A Strange and Ancient Name (25 page)

“No other way out!” the being gasped, eyes
wild and blank. “No other door, no window—”

“Alliar, stop it.” She could understand a wind spirit’s claustrophobic terror of closed spaces, but now, with guards rushing in to seize them was hardly the time—

Closed spaces! Of course! Matilde snatched at Alliar’s arm, barely noting its inhuman chill. “Come on!”

“The fireplace?”

“Don’t argue.” Matilde was glancing up its smoky chimney, praising Heaven it was too warm for a fire to have been lit. Ah, yes! Dimly seen against the square of sky far overhead were the recesses for smoking meat, the iron rungs set into the chimney wall to facilitate cleaning. Hastily she shed her encumbering riding cloak. “Just climb.”

Of course it didn’t take the guards long to follow them. But a grunt from Alliar, a stifled cry of pain and a most gratifying crash told Matilde that the being had kicked the lead guard back down on top of the others.

Grinning fiercely, the woman continued to climb, half-choked on the reek of old smoke, hands and feet slipping on the greasy rungs
(Saints above, doesn’t Thibault ever clean up here?)
. After one glance up at that tantalizing blue square that never seemed to get any larger, Matilde clenched her teeth and refused to look again. The weight of her riding skirt pulled at her, growing heavier with every passing moment, and one shin was aching savagely where she kept banging it against the rungs again and again. By now every muscle was complaining, burning as though there really was a fire surrounding her, and her lungs ached with strain. God, for one clear, clean breath of air! Now trickles of perspiration were working their tickling way down her face, but she couldn’t spare the time or a hand to wipe them away, and this ordeal would never be over, but she simply refused to just give up and die . . .

It took her a long moment to realize there was light all about her. With a gasp and a wriggle, Matilde was out of the chimney, clinging to its rim, Alliar, disheveled and dirty, beside her. They exchanged fierce, conspiratorial grins. But then the sound of panting from within the chimney made them both start and look back down.

“The guards!” Matilde glanced about and found no escape from this chimney because the one clear spot of root they could have safely jumped down to was swarming with more of Thibault’s men. She groaned. It had all been useless. They were trapped.

But Alliar, a clear, cold, alien light in the golden eyes, was pulling off the filthy tunic, standing on the chimney’s narrow rim in linen hose alone. Matilde caught a brief glimpse of a smooth, hairless, sleekly muscled chest, disconcertingly nippleless, then Alliar was pulling her to her feet. She swayed, dizzied by the vast expanse around her.

“I can’t—”

“Don’t argue! Just hold fast!”

She didn’t have a choice. A guard was snatching at her skirts, so Matilde seized Alliar in a deathgrip. She felt powerful muscles tense. And then they were plunging out into space.

XX

FLIGHTS

But they weren’t falling, they were flying, soaring out into empty air, and Matilde gasped to see that the golden shape to which she clung, lying atop the sleek, chilly back, had all at once become even more alien, flattened, just barely recognizable, wide sheets of golden skin stretched between outstretched arms and body catching the wind.

It wasn’t flight at that. It was a long, straining glide, and after the first moment of sheer terrified exhilaration, Matilde realized that Alliar, tiring rapidly, was struggling just to bring them down safely inside the forest, so tantalizingly near.

A little further,
she pleaded silently,
only a little further . . .

But they were losing height so rapidly . . .

“I can’t!” It was a cry of pure despair.

And then they hit a tree. Torn from Alliar, Matilde was bruised, scratched, terrified, a whirlwind of leaves spinning before her eyes as she grabbed frantically at branches, catching, falling, catching again. Her hands closed on a slippery branch. For an instant it held and she dared think she was safe . . .

Then, with a horrifying crack, something gave. The branch whipped out then down, hurling her off. Falling once more, Matilde shrieked, sure she was going to break her leg, or her arm, or her neck—

Instead she landed, winded but unbroken, in the middle of a thick, springy bush.

For a time, Matilde was too shaken to move, lying in her prickly bed while the world continued to whirl dizzily about her. But at last it stilled and, aching, more and more aware of every bruise, every scrape, she managed to roll her weary way down onto the nice, solid, unmoving ground.

But what had happened to Alliar? Matilde struggled to her feet, half-afraid of what she might find. A glint of golden skin . . . The being lay prone, incredible wings vanished back into the malleable form, so fiat against the earth that for a heart-stopping moment she was sure Alliar was dead. But then she saw the sleek chest rising and falling, and at last the being rolled over to stare blankly up at the leaves overhead.

“Alliar . . . ? Are you . . . all right?”

The being hesitated as though considering the question very carefully, then nodded. “Aching.” Alliar’s voice was a whisper, but a hint of humor quivered in it. “More weary than ever I recall. But otherwise all right.” The being sat up with immense care. “I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. The wind was fading out from under me; didn’t recognize a distant cousin, I suppose,” wryly. “And if some of those guards had thought to loose arrows at us while we were still in range—”

“They were all too stunned. So,” Matilde added, “was I. I . . . didn’t know you could do that.”

