Contents

CHAPTER   1

Tom Spots a Card Shark 3

CHAPTER 2

Tom at the Throttle 21

CHAPTER 3

Off on the Wrong Foot 37

CHAPTER 4

Tom's First Day at the Academy 53

CHAPTER 5

From Bad to Worse 66

CHAPTER 6

The Academy Candy Store 84

CHAPTER 7
Goodness Doesn't Pay 101

CHAPTER 8

The Men tal Marvel 112

CHAPTER 9

Mystery of the Missing Mattress 130

CHAPTER  10

Basketball and the Bishop 148

The Great Brain
at the Academy

CHAPTER ONE

Tom Spots a Card Shark

WHEN MY BROTHER TOM began telling people
in Adenville, Utah, that he had a great brain everybody
laughed at him, including his own family. We all thought
he was trying to play some kind of a kid's joke on us. But
after he had used his great brain to swindle all the kids in
town and make fools of a lot of grownups nobody laughed
at my brother anymore.

I think that was why just about everybody in town
except his own family was glad to see Tom leave Adenville
on September 1, 1897. And I couldn't help thinking that
Papa must have felt kind of relieved too, although he
didn't show it. Papa was editor and publisher of the Aden-

ville Weekly Advocate and was considered one of the
smartest men in town. But some of the shenanigans Tom
had pulled with his great brain were enough to make Papa
feel like a blooming idiot. Now he wouldn't have to worry
about men dropping into his office to complain that Tom
had swindled their sons. Mamma cried a lot at the depot
but she also must have felt at least a little relief. She
wouldn't have to worry for the next nine months about
mothers telephoning her to complain about Tom. The
truth of the matter, though, was that although Tom had
been a junior-grade confidence man since he was eight
years old, he had never realty cheated anybody. With his
great brain he simply devised schemes that made people
swindle themselves.

Tom and my eldest brother Sweyn were bound for the
Catholic Academy for Boys in Salt Lake City. We only
had a one-room schoolhouse in Adenville, where Mr.
Standish taught the first through the sixth grades. Any
parents wanting their kids to get a higher education had to
send them to Salt Lake City. Tom was only eleven going
on twelve but so smart that Mr. Standish had let him skip
the fifth grade. Sweyn was two years older and going back
to the academy for his second year. A stranger who saw us
three brothers together would never have guessed we were
related. Sweyn looked like our Danish-American mother,
with blond hair and a light complexion. I had dark unruly
hair and dark eyes, just like Papa- Tom didn't look like
either Mamma or Papa unless you sort of put them to-
gether, and he was the only one in the family who had
freckles.

Tom promised to write to me every week. The first
letter I received told me how he had spotted a card shark

on the train. I didn't find out all the details, though, until
my brothers came home for Christmas vacation. Then I got
Sweyn to tell me what had happened and later Tom told
me what had happened. But there was something wrong.
Sweyn didn't mention several things Tom told me. And
Tom d;dn't mention his invention for trains which Sweyn
told me all about. That is why I figure the only way to tell
what really happened is to put their stories together and
tell it in my own way.

Tom admitted he felt down in the dumps as the train
pulled out of Adenvilie. I couldn't blame him. It was the
first time he had ever been away from home- I knew when
I became old enough to go to the academy that I would
probably bawl like a baby.

"Go ahead and cry," Sweyn said as the train left the
depot. *Tt is nothing to be ashamed about. I know I did
last year my first time away from home."

Tom sure wanted to cry but he'wasn't going to give
Sweyn the satisfaction of knowing it. "Maybe I don't feel
like crying," he lied.

"Pardon me," Sweyn said sarcastically. "I just thought
being separated from Mom and Dad and our kid brother
for the first time might make you feel sad. Well, I know
something that will make you cry. You won't be able to
swindle the kids at the academy and get away with shenan-
igans like you pulled in Adenville. Those Jesuit priests are
strict."

Sweyn's superior big-brother attitude was beginning
to get on Tom's nerves. "You are just jealous of my great
brain," he said. "It is warm in here. I'm going to open a
window."

"You do and you'll get a cinder in your eye," Sweyn
said.

That was enough to make Tom open the window
even if he got ten cinders in his eyes. He had never let
Sweyn boss him around at home and he wasn't about to
start now. Sure enough, he got a cinder in his eye. He
pulled his head inside quickly and shut the window.

"What did I tell you?" Sweyn said.

"Take the corner of your handkerchief and get it
out," Tom said.

"Say please," Sweyn said, smiling and pretending he
enjoyed seeing Tom suffer.

"Never mind," Tom said. "I'll go to the washroom
and get it out myself."

"I was just joking," Sweyn said, taking out his hand-
kerchief.

He got the cinder out of Tom's eye just as the con-
ductor came into the coach. The conductor was a big
ruddy-faced man wearing the traditional blue uniform
and cap with a big gold watch chain across his vest. When
he came to them he took their tickets and placed two blue
stubs under the metal tabs on the seats. Then he looked at
Tom's red eye-

"I see it didn't take you long to learn not to open a
window on a train, sonny," he said.

Being called "sonny" always made Tom angry. "My
name is Tom Fitzgerald, not sonny," he said. "And I
can't help wondering why they don't put screens on coach
windows so passengers won't get cinders in their eyes."

"Well now, Tom Fitzgerald." the conductor said, "it
just so happens that on the newer coaches on the main line

we do have screens on the windows. But you still can't
open a window when the train is moving."

"Why not?" Tom asked.

"Smoke from the locomotive would get into the pas-
senger cars," the conductor said.

"They could fix it so all windows could be opened
without any cinders or smoke getting into the passenger
cars," Tom said, although he didn't have the least idea of
exactly how it could be done.

"And just how would they do that?" the conductor
aaked. "I'm sure the president of this railroad and of every
other railroad would be delighted to know."

Tom didn't miss seeing the conductor wink at the
other passengers. He tapped his index finger to his tem-
ple. "I'll put my great brain to work on it," he said, "and
let you know when you finish collecting tickets."

"I'll be back," the conductor said. "I wouldn't miss
hearing this for the world."

All the passengers in the coach except Sweyn began to
laugh. Sweyn felt so embarrassed that he slid way down in
his seat. "You have only been on this train for about ten
minutes," he said, "and you've already made us the laugh-
ing stock of everybody in this coach."

"They won't be laughing very long," Tom said, con-
fident that his great brain would not let him down.

"You must be plumb loco," Sweyn said with disgust.
"They have engineers with years of experience designing
trains. If there was any way to open windows without get-
ting cinders and smoke into the passenger cars they would
have invented it."

Do you think that made Tom give up? Heck no.

"The men who built Conestoga wagons and prairie
schooners never thought of putting brakes on them," he
said. "Thousands of emigrants who came West had to
chain their rear wheels when going down a grade. Then
one day one of them got tired of chaining his wheels. He
used a shovel handle, a couple of two-by-fours to <nake a
lever, a wooden block, a piece of rope, and the sole of one
of his old shoes and made a brake for his wagon. Now
please be quiet while I put my great brain to work."

Tom's great brain must have been working like sixty
because when the conductor returned he was ready.

"Here I am, Tom Fitzgerald," the conductor said
with a smile on his ruddy face. "Now tell me how we can
open windows on trains without getting cinders or smoke
in the cars."

Tom wasn't about to divulge his plan for nothing.
When he put his great brain to work he expected to be
paid for it.

"I'll expect some financial reward if the railroad uses
my idea," he said.

"Naturally," the conductor said. "And you have all
these passengers as witnesses that it was your idea."

"They could run a pipe from the smokestack on the
locomotive along the top of the train to the caboose,"
Tom said, "and let all the cinders and smoke out behind
the train."

"I'm afraid that wouldn't work," the conductor said.
"The pipe would break when the train went around a
curve."

"Not if they put flexible couplings on it between each
car," Tom said.

A salesman across the aisif began to laugh. "I
think the boy has you there, conductor," he said.

"No he hasn't," the conductor said. "With such a
long pipe the fire under the boiler in the locomotive
would go out."

This stumped Tom until he remembered a photo-
graph of a factory he had seen in a magazine. "I don't
think it would," he said, "because the longer the smoke-
stack the better it draws. That is why they put such high
chimneys on factories."

By this time Tom was so sure his idea would work
that he began to wonder how big a reward the railroad
would give him. The conductor must have guessed what
he was thinking.

"I'm afraid you will never collect that reward," he
said. "In order for a smokestack to work it has to be verti-
cal. Hot air is lighter than cold air. What creates a draft is
the hot air rising to the top. If you bent the smokestack
over horizontally the hot air would just rise to the bend
in the pipe and be trapped there. And as a result you
would have no draft and the fire in the firebox of the loco-
motive would go out."

No wonder Tom didn't mention anything about this
in his letter to me. And no wonder Sweyn chuckled when
he told me about it at Christmastime. It wasn't until I
confronted Tom with what Sweyn had said that I learned
the whole story. And it just goes to prove a fellow has to
listen to both sides of a story to learn the truth.

Tom admitted he was stunned that there was a
flaw in his idea that he felt as if the conductor had hit him
on the head with a baseball bat. And even worse was the




shock to his money-loving heart. And boy, oh, boy, was
he embarrassed as the conductor and all the passengers
except Sweyn began laughing at him. Papa had often said
that when a fellow starts out trying to make a fool of
somebody else he usually ends up making a foot of him-
self. And that is exactly what happened to Tom. But
there was one thing Papa and Mamma had drilled into us
boys and that was always to face up to our problems.

"I deserve to be laughed at," Tom said to the conduc-
tor. "I tried to make a fool out of you and ended up being
the fool."

"Don't take it so hard, Tom," the conductor said
sympathetically. "Some of our greatest inventors were
laughed at. You just keep on using that great brain of
yours and someday you will invent something that will
improve trains."

"In that case," he said, "I've got to iearn all about
trains by the time we get to Salt Lake City. Can I come
with you?"

"Come along," the conductor said, smiling.

When they got to the caboose the conductor intro-
duced himself as Harold Walters and the brakeman as
Paul Jackson.

"Why. do you ride in the caboose instead of in the
coach?" Tom asked.

"This is what we call a feeder line," Mr. Walters said.
"On feeder lines we don't have a train that is strictly for
passengers like we do on the main line. This train, for ex-
ample, has a mail-and-baggage car, a freight car, and some-
times a car for livestock in addition to a smoking car and
a coach car. And because the train is what you could call

11

part of a freight train we have a caboose like they do on all
freight trains. On the main-line passenger trains the con-
ductor and brakeman have a seat reserved for them on
one of the coaches."

Tom remained with Mr. Walters for almost three
hours, going with the conductor to the coach and smoking
cars to collect tickets at each stop. Then he returned to his
seat.

"Weil," Sweyn said, "did my little brother learn all
about choo-choo trains?"

Tom figured this was as good a time as any to put an
end to this big-brother act of Sweyn's. And he knew the
hardest blow of all would be in the pocketbook.

"I guess you know a lot more about trains than I do,"
he said.

"Why shouldn't I?" Sweyn asked in that superior
way of older brothers. "I have already made two trips to
Salt Lake City and back."

"You sure have," Tom said, "and I figure for every
mile I've ridden on a train you must have traveled at least
twenty. Right?"

"Right," Sweyn said.

"That means you know twenty times more about
trains than I do," Tom said. "Right?"

"Yeah," Sweyn answered.

"Then put your money where your mouth is," Tom
said. "I'll bet you a quarter that I can ask you two ques-
tions about trains that you can't answer. If you answer,
both of them you win. If you only answer one of them it
is a tie and the bet is off."

"Get your quarter ready." Sweyn said confidently,

12

"and go ahead and ask your two questions."

"Who is the big boss on a train, the conductor or the
engineer?" Tom asked.

"That is easy," Sweyn said. "The engineer is."

"One wrong," Tom said. "And you can ask Mr. Wal-
ters the conductor if you don't believe me. Now for the
second question. What were conductors on trains called
before they were called conductors?"

"What kind of a question is that?" Sweyn asked.

"It is about trains, isn't it?" Tom asked, smiling. "I
can see you don't know the answer so I will tell you- They
were called captains because they had full command of a
train just like the captain of a ship. Now fork over that
quarter."

Poor old Sweyn was as foolish for making that bet as a
rooster trying to lay an egg. I don't remember my eldest
brother or me ever winning a bet from Tom. Sweyn
handed Tom twenty-five cents.

When the train arrived in Cedar City a man wearing
a white cap and jacket boarded the train and went into
the smoking car. As the train left the depot he came into
the coach. In front of him he had a box-type tray held by a
strap around his neck.

"Candy, peanuts, chewing gum, and magazines'" he
called out.

Tom stared at the man as a passenger bought a candy
bar and a magazine. "Who is that?" he asked.

"The candy butcher," Sweyn answered. "And it just
goes to prove you don't know everything about trains."

"Why do they call him a butcher?" Tom asked.
"Butchers only work in meat markets."

13

"How should I know?" Sweyn said.

"Which just goes to prove you don't know everything
about trains," Tom said.

"One thing I do know," Sweyn said. "If you want any
candy you had better buy it now and eat it before we get
to Salt Lake City. The superintendent. Father Rodri-
guez, only allows each student to buy ten cents worth of
candy once every four weeks. And parents are forbidden
to mail any sweets to their sons or bring any candy on visit-
ing days."

The academy was beginning to sound like a reform
school to Tom. "What has he got against candy?" he asked.

"He says it is bad for the teeth and health," Sweyn
answered. "And if you have any candy when you get there
he will take it away from you."

"Don't worry about it," Tom said. "My great brain
will figure out a way for us to have all the candy we want."

"You get caught smuggling candy into the academy
and you'll get demerits and punishment," Sweyn said.
"And if you get twenty demerits in one month you can be
expelled."

"What kind of punishment?" Tom asked.

"Peeling potatoes in the kitchen, cleaning the wash-
rooms, mopping and waxing the floors, and things like
that," Sweyn answered.

"They've got to catch you first," Tom said confi-
dently. "I'm getting hungry. Let's eat."

They got down from the rack the shoe box containing
the lunch Mamma had made for them. When Mamma
prepared a lunch she always made sure nobody went hun-
gry. There was enough for six people. Tom and Sweyn

14

ate their fill. There were still five pieces of fried chicken,
four hard-boiled eggs, five bread-and-butter sandwiches,
and three pieces of chocolate cake left.

The traveling salesman across the aisle spoke to Tom.
"The train doesn't stop for passengers to eat until we get
to Provo," he said. "I'll give you a dime for one of those
drumsticks and a bread-and-butter sandwich."

"How about a hard-boiled egg and a piece of cake
too?" Tom asked. The smell of money to him was just like
the smell of food to a hungry man. "It will only cost you
another dime."

