IV
“WHO WAS YOUR MOTHER’S FATHER?”
Hauberin, clad in light, supple Faerie mail, astride a sleek white Faerie stallion, glanced back over his shoulder at the grim-faced royal war troop following him. As was to be expected from his independent people, none of them wore anything that could have been interpreted as livery—their armor was covered by cloaks and tunics in a wild range of color, from subtle pastels to flaming yellows and reds—but they had answered his summons quickly enough. The prince wasn’t vain enough to think it had all been for love of him or concern about treason against him; no, they had been as shocked as he by that most horrifying murder.
The troop rode in silence, the only sounds the thrumming of hoofs against the ground, the flapping of a cloak or clink of a sword hilt against mail, or a snort or whicker from a nervously prancing horse. Hauberin ran over in his mind yet again the complex spells of attack and defense he would surely need (so much more difficult than any everyday magic, so much more dangerous to the magician), and tried to shut out his uneasiness.
Uneasiness, ha! Hauberin thought. Downright fear is more like it.
Not fear of Serein, never that. But . . . he had never ridden to battle before. What if something went wrong? What if he misspoke a battle-spell? He had never actually used one, after all. Powers, what if he did misspeak one, and the backlash killed him? He had no heir (save Serein, of course, and no one was going to follow Serein now). There would be civil war, chaos—
Enough of this! As fiercely as any magician mastering a spell, Hauberin forced doubt from his mind.
Just in time. The high white walls of Serein’s estate stood before them. Hauberin raised a hand, bringing his company to a halt, studying the estate. Those smooth white walls were pretty, but even his less-than-battle-trained eyes could tell they would never hold off a determined attack. Yet he didn’t feel the peculiar psychic tingling that meant Serein was placing magical reinforcements on them, either.
Wary, the prince waited, alert to the slightest change in air currents that might signal magic, There was silence, such total silence that when one of the horses shook its head, the chinking of the bridle rang out startlingly loud.
“What is this?” one of the warriors muttered. “Not even a token assault from them? Not even a little spell, or an arrow? Someone’s in there, I can sense them.”
So could Hauberin. And they could hardly not have seen his troop approach. Serein had already declared himself a traitor by his acts; he could hardly have developed scruples now.
For an instant more Hauberin hesitated, nerves tight, then signaled to his herald, who rode boldly forward, her gaudy herald’s robes—deliberately bright to mark her as a noncombatant—fluttering in the wind. Standing in the stirrups, she called out in a voice like a silver trumpet:
“Open, in the name of the prince! Open for Prince Hauberin!”
There was a moment more of silence, during which Hauberin could feel unseen eyes watching him. And then, almost in anticlimax, the gates swung smoothly open. Figures lurked in the shadow of the doorway, lowly servants, most of them the unlikely mixes found in magical lands: human sprite-woods creature hybrids and the like to judge from their greenish hair and rough brownish skin. Hauberin had always known Serein liked to surround himself with ugliness (save in the women he took to bed, of course), to make his golden elegance shine the brighter by contrast, but the sudden impact of so many warped beings couldn’t be anything but startling.
Particularly when he sensed that much of that warping was relatively recent, and quite deliberately wrought.
Ach, Serein, Hauberin thought, remembering mad, cruel Ysilar.
One of the servants, a thin, wiry creature as much animal as man, moved shyly forward, peering up at Hauberin. “It is you!” the being gasped.
With that, as though a wind and stirred them, the servants all sank to their knees. “Spare us, merciful Prince,” they moaned. “We are innocent. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Never mind that,” the prince said shortly. “Where is your master?”
They looked blankly up at him.
“Serein!” Hauberin snapped. “Where is he?”
To his amazement, the creatures all, slowly, began to smile. “Why, fled,” one said in rich pleasure. “Our once and no longer master has fled for his very life.”
“He wanted us to help him in his flight,” a thin, ragged creature continued, its face hidden by a wild, tangled mane of mossy hair. With a sudden frantic motion, it tossed back that hair, and Hauberin realized with a shock that the face revealed was a young woman’s haggard traces of beauty still lingering. “He said we must help. He reminded us that we are nothing, only slaves. His to do with as it pleased him. So it was in the past,” she added bitterly.
“No longer!” cut in the animal-man. “He raved at us, but we—oh, we wouldn’t help him, not that child-tormentor, not that killer of the wee little one.” The creature grinned, revealing sharp white teeth. “He could not torment all of us at once, not when he was in such haste. Follow the trail to the mountains, merciful prince, and you shall find him.”