“Neither did I. Desperation does amazing things.” Alliar staggered upright. “What of you? You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“Nothing worse than scrapes and bruises.” Matilde scrambled up, trying not to wince. “They didn’t even try to come after us. Probably thought you were a demon.”

But Alliar had stopped listening, looking out over the brush to where Baron Thibault’s castle squatted grimly in the
fading light.

“He’s still in there. Hauberin is still in there. Alive. I’d
feel
it were he . . . dead. But something terrible has happened to him.”

“Oh, surely not,” Matilde said feebly. “I don’t think Thibault would dare hurt him,” and the being whirled on her savagely. “You think not? After the man tried to kill us?”

“It must have been the wine ruling him, or—or—”

“Or magic-madness from Serein having weakened his mind. Ae, it doesn’t matter now! You think Hauberin’s safe? When he could be tortured through sheer human ignorance? When the slightest touch of iron sears Faerie skin? If they try to chain him . . . ah, winds!”

Alliar turned away, shuddering. Matilde put a tentative hand on a bare golden shoulder, then withdrew it with a gasp. “You’re so cold!”

“The flesh, not me,” the being said absently. “I don’t feel the cold. And if that magic-maddened human doesn’t torment him, what of Serein? Winds, winds, what will Serein do to him?” Eyes wild with despair blazed into her own. “I must get him out of there!”

“And so we will,” Matilde soothed. “As soon as it’s fully night, we’ll find a way in there.”

“We?”

“You didn’t expect me to abandon him, did you? We’ll rescue him,” the woman said firmly.

Oh God, but how?

“Can do’t,” said a small voice near her feet, and she started, looking sharply down. A child? What was a child doing here? Particularly one so sharp-featured, so pointed of face and feral of eye—“The
lutin!”
Matilde gasped.

“A
lutin,
at any rate,” Alliar corrected. “What would you, small one?”

“Where be tha third one?” the
lutin
asked, small hands on hips. “Tha Faerie-man?”

“I think you know.”

The
lutin
nodded sharply. “In tha cold, bitter place. The human place.” He spat. “Not good for Faerie-kin.”

“No, but—”

“Can get ya into tha’ cold place. No one t’see ya, either.”

Alliar knelt at the
lutin’s
side so swiftly the little creature jumped back. “Are you telling us the truth, small one? Or is this just another of your tricks?”

“Tricks? Tricks?” The feral eyes were bright with sudden mischief. “What’re tricks?”

“Please. If you betray us, the humans and their . . . bitter metal will kill the Faerie-man. Do you want that?”

“Na, na!” Suddenly the
lutin’s
light voice was perfectly serious. “Humans shall na take another a’ us. No tricks. Come.”

He scuttled surefootedly forward through the near-darkness, out of the forest into the open, and Alliar and Matilde hurried after, to stop short nearly at the edge of the moat. Feeling suddenly painfully exposed with no sheltering trees about her, even in that moonless night, Matilde looked nervously up at the dark mass of the watchtowers, where she could see torchlight flickering, sure she was about to be spotted, but Alliar, unconcerned, stood with head thrown back like a questing beast, then gave a soft, fierce laugh.

“Where the master is lax, the servants are lazy. What guards may still be alert after dining and drinking aren’t the ones in those watchtowers. No one’s awake in there.” Alliar studied the castle for one more long, careful moment, then grinned. “I don’t think anyone’s patrolling the ramparts, either. My lord baron really does keep a sloppy watch.”

Matilde glanced at the being, amazed at Alliar’s sharp sight (though, she reminded herself, this
was
a spirit; she shouldn’t be surprised at anything). “Or else this . . . Serein . . . has everyone bespelled?”

The being waved that off. “He never had that much Power.”

The
lutin
hissed in impatience. “Pay attention, ya!” he scolded. “Tha way ya want is there.”

“In the moat . . . ?” Matilde asked doubtfully.

“Na, na,
there!”

“The drawbridge? But it’s up; we can’t possibly—”

“The vines!” Alliar exclaimed. “Once we get across the moat, we can climb right up them into one of the windows.”

Matilde’s merely human vision saw nothing but a solid black mass of wall, but she remembered those vines from before. “Assuming they’ll hold our weight,” she added doubtfully. “And that nobody’s waiting on the other side of that window.”

Alliar shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Indeed.” Matilde glanced down at the moat, a mass of smelly blackness in the night, and tried not to think about what might be living in that swampy water. “I used to swim. Before I grew too old for such . . . childish things; I suppose I can still manage. But what about you?”

“Think the water won’t let me in because I’m of a different element? Oh, I can swim. Hauberin insisted I learn, once upon a time. Eh, come, let’s try it.”

But Matilde looked down at their small benefactor. “Thank you, my . . . ah . . . my lord
lutin.”

There was a sharp, delighted laugh from the
lutin,
an equally sharp tug at one of her braids, and then she and Alliar were alone. The being, clad only in lightweight linen hose, slipped silently into the moat. Matilde hesitated, knowing it was absurd to feel embarrassed in front of a genderless spirit yet not quite having the courage to strip. But if she didn’t get rid of her bedraggled riding gown, its weight was going to drown her, so Matilde abandoned foolishness and struggled out of the dress, kicking off her low boots, feeling incredibly light and free in just her simple chemise.

