight. “It pleases you to jest, my prince.”
Hauberin caught the hint of condescension in her voice, and froze. “Come, Charailis, I’m not as naïve as you think me. What do you want of me?”
“The ceremonies moved me. Seeing you so proud and sure of yourself on your Second Triad—we know each other so little, for all that we are kin.”
Kin. She was his grandmother’s sister’s child; long Faerie lives made for complicated genealogies.
“I admit,” Charailis continued quietly, “I am to blame. But then, I was so much the elder, a woman when you were still only a child.” With matter-of-fact Faerie honesty, “I could hardly be expected to care much for a scrawny little boy.” She gave him a sly little sideways glance. “But the past is the past. And you are most certainly no longer a boy. Surely we . . . need not remain so remote.”
For a moment her hand, smooth and cool, rested on his arm, as though by accident. His body responded with a slight shiver, but Hauberin thought, Transparent, lady, transparent, and said nothing.
After a moment, Charailis continued: “And now . . . especially now, with the moon so radiant and the night so warm . . . Look. Do you not see how folk are stealing away in secret pairs?” Again her hand brushed his arm, nails lightly grazing his skin, sending a new shiver through Hauberin despite himself. “Shall we not give each other joy tonight, my prince?”
A flash of purely sensual wondering raced through him. Idiot, Hauberin snapped at himself, you’d be safer bedding a lamia! “No, lady. We shall not.”
For an instant, the startled Charailis was at a loss. “Why so—so cruel? Surely—”
“What’s this?” cut in a sharp, hearty voice. “Cornering our good ruler?”
Hauberin glimpsed bold red robes, a strong-featured, cold face: “My lord Ereledan. Come to see what your rival’s about?”
“I—What?”
“I’ll leave the two of you to debate it.” With a cheerful wave of his hand, Hauberin slipped out from between them as they glared at each other, and made his way back towards the center of music and activity.
“Well now,” an amused voice said in his ear, “I was just about to come in for a rescue.”
Hauberin grinned at the sleek figure so suddenly at his side. “Thank you, Alliar, but I rescued myself.” He gave the being a second, appreciative glance. “Nicely aped, Li.”
His friend returned the grin with a sweeping bow. Bound into tangibility Alliar might be, but the being could at least control something of that enforced body’s shape. Just now, the wind spirit was tall and slender, palest gold of skin and hair and huge, glowing eyes, shrouded in a flowing russet cloak. But then Alliar straightened, murmuring, “I do wish you wouldn’t go wandering off without a guard.”
“What, here? Among my closest subjects? Come now, if I dare not move freely here, I had better surrender the crown.” Hauberin glanced at Alliar. “Or were you referring to the two I just left? No, Li. You should know by now that for all their dark looks and thoughts, they’re no real threat to me. Not yet,” the prince added thoughtfully. “Not while Serein lives to stand between them and any hope of succession.”
“Odd, having to be grateful to . . . that one.”
“Speaking of my dear cousin, what has he been doing?”
“Nothing. Save smiling, and acting disgustingly urbane and apparently unaware of the guard watching him.”
Alliar sighed. “You should thank the Powers that Ereledan and Charailis hate him as much as they hate each other.”
“I do.” Perhaps humans could have formed an alliance based on lies. The Faerie folk, who (save for part-human Hauberin) lacked even the concept of falsehood, could not. “Believe me—but what are all these eager looks?”
“Ach, I nearly forgot. My prince, your presence is most humbly requested to preside over a duel—No, no, nothing serious, just two youngsters trying their strength.”
Hauberin returned to his chair of state, Alliar curled comfortably at his feet, and acknowledged the cheerful salutes of the duelists: youngsters, indeed, blond and lanky, no longer quite children, not yet adults. The amused prince raised a hand for the duel to begin. It was a standard thing of shape-shifting and will against will, magic a natural thing to a folk with Power in the very air they breathed and the blood in their veins. The youngsters used little more energy than if they’d sported with swords as they slipped with reasonable ease from ferret to dog to wolf and wyvern, while their elders made lighthearted wagers.
Aha, what was this? One boy was suddenly cringing from the other, shrinking through dog, cat, mouse . . . A trap, the prince realized. He’s setting a trap.
The other boy didn’t see it. Fanged and furred, he pounced—
On nothing. Before he could turn, the first youngster had materialized behind him without disguise and tackled him, refusing to let him up till the boy yielded and relaxed back into his rightful form. The duelists, laughing and panting, scrambled to their feet and bowed to their prince to the accompaniment of polite applause from the dispersing audience.
“The youngsters are clever,” drawled a voice. “What say you, my prince? Shall we show them how a proper duel is fought?”