"Sold," the salesman said.

Sweyn was shaking his head as Tom pocketed the
twenty cents. "You can't even ride on a train without turn-
ing conniver," he said. "Mom would have a fit if she knew
what you just did."

"The customer is perfectly satisfied," Tom said. "And
that gives me an idea. There must be other hungry passen-
gers on this train. I'm going to sell the rest of this stuff."

"You can't do that," Sweyn protested. "Only the candy
butcher can sell things on a train."

Did this make Tom give up his idea? Heck no. When
it came to money he was like a bloodhound on the trail of
a fugitive.

"Then I'll make a deal with the candy butcher," he
said.

Tom found the candy butcher sitting on the rear seat
in the smoking car. "Let me sell this food on the train," he
said, "and I'll buy candy with all the money I get. Is it a
deal?"

"It sure is," the candy butcher said. "See those four

15

men playing poker on a suitcase at the other end of the
car? They were complaining because I don't sell sand-
wiches like they do on the main line. Try them."

Tom walked to the other end of the smoking car.
"The candy butcher told me you men were hungry," he
said. "A piece of home-fried chicken and a bread-and-
butter sandwich will cost you a dime- The hard-boiled
eggs are a nickel and the cake ten cents."

Tom collected seventy-five cents from the hungry
poker players and then stood watching the game- The men
were playing stud poker. A man the other players called
Mr. Harrison was winning and a man named Baylor who
looked like a rancher was the big loser. The other two
players were complaining about losing also. Tom watched
while four hands were played and he knew why Mr. Harri-
son was winning. He decided to tell Mr. Walters about it.
He stopped and gave the candy butcher the seventy-five
cents, saying he would get the candy later. He found Mr.
Walters in the caboose with the brakeman.

"Is it part of your job to watch out for card sharks?"
he asked.

"It certainly is, Tom," the conductor said. "You see,
whenever a passenger loses money to a card shark on a
train he never blames the card shark or himself. He always
blames the railroad. Why do you ask?"

"Those four men playing poker in the smoking car
are using a marked deck of cards," Tom answered.

Mr. Walters looked as surprised as a man who opens
a can of beans and finds peas inside instead. "You must
be mistaken," he said. "I inspected that deck of cards be-
fore the men started to play, and my years of experience

16

as a conductor have taught me just about every way a deck
can be marked."

"These cards are marked at the factory," Tom said.
"My uncle. Mark Trainor. is the marshal and deputy sher-
iff in Adenville and he showed me a deck just like it. A
salesman selling playing cards came to town. He offered
both saloonkeepers such a good price that they each
bought fifty decks of cards. A week later a man calling
himself Harry Johnson came to town and began playing
poker in both saloons. He won so much money that the
players said he was either the luckiest poker player in the
world or a caid cheat. But nobody could prove he was
cheating and he kept on winning money every night. Un-
cle Mark knew nobody could be that lucky. He got a deck
of the cards from a saloonkeeper and took it to his office.
He studied it for hours before he discovered how they
were marked at the factory. He arrested Harry Johnson,
who confessed he and the card salesman were partners."

Mr, Walters nodded his head. "That was a slick confi-
dence game," he said. "The salesman got the cards into the
saloons and then his partner came along and, using the
marked cards, had to win. I didn't like the looks of that
Harrison fellow with his manicured nails and waxed
moustache. They are his cards."

They went to the smoking car and waited until the
poker players finished playing a hand. Mr. Harrison won
again. Then Mr. Walters picked up the deck of cards.

"What is the idea?" Mr. Harrison asked. "You
checked these cards and so did these three gentlemen
before we started to play."

"Then you won't mind if my friend here takes a look

17

at them/' Mr. Walters said, handing the deck to Tom.

"That's the kid who sold us the food," Mr. Harrison
said. "What is this, some kind of a joke?"

The moment Tom spotted the marked deck of cards he
had put his great brain to work on how to take financial
advantage o£ the situation. He looked at Mr. Walters.

"If I can prove this deck is marked, will Mr. Harrison
have to return all the money he has won?" he said.

"He certainly will," the conductor said.

Then Tom looked at the three losing poker players.
"I figure it should be worth a dollar apiece to you to know
how these cards are marked so you can get your money
back," he said.

Mr. Baylor nodded his head. "You figure right, boy,"
he said.

Tom held the deck with the faces down and dealt out
five piles of cards with just four cards in four of the piles
and the rest in the fifth pile.

"This deck has a small diamond design on the back
like most playing cards," Tom said. "The diamonds are
arranged at the place where the cards are manufactured,
so anybody who knows the secret can tell how many high
cards the other players have by looking at the backs."

He pointed at one of the piles. "These four cards
have full diamonds across the top and bottom edges, which
means they are the four aces," he said.

Mr. Baylor turned the four cards over, revealing the
four aces.

Tom pointed at another pile. "These four cards have
half diamonds across the top and bottom edges, which
means they are the four kings," he said.

18

Mr. Baylor turned over the four kings,
"And this pile." Tom said, "has quarter diamonds
across the top and bottom edges, which means they are the
four queens."

Mr. Baylor turned over the four queens.
"This last pile of four cards," Tom said, "has full dia-
monds down both sides, which means they are the four
jacks." He turned over the four jacks himself. "All the
other cards in the deck have staggered full and half dia-
monds on all four edges. Mr. Harrison could tell by look-
ing at the backs of your cards whether you had an ace,
king, queen, or jack as a hole card playing stud poker, and
playing draw poker he could tell how many high cards you
held in your hands."

Mr. Baylor slammed his fist down on the suitcase.
"You low-down skunk of a card cheat," he said to Mr.
Harrison. "I'm going to drag you off this train at the next
stop and beat you to a pulp."

"Simmer down," Mr. Walters said- "As soon as Mr.
Harrison returns all the money he has won from you gen-
tlemen I will take him to the caboose and handcuff him to
a seat. He and the deck of cards will be turned over to the
police when we get to Salt Lake City. It will then be up to
you men to go to police headquarters and sign a com-
plaint."

And that is how Tom spotted a card shark and made
himself three dollars richer on his first train trip. Papa
had once said that if Tom fell down into a deep hole,
instead of breaking a leg The Great Brain would probably
discover a gold mine. But the way Tom ended his first let-
ter almost made a nervous wreck out of me waiting for his

19

next to arrive. And here is why-

"This has been a long letter, J.D.," Tom wrote. "So I
will have to wait until my next letter to tell you about the
rest of my first train ride and the most exciting experience
of my life. When you tell the kids in Adenville about it
they will all turn green with envy."

20

CHAPTER TWO

Tom at the Throttle

ALL WEEK I WONDERED what could possibly
have happened to Tom on his first train ride that made it
the most exciting experience of his life. When I finally re-
ceived his second letter I understood why he had said that
all the kids in town would turn green with envy. When I
showed the kids the letter they didn't actually turn green
any more than a yellow-bellied coward has a yellow belly.
But you never saw such a bunch of envious kids in your
life.

When Tom came home for the Christmas vacation
with Sweyn he told Papa, Mamma, Aunt Bertha, our four-
year-old foster brother Frankie, and me all about riding in

21

the locomotive from Provo to Salt I^ake City. Hearing him
tell it was ten times more exciting than reading about it.
Tom's great brain had already figured this out. He charged
the kids two cents apiece to enter our bam and listen to
him personally tell about his exciting experience. And
every kid in town from four years old to sixteen was there.

I, of course, had to get Sweyn's side of the story, which
was a little different from Tom's story. But by putting
both together I can tell just about exactly what did hap-
pen:

After collecting his three dollars from the grateful
poker players Tom went to the other end of the smoking
car and sat down beside the candy butcher. He collected
the seventy-five-cents worth of candy that the man owed
him.

"Why do they call you a butcher?" he asked.

"It is a show business slang word," the candy butcher
said. "In vaudeville and burlesque theaters men who sell
candy during intermission are called candy butchers.
When men began selling candy and things on trains the
name just stuck."

"I don't see how you make any money,*' Tom said.
"The train fare must eat up all the profits."

"I ride the trains free," the candy butcher said. "My
run is from Cedar City to Ogden and back."

Tom returned to his seat and dumped fifteen five-
cent bars of candy on it. "I made a deal with the candy
butcher," he told Sweyn. "He let me sell the rest of our
lunch if I'd buy candy with it. I got seventy-five cents."

"Half of that lunch was mine," Sweyn said. "You got
twenty cents from the salesman and seventy-five cents
more, which makes ninety-five cents. You can have the odd

22

nickel because you did all the work. Just give me my forty-
five cents in cash."

Poor old Sweyn was a dreamer if he thought he was
going to talk The Great Brain out of forty-five cents.

"If I remember correctly," Tom said, "you told me I
was a conniver for selling part of the lunch and Mamma
would have a fit if she knew about it. I sure as heck don't
want it on my conscience that I made a conniver out of my
own brother and made him partly responsible for our
mother having a fit. So I will just keep all the profits and
my conscience will be clear. But dividing the profits and
giving my brother some candy are two different things.
Help yourself to as many bars as you can eat."

Sweyn knew when he was beat. He helped himself to
a chocolate bar and a peanut bar. Tom put one bar of
candy in his pocket. Then he got down his suitcase and
put the remaining twelve bars of candy between his cloth-
ing.

Sweyn stared at him bug-eyed. "Just what do you
think you are doing?" he asked.

"If the fellows at the academy are only allowed ten
cents worth of candy every four weeks," Tom said, "I
shouldn't have any trouble selling these five-cent bars of
candy for a dime each. And once I get my candy store
going I'll make a fortune."

"Have you gone plumb loco?" Sweyn asked. "What
candy store?"

Tom closed his suitcase and put it back on the rack.
"The candy store I'm going to open at the academy," he
said, rubbing his hands together. "I'll double my money
on every bar of candy I sell."

"No you won't," Sweyn said. "There is no possible

23

way for you to smuggle enough candy into the academy
to start a candy store. And I'm not going to let you smug-
gle in even those twelve bars. I'll tell Father Rodriguez
they are in your suitcase."

Tom was as flabbergasted as a duck who discovers it
can't swim. "Do you mean to tell me you would inform on
your own brother?" he asked.

"I can't help it," Sweyn said. "I promised Mom and
Dad that I would keep an eye on you. And if you get into
any trouble they are going to blame me."

Tom munched on his bar of candy while he put his
great brain to work. "I sure feel sorry for you if you do
tell," he finally said. "That would force me to tetl all the
kids at the academy that my big brother is a tattletale. And
that, S.D., will make you about as popular as a skunk in a
parlor."

Sweyn was beat and knew it. "That's blackmail," he
said. "But all right. I want a signed statement from you that
any trouble you get into at the academy is your own fault.
I'll need it to show to Mom and Dad when you get ex-
pelled."

"That is fair enough," Tom said.

He got down his suitcase and removed a notebook
and pencil from it. Holding the suitcase on his knees he
wrote:

To Whom It May Concern:

No matter what happens to me at the Catholic
Academy for Boys I take all the blame personally.
T. D. Fitzgerald

He tore the page from the notebook and handed it to
Sweyn. "Does that satisfy you?" he asked.

24

Sweyn read the note. "I'm satisfied," he said.

Tom was no dummy. He handed the pencil and
notebook to Sweyn. "Now write what I tell you," he said.
"To whom it may concern: I promise not to interfere with
anything my brother does at the Catholic Academy for
Boys. And sign it."

Sweyn wrote the statement and handed it to Tom.
"I'm not interfering," he said. "Just giving you some
brotherly advice. Every once in a while they have an in-
spection at the academy. The priests search your locker,
desk, suitcase, and any other place you might hide candy
or magazines we aren't supposed to read or anything else
that might be forbidden."

"That is my worry now, not yours," Tom said. Then
he took the three silver dollars from his pocket and began
jingling them in his hand.

"Where did you get all that money?" Sweyn asked, as
astonished as could be.

Tom told him about the marked deck of cards and
the poker players. Sweyn couldn't help feeling a little en-
vious. Tom had made a neat profit of four dollars and
twenty cents on his first train ride and twenty-five cents of
that was formerly Sweyn's money. Papa had often said
when a person starts to envy another person the devil is
right there to whisper in his ear. Right then the devil was
whispering to Sweyn how he could get even.

"The money won't do you any good at the academy,"
he said. "There is no place to spend it."

"What's the matter with spending it outside the acad-
emy?" Tom asked.

"We only get outside the walls one day every four
weeks," Sweyn said. "Father Rodriguez or one of the other

25

priests is always with us even then. And all you can spend
is ten cents for candy."

"If you can't spend any money, where do you go?"
Tom asked.

"Sometimes the priests take us on a nature-study hike
or a picnic," Sweyn said. "Sometimes we just go sight-
seeing or to the museum or art gallery. And once in a
while as a treat we get to go to the Salt Lake Theater. Buy-
ing a ticket to get in is the only way you can spend any
money."

"What about sports?" Tom asked.

Sweyn was really enjoying the look of dismay on
Tom's face. "What sports?" he asked. "The only athletics
at the academy is one hour of calisthenics in the gymna-
sium on school days. And the gym is nothing but an old
barn with a hardwood floor."

By this time Tom was almost wishing he had been
born a Mormon or a Protestant. "You never told Papa and
Mamma it was like a prison," he said.

"I'm no crybaby," Sweyn said. And then he really
poured salt in Tom's wounds, "Thank the Lord this is my
last year at the academy, because they only have the sev-
enth and eighth grades. Next year I'll be going to high
school in Pennsylvania and living with some of Papa's rel-
atives. And while I'm enjoying myself there I promise I'll
think of you often, little brother, and of how you are suf-
fering at the academy."

Tom felt so down in the dumps he didn't even get
angry at the "little brother" bit. Sweyn made the academy
sound as if all the students had to wear striped-suits with
numbers on them. He knew there was only one thing to
do.

26

"No candy, no sports, no nothing," he said. "I guess
I'll have to put my great brain to work on it and get some
changes made at the academy."

"The only thing you will change will be yourself,"
Sweyn said, "from an enrolled student to an expelled stu-
dent. The Jesuit priests are plenty sharp because they have
been dealing with boys for years. You won't be able to put
anything over on them."

Did that discourage Tom? Heck no. He was con-
fident he could make life easier for himself and the other
kids at the academy.

A few minutes later Mr. Walters came into the coach.
"Provo is the next stop," he called out. "There will be a
twenty-minute stopover for passengers to get something to
eat. The dining room is located right next to the depot."

Sweyn stood up when the train stopped. "I'm, going to
get a glass of milk and piece of pie in the dining room," he
said.

"Go ahead," Tom said. "I'm not hungry."

