II
BROODINGS
Alone, Alliar stood upon a narrow balcony of the royal palace, wrapped in night and silence. The hour, the being guessed (though time meant little to a spirit) was very late, closer to morning than night, and very dark. The moon had long since set, the last of the festive torches had been extinguished with the prince’s retiring, and save for a few reluctant stragglers whispering or cuddling together, the darkness no barrier to night-keen Faerie senses, the exhausted royal court slept.
Alliar never slept, not as the flesh-and-blood folk understood such things. And though normally the being hardly felt the lack, this once a spate of peaceful mindlessness would have been very welcome. Despairing, Alliar looked out at the cool, black velvet sky, unaware of the chill, tormented by the touch of the first sweet breezes of morning.
Was I ever part of that? Was I ever . . . What? There were no words for what had been; the winds needed no words. After a moment, Alliar continued the thought awkwardly, Was I ever not-self? Not this narrow thing, this “body,” this stupid, solid “I”? Was I ever . . . free?
The courtiers would have stared to see this. They all considered the wind spirit little more than a pet, a clever oddity that came and went as it would, all too conscious of the thoughts they never quite voiced aloud: How pretty it is, how intelligent it seems, what a shame it can never be our equal.
Your equal. Alliar remembered storms as mighty as the birth of rage, as primal as Beginning, remembered skies bright and sharp with fire, remembered sweeping down the length of freedom, part of it as no finite little flesh-and-bloodling could ever be, one with the fury, one with the glory—As though I would ever want to shrink to being merely your equal.
Finite. Alliar glanced down at the solid, undeniably tangible body, the possibly forever-binding shape that imprisoned spirit, and shuddered.
(That one devastating moment when the trap had first closed fast . . .)
The being groaned, trying in vain to block the surge of memory.
(The sorcerer had dragged his captive down from infinity, forcing shape and a single, lonely identity on it, heedless of that captive’s fierce, bewildered terror. Ae, ae, the storm of sensation: sight and sound distorted, shrunken, wrong, the alien new senses of scent and touch, the unbearable horror of being so suddenly bereft and alone, alone . . .)
Had Alliar a fragile mortal mind, the spirit would surely have gone hopelessly insane then and there. But the sorcerer, the one who named himself Ysilar, had wrought his spell far too well. The new slave had survived. Endured. Served. Learned new lessons in fear and pain and shame—
No! I will not remember!
But Hauberin was also a part of that past. Alliar smiled faintly. At least this one memory could be cherished: the young prince, then little more than a boy, so small, so defiant and brave at their first meeting . . .
###
Ysilar, raging, had dragged his magic-stunned slave down here to the deepest cellar in the castle. Even as Alliar groggily roused, it was to the feeling of the sorcerer fastening a chain around one slim golden ankle.
“What—No, master, please! You can’t leave me down here!”
But Ysilar was already gone, and Alliar was alone, shut away from the sky amid dark, dead stone . . .
There was a time of screaming. There was a time of sheer, mindless, claustrophobic terror. But at last, through sheer exhaustion, the being lost the first sharp edge of fear. If one huddled as tightly together as one could, and kept one’s absurdly limited eyes shut, this terrible dark confinement was almost bearable.
Almost. Though Alliar knew with the last shreds of sanity that there was open space, that the cellar wasn’t that narrow, the terrible cold weight of the castle still seemed to press down and in till it seemed this frail body would be crushed.
What if it is? Flesh-and-blood folk do something called dying when their bodies are destroyed. Maybe since I am tangible now, I would die, too, and be free.
Free? Down here? Trapped forever in close, cruel darkness? The being huddled in a tighter ball and rocked miserably back and forth.
There was a rustle, a scratching. There was a muffled yelp, and something warm and heavy fell over the being. Alliar quickly uncurled, staring, unhindered by darkness, at the dirty, disheveled form of . . . a man? No, not quite a man; he felt too much of flesh-and-blood youth. A boy, then. One of the Faerie kind, like the sorcerer? He seemed small for that, too dark of hair and eyes and filthy, mud-stained face, though the proper feel of Power hung about him.
The boy scrambled to his feet, straightening clothing and the knife at his belt, staring right back. “Who are you?” he asked in a fierce whisper. ‘His enemy?”
The jerk of the boy’s head indicated the upper chambers and the sorcerer. The being gave the ghost of a laugh. “His slave.”