Lord Ereledan in all his flamboyant reds, eyes very bright. And what might he be about? Ignoring Alliar’s alarm, Hauberin leaned down to ask sweetly, “To the death, you mean, my lord?”
“By all the Powers, no!” Ereledan’s shock seemed real enough. “I meant nothing more than sport.”
Alliar wasn’t quite accepting that. “Be wary,” came the sharp mental warning, and Hauberin glanced at Serein where the man still lounged, seemingly disinterested but with a sudden tense stillness to him.
“I can’t very well refuse, Li, can I? Keep your own watch on my cousin, yes?”
Hauberin stepped lightly down from the dais to face the Lord of Llyrh, and the scattered audience quickly regrouped. There would be no wagering this time; it would hardly be politic to bet against their prince. But Hauberin couldn’t help wondering how many were looking to him to fail.
As challenger, Ereledan had the first move. The strong form shimmered, changed; where man had stood, a great leopard crouched, fiery orange with spots of red. “Beautiful,” Hauberin acknowledged, but made no move of his own. Ereledan was under no obligation to wait. As the audience gasped, the leopard sprang—
Hauberin wasn’t there. A sleek black hawk slipped easily away, spiraling up and up into the warm night, moonlight spilling from glossy wings, then plunged down again, talons outstretched, hearing the fickle audience gasp again.
But just before impact, black wings braked fiercely, talons folded. Hauberin rapped Ereledan sharply on the head with a fisted claw, then swooped up again, enjoying the crowd’s ripple of laughter.
Ereledan wasn’t amused. With a snarl, the leopard reared up into the form of a blood-red griffin. With a thunder of wings, he was airborne. An astonished Hauberin saw the wild rage blazing in the griffin’s eyes and thought, What’s this? Did you forget this is only sport? Did you mean to forget?
Ae! That fiercely curved beak had nearly caught him! Whatever game Ereledan was playing, it had suddenly gone far beyond sport. The griffin lunged, and Hauberin nastily sideslipped, not quite in time. A powerful red shoulder crashed into him, sending him tumbling. The prince abandoned hawk form, somersaulting in mid-air, landing on his feet with a jolt, unhurt, breathless and furious, craning his head back to find Ereledan. Ah, the fool was diving at him!
The crowd going mad about him, pleading with their prince to move, defend himself, do something, Hauberin stood still, timing the griffin’s plummet. The prince scooped up a handful of dust, murmuring quiet Words, feeling the responsive magic tingling in soil and self, waiting . . . Now!
Hauberin hurled the dust right at Ereledan, then threw himself aside, gasping out the final Word to bring the spell to life. Ereledan went crashing to the ground, sprawled in an ignominious tangle of dust-become-web, helpless as a bird in a fowler’s net.
Ereledan’s furious struggle stopped abruptly as Hauberin approached. Under the crowd’s roars of laughter, the prince asked quietly, “What were you trying to do, my lord? Were you trying to kill me?”
Eyes wild with confusion, Ereledan let the griffin-shape fade. “No! I . . .” The man lay in self-contemptuous submission as the web faded back into dust about him, then propped himself up on one elbow. “My prince, I don’t know what happened. Somehow I . . . lost control.” The admission came bitterly from that proud lord. “Believe me,” he added in a voice savage with repressed rage, “if I had meant to kill you, I’d not have been so clumsy about it.”
“Rise,” Hauberin said shortly. Politic to let the man regain some self-esteem in privacy. “You may leave us.”
Dourly he acknowledged Ereledan’s bow, wondering, Lost control? Experienced Ereledan?
And yet, of course, Ereledan couldn’t lie. Besides, it really had been a clumsy attack, almost as though someone else had tried to control—Nonsense. The Faerie folk just weren’t susceptible to possession.
He was starting to tremble a bit with delayed reaction. Someone was putting a cloak about his shoulders—Alliar, who was handing him a wine-filled crystal goblet. Hauberin sipped gratefully, letting the cool, mellow, golden wine trickle down his stress-parched throat.
But then the prince found himself glancing over the goblet’s rim at Serein. His cousin met his gaze without flinching, smiling. Hardly knowing why he did it, Hauberin strolled over to the man and murmured: “What of you, cousin? Were you trying to kill me?”
For the faintest fraction of time, Hauberin was certain Serein was going to admit it. But all the man said was, “Why cousin, what a question!”
“Answer it.”
“The answer, dear Hauberin, is that while I might not mourn your death for very long, no, my overwrought little cousin, I was not trying to kill you.”
With that, reluctantly, Hauberin had to be content.