Her white chemise that glowed like a beacon even by starlight. Hastily Matilde held her breath, and jumped into the shelter of the water.

Ugh, it felt almost thick and slippery as oil, and she didn’t even want to think about what might be in there with her. At least she could remember how to keep herself afloat. The water didn’t seem to splash like normal water, either; she could paddle her way through it without raising more than a ripple. But swimming wasn’t as easy as she recalled; her muscles were definitely out of practice for such exercise. Trying not to breath too deeply, Matilde struggled determinedly after Alliar—a sleek golden knife slicing the water—to the small, artificial island on which the castle stood. Treading water, the being paused for a moment, then scrambled onto land.

But the first vine the being seized tore free and tumbled Alliar in an arc back into the water. This time there definitely was a splash, and Matilde caught her breath, expecting an outcry from the castle. But there wasn’t a sound, and after an anxious moment, the being surfaced, festooned with water lilies and spitting out a short, sharp, alien exclamation that needed no translation. As Matilde bit back a near-hysterical giggle, Alliar swept off the plants, scrambled back up onto the island and began to climb again.

The second vine held. Halfway up the castle wall, Alliar paused to signal to Matilde. She tried to pull herself up onto land, only to sink back into the water, panting. She tried again and yet again, scraping her knee against rock yet unable to get a purchase, the weight of herself and the water an insufferable burden.

“Alliar!” she whispered, and the being came slithering down the vine. A cool golden hand reached impatiently down to grasp hers, and Matilde had a new chance to be amazed at the wind spirit’s strength as she was raised against the water’s pull. Her flailing feet struck solid ground, and she whispered up, “I’m all right now. You can let go.”

Maybe Alliar’s strength wasn’t quite inexhaustible. The grin she received was decidedly weary, and she could have sworn she heard the being panting. But Alliar swarmed back up the vine, signaling to her to follow.

At least her feet had something to push against. From what her questing fingers could find, the vines were spread up and out across the wall like a tracery of iron, each tendril sunk deep into the mortar between the stones. In fact, judging from what she felt, the main reason for eradicating such vines wouldn’t be so much to repel invaders as to keep the castle intact; there were some definite gaps in the wall where the tenacious plants had pulled out whole chunks of mortar and brought down several blocks of stone.

Climbing things seems to be my fate,
she thought wryly, thinking of her recent frantic scrabble up the chimney.

Matilde’s groping toes found a fork in the vine, and she managed to raise herself, slowly and carefully, hunting for a second foothold, her mind unexpectedly casting back to childhood days. She’d been a confirmed climber of trees and walls back then, at least until her father had found out and forced her back into the proper behavior for a girl of gentle breeding.

Gentle! He should see me now!

Matilde found a small hole in the stone with one foot, raised herself again, memory prompting her to take her time till she’d found sure places to grip where the mortar was missing. She took another torturous step upward, then another, flattening herself against the cold stone like a lizard she’d seen on a rock, took yet another step, and yet another, not sure how high she’d climbed, not daring to look down to find out. Now, if she could just reach high enough to close her hand about the next twist of vine . . .

Without warning, her feet slipped free. For what seemed an eternity, Matilde hung by her arms alone, terrified, hunting desperately for a new foothold, fighting not to sob with the effort. Then, just before she knew she would have had to let go and fall, she managed to wedge the toes of one foot between wall and vine, praying she wouldn’t tear the whole thing—vine and crumbling stones and all—free. As though mocking her, telling her she wasn’t miserable enough, the breeze began to rise, sweeping across her wet chemise, which wrapped itself lovingly about her body, till Matilde was shivering helplessly. Her bare feet were so cold she could hardly feel her toes. Oh saints, and how her muscles ached! She wasn’t a lithe little girl anymore, and this wasn’t a harmless man-high wall off which she could safely jump, and in another moment her arms and legs were going to give way and let her fall.

I can’t do this, I can’t.

And yet . . . Hauberin was almost certainly undergoing a worse ordeal. One without any hope at all of escape.
“Something terrible has happened to him,”
Alliar had cried, and,
“The very touch of iron sears Faerie skin.”
Matilde remembered, the drac, slain by one small scratch from her knife, and thought, against her will, of Hauberin lying in the creature’s place, face contorted with agony, the beautiful dark eyes blank and empty . . . dear God, no.

But for a long moment, heart aching or not, she just couldn’t move, clinging to vine and wall, eyes shut, thinking that if ever she got out of this, she would never, ever complain about her lot again. And if anyone ever dared lecture her about women being the weaker vessel, he would regret it!

Teeth clenched, Matilde gathered what was left of strength and courage, and began the painful climb after Alliar who, after glancing back to make sure she was all right, was scampering up the wall with disgusting ease. Lost in her fog of exhaustion, Matilde continued to climb, silently raging at beings who seemed to think human bodies could do anything spirits could do—and nearly shrieked as a hand shot out of the wall to close about her arm.