To Alliar’s surprise, the boy frowned and crouched down again, a small hand gentle on the being’s naked shoulder. “No . . . Not just a slave.” The earnest dark eyes stared anew, full of true Faerie sight. Suddenly the boy sat back on his heels in surprise. “A spirit, a wind spirit! And he d-dares do this to you?”
“The body, you mean? Or this?” Alliar’s sweep of arm took in the cellar. “He dared. I . . . bit him.”
The boy fought down a frantic giggle. “You did what?”
Alliar was astonished to feel a grin forming in response. “I was scared. And angry. There wasn’t anything else I could do; the spell on me keeps me from truly harming him. It was almost worth . . . this to see the look on his face.”
The boy hastily buried his face in his hands to muffle laughter. “I—I suppose it was!” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Look you, there’s only the one shackle holding you. There’s a hole in the cellar floor, back there in the corner, where the mortar wore out and some stones fell away; that’s how I got in. I think I can get you loose. If I do, can you dissolve and escape through—”
“No. I cannot lose this solid shape.” Alliar gave it a savage slap. “Nor can I leave this castle while my . . . master lives.”
“Oh. Well. That sh-should work out all right. Because I’ve come here to kill him.”
“But—you can’t—He’ll—” Alliar took a deep breath, amazed at this sudden urge to protect a flesh-and-bloodling. But . . . what the boy had shown was called kindness, the being knew that from the pleading of the sorcerer’s poor victims. Kindness. “Boy, whoever, whatever you are, you’re safe enough down here for the moment. There’s no one else in the castle, only you and I and . . . him—”
“I know. He doesn’t trust anybody.”
“—so get out of here now, before he comes down to investigate.”
“No.” The boy straightened proudly, suddenly looking far older than his slight years. “I am Hauberin, son of the ruler of this land and your—your master, Ysilar, is his foe. Ysilar is a cruel, callous man, and I . . . don’t guess he’s really sane anymore, He’s guilty of murder and—worse things, several times over.” The young prince stopped, flustered. “But you would already know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
Alliar winced. “Yes.”
“My father has placed him under sentence of death for his crimes but, so far, he hasn’t been able to carry out the sentence.”
“Why not?”
Hauberin sighed. “Though Ysilar doesn’t dare leave his castle, it’s so well-Shielded that up till now no one has been able to get past the Wards. And any magics strong enough to break the Shielding from afar would destroy the land around as well. But I . . .” The boy hesitated, then continued defiantly, “I am half-human. Do you know what ‘human’ means?”
“Yes.” Ysilar had used one or two of the poor, lost, magickless creatures in his studies. “Ahh, of course. The Wards were set strictly against Faerie blood. They wouldn’t have sensed someone partly human.”
The prince nodded. “I got past them without any trouble.” He added in a bitter undertone, “First time I’ve ever been glad of human blood.”
“You are unhappy with your shaping, too?” the confused being asked.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean—Look you, we can’t stay down here talking like this. Ysilar is sure to find us. But if we can find him first . . . If I free you, wind spirit—”
“Alliar. The sorcerer tried to put a name of his own devising on me soon after Binding me. But I secretly chose my own.”
The young prince dipped his head politely. “Alliar, then. I free you, will you guide me to him?”
“I . . . no . . .”
“I’m not asking you to raise a hand against him. Just guide me. Come, hurry, decide! If you don’t want to help me, I promise I’ll free you anyhow. Then I’ll go find Ysilar on my own.”
And almost certainly get himself slain in one of the sorcerer’s traps, and put an end to kindness. If I go with him, Alliar mused, maybe I can save this bright, brave young thine. Somehow. “Yes,” the spirit said reluctantly. “Remove this shackle and I will guide you.”
It took some time for Hauberin to unlock the chain, murmuring wary Words, their Power muted so he wouldn’t alert Ysilar. But at last the shackle yielded and Alliar scrambled up, headed for the stairway down which Ysilar had dragged his slave.
They met the sorcerer halfway up.
Ysilar, tall and lean, long hair silvery-fair, ice-gray eyes wide and flat and mad, had presumably been descending the winding stair to see if his slave had learned proper submission. All three stood frozen for what seemed an endless time. Then the sorcerer smiled.
“You. Slave. Come here.”
Sick with fear, Alliar looked into Ysilar’s terrible eyes and trembled, remembering all the length of captivity, all the cruelty witnessed and, perforce, performed. And all at once it was quite beyond bearing. “No,” the being said in desperate defiance. “No. This time I will not.”