Tom wasn't just twisting a Iamb's tail trying to make
it bark like a dog when he said he had to learn all about
trains by the time he arrived in Salt Lake City. But how
could he if he didn't get to ride in the locomotive? He
realized it was something every kid dreams about but only
one in a million ever gets to do.

He got off the train with Sweyn and walked up to
where the locomotive was preparing to take on water and
coal. He had seen many locomotives in Adenville but this
was the first time it had entered his mind that they were
things of beauty. The locomotive had the number 205 on
the round brass plate on its nose, a shiny brass bell, a
whistle and headlight, a blue steel belly, and gigantic

27

wheels. With smoke coming from the smokestack and
steam escaping from the cylinders it was almost as if the
locomotive was a living thing.

Tom walked back and waited for Mr. Walters to
come out of the stationmaster's office.

"Think they will ever have it so passengers can eat
right on a train?" he asked.

"It is coming, Tom," the conductor said. "We already
have sleeping cars on the main line invented by a man
named Pullman. And a man named Fred Harvey is work-
ing on a dining car that will serve hot meals right on the
train."

"You sure have taught me a lot about trains," Tom
said. "But I'll never know all I should unless you fix it so I
can ride in the locomotive from here to Salt Lake City."

'T can't do that, Tom," Mr. Walters said. "It is
against regulations."

The conductor didn't know it but he had walked
right into Tom's trap.

"It is also against regulations to let card sharks operate
on trains," Tom said. "This Harrison fellow could have
gone on cheating passengers for years if it hadn't been for
me. And you can report how these crooked decks of cards
are marked at the factory so other conductors will know
how to spot them. I figure the railroad owes me something
for that."

Mr. Walters nodded. "When you put it that way," he
said, "I agree the railroad owes you a ride in the locomo-
tive. But you'll get your clothes all dirty."

Tom was so happy he wanted to do a little dance.
"I've got a rain slicker and rain hat in my suitcase I can
wear."

28

"Go get them," Mr. Walters said. "But come up to
the locomotive on the other side of the train. I don't want
the stationmaster to see you. I haven't time to explain to
him right now."

Sweyn was back in his seat when Tom entered the
coach. He stared bug-eyed as Tom opened the suitcase
and put on his rain slicker and hat.

"Have you gone plumb loco?" he asked. "It isn't rain-
ing. And even if it was you can't get wet in here."

"I'm going to ride in the locomotive and don't want
to get my clothes dirty," Tom said.

"In a pig's eye," Sweyn said.

"Just make sure you take my suitcase off the train
when we get to Salt Lake City," Tom said.

Poor Sweyn just sat there with his mouth open as he
watched Tom leave the coach.

Tom ran around to the other side of the train and up
to the locomotive. He could hear Mr. Walters talking to
the engineer.

"Got a passenger for you. Ed, from here to Salt Lake
City," the conductor said. "He is a boy about eleven or
twelve years old. He has a curious mind and will ask you a
lot of questions."

"I get it," Ed said. "He must be the son of some big
shot on the railroad."

"I haven't time to explain now," Mr. Walters said.
"Just make sure he gets off on the opposite side from the
depot so the stationmaster doesn't see him. You'll find him
waiting on the other side now."

A moment later the engineer put his head out of the
cab window. "Come on up to the deck, boy," he said.

Tom was so excited he almost slipped and fell as he

29

climbed into the cab of the locomotive. The engineer was
wearing blue overalls, a blue shirt, and a blue cap with a
long visor. He had a red bandanna handkerchief tied
around his neck. The fireman was dressed the same but his
face, hands, and clothing were covered with coal dust.

"My name is Ed," the engineer said, "and the fire-
man's name is Bill. What is your name, boy?"

"Tom Fitzgerald," Tom answered.

The engineer scratched his forehead. "Funny," he
said, "but I never heard of any big shot on this railroad
by that name."

Tom knew he'd better change the subject quickly.
"Why did you tell me to come up to the deck?" he asked.
"I thought only boats had decks."

"The platform of a locomotive is called the deck by
railroad men," Ed answered. "Now stand back from the
gangway so Bill can slug the firebox."

Tom stepped back. He watched the fireman use the
end of a scoop shovel to open the door of the firebox. He
was surprised at the intense heat coming from the burning
coal. He watched Bill stoke the firebox with coal taken
from the tender.

"That ought to take care of it until we get to Salt Lake
City," Bill said, shutting the door of the firebox.

"We are going to have to pound her to make up for
the few minutes we are late," Ed said.

Tom was puzzled. "I understood 'gangway' meant
the rear part of the deck," he said. "And I knew when you
told Bill to slug the firebox you wanted him to put more
coal in it. But what do you mean by 'pounding' her?"

"It is railroad talk meaning we've got to get all the
speed we safely can out of this locomotive," Ed said. "See

30

that cord? The one on the left? It rings the bell to let pas-
sengers know we will be leaving in a few minutes. Don't
yank on it too hard or the bell will just spin around. You
can tell by the feel of the cord and the sound of the bell
when you are doing it just right."

Boy, oh, boy, was Tom in his glory. He never expected
they would let him ring the bell. He had heard locomotive
bells many times in Adenville. But the sound of the bell
on engine number 205 as he rang it was the most beautiful
sound he had ever heard.

"That's enough," Ed said. "I've got to look out the
cab window now so I can see when the conductor gives us
the highball. 'Highball' is another railroad term, Tom,
meaning the arm signal to start. Get your hand on that
other cord that blows the whistle. Give it two quick pulls
when you hear the conductor call 'All aboard.* "

By this time Tom was more excited than a dog chas-
ing a rabbit. In a couple of minutes he heard Mr.
Walters calling, "All aboard!"

Tom jerked the cord twice and heard two short blasts
from the steam whistle. "Do we start now?" he asked.

"Not until the conductor gives me the arm signal," Ed
said. "There it is. Now grab that handrailing so you don't
fall."

Tom took hold of the handrailing. He watched the
engineer release the air brakes. Ed turned a valve, then put
his left hand on a bar about two feet long with a round
handle on one end.

"This used to be called a Johnson bar," Ed said, "but
now we call it the throttle. The farther I push it forward
the more steam pressure it will release to the cylinders
and the faster we will go. I take it nice and easy so we

31

don't jerk the cars we are pulling until we get under way.
A steam locomotive is about the simplest machine ever
invented. But each one is just a little bit different. You
take this one. I have to sort of coax it and drive it by the
feel of the throttle."

The train began to move as Ed slowly pushed the
throttle forward.

"Why do you say it is a simple machine?" Tom asked.

"It has a firebox into which we put coal to burn," Ed
said as the train began to pick up speed. "This heats the
water in the boiler, producing steam. The steam is re-
leased to each cylinder and its pressure pushes the pistons.
The pistons are attached to rods which are connected with
the drivers. The steam pressure in the cylinders moves the
pistons back and forth, and this moves the rods that make
the drivers go around."

"Why do you call the wheels 'drivers'?" Tom asked.

"Because they are the wheels that actually drive the
locomotive," Ed answered. "This is an American type
4-4-0 locomotive which means the drive wheels are four-
and-a-half feet high. The drivers on a locomotive built to
pull a freight train are smaller, which gives the wheels
more pulling power. And on fast passenger trains they use
locomotives with larger drivers because the bigger the
drivers the faster a locomotive can go."

Tom was getting used to the rocking motion of the
locomotive and he let go of the handrail. "How fast will
number 205 go?" he asked.

"She will do a mile a minute on a straightaway," Ed
answered. "And Walters was certainly right. You do have
a curious mind."

Tom didn't want the engineer to get bored answer-

32

ing questions. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I must learn all
about locomotives by the time we reach Salt Lake City. I
won't ask any more questions if you don't want me to
though."

"Go ahead and ask all the questions you want," Ed
said.

"What is the fastest a train will go?" Tom asked,
quickly taking advantage of the offer.

"Engine number 999. pulling the Empire State Ex-
press between Syracuse and Buffalo, New York, ran a
measured mile at one-hundred-twelve-and-a-half miles per
hour back in 1893," Ed said.

"Boy, oh, boy!" Tom exclaimed. "That is really trav-
eling."

"We are coming to a road crossing," Ed said. "Grab
the whistle cord and give three long blasts."

Tom pulled the cord. He discovered as long as he
held it down the whistle kept on blowing and when he let
it up the whistle stopped.

A few minutes later Ed spoke to the fireman. "We
are coming to that bad curve now, Bill," he said. "I'm go-
ing to take it ten miles above our usual speed. You know
what to do."

Tom was astonished as he saw Bill go to the side of the
cab opposite the engineer, place his hands against it, and
push.

"As long as you are here, Tom," Bill said, "give me a
hand so engine number 205 doesn't tip over."

Tom stood beside Bill and began to push. He could
hear Bill grunting as if using all his strength as they went
around the curve. Tom pushed as hard as he could until
he heard both Ed and Bill laughing.

33

"Don't feel bad about it, Tom," Ed said. "I had a
green fireman one time who fell for it too. And to make
up for playing a little joke on you, I'm going to let you
drive engine 205. No sense in riding in a locomotive if you
can't tell your friends you drove one. Get over here in
front of me and put your left hand on the throttle and
your head out the tab window."

Tom did as he was toid.

"We've got a straightaway coming up now for a few
miles," Ed said. "I'm going to give it all old number 205
has got."

Tom felt Ed pushing the throttle forward. With his
head out the cab window and the wind whistling in his
ears, it seemed as if they were flying.

"I'm going to take my hand off the throttle now," the
engineer said. "Hold her steady. There you go, Tom.
You are now driving number 205 at sixty miles an hour."

Tom said later that was the happiest moment of his
life. Many times in his life he had made his great brain
work like sixty. But this was the first time he had ever
actually traveled at sixty miles an hour. Ed only let him
drive the locomotive for about a minute but that was
enough.

It was with a feeling of regret that he said good-bye to
Ed and Bill when the train arrived at the depot in Salt
Lake City.

"Good-bye and thanks," he said. "I'll remember both
of you and number 205 for the rest of my life."

"Bill and I enjoyed having you with us," Ed said.
"When we were boys your age we both used-to dream
about riding in a locomotive. I guess that is why we be-
came railroad men."

34




Tom climbed down the iron rungs of the locomo-
tive to the ground. Then he went around the train to
meet Sweyn.

Tom was just about the happiest kid in the world
right then. But he sure as heck wasn't a happy kid for long.
And if he'd known what lay ahead of him that day he
would have probably climbed back into the cab of the
locomotive and just kept on going.

36

CHAPTER THREE

Off on the Wrong Foot

I WAS SURPRISED when Tom wrote me that he
had got off on the wrong foot at the academy but that it
wasn't anything serious. For my money, any trouble The
Great Brain got into had to be serious. Papa was hoping
the Jesuit priests would reform Tom. That to me was like
hoping the priests would gel rid of the freckles on Tom's
face. I found out I was right when Father Rodriguez sent
the first monthly report on Tom's and Sweyn's progress
and deportment. These reports were sent to the parents
of all students every month.

Papa always stopped at the post office at the end of
his day's work, but he never opened the mail until after

37

supper. Mamma said it was because Papa didn't want to
spoil his appetite if there was any bad news in the mail.
It was a good system because Papa wouldn't have been able
to eat a bite if he'd read the report on Tom before supper.

Papa waited until after the dishes were put away and
then read the reports aloud to Mamma, Aunt Bertha, and
me in the parlor. He read the report on Sweyn first and
when he finished he looked as pleased as a rabbit with two
carrots. But by the time he finished Tom's report his
cheeks were so blown up with anger I thought he would
blow his teeth right out of his mouth.

"I'll wager they expel him and send him home!" he
shouted, waving the report in the air like it was a red flag
and he was a bull-
Mamma took it very calmly. "He just needs time to
adjust," she said.

"Adjust?" Papa cried. "The Great Brain will have a
difficult time adjusting in heaven." And then he added,
"If he ever gets there."

I didn't blame Papa for being so upset. The report
was in polite language but made it very plain that if Tom
didn't mend his ways he would be sent home. I didn't get
all the details of what had happened until my brothers
came home for the Christmas vacation. And, of course,
what Tom told me and what Sweyn told me and what
Father Rodriguez wrote in his report were three slightly
different stories. So I have to be sort of a detective to
figure out exactly what happened.

Tom met Sweyn on the platform in back of the depot
in Salt Lake City. If there was any truth in that business
about people turning green with envy Sweyn would have

38

been the color of our grass in the summertime.

"I thought you were joking," he said, "until the con-
ductor told me you were actually riding in the locomotive.
How did you ever pull that off?"

"When a fellow has a great brain, anything is pos-
sible," Tom said, taking off the raincoat and hat.

"Well, you had better put your great brain to work
on a way to get cleaned up before Father O'Malley sees
you," Sweyn said. "You look like a chimney sweep with
that soot and coal dust all over your face. Maybe you can
sneak into the washroom in the depot and wash up."

But Tom didn't get a chance to wash up. Father
O'Malley was waiting for them just inside the doorway of
the depot. He was a middle-aged man wearing the tradi-
tional black robe and hood of a Jesuit priest. The hood
was pushed back on his neck, revealing a head that was
bald except for a fringe of hair around the edges. There
was a braided cord around his waist and a crucifix hang-
ing from a chain around his neck. His cheeks were rosy
red, as if somebody had just pinched them.

"Welcome back, Sweyn," he said as they shook
hands. "I trust the good Lord gave you a pleasant journey
from Adenville." Then he looked at Tom. "And this must
be your brother Thomas, who doesn't look as if he had a
pleasant journey at all."

"I rode in the cab of the locomotive from Provo,"
Tom said proudly, still thrilled by the ride.

"Did you now?" Father O'Malley said. "That is
something I've always wanted to do. You must tell me all
about it some time, Thomas."

"Please don't call me Thomas," Tom said. "It sounds
kind of sissified. Please call me Tom instead."

39

"I doubt if anyone would call your patron saint,
Thomas, a sissy," Father O'Malley said. "However, I
will call you Tom if you prefer. But Father Rodriguez may
take an entirely different point of view."

"Speaking of Father Rodriguez," Sweyn said, "can my
brother wash up before we go to the academy?"

"I'm sorry, Sweyn," the priest said. "But my orders
are to deliver the out-of-town boys exactly the way they
arrive. If it wasn't for this rule they would all want to
wash up, clean the dirt from beneath their fingernails, put
on a clean shirt and necktie, and anything else that might
help make a good first impression on Father Rodriguez."

Sweyn looked at Tom. "That means on your first day
you'll get demerits," he said.

Did that bother Tom? Heck no.

"It was worth getting demerits to ride in a locomo-
tive," he said.

