any nobles at his brothers court, and Aedh had more reason to be constantly on his guard than ever did Eirithan.
And what in the name of all the Powers did I think I was doing? " Lucky to be alive, " indeed. What was I trying to prove?
Ardagh sighed. Difficult at times to be of the Sidhe, unable to lie even to one's self. For nearly two years of mortal time now—a mere instant by Sidhe standards but tediously long when one was living through it—he'd been trapped here, with not the slightest sign of a way out of exile. Unable to go home, unable to live here, unable to wed or even bed his lady—no wonder frustration had blazed out into battle-rage!
But . . . the very existence of such frustration and rage was a foreign thing, a . . . human thing. Why should he be . . . how could he be . . . Even as he staggered to his feet, tying back his wild hair with weary hands, Ardagh felt a chill stealing through him. A human thing, a human emotion . . .
I am not human. I cannot be human. But . . . what am I? What have I become?
As he watched Aedh's men sorting themselves out, tending to the wounded, counting the dead, the prince could not pierce the veil that seemed to have fallen between himself and them. He had lived among these humans, eaten with them, laughed with them, but right now all he could see were alien folk, so very alien. . . .
Ae, enough. With a great effort, Ardagh tore himself from what he knew could too easily turn to blank despair, and went to join the others. He had no great Power, not in this all-but-magickless Realm, and he couldn't risk showing those gifts he still possessed, not and keep up the convenient fiction of being a human prince from Cathay. But he could subtly ease pain here and there, speed up the organizing of the aftermath. The sooner matters were settled here, the sooner they were away from this cursed place, and—
Ardagh froze, suddenly still as a stalking cat. He had just sensed . . . what? The prince dropped to his knees beside a dead Leinster warrior, staring. About the warrior's neck hung a small clay amulet—and it bore Power.
Hands shaking slightly, Ardagh cut the leather thong with a quick slash of his dagger, closed his hand about the amulet. Yes, ae yes, the small thing did hold Power, just the faintest, faintest traces, but Power nonetheless. From where? No skilled sorcerer, surely; that would have left a definite psychic trace. Besides, Ardagh thought, opening his hand to study what he held, any sorcerer worth the name would be ashamed of such crude work. No, whatever self-claimed magician had created this had accidentally blended a touch of the earth's natural magic with the protective spells he'd cut into the amulet.
The not quite accurate spells. Ardagh glanced wryly down at the dead warrior. They didn't do this fellow much good.
Still, it was Power, no matter how slight. More important, it was solid, tangible, fixed Power. And what might not happen if he combined it with a spell? With one of the many, so far useless, Doorway spells he'd gleaned from human tales?
Ardagh's hand clenched shut. Though he had never guessed it, this was why he had entered the battle, not out of some foolish imitation of human frustration but from some arcane sense so faint he hadn't even known it. This was what he'd been seeking.
I dare not hope. But I do, Powers help me, I do indeed!
Foreign Politics
Chapter 2
He was Egbert, son of the late King Elmund—for what good, he thought, that proud Kentish lineage did him. He was Egbert, a tall, fair-haired young man, no more than that, once of Wessex but now just an exile in these Frankish lands, this royal court of Charlemagne.
He was also, being an exile, fair game for these bored young Frankish nobles. Cornered against a plaster wall brightly painted with scenes of Charlemagne's ancestors, he listened, perforce, to their witty jibes about "Saxon fools" and "landless idiots" and fought back the angry words that sprang to
And what in the name of all the Powers did I think I was doing? " Lucky to be alive, " indeed. What was I trying to prove?
Ardagh sighed. Difficult at times to be of the Sidhe, unable to lie even to one's self. For nearly two years of mortal time now—a mere instant by Sidhe standards but tediously long when one was living through it—he'd been trapped here, with not the slightest sign of a way out of exile. Unable to go home, unable to live here, unable to wed or even bed his lady—no wonder frustration had blazed out into battle-rage!
But . . . the very existence of such frustration and rage was a foreign thing, a . . . human thing. Why should he be . . . how could he be . . . Even as he staggered to his feet, tying back his wild hair with weary hands, Ardagh felt a chill stealing through him. A human thing, a human emotion . . .
I am not human. I cannot be human. But . . . what am I? What have I become?
As he watched Aedh's men sorting themselves out, tending to the wounded, counting the dead, the prince could not pierce the veil that seemed to have fallen between himself and them. He had lived among these humans, eaten with them, laughed with them, but right now all he could see were alien folk, so very alien. . . .
Ae, enough. With a great effort, Ardagh tore himself from what he knew could too easily turn to blank despair, and went to join the others. He had no great Power, not in this all-but-magickless Realm, and he couldn't risk showing those gifts he still possessed, not and keep up the convenient fiction of being a human prince from Cathay. But he could subtly ease pain here and there, speed up the organizing of the aftermath. The sooner matters were settled here, the sooner they were away from this cursed place, and—
Ardagh froze, suddenly still as a stalking cat. He had just sensed . . . what? The prince dropped to his knees beside a dead Leinster warrior, staring. About the warrior's neck hung a small clay amulet—and it bore Power.
Hands shaking slightly, Ardagh cut the leather thong with a quick slash of his dagger, closed his hand about the amulet. Yes, ae yes, the small thing did hold Power, just the faintest, faintest traces, but Power nonetheless. From where? No skilled sorcerer, surely; that would have left a definite psychic trace. Besides, Ardagh thought, opening his hand to study what he held, any sorcerer worth the name would be ashamed of such crude work. No, whatever self-claimed magician had created this had accidentally blended a touch of the earth's natural magic with the protective spells he'd cut into the amulet.
The not quite accurate spells. Ardagh glanced wryly down at the dead warrior. They didn't do this fellow much good.
Still, it was Power, no matter how slight. More important, it was solid, tangible, fixed Power. And what might not happen if he combined it with a spell? With one of the many, so far useless, Doorway spells he'd gleaned from human tales?
Ardagh's hand clenched shut. Though he had never guessed it, this was why he had entered the battle, not out of some foolish imitation of human frustration but from some arcane sense so faint he hadn't even known it. This was what he'd been seeking.
I dare not hope. But I do, Powers help me, I do indeed!
Foreign Politics
Chapter 2
He was Egbert, son of the late King Elmund—for what good, he thought, that proud Kentish lineage did him. He was Egbert, a tall, fair-haired young man, no more than that, once of Wessex but now just an exile in these Frankish lands, this royal court of Charlemagne.
He was also, being an exile, fair game for these bored young Frankish nobles. Cornered against a plaster wall brightly painted with scenes of Charlemagne's ancestors, he listened, perforce, to their witty jibes about "Saxon fools" and "landless idiots" and fought back the angry words that sprang to
Similar Books
The World Above
Cameron Dokey
Arsonist
Victor Methos
Jack in the Box
Hania Allen
Por qué ganaron los aliados
R. J. Overy
An Unlikely Friendship
Ann Rinaldi
Sparrow Nights
David Gilmour
Her Dark Knight
Sharon Cullen
WANTON
Cheryl Holt
The Tudor Secret
C. W. Gortner