But the spirit felt the sorcerer draw in magic and knew the target—
The boy! He’ll kill the boy!
With all the speed the imposed body knew, Alliar threw Hauberin aside onto a landing, then hurtled up at Ysilar, bowling the astonished sorcerer off his feet. But then Alliar hesitated, ready to howl in frustration, helpless to do anything to harm him. The furious Ysilar backhanded his slave across the face, sending Alliar tumbling. Sorcery struck, white-hot, merciless as the rest of Ysilar’s punishments, and the being screamed and screamed again, struggling futilely to escape.
“Stop it.” That was Hauberin’s voice, and even through the pain, Alliar had to wonder at how regal it sounded.
And, miraculously, the pain did stop. Shaking with relief, the being tried to rush to the boy’s side, but a magic-stunned body refused to move.
“Who are you, boy?” Ysilar was amused. “You have the feel of magic to you, but the look of a mongrel.”
That must have stung, but the boy answered proudly, “You should know me, traitor. I am Hauberin, son of Prince Laherin, your rightful liege lord.”
Alliar managed to work the weary body up onto one elbow, in time to see the humor fade from Ysilar’s face. Not even a Faerie child could have sensed the subtle tremor of air that meant the gathering of death-magic by a master. But the wind spirit knew, the wind spirit shouted out a frantic “Look out!” to Hauberin.
Ysilar was prepared for spells—not a quickly thrown knife. Silver flashing, Hauberin’s blade took the sorcerer full in the throat.
Choking, wild-eyed, already dead, Ysilar clawed frantically at the hilt of the knife (a distracted part of Alliar’s mind noted that Faerie blood, like that within the imposed body, was quite red), then crumpled. The being twisted aside in a spasm of disgust to let the body tumble past, then scrambled up to stand beside Hauberin, staring back at the corpse in disbelief.
“Come on.” the boy pulled at Alliar’s arm. “It’s all right, he—he’s dead. Alliar, come on!”
Only then did the being realize that the castle was shaking violently around them. “His spells are falling apart!’
“Can you walk?”
Alliar ached in every muscle, and longed for nothing so much as to let this ridiculous trap of a body rest. But if rest meant being buried alive—“Walk?” the being retorted with a flash of humor. “I can run!”
###
Alliar, out on the palace balcony in the present, smiled. Run they had, narrowly escaping as the last of the castle settled with spectacular noise into so much broken stone behind them. Only then, once he was sure they were safe and it was really over, had the young prince, white-faced with shock and the realization of what he had done, stopped to be thoroughly sick.
“Ah, Hauberin.” It was a whisper of pure affection.
Of course Alliar had returned to the royal palace with Hauberin—where else was there to go?—and heard the young prince punished and praised for his rash, heroic actions. The being had defended Hauberin hotly, and earned the amused approval of the boy’s tall, golden father, Prince Laherin.
But then had come bitter, bitter disappointment. The court sages all studied Alliar and came to the same regretful conclusion: insane Ysilar had worked a binding spell on the spirit so foreign it could not be broken. For a dark while after that, Alliar had wanted only death, not caring that suicide for a bound spirit would probably mean extinction.
But Hauberin had pierced the darkness. “Look you, I know I can’t even begin to understand what you’ve lost. And the Powers know you’ve been given no reason so far to live. But . . . oh, Alliar, there are such wonderful things to flesh-and-blood life, and you don’t know any of them.”
“I don’t care to—”
“Don’t interrupt! I saved your life, I’m responsible for it, and—d-dammit, I’m not going to let you go till you’ve learned to enjoy it!”
And the boy had won. There had been small time for despair amid the shining new wonders of taste and touch and smell. Alliar smiled, remembering lying in sweet-scented grass, listening to birdsong, feeling the living earth beneath. And swimming—ha, what a lovely, alien pleasure that had been, moving easily through water cool and clear as air. There had been the bliss of music, too, and song, and oh, the joy of realizing all magic didn’t have to have a tang of pain to it. Most wondrous of all, there had been laughter.
Hauberin, Hauberin, I owe you a debt I can never repay.
No. “Debt” was a cold, hard word. It wasn’t obligation keeping Alliar here, but love. Not, of course, anything like that pleasure gendered folk seemed to take in each other’s flesh; there were some things even a tangible spirit could never understand, physically or emotionally. But this love of friend and friend Alliar did know, and it was a wonderful thing, refreshing as . . . swooping down summer skies, comforting as . . . as . . . Ae, useless. There were no wind spirit equivalents for it. Except—joy.