He followed Sweyn and the priest out of the depot to
where several horse-drawn liveries were waiting. Their
drivers were soliciting customers by proclaiming good
accommodations and free transportation to the various
hotels. Father O'Malley stopped when they came to a sin-
gle horse hitched to a buggy with two seats. He got into
the front; seat and Tom and Sweyn climbed into the rear.

"Have you ever been to Salt Lake City before, Tom?"
the priest asked.

"No, Father," Tom answered.

"Then I shall give you a very short tour of it," the
priest said.

Father O'Malley drove without speaking until they
came to Temple Square. "The six-spired gray granite
building is the Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of

40

Latter-day Saints," he said. "Construction was begun in
1853 but it wasn't completed until forty years later. The
big building with a roof that resembles the back of a huge
tortoise is the Mormon Tabernacle. The acoustics are re-
markable. You can drop a pin at one end and hear it drop
at the other end two hundred feet away."

Tom had read all about the temple and tabernacle.
But what excited him most were the horse-drawn street-
cars, the tall buildings, and the crowds of people as they
drove down Main Street.

They left the business district and Father O'Malley
pointed out Saint Mary's Academy for Catholic Girls and
the Presbyterian Westminster College. After seeing these
two schools Tom was very disappointed when they arrived
at the Catholic Academy. Sweyn had told him it had once
been the home of a wealthy Catholic who had donated it
to the Jesuits for a school. Tom didn't blame the wealthy
Catholic for not wanting to live there anymore. It might
have been a nice neighborhood at one time but now the
big homes had been turned into cheap rooming houses
or torn down to make way for factories and warehouses.

The academy itself was a three-story wooden building
with dormer windows in the attic, making it look four
stories tall. Its white paint was a dirty gray color from the
smokestacks of surrounding factories and so blistered with
age that it was peeling from some of the boards. One side
of the academy was flush up against the sidewalk. The
other three sides were enclosed within a high rock wall
that had a gate at the front entrance.

Tom had to admit the grounds looked nice with trees
and shrubs and a green lawn. But one thing surprised
him. There were statues of saints all over the place. It

41

looked as if every Catholic in Salt Lake City had donated
a statue of his patron saint. A gravel circular driveway led
up to the entrance, where there was a huge statue of Saint
Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus.

"Well, Tom," Father O'Malley said as they stopped at
the entrance. "What do you think of the academy?"

"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, Father,"
Tom said, "I think it could use a little more paint and a
few less statues."

"You are so right," the priest agreed. "But I suppose
we should thank the Lord that enough money was donated
to remodel the home into an academy. You boys go right
in. Father Rodriguez is expecting you. I must return this
horse and buggy to the livery stable."

Tom followed Sweyn up stone steps and into the
academy. They entered a long hallway with white painted
walls and a highly polished hardwood floor. There was a
statue of Saint Paul in one corner, one of Saint Anthony
in another corner, and between them a statue of the Vir-
gin Mary with child. Sweyn put down his suitcase and
pointed to a large room at the left. It was furnished with
chairs and tables and there were bookcases filled with
books covering two of the walls.

"That is the library and visiting room," Sweyn said.
"On the same side down the hall is the dining room and
beyond it the kitchen. On the right is Father Rodriguez's
office and next to it his bedroom. Then comes the chapel
and the bedrooms of the other priests. The stairway at the
end of the hall leads up to the classrooms on the second
floor and the dormitory on the third floor. Maybe you can
sneak up to the washroom and clean up before we see
Father Rodriguez."

42

"It wouldn't do any good," Tom said. "Father O'Mal-
ley is sure to mention to him how I look."

"We will leave our suitcases here," Sweyn said. Then
he walked over and knocked on a door that had a brass
plate on it reading:

FATHER RODRIGUEZ

SUPERINTENDENT

"Come in," a baritone voice called.

If Tom had known what that deep voice had in
store for him, he would have taken Sweyn's advice and
tried to sneak upstairs. But the trouble was that Tom
judged all Jesuit priests by the only priest he knew, Father
Joe- His real name was Father Giovanni but nobody could
pronounce it right so everybody called him Father Joe.
He was known as "the priest on horseback" because he cov-
ered such a big territory all over southwestern Utah.
Father Joe only came to Adenville once a year for one
week. During that week he baptized Catholic babies, mar-
ried Catholics, and held confessions and masses in the
Community Church because we didn't have a Catholic
church in Adenville. Father Joe was a regular fellow who
smoked cigars and wasn't above taking a nip now and then.

During Father Joe's last visit to Adenville Tom had
borrowed books from the priest about the Society of Jesus
and spent hours questioning Father Joe. Tom believed he
had to know all about the Jesuits because he was going to
a Jesuit academy.

He learned that the Society of Jesus was founded in
1534 by Saint Ignatius Loyola and six companions in
Paris. They submitted a constitution for the religious or-
der to Pope Paul III in 1540. It was approved a year later

43

and Saint Ignatius was elected general of the order. The
society grew in numbers until the 1660s and 1670s, when
monarchs jealous of the Jesuits' power suppressed the or-
der in the Spanish dominions and in France. Later Pope
Clement XIV dissolved the order and it ceased to exist
except in Russia. It was reestablished in 1814 by Pope Pius
VII and became the largest religious order in the Catho-
lic church.

The Jesuits distinguished themselves in three fields:

their foreign missions, Jesuit schools, and their study of
the arts and sciences. They were the first Christian mission-
aries to live with the American Indians, where they were
known as the Black Robes. They preached Christianity
and taught many Indian chiefs the French and English
languages.

Tom learned that it took sixteen years to become a
Jesuit priest. A novice had to spend two years in spiritual
training and then take the three vows of chastity, poverty,
and obedience. He then became a scholastic. He spent five
years studying the arts and sciences, five years teaching,
three more years of theological study, and finally another
year of spiritual training before he could be ordained a
Jesuit priest.

Oh, yes, Tom knew a great deal about the Jesuits.
But what he didn't know was that the only resemblance
between Father Joe and Father Rodriguez was that both
of them were Jesuit priests.

The superintendent was sitting behind a desk in a
very sparsely furnished office when Tom entered with
Sweyn. The only furniture was the desk and a chair and a
large bookcase. There was a large crucifix on the white

44

wall behind the desk and near it a narrow board with a
peg, from which hung a ring of keys. There wasn't even a
carpet on the floor. Tom began to think that if this was
the best they could do for the superintendent, the students
must have to sleep on the floor.

Father Rodriguez was a man Tom judged to be about
forty-five. The priest was wearing the traditional black
robe with the hood pushed to the back of his neck. He had
jet-black hair and a swarthy complexion inherited from
his Spanish ancestors. But the dominant impression Tom
had of the superintendent were the eyes and the face. The
eyes were as black as wet coal and the stern face looked as
if it would break if the priest smiled.

"Welcome back to the academy, Sweyn," he said in
his deep voice. "I see that God has treated you well during

your vacation."

"Thank you, Father," Sweyn said. "I am happy to be

back. May I present my brother Tom, I mean, Thomas."

Father Rodriguez stared at Tom with those coal-
black eyes. "Well, Thomas, what have you to say for your-
self?" he asked.

"I guess you mean about the way I look," Tom said.
"I rode in the cab of the locomotive from Provo to Salt
Lake City. And please, I would rather be called Tom, not

Thomas."

If Tom expected the superintendent to react the
same way as Father O'Malley, he was as mistaken as a rab-
bit Chat challenges a hound dog to a fight.

"We expect our students to be presentable when they
arrive," the priest said sternly. "Your punishment for ar-
riving in this condition will be five days of peeling potatoes

45




in the kitchen. And here at the academy, Thomas, you will
be known by the name you were baptized."

Tom didn't think the priest was being fair. It was a
great honor to ride in a locomotive. Father Rodriguez
acted as if it was no more than riding a horse.

At home Papa always encouraged us boys to speak up
if a punishment seemed unfair. So Tom said, "I don't
think I should be punished for doing something every kid
in the world dreams of doing."

"What you think and what I think are two different
matters," Father Rodriguez said sharply. "And your in-
solence to your superiors is going to cost you five demerits.
There is more to getting an education than just putting
knowledge in your head. The purpose of this academy is
to guide, nourish, and stimulate a boy's mind and heart.
And to develop intelligent, spiritually vigorous, cultured,
healthy, vocationally prepared, and socially minded Amer-
ican Catholics. And part of that training is to instill in you
respect for your elders and superiors."

Did that shut Tom up? Heck no. He was so angry that
he didn't use his great brain at all.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I still don't think it is right
to be punished for riding in a locomotive."

"That remark is going to cost you another five de-
merits," the superintendent, said. "We shall tame your
tongue and your temper, Thomas, and believe me we
shall tame you."

Sweyn tried to put in a word for Tom. "Please,
Father," he pleaded, "my brother isn't used to priests. We
only saw a missionary priest once a year back home. He
really doesn't mean to be disrespectful."

47

"I am aware that your brother has received very lit-
tle religious instruction," Father Rodriguez said. "But nei-
ther did you and we had no trouble at all with you last
year. You were a well-behaved and model student."

"Tom is different because he has a great brain,"
Sweyn said.

"Do you mean he is a precocious child?" Father
Rodriguez asked. "That could possibly account for his
being temperamental."

Tom didn't like having the priest and Sweyn discuss
him as if he weren't even in the room.

"I'm not a child," he said. "I'm almost twelve years
old. And I'm just as levelheaded as the next fellow."

The superintendent's eyes seemed to become even
darker and the stern face more unyielding as he looked at
Tom.

"Your father wrote me that I could expect some trou-
ble with you," he said, to Tom's astonishment. "I will
now give you a fair warning, Thomas. If you want to re-
main here you will obey all the rules and regulations and
show proper respect for your elders and superiors. Is that
understood?"

"Yes," Tom answered.

"Yes what?" the superintendent asked.

"Yes, Father," Tom said.

Tom admitted he felt completely defeated at that
moment. It wasn't due to Father Rodriguez. Just knowing
that Papa had so little confidence in him, he felt as if his
own flesh and blood had deserted him.

Then the superintendent appeared to relax a little as
he leaned back in his chair. "If you have any money you
want to turn over to me," he said, "you may do so. There is

48

no place to spend it inside the academy. And one of the
rules of the academy is that candy is forbidden except on
every fourth Saturday. It is bad for a boy's teeth and
health. If you have any candy you must turn it over to me.
I will send it to the orphanage."

That was one time Tom sure as heck wanted to say
what was on his mind. If candy was bad for the teeth and
health of the boys at the academy why wasn't it bad for the
kids in the orphanage? But he used his great brain and
kept his mouth shut, knowing it would only mean more

demerits.

Sweyn said, "I knew better than to bring any candy

with me."

Tom knew he couldn't lie to a priest but the candy
had cost him sixty cents. His great brain came to the res-
cue.

"I haven't any candy on me," he said, which was the
truth because the candy was in his suitcase and not on his
person.

Sweyn looked so startled Tom was afraid our brother
would spill the beans. Fortunately the superintendent was
looking at him, not at Sweyn.

"You two are the last to arrive," Father Rodriguez
said. "Sweyn, you take bunk number ten on the eighth-
grade side and show your brother to bunk number ten on
the seventh-grade side. You are both excused."

If I had been in Tom's shoes I wouldn't even have
unpacked my suitcase. Any fellow who could get ten de-
merits in about ten minutes was sure to get another ten in
a hurry and be expelled.

"It didn't take you long to get Father Rodriguez
down on you," Sweyn said when they were in the hallway.

49

"And you get caught with that candy in your suitcase and
you will be expelled for sure."

"You signed a statement not to interfere," Tom said as
they picked up their suitcases.

Sweyn just shook his head as they walked down the
hallway.

"Want to see the chapel?" he asked.

Tom had never been inside a Catholic church or seen
a chapel.

"Sure," he said.

Tom was surprised at how beautiful the chapel was
after the austerity of the superintendent's office. The altar
was made from stone with a crucifix and a tabernacle to
contain the reserved Host in the middle. There were small
statues of saints in niches on the walls. On one side of the
altar was a statue of the Virgin Mary and on the other a
statue of Saint Jude Thaddeus. Next to each was a confes-
sional. And the chapel was one place where there was car-
peting in the aisle.

"Don't they have an organ and a choir?" Tom asked.

"They are going to try to raise enough money to buy
an organ this year," Sweyn answered. "And Father O'Mal-
ley picks just six boys each year for the choir. I'm going to
light a candle and say a prayer to Saint Jude for you."

Catholics only prayed to Saint Jude when their trou-
bles seemed hopeless and desperate. Sweyn did the right
thing in asking Saint Jude to help Tom. He knew he was
going to need all the help the saint could give to prevent
The Great Brain from being expelled from the academy.

Right then Tom was feeling pretty hopeless and des-
perate himself. He had only been in the academy about
fifteen minutes and already had received ten demerits

50

and five days of peeling potatoes as punishment. But he
didn't want Sweyn to know how he felt. So he knelt in the
back row of the chapel and said A Universal Prayer for all
Things Necessary to Salvation. It was a good choice in my
opinion because part of that prayer was asking God to
make Tom always remember to be submissive to his su-
periors.

They left the chapel and after picking up their suit-
cases walked up to the second floor.

"The seventh-grade classroom is on the left," Sweyn
said, "and the eighth-grade classroom on the right. There
is a washroom and a dispensary at the end of the hall.
Father Rodriguez takes care of any boy who gets sick."

Then Sweyn put his arm around Tom's shoulders.
"As brother to brother, do me and yourself a favor, T.D.,"
he said, calling Tom by his initials because that is how
Papa often addressed us. We all had the same middle
name, Dennis, because of a family tradition.

"What favor?" Tom asked.

"Get rid of the candy in your suitcase," Sweyn said.
"We can go into the washroom on this floor and open
window and throw it down into the street."

"No," Tom said.

"If it is the money you are worrying about," Sweyn
said, "I'll give you the sixty cents to get rid of it."

That, for my money, was a darn generous offer for
Sweyn to make. But did Tom accept? Heck no. His money-
loving heart wouldn't let him.

"Why should I sell the candy to you for sixty cents
when there are kids in the dormitory who will give me a
dollar and twenty cents for it?" he asked.

That made Sweyn angry, and who could blame him?

51

To try to save Tom he was willing to hand over a small
fortune. "There is a limit to my brotherly love," he said.
"If you think that I'm going to let you connive me out of
a dollar and twenty cents, you are sadly mistaken, little
brother. Go ahead and get yourself expelled. I'm afraid
even Saint Jude can't help you."

"Know what your trouble is, S.D.?" Tom said. "Like
all people with little brains you worry about things that
never happen."

But Tom was going to learn as time passed that even
people who have great brains can get into plenty of trou-
ble.

52

CHAPTER FOUR

Tom^s First Day at the Academy

I DON'T KNOW if it was Saint Jude helping out or
not but Tom did get through his first day at the academy
without any more demerits. His next letter told me all
about it.