Stunned by the raw hatred radiating all about him, Hauberin heard his voice come out more harshly than he’d intended. “How? Is he winged? On horseback? Why are you all smiling?”
“He thought us powerless,” they murmured. “And, one and one, we are. But the forest blood is in our veins, however weak. Together, in our deepest need and rage, together we called on it. And this once we were answered. We could not kill him, oh no, he was too clever for that. But when he would escape, we blocked his spells with forest magic, we would not let him take the air. His horse is swift, but horses tire. Follow, merciful prince, follow. Then—kill him, merciful prince!”
The savage despair in that cry made Hauberin wince. “I . . . will do what I must.”
That wasn’t enough for the haggard-faced woman. “Kill him,” she hissed. “Kill him for the sake of that wee little one. Kill him for those of us he raped, those of us he maimed and slew. Kill him.”
And, “Kill him,” the others chanted, all the while Hauberin, not quite trusting these not-quite-sane wild things, had his warriors search the entire estate. “Kill him,” they chanted when, not having found the slightest hint of Serein-in-hiding, the prince and his troop turned their horses towards the mountains. As he urged his mount on, Hauberin, chilled, could still hear that joyous, savage litany, and thanked all the Powers the hate behind it wasn’t aimed at him: “Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.”
###
Whatever primal Power Serein’s slaves had roused, it had done its work well. Serein had tried to erase his trail, but his magic was plainly working only sporadically; Hauberin, extending his senses to their utmost, could track his cousin as surely as hound tracked prey.
The forest thinned with Faerie abruptness, the land all at once becoming rocky and rough. Then suddenly Hauberin and his troop were out of the trees altogether, seeing a great wall of mountain looming up before them.
They found Serein’s horse wandering loose at the mountain’s base, still sweating, its flanks still heaving. Faerie horses had their own strong animal intelligence, and this one, pushed to the point of exhaustion, must have simply refused to move.
“That means the traitor can’t be too far away,” an archer said, fingering his bow uneasily.
Hauberin nodded, craning his head back to look up and up the mountainside. “He didn’t reenter the forest; I would have felt it. He could only have gone up.”
Yes. There amid the crags was a metallic glint—Serein’s armor, or his golden hair.
“Within range,” the archer muttered, fitting arrow to bow.
“No!” Hauberin hastily struck down the man’s arm, then had to wonder at himself. A well-placed arrow would have been such an easy, logical solution. Now it was too late; Serein had heard or sensed them, and was scrambling out of range. As his warriors stared at the prince in bewilderment, all Hauberin could answer was a simple, “He is mine.”
###
Halfway up the mountainside, Hauberin realized what a fool he was. All Serein had to do was drop a rock on him, and his people would be searching for a new ruler.
But Serein didn’t do anything at all, possibly out of the same misguided idea that they should meet (and maybe kill each other) with honor. Or at least suitable drama.
Or maybe he just can’t find a big enough rock.
It was a rough climb, and not getting any easier. Maybe he should have shape-shifted—no. Flight would take just as much effort. More, probably, since he’d have the added weight of mail and sword. Besides, he was gaining. He could hear Serein somewhere just ahead of him, scattering tiny avalanches of pebbles as he hunted for a better place to make a stand. Suddenly inspired, Hauberin left the rugged trail he had been climbing, scrabbling up the bare mountainside instead by fingers, toes, and sheer will, struggling to get ahead of Serein, somewhere off to his right, succeeding by being smaller and lighter than his cousin. Spread-eagled against the mountainside, struggling to catch his breath, the prince glanced back down over his right shoulder, and saw Serein reach a relatively flat, relatively wide ledge.
There isn’t likely to be a better place.
Resisting the urge to yell a melodramatic war-cry, Hauberin pushed oil from the mountainside and sprang down to confront him. The impact left him winded. Fortunately, Serein was just as breathless from his climb. And so it came down to this: not elegant prince and noble, not kinsmen making claims on memory, only two tired warriors on a mountain ledge, clad in dust-stained mail.
For a long time they faced each other in tense, weary silence. Then Hauberin said softly, “It’s over.”
“Not quite.”
“Face facts! You failed. Now you’re cornered and alone.”
The sea-green eyes were bitterly amused. “For which you’re so pleased to take credit.”
“It wasn’t difficult!” Hauberin snapped. “I knew there wasn’t any well-planned revolution behind you.” Remembering those desperately hate-filled slaves urging him to the loll, he added with a shudder, “Powers above, you couldn’t have expected even those maltreated servants of yours to cleave to you!”