The being stared out into the directionless brightening that meant the coming of dawn in sunless Faerie, and smiled.
###
Charailis stretched languorously, a sleek figure in soft, silky blue, unbound hair rippling down her back in a fall of pale silver. The hour was very late, and she was truly weary after the festivities at the royal palace and the journey in her carriage drawn by matched winged steeds back to her own estate. But Charailis stood at the window of her elegant white bedchamber, too lost in thought for sleep.
What an odd night this had been. Particularly in regard to Hauberin. Charailis, bored with courtly matters, had involved herself for some time with personal magics, personal affairs. But she really had been away from court too long if that unprepossessing boy had had time enough to grow into manhood.
Charailis laughed softly. Who would ever have expected the little mixed-blood creature to become anything of worth, let alone a ruler who had actually held the throne safe for six years? She had underestimated the young one, no doubt of that. So blatant an attempt at seduction would only have amused a subtle Faerie man. But she had been so sure the prince’s human blood would overwhelm him!
Fool, the woman told herself without heat. Were he that weak, he wouldn’t have held the throne for a day.
Charailis smiled sleepily. More experiments were definitely in order, not merely because on a purely sensual level she was wondering if Hauberin’s so exotic coloring meant an exotic taste in lovemaking as well. Sexual magic was a powerful force when properly controlled; bind Hauberin to her, mind and body, and who knew where it might lead? Of course, Serein would still need to be removed, and Ereledan (that hulking boor who couldn’t even control his own will). But they were both fools; they shouldn’t pose any real problems. Particularly once Hauberin was hers.
Charailis raised a graceful hand to her head, indulging herself in a moment’s fantasy, imagining a crown there. Naturally, once fantasy became fact, she wouldn’t need Hauberin anymore. But with one of the true Faerie blood on the throne, who would miss one little half-human?
Looking out into the coming dawn, Charailis smiled again.
###
Ereledan hadn’t any intention of rushing off to his home this night. If Hauberin was urbane or foolish enough to offer hospitality to those guests who wanted it, so be it. For one thing, unlike that icy, so-proper Charailis, Ereledan had no pretty little team of winged steeds to whisk him away. For another, after that near-disastrous duel (he didn’t want to think of that too closely), leaving now would have looked like panicky or, worse, guilty flight.
Besides, what better chance, when the nobility was gathered here from all over the land, to do some delicate prying? To see how many folk were discontent and just how many might consider a chance of leadership?
But there’d been nothing but frustration! Even before the duel had spoiled everything, Ereledan still had uncovered no secret plots, no festering hate, nothing on which to build. Though, admittedly, there was a certain simple-minded thrill in meeting here, illicitly, within the walls of the palace, with these his fellow conspirators.
They were his distant kinsmen, actually, related to him in such convoluted Faerie ways that even Ereledan wasn’t sure exactly how. At least, he thought with a touch of wry humor, if he was surprised by Hauberin’s guards despite the faint Warding he’d put on the room, he could always claim this was nothing more than a small family reunion.
The Powers knew these . . . conspirators weren’t good for much else. Ereledan glared at the six of them and thought, What a lifeless lot! None had inherited the main stock’s flaming red hair or solid build. They were downright trite, alike in slender height and golden hair and that carefully developed air of world-weariness. As Ereledan paced, they sprawled at their languid ease, watching him from half-lidded, amused eyes.
As though they expect me to entertain them, damn them!
Of course. They were almost surely here out of boredom, not any true hatred for the prince; long Faerie lives led to mischief in those without any depth of mind. However, Ereledan told himself, one worked with the tools at hand.
“You know why we’re here,” he began, and languid Astyal murmured: “Because you have dreams of glory.”
“Because we’ve been ruled by a mongrel too long!” Ereledan snapped. “Because it’s time to put someone of the true blood on the throne.”
“Your blood?” mused slender Sharial. “It seems to me I remember your grandsire’s deposing some time back. Mm, yes, and the elimination or most of your branch of the family.” A cold light flickered in his eyes. “It wasn’t a comfortable time for the rest of us.”
“What of it? The past is dead, and we—”
“Must live in the present,” Astyal finished with a yawn. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard all the platitudes before. We know what you want, Ereledan. Tell us why we should support you.”