He and Sweyn walked up to the third floor. There
was a statue of Saint Francis in one corner at the end of
the hallway. Sweyn told Tom the dormitory and washroom
were on the right and there was a big storeroom on the
left. The dormitory was a rectangular room with white
walls and a bare wooden floor. There were ten beds, ten
desks, ten lockers, and ten chairs lined up on each side of
the room. On the wall at one end was a colored picture of

53

the Sacred Heart of Jesus and on the wall at the other end
a large crucifix.

Several eighth graders who knew Sweyn crowded
around to shake hands and say hello. He introduced them
to Tom. A boy named Rory Flynn who had dark hair and
flashing eyes pointed at Tom's face.

"What happened to you?" he asked. "Did you fall into
a coal bin on your way here?" He laughed.

"I rode in the cab of the locomotive from Provo to
Salt Lake City," Tom said.

All the kids stared at Tom as it he had just said he'd
descended from heaven.

"It's the truth," Sweyn said.

That made Tom a hero. The boys wouldn't even let
him go wash up until he had told them all about the ride.
Then he went to the washroom with a red-headed seventh
grader following him. The boy waited until Tom had
cleaned up and then held out his hand.

"My name is Jerry Moran," he said. "I've got bunk
number nine, next to you."

They shook hands and then returned to the dormi-
tory. Tom put his suitcase on his bunk and began to un-
pack. When the kids saw the candy they all crowded
around his bunk.

"Didn't you tell your brother bringing candy into the
academy is against the rules?" Rory Flynn asked Sweyn.

"I told him," Sweyn said, beginning to unpack his
own suitcase.

An eighth grader with a thin face pointed at Tom.
"You lied to Father Rodriguez," he said.

Tom walked over and stood in front of the boy. "No-
body calls T.D. Fitzgerald a liar and gets away with it,"

54

he said. "You take that back or fight me."

The boy was older and bigger than Tom. But it was
as plain as a fly on your nose that he was a coward. His
lips began to tremble.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I take it back."

Tom accepted the apology and then faced the other
kids. "Just so you all understand," he said, "Father Ro-
driguez asked me if I had any candy. I told him I didn't
have any candy on me. I wasn't lying because the candy
was in my suitcase."

Rory patted Sweyn on the back. "We'll help your
brother eat the candy so he doesn't get into any trouble,"
he said.

"If any of you kids want a bar of candy," Tom said,
"it will cost you a dime."

"But they are only nickel bars of candy," Rory pro-
tested.

"That is the price in a store," Tom said. "Ten cents
is the price in the academy."

Rory was completely flabbergasted as he stared at
Sweyn. "What kind of a brother have you got?" he asked.

"An eighteen-karat conniver," Sweyn answered.

That for my money was a low-down thing for Sweyn
to say about his own brother. But he told me he had to
do it so that once Tom started swindling them, the kids
couldn't say he hadn't warned them.

Rory must have been peeved at not getting a free bar
of candy. "Maybe you did put one over on Father Ro-
driguez,'* he said. "But smuggling candy into the academy
is not only against the rules but also a sin."

Tom knew right then if he expected to open a candy
store he had to convince the kids of two things. First that

55

buying candy from him was not a sin. And that having
candy and eating it inside the academy wasn't against the
rules. His great brain began to work like sixty. He re-
moved his catechism and his Bible from his suitcase and
placed them on the bunk. Then he took the three silver
dollars from his pocket and put them on the bunk.

"Now put your money where your mouth is, Rory,"
he said. "I'll bet those three silver dollars against just
twenty-five cents of your own money that you can't show
me any place in the catechism or the Bible where it says
that it is a sin for a fellow to have all the candy he wants in
a Catholic academy."

Rory must have known he would lose that bet. "So it
isn't a sin," he said. "But it is against the rules."

Tom had expected Rory to say this and already his
great brain had figured out an answer. "Sweyn told me all
the fellows are allowed to buy ten cents worth of candy
once every tour weeks," he said. "Is that right?"

Rory and the other kids nodded their heads.

"Now suppose," Tom said, "that each of us bought
ten cents worth of licorice sticks and we cut them up into
twenty-eight pieces. And every day for twenty-eight days
we ate just one piece of the licorice sticks. And when the
four weeks were up we bought another ten cents worth of
candy and divided it up so we could eat one piece each day
until another four weeks passed. And we kept on doing
this until school ended. We would be eating candy every
day of the school year right here in the 'academy without
breaking any rules. Am I right?"

Tom knew when all the kids began to nod their heads
that he had won his argument. "So," he said, "there is no
rule against any student eating candy any time he wants."

56

Jerry Moran took a dime out of his pocket and handed
it to Tom. "I'll take one of those bars with peanuts on
top," he said.

Tom sold three more bars of candy, including one to
Rory Flynn, giving him a profit of twenty cents. He could
have sold more but the rest of the kids had turned their
money in to the superintendent, knowing they couldn't
spend any for four weeks. Tom knew they would all get
money from their parents on visiting days or by mail once
he got his candy store operating. There wasn't a doubt in
his mind that he would make a fortune.

He finished unpacking and then spent the next cou-
ple of hours getting acquainted with his fellow seventh
graders. He took a liking to three of them for three differ-
ent reasons. He liked Jerry Moran because he believed the
red-headed kid was the sort of fellow who would be
game for anything. He liked Phil Martin because there
was something about the blond boy that made him feel he
could trust Phil implicitly. Tony Colacci was a tall boy
with dark hair and a long nose. Tom believed he was a
sensitive kid who would value his friendship to the point
where he could get the boy to do anything he wanted. The
four of them were sitting on Tom's bunk talking when a
bell rang.

Sweyn came over and told them that the bell was the
signal for everybody to wash up for supper. Tom didn't
go to the washroom because he had washed the soot and
coal dust from himself after arriving. Anyway he needed
this opportunity to hide the candy. He remembered the
statue of Saint Francis in the hallway. He waited until all
the boys were in the washroom, and then went out in the
hall. Saint Francis proved to be a good friend. The statue

57

was set on a hollow base that had an opening in the back.
Tom hid the candy there and then returned to the dormi-
tory He wasn't afraid of anybody stealing the candy. But
he was sure that among the ten eighth graders and the
other nine seventh graders there had to be at least one
tattletale.

When the kids returned to the dormitory Rory Flynn
began giving the seventh graders orders

"All you little seventh graders line up two by-two in
the aisle," he said

Tom walked over to Sweyn "What is this all about?"
he asked

"It is called hazing," Sweyn said "Ail seventh graders
have to go through it for a week I did last year."

Tom got in line beside Jerry The eighth graders
began to inspect the hands, faces, and necks of the seventh
graders

"Shame on you," Rory said as he looked behind
Tom's ears "You didn't wash behind your ears "

"I did so," Tom said

"Seventh graders are forbidden to contradict eighth
graders during hazing week," Rory said "Go wash behind
your ears "

The eighth graders made all the seventh graders go
to the washroom and stood over them to make sure they all
washed up again When they returned to the dormitory
they were lined up again

"Stand at attention and salute the eighth graders,"
Rory ordered

Tom stood at attention with his fellow seventh grad-
ers until the supper bell finally rang

58




"At ease," Rory said. "You may go down to the din-
ing room now."

The dining room had a long wooden table with
benches. There were a tin bow), a tin plate, a tin cup, a
napkin, and a knife, fork, and spoon for each student.
Father Rodriguez was sitting on a high stool at the head of
the table. He waited until all the seventh graders were
standing on one side of the table and eighth graders on the
other side.

"You may sit down now," he said. "But there wit! be
no talking. For the benefit of you new boys it is our custom
to assign two seventh graders and two eighth graders for
kitchen and dining-room duty each week. These four stu-
dents will be excused from morning prayer and will report
to Father Petrie at six thirty each morning. I will now call
out the names of the first four boys in alphabetical order:

Harold Adams, Peter Brennan, John Burton, and Frank
Carver. You four boys will remain after supper to help
Father Petrie wash and dry the dishes and perform any
other duties he may assign to you. For this one meal only
Father O'Malley and Father Wegland will serve you."

The two priests came out of the kitchen carrying large
buckets with ladles in them. Father Wegland was a tall,
thin-faced man who walked with a slight limp. Tom
learned later that the priest had a club foot. They filled
the tin bowls with vegetable soup. Two seventh graders
grabbed their spoons and were about to start eating.

"You will not start to eat until I have said grace,"
Father Rodriguez said.

Tom had to wait until Father O'Malley and Father
Wegland filled the tin cups with milk, gave each boy two
slices of bread, filled the tin plates with ham hocks and

60

lima beans, and placed two sugar cookies by each boy's
plate. Not until then did Father Rodriguez say Grace Be-
fore Meals.

Tom couldn't honestly say the food was bad. He was
used to Mamma's and Aunt Bertha's cooking and com-
pared to theirs the food was bad. The soup was almost cold
by the time he could eat it. And by the time he'd finished
the soup, the ham hocks and lima beans were no longer
warm. But he had to admit the sugar cookies were deli-
cious.

When the meal was over Father Rodriguez said Grace
After Meals and excused all but the four boys he'd named
for kitchen and dining-room duty. The eighth graders
had entered the dining room last and were the first to
leave- Sweyn was waiting for Tom at the foot of the stair-
way.

"That kid Willie Connors who said you lied dropped
out of line," Sweyn said. "He is going to snitch on you so
you had better get rid of that candy."

"Let him snitch." Tom said as they started up the
stairway. "My great brain is a long way ahead of Willie
Connors." Then he changed the subject. "You never told
me the kids have to work like dogs here even when they
aren't being punished. Our parents pay to send us here
and Father Rodriguez expects us to do all the work."

"Don't be silly," Sweyn said. "There isn't a priest
here who doesn't put in at least fourteen hours a day.
Father Petrie does alt the marketing and cooking and
teaches when one of the other priests is ill- Father Wegland
teaches and does all the carpentry and all the laundry and
sewing for the kids as well as the priests. Father O'Malley
teaches all day and takes care of the grounds outside and

61

is the barber for all the fellows. Father Rodriguez teaches
in addition to doing all the clerical and bookkeeping work
himself and running the academy. If anybody works like a
dog around here it is the Jesuit priests."

Tom admitted that made him feel ashamed. "I
didn't know all that," he said.

Upstairs Tom sat on his bunk talking with Jerry,
Phil, and Tony. In a few minutes Willie Connors entered
the dormitory. About five minutes later Father Rodriguez
arrived.

"Stand at the foot of your bunks for inspection," the
superintendent ordered.

Tom couldn't help but smile as he watched the priest
make a rapid inspection of the lockers, desks, and suit-
cases of the other students. But when Father Rodriguez
came to Tom's bunk the priest made a very thorough search
of everything, even pulling down the bed clothes and
looking under the mattress. And then he searched Tom
personally. Father Rodriguez looked even more mystified
than the kids when he didn't find any candy.

As he walked out of the dormitory Jerry patted Tom
on the back. "You sure put one over on Father Rodri-
guez," he said.

"You mean on Willie Connors," Tom said as he
started walking toward the snitcher's bunk.

Willie backed up against the wall, looking as fright-
ened as a mouse cornered by a tomcat. "You hit me and
I'll tell Father Rodriguez," he cried.

"I'm not going to hit you, Willie," he said. "That
would be letting you off too easy." Then Tom turned to
face the other fellows. "I'm going to cure him of being a

62

tattletale. That way we won't have to worry about him
snitching on us for the rest of the school year."

"You can't cure him," Rory said. "He snitched on
everybody all last year."

"We have a cure for a tattletale back home," Tom
said. "It's called the silent treatment. That means none of
us will speak to Willie and if he speaks to us we'll just pre-
tend we don't hear him. We won't have anything to do
with Willie Connors the snitcher. If we alt give him the
silent treatment for a week maybe that will cure him. If
not, we will give him the silent treatment for the rest of
the school year. Are you with me, fellows?"

The rest of the seventh and eighth graders all pledged
to give Willie the silent treatment.

"I won't snitch anymore!" Willie cried. "I promise."

Tom looked at the other fellows. "I didn't hear any-
thing," he said- "Did any of you fellows?"

They all shook their heads. The silent treatment for
Witlie had begun.

At seven thirty a bell rang. Sweyn came over to Tom's
bunk. "That is the bell for Saturday night confessions," he
said. "You seventh graders use the confessional on the right
side of the altar and we use the one on the left."

Tom marched down to the chapel and sat down on
the right side with the seventh graders. He was plenty
worried where it came his turn to enter the confessional. It
would be just his luck for Father Rodriguez to hear his
confession. He said the Act of Contrition. Then he de-
cided he had to know which priest was hearing his confes-
sion.

"Father Rodriguez?" he asked.

63

"Why do you ask, my son?" a voice he recognized as
belonging to Father O'Malley asked.

"Well," Tom said, "what might be called a sin by
Father Rodriguez wouldn't be called a sin by Father Joe,
who heard my last confession,"

"A sin is a sin." Father O'Malley said. "Can you ex-
plain exactly what you mean?"

"I know it is a sin to be angry at anyone or to strike
anyone," Tom said, "but you take a fellow like Sammy
Leeds back home. He is a bully, I had to give him a whip-
ping since my last confession for picking on a smaller boy.
I know Jesus taught we should turn the other cheek. But
you turn the other cheek to a fellow like Sammy and he'll
paste you one on it. Father Joe understood about Sammy
and never gave me any penance for fighting him."

"Go on, my son," Father O'Malley said.

"I know it is a sin to tell a lie," Tom said, "but it all
depends on what you call a lie. I exaggerated a little bit to
put over some deals. Father Joe never gave me any pen-
ance for that either. But he always caught me on one sin,
I'm proud of my great brain and I guess I'm vain about it.
Father Joe said that was a sin. But I think anybody who
has a great brain has a right to be proud of it."

"Heaven help us," Father O'Malley said. "A doubt-
ing Thomas. You are aptly named."

"I know that I have committed one great sin," Tom
said. "I've broken the fourth commandment, which for-
bids all disobedience, contempt, and stubbornness toward
our parents or superiors, and which commands us to
honor and obey our bishops, pastors, magistrates, teachers,
and other lawful superiors. I don't think I can honor
Father Rodriguez because I don't like him and how can

64

you honor somebody you don't like? And that is the only
real sin I can think of since my last confession."

Father O'Malley's voice became filled with stern au-
thority. "Your confession has been blasphemous," he said.
"I realize your religious instruction has been wanting but
that is no excuse for such conduct. I will now give you
penance. In addition to your usual prayers you will say an
Act of Faith, an Act of Hope, an Act of Love, the Hail
Mary, the Apostles' Creed, the Confiteor and an Act of
Contrition on your knees in the chapel every day until
your next confession. Go now, my son, and may God help
you."