A shrug of elegant shoulders. “I confess, I never thought it would come down to my needing an army. After all, there was the boy.” Serein’s smile was a slow, chill thing. “Ah, the boy. These six long years struggling to find a weakness in your shields, and then to chance upon him—my little human truly had you off your guard, didn’t he? Granted, I never expected you to steal him from me. But that only made my task easier!”
“You failed.”
“But it was such a narrow thing, wasn’t it?”
Serein’s abstract calm was beginning to grate. “How could you do it?” Hauberin asked.
“What, try to kill you?”
“No, curse you! Do you think I’m so human I’m surprised at that? The child! How could you torment a child?”
“Why, the whelp had to be in the properly receptive frame of mind. Even you must know how such spells work.”
“No, thank the Powers! No matter how much you ached for my crown, how could you ever have stooped to such foulness? You, who always taunted me with now truly of Faerie you are?”
“Oh, cousin, really. It wasn’t a Faerie child, after all.”
“He was still a child! To use him, torture him, not caring if you broke his mind, if you killed him—” Hauberin broke off sharply, sickened by the unreachable serenity of the sea-green eyes. His cousin smiled.
“Oh, Hauberin, what a sentimental little half-blood you are! A child? How should that ugly, dirty vicious creature be anything but a tool?”
Hauberin bit back the hot, useless words he’d been about to shout. “Were it not impossible for our folk,” he said in a rigidly controlled voice, “I would call you possessed. But I’m not going to waste any more time arguing morality. Come, yield.”
“And you’ll let me live? What, have you a pretty picture of me humbled in silver chains? Oh no, cousin, I’ll not surrender for that!” Serein’s smile was thin and sharp. “In fact, I don’t yet see the need to surrender at all. Tell me, what moved you to come after me yourself? Surely you could have sent your faithful warriors to find me.” (I could have let that archer shoot you, Hauberin thought.) “Why come after me alone? Honor? Powers above, pity?” He made that human emotion sound like an obscenity.
“Just this,” Hauberin said slowly. “Traitor though you are, murderer though you are, you are still my kinsman, reluctant though I am to admit it. I . . . couldn’t see you hunted down like a stag.”
“Such scruples.” Serein’s eyes glittered. “But here we are, alone. Tell me, cousin, what’s to stop my escape after I kill you?” There was the faintest, subtlest trembling of the air. “I’m of the blood royal, more so than you. And you have no heir—save me.” The trembling heightened ever so slightly, became a barely perceptible glowing. “With you slain, how long do you think it would take our oh-so-practical people to forget the past and welcome me to the throne? With you dead, how long before they come to prefer my rule to that of a mongrel? With you dead!” The glowing was a surge of raw Power that came crashing fiercely down—
Against a suddenly upthrust wall of force. Power broke apart like a wave against rock, and flowed harmlessly aside.
“Oh, well done, cousin!” Serein gasped, unable to hide the drain from that wild waste of strength. “But the force-wall must have cost you dearly.”
It had, but Hauberin was hardly about to admit it. “You never would admit the truth.” He managed to say that in an almost-steady voice. “There’s no lack of magic in my blood.” (True enough; I never would have ruled if I hadn’t inherited it from both sides of the family. Though what Power was doing flowing through a human woman’s veins . . .) “And—Swords, now, is it? So be it!”
That first savage clash of blades almost threw Hauberin off his feet. He stumbled back, nearly falling, wishing he hadn’t been so hasty to agree to this, painfully aware that he was at a disadvantage of height, of weight, of reach. A flash of memory raced through his mind, of himself as a boy, and the royal master of arms saying bluntly to his disheartened charge: “You’ll never have your sire’s height. Accept it. You’re likely to be smaller than most of the swordsmen you may have to meet. Accept that, too. But you’re quicker than most, light on your feet. There’s your edge—use it!”
Use it, indeed. With a hiss, Serein attacked. But his sword only shrieked against rock. Hauberin had twisted out of the way, gaining firmer footing with a sideways leap—daring, on so perilous a ledge—trying to find enough room to make use of his supple speed, cutting and cutting at Serein dazzlingly, both of them knowing he must end the fight quickly or burn himself out.
And so Serein braced himself, feet planted firmly, forcing Hauberin to bring the fight to him, waiting with inhuman patience.
Stalemate! Hauberin could still move too quickly to be cut down, but he just could never pierce his cousin’s guard. His side was beginning to ache now, too; he really had been straining that only half-healed iron-burn. The royal physician would be furious with him. If he lived that long.