Ereledan opened his mouth, shut it, realizing to his horror that suddenly he couldn’t think. Without warning, all his carefully planned reasons had vanished, and what thoughts he had were fluttering frantically about in his mind. Ae, Powers, he must say something, anything: “Hauberin has seemed to rule well so far.”
“Well, indeed. The land prospers.”
“Yes, but . . .” But what? Desperate, Ereledan forced out, “But that won’t last, it can’t. We all know what humans are like: flighty, animal, easy to control—”
“Like you?” Sharial murmured maliciously.
“No! How dare you—”
“We saw that duel, that ridiculous outright attack. What happened, kinsman? Were you controlled?”
“No! That’s impossible, I—”
“Then you simply lost control. While the prince, that ‘flighty animal,’ did not.”
“It was a fluke, an accident.”
“An accident that just might happen again.”
“It won’t—I won’t—wait!”
But his kinsmen were getting smoothly to their feet. Astyal gave him a flat, polite smile. “We, too, would prefer one of true Faerie blood on the throne. But so far, save for his . . . unfortunate taint, we have no reason to quarrel with the prince. Perhaps he will, indeed, reveal a weaker nature someday. Till then: Your branch of the family once nearly destroyed us all. Why should we endanger ourselves for you now?”
By the time Ereledan could find an answer, he was alone. And, for the first time in he knew not how long, afraid.
What was happening? In all his long life, he’d never been so confused! Arranging for this ridiculous meeting, then forgetting what he’d wanted to say—Powers! It had almost felt as though someone else had rummaged through his mind, then discarded him.
But that’s impossible! No one has such magic!
Despairing, Ereledan sank to a chair, head in hands.
###
The slave had fallen asleep long ago (or was feigning sleep), her long green hair fanned out across the pillows. But Serein remained awake, staring blankly up at the smooth golden ceiling of his bedchamber, fear a cold weight within him.
Ae, ae, what was wrong with him? When Hauberin had accused him of attempted assassination, he had smiled and denied everything, and prayed he had sounded convincing—because he couldn’t remember a thing!
It hadn’t been the first time. These frightening moments of blankness, these empty gray patches in his memory—could it be Hauberin’s plot? Was that little animal working some bizarre revenge? No. Cousin Hauberin was far too moral, too human, for that, damn him.
I’ll have his throne, and him as my pet. But the familiar litany failed to soothe. He had made this vow often enough, yet somehow had never seemed to do anything about it. This time it will be different. When my plan begins to work . . .
If the emptiness allowed it.
All at once Serein found himself remembering Ysilar, the long-dead sorcerer brooding over his envy and empty plots till at last his sanity fled. Maybe he, too, had begun by losing memory—
No! I’m not like him!
The room was freezing. Shivering, Serein glanced at the slave, aching for her to wake, to hold him in her arms and let him be a child again (but childhood had been a cold, sharp time, no weaknesses permitted), to let down his guard and for once be sheltered, safe . . .
But the slave continued to sleep, face turned from him. Suddenly furious that she was so peaceful while he suffered alone, Serein shouted at her: “Wake up!”
She started, blinking in confusion. “Wh-What . . . ?”
“Wake up, you lazy bitch!”
The slave stifled a scream as he slapped her, and tried to squirm away. Serein caught one slender arm and pulled her roughly back.
“Go ahead,” he gasped. “Fight me. Fight me!” His last bedmate had fought splendidly, savagely. Serein’s lips peeled back in a fierce smile as he remembered. How the creature had hated him, right up to the night when she had actually tried to kill him! Of course he had destroyed her, but with sincere regret. But this timid little thing—“Fight me!” he ordered, slapping her again. “Come on, fight!”
But the slave went limply submissive instead, whimpering, mossy-green eyes dark with pleading. Her meekness enraged him, aroused him, and suddenly he threw himself on her, forcing her thin legs apart, taking her savagely, frantic with the need to prove himself alive and real and in control.
At last, exhausted, he rolled aside, drenched with perspiration. The slave’s muffled sobbing annoyed him, and Serein snapped, not looking at her, “Go on, get out of here.” He reached out blindly to give her a rough shove. “Go on! Get out!” Still sobbing, she scrambled up and out.
Serein hardly noticed. Terror as sharp within him as ever, he lay amid the crumpled bedclothes and stared bleakly into space.