Tom had got through his first day at the academy
without getting any more demerits. But he sure made up
for it by receiving more penance than he had received in
a lifetime from Father Joe. And as he left the confessional
he couldn't help thinking how different these city priests
were.

At the rate Tom was going he wouldn't have time to
get an education at the academy because he would be
spending most of his time doing penance.

65

CHAPTER FIVE

From Bad to Worse

I KNEW FROM READING Tom's next letter that
he was going from bad to worse at the academy. At the
rate he was going we could expect him to be sent home any
day.

Tom thought he was dreaming his first Sunday mom-
ing when Father Rodriguez woke him up. It was still pitch
dark in the dormitory.

"Get dressed quietly so you don't wake up the other
boys," the superintendent said.

"But it is the middle of the night," Tom protested.

"It is exactly four o'clock in the morning," Father
Rodriguez said.

66

Tom couldn't imagine where they were going at that
hour as he followed the priest down the stairway. The
superintendent had threatened to tame him. Maybe he
was being taken down to be locked up in a dungeon. In-
stead he was taken to the kitchen. Father Rodriguez
turned on the electric lights and showed Tom a drawer
where paring knives were kept. Then he pointed at a sack
of potatoes and a wooden tub half filled with water.

"Every night Father Petrie will set out the number of
potatoes he wants peeled for the next day's meals," the
superintendent said. "You will peel those potatoes and
drop them into the tub of water. You will be doing this for
five mornings so I suggest that you go to bed at night be-
fore lights-out. Father Petrie will come into the kitchen
at five o'clock to build up the fire in the range and start
preparing breakfast. It usually takes a boy about two hours
to peel the potatoes needed each day. You should be fin-
ished when the six o'clock bell rings."

If there was one thing Tom hated to do it was to peel
spuds. Whenever Mamma or Aunt Bertha was sick one of
us boys had to peel potatoes. When it was Tom's turn he
always paid me to do it for him. So I can imagine how he
felt as he stared at all those spuds.

"You are making me break the third commandment,
which forbids all unnecessary servile work oh Sundays," he
said seriously.

But Father Rodriguez wasn't worrying about break-
ing a commandment. "The good Lord knows that people
must eat on the sabbath," he said. "I shall return at six
o'clock."

Tom stood staring at the sack of potatoes after the
priest had left. He asked himself why a fellow with a great

67

brain should have to peel all those spuds. So instead of
starting to work he sat down and put his great brain to
work. In less than a minute he had the answer to his prob-
lem. If it took one boy two hours to peel all those potatoes
four boys could do it in half an hour.

He had noticed coming downstairs that the stairs
squeaked. He sneaked back up to the dormitory, walking
close to the banister so there weren't any squeaks. He woke
up Jerry, Phil, and Tony and held a whispered conversa-
tion with them on his bunk.

"You fellows know that sooner or later you'll get
caught doing something and have to peel spuds," he said.
"You help me and I'll help you when the time comes."

Jerry nodded his head. "I'll help," he said.

Tom was right about Jerry. The red-headed kid was
game for anything. But Phil wasn't.

"Not me," Phil said. "If we get caught we'll all end
up with demerits."

"Me neither," Tony said. "Go peel your own spuds."

"Come on, Tom," Jerry said. "I'll help you. Let these
two 'fraidy cats go back to bed."

That made Phil angry. "I'm no 'fraidy cat," he said.

"Then prove it," Jerry said.

"All right, I'll help." Phil said.

The three of them looked at Tony.

"Haw," Tonysaid-

They all stared at Tony for a moment. Finally Tom
spoke.

"What do you mean by 'haw'?" he asked. "Do you
mean ha like in *ha, ha,' or haw like telling a horse to
turn left, or what?"

"I don't know." Tony said.

68

"What do you mean you don't know?" Tom asked.
"You just said it."

"When my father has an argument with my mother or
my uncle," Tony said, "and he doesn't know what to say
he always says 'haw.' "

"In other words, you don't know what to say," Tom
said. "Well, all you've got to say is *I am not a 'fraidy cat'
or 'I am a 'fraidy cat.' "

"I'll help," Tony said.

They all slid down the banister to the ground floor
and then tiptoed into the kitchen. Tom showed them
where the paring knives were kept. Thirty minutes later
all the potatoes were peeled and Jerry, Phil, and Tony
were upstairs in the dormitory. Tom was sitting there
doing nothing when Father Petrie entered the kitchen at
five o'clock.

The priest was a short, very fat man with big jowls.
He placed the palms of his hands on his fat belly and
looked at Tom with twinkling eyes.

"Bless my soul," he said, his jowls wobbling as he
spoke. "You must be Thomas Fitzgerald."

"Yes, Father," Tom said.

The priest walked over and looked at the tub contain-
ing all the peeled potatoes. "Bless my soul, Thomas," he
said, "you couldn't possibly have peeled all those potatoes
in an hour." •-

Father Petrie left the kitchen shaking his head. He re-
turned in a few minutes with Father Rodriguez.

"You must have awakened the boy before tour
o'clock," Father Petrie said.

The superintendent stared at the tub of peeled po-
tatoes. "There is no other logical explanation," he said.

69




Then he looked at Tom- "You are excused for now,
Thomas."

Tom went up to the dormitory where Jerry, Phil, and
Tony were waiting on Jerry's bunk. He told them what
had happened. They all laughed so much they had to hold
their hands over their mouths.

"We've got Father Rodriguez and Father Petrie
plumb mystified," Tom said before they all went to bed.

The six o'clock bell woke them up. All the boys
washed up and changed into their Sunday clothes. Then
two eighth graders left to serve as attar boys. At six thirty
another bell rang and Tom went with the others down to
the chapel for mass. Then they went to the dining room
for breakfast before going back to the dormitory.

"My folks are coming to see me today," Phil said.

Jerry shook his head. "I wish my folks lived in Salt
Lake City so they could visit me," he said.

"That reminds me," Tom said. "I've still got eight
bars of candy." Then he stood up. "You fellows who are
having visitors today, don't forget to ask (or money if you
want any candy."

All the kids had ignored Willie Connors and I guess
the silent treatment was hurting him. He came over to
Tom's bunk.

"I said I was sorry," he said, "And I promise not to
snitch anymore."

Tom and the other fellows pretended not to hear.
Willie went back to his bunk and began to cry.

Tom was sitting on a bench with Jerry and Tony in
the yard that afternoon when Sweyn came over to them.

"Father Rodriguez just sent for me," he said. "He
asked me where you had learned how to peel potatoes so

71

fast. I told him you had never peeled a potato before in
your life. You always hired J.D. to do it when Mom or
Aunt Bertha was sick."

"Why couldn't you keep your mouth shut?" Tom
said, plenty angry. "You signed a statement not to inter-
fere. Now you are going to have to help me because I'll
need a lookout."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Sweyn
said, "but whatever it is the answer is no."

Tom shrugged as if he didn't care. "Then I guess I'll
have to tell all the kids you refused to help your own
brother," he said. "And I'll also tell them you can't be
trusted because you broke your signed statement."

Poor Sweyn knew he was trapped. By the time Tom
got through telling it the kids would have more respect for
Willie Connors than for him.

"All right, you little blackmailer," he said. "What do
you want me to do?"

"I'll tell you after supper tonight," Tom said. "My
great brain has to work on it a little longer."

After visiting hours were over Tom sold six bars of
candy. And because he didn't want the other two bars to go
stale he divided them up with his three friends.

Father Rodriguez woke up Tom at four o'clock again
the next morning, Tom waited until the priest had left
the kitchen and then sneaked up to the dormitory. He
woke up his three friends and Sweyn. They all slid down
the banister to the ground Hoor.

"Father Rodriguez has to come through the dining
room to get to the kitchen," Tom whispered. "S.D., you
station yourself just inside the entrance to the dining
room where you can see the door of his bedroom. I have a

72

hunch Father Rodriguez will be checking on me this
morning. If you see him open his bedroom door you run
into the kitchen and tell us. Then the four of you hide in
the pantry until he is gone."

Tom's hunch was right. He and his three friends had
only been peeling potatoes for fifteen minutes when Sweyn
came running into the kitchen.

"He's coming," Sweyn whispered.

Tom was sitting all alone in the kitchen with a potato
in one hand and a paring knife in the other when the
superintendent entered the kitchen.

"Did you want something, Father?" Tom asked as
innocent as could be.

The superintendent looked at the peeled potatoes
in the wooden tub. He didn't say a word but walked out
of the kitchen shaking his head. He paid another visit to
the kitchen fifteen minutes later. Again the four boys hid
in the pantry and Tom greeted the superintendent with a
big innocent smile.

Father Rodriguez didn't return to the kitchen until
five o'clock. Father Petrie was with him. By that time all
the spuds were peeled and Jerry, Phil, Tony, and Sweyn
were back in the dormitory.

"I know for a fact," the superintendent said to Father
Petrie, "that I didn't make a mistake about the time this
morning. I checked my alarm clock with my watch and also
with the clock in the library. And I checked on Thomas
twice."

"Bless my soul," Father Petrie said, placing the palms
of his hands on his belly. "There is only one logical conclu-
sion. Thomas is without a doubt the fastest potato peeler
in the world."

73

The superintendent just shook his head. "You are
excused, Thomas," he said.

Tom was chuckling all the way back to the dormi-
tory. His three friends were waiting on Jerry's bunk.

"Father Rodriguez will rue the day he sentenced me
to peeling spuds for just riding on a locomotive," Tom
said. "And he'll be sorry he ever tangled with my great
brain."

Jerry shook his head. "Wish we could tell all the kids
about the good joke we played on him," he said. "None of
the kids like him except maybe Willie Connors."

"We can't tell anybody," Tom said, "or the next kid
sentenced to peeling spuds will do the same thing."

Tom began his first day of school that Monday morn-
ing. His life was controlled by the big bell on the ground
floor. The six o'clock bell was the signal for all the boys to
get washed up and dressed. Then the four kids assigned to
the dining room and kitchen left. The six-thirty bell called
the boys to chapel for morning prayer. Another bell sent
them from the chapel to the dining room. From the din-
ing room they went back to the dormitory. At eight o'clock
the sound of another bell sent them to the classrooms on
the second floor.

Father Rodriguez was standing in front of the black-
board in the seventh-grade classroom. He assigned each
seventh grader to a desk.

"You will find textbooks for the courses Father
O'Malley will teach you on your desks," he said. "You will
be studying beginner's Latin, geography, American his-
tory, advanced arithmetic, English grammar, general sci-
ence, and beginner's civics. You will also find a book en-
titled Key of Heaven, which is a manual of prayers and

74

instruction for Catholics. I will teach this course, which
embraces the catechism, epistles and gospels, and Christian
doctrine. It will be your first course each day."

Tom discovered that there was no such thing as recess
at the academy. Students remained in the classrooms from
eight o'clock to twelve noon. They had forty-five min-
utes for lunch and then went back to the classrooms until
three o'clock. Father O'Malley told the seventh graders
they could do their homework between the time school let
out and suppertime and between seven and nine o'clock
in the evenings. And he gave them homework to do for
every course.

But there sure as heck wasn't any homework done
that afternoon. It was initiation day for the seventh grad-
ers. Rory Flynn addressed them as soon as they arrived in
the dormitory.

"You little seventh graders have been found guilty of
wanting to go to school at the academy," he said. "The
punishment is a trip through the torture tunnel."

Then the eighth graders each got a textbook and
stood with their legs apart in the aisle.. Willie Connors
got in line with them but he wasn't there for long. Rory
grabbed the tattletale and without a word marched him
back to his bunk. Then he got back in line.

"The torture tunnel is ready," he said. "All you little
seventh graders get down on your hands and knees and
crawl through one at a time."

Tom didn't like having Rory giving him orders.
"What if we refuse?" he asked.

Sweyn looked at him, "Don't be a spoilsport," he said.

Tom sure as heck didn't want the fellows to think he
was a spoilsport. "I'll go first," he said.

75

He got down on his hands and knees and began crawl-
ing between the legs of the eighth graders. Each one
whacked him on the rump with a textbook. Jerry came
next. And then one by one the rest of the seventh graders
crawled through the torture tunnel. Fun was fun but Tom
thought some of the eighth graders, especially Rory, could
have taken it a little easier. Three of his classmates had
tears in their eyes as they came out of the torture tunnel.

If Tom thought that was the end of the initiation he
was mistaken. Rory put a chair at one end of the dormi-
tory and sat down on it.

"We will now prove that all seventh graders are dum-
mies," he said. "Line up and come one at a time to sit on
my lap."

All the seventh graders looked at Tom as if expecting
him to go first. He walked over and sat on Rory's lap, won-
dering what this was all about. He didn't have to wonder
for long. Rory grabbed hold of the back of his neck as if
Tom was a ventriloquist's dummy.

"I've got a dummy on my lap who thinks he is a
rooster," Rory said- "Crow like a rooster, dummy."

"Cock-a-doodte-doo!" Tom pretended to crow like a
rooster, as both eighth and seventh graders laughed.

Jerry was next on Rory's lap.

"I've got a dummy who thinks he is a cat," Rory said.
"Show me you are a cat, dummy."

"Me-ow, me-ow," Jerry said.

One by one the other seventh graders had to sit on
Rory's lap. He made them bark like a dog, moo like a cow,
whinny like a horse, caw like a crow, roar like a lion, croak
like a frog, cry like a baby, and howl like a wolf.

Then Rory stood up, "I guess that proves that all lit-

76

tie seventh graders are dummies," he said. "Os habent, et
non loquentur."

Sweyn laughed. "Oculos habent, et non videbunt," he
said.

Billy Daniels nodded his head. "Ares habent, et non
audient," he said.

"And," Larry Williams said, "Nares habent, et non
odorabunt."

Then all the eighth graders began to laugh like all
get out,

"And don't forget, fellows," Rory said, "when we
want to say something we don't want these little seventh
graders to know about, all we have to do is to speak in
Latin."

Tom didn't like the idea of anybody saying anything
he couldn't understand. He walked over to Sweyn.

"What did you fellows say in Latin?" he asked.

"After proving all seventh graders are dummies,"
Sweyn said, "Rory said they have mouths and speak not. I
said they have eyes and see not. Billy said they have ears
and hear not. And Larry said they have noses and smell
not- But don't ask me to translate any more Latin for you.
Like Rory said, when we want to say something to each
other we don't want you seventh graders to understand, we
will speak in Latin."

Tom admitted this was one time when even his great
brain couldn't help him. He knew he couldn't learn Latin
any faster than Father O'Malley taught it to him. Sweyn
told him that was the end of the initiation but seventh
graders would be forced to wash up twice and stand at
attention in the mornings for the rest of the week.