As though he’d overheard the prince’s thoughts, Serein slashed out at him, connecting with Hauberin’s injured side. The good dwarven mail absorbed most of the blow, but even so, the sudden blaze of pain forced a gasp from Hauberin and sent him stumbling helplessly back. Serein gave a soft, delighted laugh.
“You’re tiring, little cousin. Oh yes, there’s no doubt of it.”
Without warning, Serein slashed out again with all his strength behind the blow, fierce enough to cut through helm and head alike, but Hauberin desperately brought his blade up, two-handed, to parry. The sword held true, but the shock of impact upset his already-shaken balance. He went sprawling.
Ae, and here came the death blow!
Frantic, Hauberin rolled, slipped, fell right off the ledge, twisting about blindly in mid-air, sure he was about to die—
And landed with jarring force on his feet, on a ledge a man-length below. Struggling to catch his breath, he saw Serein spring down to the far end of the ledge with a light chiming of mail, ready, wary, deadly. And in that moment, Hauberin accepted with true Faerie fatality what he hadn’t really believed till then: Death could be the only end to this.
Both saw their chance at the same time. Both struck from where they stood, heads thrown back, swords out-thrust, extensions of their arms. Lightning flashed in a clear sky, twin magics cut the suddenly acrid air, gleaming, blinding—
Both men fell.
Only one regained his feet.
Hauberin stood gasping, at that moment helpless to the slightest attack, mail scorched and torn, mind dazed, able to think only, Serein . . . Is he . . . ? Did I . . . ?
Oh, Powers, no! The prince had meant to kill cleanly, since kill he must, but though his cousin’s body was too broken to survive, somehow, horribly, Serein still breathed . . .
I . . . can’t . . .
There wasn’t any pain in the dying man’s eyes, not even the hatred Hauberin expected. Nothing but mockery burned there, sharp and cruel. As his exhausted cousin stood over him, sick at heart, sword still in shaking hand, Serein laughed faintly. “Do you think yourself rid of me, kinsman?” It was a whisper. “Oh no. You’ve only slain this shell, that’s all.”
“Serein . . .”
“You’re not rid of me.” The soft, mocking voice dragged to a stop. For an instant, Serein’s will faltered, for an instant sheer terror of his approaching death flickered in the sea-green eyes. His eyelids drooped. Hauberin leaned forward warily, sure it was over. Not a breath stirred his cousin’s chest . . .
But all at once Serein was staring up at him again, eyes once more wild with mockery. “Tell me this, dear Hauberin,” he cried out in a voice sharp as iron. “Who was your mother’s father?”
“What—”
“Are my words not plain enough? Where did her magic come from? Who was your mother’s father? Can you name him? No?” Serein’s smile was triumphant. “Then, poor little half-blood, my curse on you! My curse that you know not peace, not sleep, till you learn your mother’s father’s name! My curse on you in the Binding Names of—”
But what terrible forces he might have invoked were silenced by the fall of the sword.
Hauberin straightened slowly, wondering at his numbness: no grief, no joy, nothing . . . He took one determined step away. But then legs still trembling with strain buckled under him, and he fell.
###
The prince hadn’t actually lost consciousness, and the rough, hard stone on which he lay wasn’t particularly comfortable, but for the moment it was enough not to have to move or think, to just let his body regain its strength. But of course after a time Hauberin heard his warriors come climbing up, looking for their prince, and he sighed silently at the thought of having to move.
“Ae, terrible!” he heard them cry from the ledge just over his head. “The two of them fallen!”
“And are they both dead? The last of the royal line—are we left without any prince at all?”
“Not quite,” Hauberin muttered drily, raising himself on one elbow, watching them start. “Your concern for my well-being touches me.”
They jumped lightly down beside him. “Are you hurt, my prince? Are you badly hurt?”
“No.” Weary, yes, weary nigh to death, and with a side that burned like living coals . . . But he wasn’t going to admit it to them. “Only bruised a bit.”
Somehow he struggled to his feet unaided, standing as proudly as he was able, one slender, bedraggled, dark young man amid their sleek golden height. “Come,” the prince said shortly. “There is still work to be done.”
Yes he hesitated for a confused moment.
Serein. He would have to do something about Serein; see to his proper burial. Till then, someone had better cast a Shield around the body. One of the men would have to manage it; right now he didn’t have the strength to spare. Not that he was going to confess that, either. Let them think him ruthless enough not to care what happened to a traitor’s body. Good for the royal image.
It hardly seemed possible, but it was over. Serein was dead, his curse weightless. It was surely over.
Wasn’t it?