It was a good thing Tom had a great brain. There was

77

no time to do any homework before supper. And after
supper he had to spend almost an hour in the chapel doing
the penance Father O'Malley had given him. This left him
Just one hour to do all his homework.

During his third and fourth mornings of peeling
spuds Tom was surprised that Father Rodriguez didn't
come to check on him. But he got an even bigger surprise
on his fifth and last day. When he and the superintendent
arrived in the kitchen at four o'clock that morning he
found Father Petrie waiting for them.

"This morning, Thomas," Father Rodriguez said,
"you are going to have an audience. Father Petrie and I
are going to sit right here and watch you peel all those
potatoes in less than an hour."

Tom knew he was cornered and only his great brain
could save him. But how? He mustn't show any surprise.
He had to convince the priests that he alone had peeled all
the potatoes on the other four mornings and at the same
time get out of peeling them this morning. His great brain
came to his rescue.

"First I have to hypnotize myself," he said.

Father Rodriguez stared at him. "Hypnotize your-
self?" he asked,

"Bless my soul," Father Petrie said, "you look as if
you mean it, Thomas."

Tom put his index fingers to his temples and shut his
eyes. He began rocking back and forth.

"I am the fastest potato peeler in the world," he
chanted softly, "I am the fastest potato peeler in the
world."

He kept saying this over and over until his great brain

78

gave him the solution to his problem. He dropped his arms
and opened his eyes.

"I must get a paring knife now," he said.

To get the knife he had to walk around the sack of
potatoes. He made certain it was obvious to both priests
that he stubbed his toe on the sack of potatoes. He fell to
the floor bracing his fall with his hands. He lay there
quietly until the two priests turned him over on his back.
Then he blinked his eyes several times.

"What am I doing lying on the floor?" he asked. Then
he took hold of his left wrist with his right hand and bit his
lip as if in pain. "My wrist hurts. It feels as if I sprained
it."

"Bless my soul," Father Petrie said. "Self-hypnosis in
a mere boy. I just can't believe it, although you did tell me
that Thomas had what he called a great brain."

Both priests helped Tom to his feet and Father
Rodriguez examined the wrist.

"I don't see any swelling," Father Rodriguez said.

"Maybe it is just a twisted muscle," Tom said. "I
twisted my ankle one time and it didn't swell up. But I
couldn't step on it for hours." Tom wasn't lying about
his ankle. It really had happened.

"Come with me to the dispensary," the superintend-
ent said.

Tom followed the priest up to the second floor. Father
Rodriguez turned on the light in the dispensary. The
room contained two beds, a table, and a cabinet holding
gauze, bandages, scissors, cans of salves, and other medical
supplies.

The superintendent nodded toward a washbasin in
the corner. "Let cold water run on your wrist," he said.

79

Tom did as he was told while the priest opened the
cabinet and removed a roll of gauze and a pair of scissors.

"Dry your wrist now with a towel," he said. "I'll
bandage it loosely. And if it starts to swell or your fingers
start feeling numb, you come see me."

Tom pretended it was painful as he opened and shut
his fingers. "I doubt if I could hold a potato in my left
hand let alone peel it now," he said.

"I have no intention of forcing you to peel potatoes
with a sprained wrist," Father Rodriguez said. "You can
return to bed as soon as I bandage it. Father Petrie and I
will take care of the potatoes."

A few minutes later Tom entered the dormitory. It
was too good a joke to wait until the six o'clock bell, so he
awakened Jerry, Phil, and Tony and told them what had
happened.

"And right now," he said as he finished, "Father
Rodriguez and Father Petrie are peeling spuds in the
kitchen."

They all had a good laugh and then went back to bed.

Father Rodriguez conducted the first class that morn-
ing as usual. Five minutes before the period ended he
made a surprise announcement.

"You will all now hold out your right hands so that I
may inspect them," he said.

Tom knew he was caught as he watched the superin-
tendent inspect the fingers of each boy's right hand. The
inspection ended just as Father O'Malley entered the class-
room to take over as teacher for the rest of the day.

"The following boys," Father Rodriguez said, "will
accompany me to my office: Thomas Fitzgerald, Jeremiah

80

Moran, Phillip Martin and Anthony Colacci."

They followed the priest down to the superintend-
ent's office on the ground Hoor. Father Rodriguez sat
down at his desk.

"I admit, Thomas," he said, "that your remarkable
skill in peeling potatoes had me completely baffled. Then
this morning 1 made a discovery. While helping Father
Petrie peel potatoes I noticed that the work leaves telltale
marks from the paring knife on the thumb and index
finger of the right hand."

"I take all the blame," Tom said. "I talked Jerry, Phil,
and Tony into helping me."

"That is very noble of you, Thomas," Father Ro-
driguez said, "but a person who participates in a con-
spiracy is just as guilty as the ringleader."

Tom was determined to try to save his friends. "If I
had never come to the academy," he said, "they wouldn't
be in trouble right now."

"You plead like the devil's advocate," the priest said.
"But you did come. However, you do have a point. The
punishment for your three conspirators should be lighter
than your own. And since you have made expert potato
peelers out of them, they will peel potatoes for the next
three weeks. Jeremiah will take the first week, Phillip the
second week, and Anthony the third week."

Tom heard his three friends groan as the sentence
was pronounced.

"As for you, Thomas," Father Rodriguez said, "be-
ginning tomorrow you will clean the dormitory washroom
between seven thirty and eight o'clock in the evening on
Mondays through Fridays and during the afternoon on
Saturdays and Sundays. And make no mistake about it, I

81

want that washroom really cleaned. You will scrub the
washbasins, shower room, and toilets and mop the floor
daily. And that will be your assignment until you go for
an entire month without getting any demerits. In addition
each of you will receive five demerits. And may I remind
you, Thomas, this makes fifteen demerits tor you this
month. You may all return to your classroom now."

Jerry took the punishment like the good sport he
was. "It could have been worse," he said as they climbed
the stairs.

Phil was shaking his head. "I told you we would get
in trouble," he said. "And that stuff you gave us about
you helping us, Tom, was just stuff. Father Rodriguez is
going to make sure we don't get any help peeling spuds-
even if he has to sit there and watch us. You sure got us
into a mess. Don't come to me with any more of your
bright ideas."

"That goes for me too," Tony said.

"But fellows," Tom pleaded, "I thought you were my
friends. You don't hear Jerry crying, do you? What good
is a friend if he deserts you the first time there is a little
trouble?"

"Well," Phil said, "when you put it that way I guess
I'm still your friend."

"Me too," Tony said.

"You won't regret it," Tom said, "because my great
brain has finally figured out a way to get rid of Father
Rodriguez."

Tom couldn't have caused more astonishment if he'd
said he was going to murder the superintendent. His three
friends stared at him bug-eyed. Jerry was the first to re-
cover enough to speak.

82

"And just how are you going to do that?" he asked.

Tom's idea had come to him so suddenly that he knew
his great brain must have been subconsciously working on
it since his first day at the academy.

"I'm going to write a letter to the Pope," Tom said.
"I'm going to tell him that Father Rodriguez is running
this place like a reform school. When I get through telling
Pope Leo what is going on around here I'll bet he and the
general will excommunicate Father Rodriguez."

Jerry stared at Tom- "Who is the general?" he asked.

"The head of the Society of Jesus is called the gen-
eral," Tom explained. "But the general and all Jesuits
have to take a special vow of obedience to the Pope. And
when Pope Leo tells the general to get rid of Father
Rodriguez you can bet the general will do it."

Phil was shaking his head. "Don't you have to get per-
mission or something before you can write a letter to the
Pope?" he asked.

"I'll explain to Pope Leo in the letter," Tom said,
"that I sure as heck can't get permission from Father Ro-
driguez."

Tony still had his doubts. "If Father Rodriguez sees
a letter going out of here from you to the Pope," he said,
"he will make you let him read it first."

"I never thought about that," Tom said.

Phil said, "Daniel could mail it."

"Who is Daniel?" Tom asked.

"My older brother," Phil said. "He comes to visit me
with our mother and father every Sunday."

"That does it," Tom said grinning. "Pope Leo is
going to get an earful about this place and how Father
Rodriguez is running it."

83

CHAPTER SIX

The Academy Candy Store

I PERSONALLY DIDN'T BELIEVE Tom would last
another month at the academy after getting fifteen demer-
its his first month. And I knew things must be pretty tough
for Tom when he wrote me about having to peel spuds
and clean the washroom. So tough that he had even writ-
ten a letter to the Pope to complain.

But I didn't have any time right then to think about
Tom and his troubles, because I had troubles of my own,
and his name was Frankie Pennyworth. He was a four-
year-old boy whose parents and brother had been killed
in a land slide in Red Rock Canyon. Uncle Mark couldn't
find any relatives, so Papa and Mamma had adopted

84

Frankie. Having a foster brother was sure keeping me
busy.

Frankie was a real take-over kid. Tom used to swindle
me out of my things. But not Frankie. He just took them.
I guess he figured that now that he was a member of the
family, anything the family owned he owned. Whatever
he wanted of mine he would just take. Then he would
look at me with those big dark eyes of his and say, "My
wagon," or whatever it was he wanted. He even took my
pup Prince this way. I had to borrow my own slingshot
from Frankie when I wanted to use it. But I'll admit that
he was generous. Anything I used to own that he now
owned he would let me borrow. If you are wondering
why I didn't put up a fight, there were two reasons. Papa
said I must humor Frankie because of the great shock the
boy had in losing his own family. And having a younger
brother, to play with and love was worth everything
Frankie took from me.

All I can say is that it was a good thing Tom had a
great brain or he wouldn't have even been able to get pass-
ing grades. Between doing the heavy penance Father
O'Malley kept giving him and having to clean the wash-
room, Tom didn't have much time left in which to do his
homework. And unlike Mr. Standish in Adenville, the
Jesuit teachers made a fellow do homework on every sub-
ject every day.

Tom sure hated cleaning the washroom. He tried to
hire other kids to do it for him. But they hated the work
as much as he did and nobody would take on the job. Tom
knew if he didn't go for an entire month without getting
any demerits that he might be stuck cleaning the wash-
room until school let out in the spring. Boy, oh, boy, what

85

a revolting thought that was for my brother.

To help take his mind off this degrading job he put
his great brain to work on how to get his candy store
started. He thought of several plans but had to discard
them. He thought of having Phil's brother Daniel buy
candy and throw it over the rock wall. But what if one of
the priests found it before he did? And he thought about
sneaking out of the academy at night and climbing over
the big iron gate. He knew he couldn't get over the high
rock wall. But when he found out Father O'Malley had
insomnia and walked around outside in the yard part of
the night he rejected that idea. But did Tom give up?
Heck no. He was sure his great brain would solve the prob-
lem sooner or later.

One week after the silent treatment had begun, Willie
Connors came over to Tom's bunk. Willie sure must have
suffered because Sweyn, who had the bunk next to him,
had told Tom that Willie cried himself to sleep at night.

"The week is up," Willie said to Tom, "and I haven't
snitched on anybody."

Tom was sitting on his bunk with his three friends.
"That is right," he said.

"It has been terrible," Willie said. He looked as if he
was going to start crying just at the memory of it. "I prom-
ise I'll never snitch again."

Tom stood up. "All you fellows listen," he said. "We
can lift the silent treatment from Willie because he hasn't
snitched on anybody for a week. And Willie knows if he
does snitch in the future that we will impose the silent
treatment on him until school lets out."

I guess Willie wanted to make sure the silent treat-
ment was ended. He walked around the dormitory speak-

86

ing to each boy just to make sure they spoke to him.

That evening Father O'Malley again heard Tom's
confession. And again the priest imposed a heavy penance
because Tom insisted he couldn't honor somebody he
didn't like.

The next day Tom gave Phil his letter to the Pope
along with fifty cents-

"I know it doesn't cost fifty cents to mail a letter to
Italy," he said. "Tell your brother Daniel he can keep the
change."

It just goes to prove how much faith Tom had that
the Pope and the general would get rid of Father Ro-
driguez, Tom parting with fifty cents was like a bird part-
ing with its wings.

It wasn't until the following Tuesday evening that
Tom's great brain gave him his first idea for getting his
candy store started. He always locked the door of the
washroom from the inside when he cleaned it so the kids
wouldn't walk on the floor before it was dry. The fellows
all knew they were supposed to use the washroom on the
second floor between seven thirty and eight o'clock.

On this particular night Tom found himself staring
at the trapdoor in the washroom ceiling. He knew his great
brain was trying to tell him something. He stood on a
washbasin and lifted up the trapdoor. Then he hoisted
himself up into the attic. The ceiling was high enough for
him to stand erect. He walked over to one of the dormer
windows and looked down into the street. This was the
side of the academy that was flush up against the side-
walk. There was a manufacturing plant and a warehouse
across the street, but both were closed at this time in the
evening. Tom knew his great brain had given him the so-

87

lution of how to get in and out of the academy without
anybody knowing it. All he needed was a rope long enough
to reach the street. Going down wouldn't be any problem
but coming up might. It was a long, long way for a fellow
to lift himself hand-over-hand.

He went to bed that night trying to think of a way
to make it easier to get from the street to the attic. The
next morning while he was tying his shoelaces the answer
came to him. If he put knots in the rope about two feet
apart he could use it like a sort of rope ladder. He could
straddle a knot in the rope with his feet and use his arms to
hoist himself up another two feet. Then al! he had to do
was grab another knot and lift himself another two feet.
By using his arms and then his legs it would be easy to
climb that distance.

His great brain had solved one problem only to leave
him with a bigger one. How could he get the rope into
the attic? He knew Phil could get; his brother Daniel to
buy the rope. But if Daniel just threw it over the wall one
of the priests might find it. He put his great brain to work
again.

The next afternoon when school was out Tom was
sitting with his three friends under a tree on the grounds.
Jerry had a piece of string. He was showing them how to
tie some sailor knots. Jerry's uncle was a sailor and had
visited the family the summer before.

"Where did you get that string?" Tom asked.
"In the kitchen," Jerry said. "Father Petrie saves all
the string that is wrapped around deliveries from the meat
market and grocery store. When I was peeling spuds this
morning I asked him for a piece."

88

Phil's face was sad. "Your week of peeling spuds will
soon be over," he said. "Then comes my week."

"And after that comes my week," added Tony mourn-
fully.

"Forget about peeling spuds," Tom said. "My great
brain has got almost everything figured out about starting
my candy store. Jerry, tomorrow morning before Father
Petrie comes into the kitchen you get me about fifty feet of
the strongest string he has."

"What are you going to do with it?" Jerry asked.

"I'll teli you all about it Saturday," Tom said. "I
want to give my great brain time to make sure the plan is
perfect."

Tom's money-loving heart didn't like what his great
brain kept telling him. He knew he couldn't operate his
candy store without the help of his three friends. And to
Tom giving up part of the profits was the same as a man
lost on the desert giving up his last canteen of water. But
he knew there was no alternative.

On Saturday he met with his three friends under the
tree in the yard. "We will now form the Academy Candy
Store Corporation," he announced.

Jerry, Phil, and Tony looked at him as if he had just
announced they were going to blow up the academy with
dynamite.

"First we will need a president," Tom said. "And due
to the fact that it is my great brain's idea and I am going
to finance the corporation, I will be president."

Jerry finally recovered from his astonishment. "What
does that make us?" he asked.

"Stockholders in the corporation," Tom answered.

89

"And as stockholders you wilt each be entitled to ten per
cent of the profits."

"Now you are talking," Jerry said with a grin.

Tom took out two of the silver dollars he had got
from the poker players on the train and handed them to
Phii.

"When your family comes to visit you tomorrow," he
said, "you get Daniel to one side and slip him this money.
Tel! him -to buy fifty feet of one-inch manila rope. It
shouldn't cost more than two or three cents a foot. He can
keep the change if he will do what you tell him."

"Which is what?" Phil asked.

"To bring the rope to the side of the academy where
it is flush up against the sidewalk," Tom said. "He must
arrive at exactly seven thirty Monday evening. Tell him I
will be at the attic window directly above the third-floor
washroom. I will tie a rock on the end of the string Jerry
got for me and let it down. All Daniel has to do is tie the
string to one end of the rope so I can pull the rope up to
the attic. Got it?"

"Got it," Phil said.

Monday evening at seven twenty-five Tom made his
usual announcement. "You fellows are going to have to
use the washroom on the second floor for the next half
hour."

Then he went inside the washroom and locked the
door. He climbed through the trapdoor to the attic and
opened the dormer window. In a couple of minutes he saw
Daniel coming down the street. Jerry had doubted Daniel
would cooperate. But Tom didn't have any doubts after

90

learning Daniel had spent two years at the academy and
stood to make fifty cents besides.

Tom let down the string with the rock tied to it. He
watched Daniel remove the rock and tie the string to one
end of the rope. Then he hauled it up, coiled it on the
floor, and returned to the washroom. He did his cleaning
job and then joined his three friends on Jerry's bunk.

"Everything went according to plan," he whispered.
"Tomorrow you all start earning your ten per cent."

"Hold it," Phil said. "I thought I had already earned
my ten per cent by getting Danie! to buy the rope for you."

"You haven't even started to earn it," Tom said.
"Here is the way we will work it. Two of you will go with
me to the washroom at seven thirty tomorrow night. One
will have to stay and clean the washroom. The other one
will go up to the attic with me to help with the rope. The
third can remain in the dormitory. You will each take
turns doing the different things that must be done to get
the candy store going."

"Count me out," Phil said to Tom's surprise. "We
will all get expelled for sure if we get caught smuggling
candy into the academy."

Jerry shook his head. "What a worry wart you are," he
said with disgust. "We haven't even opened the candy store
and already you've got us all expelled."

"1 can't help it," Phil said. "This is the only Catholic
academy in Utah. And if I get expelled my mother and
father will never forgive me."

Tom hadn't expected this. He looked at Tony.

"What about you. Tony?" he asked,

"Haw," Tony said.

91

"Cut out that haw business," Tom said. "Are you in
or out?"

Tony hesitated a moment. "I think Phil is right," he
said.

"In that case," Tom said, "would you and Phil mind
leaving us? What I have to say is for the ears of stockhold-
ers in the corporation only. And Jerry and I will pick two
other fellows to become stockholders."

Phil began biting his lip. "You mean we aren't friends
anymore?" he asked.

Jerry spoke before Tom could answer. "Who wants
to be friends with a couple of worry warts?" he asked.

"Jerry is right," Tom said. "We don't want to have
anything to do with a couple of fellows who are going to
be worrying all the time about something that can't hap-
pen."

"What do you mean it can't happen?" Phil demanded.
"You can get caught smuggling candy into the academy
and be expelled for it."

Tom tapped a finger to his temple. "When my great
brain develops a plan," he said, "it is always foolproof. If I
thought there was any chance of getting caught I would
forget all about the candy store. I don't want to get ex-
pelled any more than you or Tony do. But since you are
both so afraid it is better if you aren't stockholders. Now
leave Jerry and me alone while we decide what two other
kids we want for stockholders."

Phil and Tony got up and walked down to Phil's
bunk.

Jerry looked at Tom. "What two other kids do you
think we should get?" he asked.

"Phil and Tony will be back," Tom said confidently.

92

"Just pretend we are talking and looking over the other
seventh graders."

Tom was right. Phil and Tony held a whispered con-
versation and then returned.

"We decided we wanted to be stockholders," Phil said.

"And your friends," Tony said. "I like you two bet-
ter than any friends I've ever had."

"Welcome back to the corporation," Tom said.

Tom made his usual announcement the following
night. Jerry and Tony went to the washroom. Tom en-
tered it a couple of minutes later and locked the door from
the inside. He showed Jerry the closet where the mops,
rags, and cleaning things were kept. Then he and Tony
climbed up to the attic. They tied knots in the rope at
every two feet. Tom secured one end to a rafter and then
let the rest of it down to the street.

Tony looked out the window. "Boy, that is a long way
down,"he said.

"Pull the rope up when I get to the sidewalk," Tom
said. "Somebody might come along and see it. Drop it
down when you see me coming back."

"If you ever get back," Tony said, shaking his head.

"Don't go soft on me now," Tom said.

He let himself down the rope hand-over-hand until
his feet touched the sidewalk. He waited until Tony
started pulling the rope up and then ran to the corner. He
remembered seeing a neighborhood business district dur-
ing his ride to the academy with Father O'Malley and
Sweyn. He ran the five blocks to where it was located. A
drugstore and a grocery store were still open. Tom tried
the drugstore first because he knew the drugstore in Aden-
93

ville carried candy. But. this one had no candy. Then Tom
entered the grocery store. This time he had better luck.
The store carried a good stock of candy. A big fat man
with muttonchop whiskers wearing a white apron was
leaning on the counter. Tom ordered five peanut candy
bars, five chocolate, five caramel, and five coconut. He
handed the proprietor the last of his silver dollars.

"That is a lot of candy for just one boy," the man
said.

"It isn't all for me," Tom said. "Are you open every
night?"

"Until eight o'clock except on Sundays," the man
answered.

"You will be seeing me once or twice a week," Tom
said.

"Good," said the man. "I can use the business."

Tom had the candy put into a brown paper bag. He
knew he had plenty of time so he walked back to the acad-
emy. Tony saw him coming and let down the rope. Tom
rolled up the top of the paper bag and put it between his
teeth. With the knots in the rope to assist him it was no
trick at all to climb back up to the attic.

Jerry stared at the brown paper bag when Tom and
Tony returned to the washroom. "You did it!" he ex-
claimed, forgetting to keep his voice down-

"Be quiet," Tom said.

"I'm all through except for mopping the floor," Jerry
whispered.

With Jerry and Tony helping him, Tom got the floor
mopped quickly. He made sure the coast was clear and
let his two friends out of the washroom. He had to wait un-
til the floor was dry. Then he put the bag of candy under

94




his shirt and went into the dormitory. His three friends
were waiting for him on Jerry's bunk.

"The candy cost a dollar," he whispered. "If we sell
all twenty bars at ten cents a bar the corporation will make
a profit of one dollar. As ten-per<ent stockholders you will
each receive a dime. As a seventy-per-cent stockholder I'll
receive seventy cents."

"Before you start selling it," Jerry said, "how about
each of us taking a bar of candy for ourselves?"

Tom's money-loving heart and great brain had antici-
pated this. He knew if they each took a bar of candy to eat,
that would leave only sixteen bars of candy to sell, giving
the corporation a profit of sixty cents. As ten-per-cent
stockholders his three friends would be entitled to six
cents each. This would leave him a profit of only fifty-two
cents- And even if he sold his bar of candy for a dime his
profit would only be sixty-two cents instead of seventy
cents.

"We can't do that," he said, "unless I take seven bars
of candy for each bar you take because I own seventy per
cent of the corporation."

"The candy bars only cost a nickel," Jerry said. "Give
us each a bar of candy and five cents for our share of the
profits."

It was a good thing Tom had a great brain or he
might have fallen for that one. I know I would have.

"If you eat a bar of candy," Tom said, "there is no
profit on it- The only fair thing to do is for each of us to
pay a dime for a bar of candy like everybody else."

Phil shook his head. "I forgot to ask my folks for
money Sunday," he said.

96

"You don't need any money," Tom said. "Just take
one bar of candy as your share of the profits."

Jerry nodded- "Let's do it that way," he said. "I'll take
a bar of candy instead of my share of the profits."

"Me too," Tony said.

Tom removed the bag of candy from under his shirt.
His three friends each took one bar. Tom took a chocolate
bar for himself, which he put in his pocket.

"Now Phil," he said, "you go to the top of the stair-
way and act as lookout. If you see any of the priests com-
ing up the stairs let me know."

Tom waited until Phil had left the dormitory. Then
he dumped the sixteen bars of candy on his bunk and
clapped his hands for attention.

"Step right up, fellows," he said. "The Academy
Candy Store is now open for business. Get yourself a nice
peanut, coconut, caramel, or chocolate bar for only a
dime. No credit or promises. Cash only. Step right up,
fellows. And remember to give me all the wrappers. You
can't have the candy unless you give me the wrappers."

Tom knew it was important not to have any candy
wrappers found by the priests. His plan was to put them in
the paper bag and hide them under the statue of Saint
Francis. Then on his next trip to the grocery store he
would throw them away.

Tom had prepared the kids for this. Most of them had
received money from their parents. He sold the sixteen
bars of candy in about sixteen seconds. Poor old Sweyn
didn't have any money and didn't get a bar of candy. He
came over to Tom's bunk.

"I call that pretty darn selfish," he said. "All that

97

candy and you wouldn't give your own brother one bar
of it."

"You could have got some money from home like the
other kids did," Tom said. "And although I said no credit
or promises that didn't include my own brother."

"It is too late now. It's all gone," Sweyn said as he
looked with envy at all the kids chomping on candy bars.

Tom took the bar he had saved for himself and broke
it in two. "You can have half of mine," he said, "but that is
five cents you owe me."

Tom's money-loving heart and his great brain had a
real battle for the next couple of days. His money-loving
heart told him to make two trips to the grocery store each
week. His great brain told him only to make one trip on
Friday evenings. His great brain won the battle for two
reasons. Every Friday evening from seven thirty to eight
thirty Father Rodriguez and the other priests attended
vespers in the chapel. It was the one hour during the week
when Tom didn't have to worry about the superintendent
coming to check on him in the washroom. And his great
brain reminded him that if he brought too much candy
into the academy some kid was liable to get a bellyache
and have to go to the dispensary. And the boy might tell
Father Rodriguez how he got the bellyache. Tom realized
that he would have to be satisfied with a sixty-cent profit a
week plus a bar of candy for himself.

All the boys including Tom were looking forward to
their fourth Saturday at the academy. Father Rodriguez
had announced they would go on a nature-study hike that

98

would include a picnic. And he reminded students they
would be permitted to purchase ten cents worth of candy.
Tom knew he wouldn't sell any candy that week but it was
worth it just knowing he would get outside the academy
for one day.

Tom felt like a prisoner on parole as he marched out
of the academy grounds on Saturday morning. Father
Rodriguez led the boys with Father O'Malley and Father
Petrie bringing up the rear, carrying a big basket of food.
They marched to the business section five blocks from the
academy to catch a streetcar.

They rode the streetcar to the end of the line and then
hiked along a road until they came to a trail that led into
a mountain canyon. They hiked two miles up the trail to a
picnic ground. Tom admitted it was worth the walk just
to see the aspen trees with their leaves so golden and
orange at that time of year. And he enjoyed the nature-
study lectures that Father Rodriguez gave because his
great brain learned new things about plants and trees.
They got to roast frankfurters over a campfire for lunch,
which was a real treat.

Yes sir, Tom was really enjoying himself—until they
returned to the city and got off the streetcar in the business
district. It was time to buy the candy. And Tom knew
the only place that sold candy in that neighborhood was
the grocery store owned by the fat man. He tried to think
of some way he could avoid entering the store. But Father
Rodriguez put a stop to his wondering in a hurry.

"You boys will line up on the left and enter the store
one at a time," the superintendent said. "I shall be inside
to make certain you only buy ten cents worth of candy.

99

When you come out of the store, line up on the right side.
Father O'Malley and Father Petrie will remain outside to
make certain none of you tries to repeat."

It was like a sentence of death to the Academy Candy
Store. Tom knew he would soon be expelled and on his
way home. He leaned forward and whispered to Jerry.

"Better buy jawbreakers so they will last," he said.
"This is the end of the Academy Candy Store. When the
proprietor sees me it will be all over. He is bound to tell
Father Rodriguez this is where I've been buying the
candy."

I can't even describe the anguish Tom felt at that
moment. Losing a profit of sixty cents a week plus a free
bar of candy was enough to break any kid's heart, let alone
a money-loving heart like Tom's. And believing he would
be expelled was enough to make tears come into his eyes.

I know if I'd been in Tom's shoes at that moment,
rather than return home in disgrace I would have run
away and become a vagabond, a lost soul wandering from
city to city and port to port for the rest of my days.

100

CHAPTER SEVEN

Goodness Doesn^t Pay

TOM AND I HAD WORKED OUT a system before
he went away to the academy. We both knew that Papa
and Mamma would expect me to let them read any letters
my brother wrote to me. To get around this, Tom always
enclosed two letters in the envelope. One was a nice broth-
erly letter saying how much he missed me and the fam-
ily. The other one gave me the real lowdown on what was
happening at the academy. That was why I was astonished
when the second monthly report arrived from Father
Rodriguez. It was a good report saying Tom had gone an
entire month without getting any demerits.

Papa was so flabbergasted that he read the report

101

i

twice. Even that didn't convince him his eyes weren't
playing tricks on him. He had Mamma read the report
aloud. And then, having convinced himself it was true, he
immediately took all the credit.

"I told you it was just a matter of giving Tom time to
adjust," he said proudly.

Papa hadn't told us any such thing. Mamma had been
the one who said it. Papa often took credit for things
Mamma said, but she usually let him get away with it.

The difference between the report and what Tom had
written me about his second month at the academy left me
with but one conclusion. The Great Brain was pulling the
wool over the eyes of the Jesuit priests, just as he had done
to a lot of adults in Adenville.

Now remember, when we left Tom he was standing in
front of the grocery store where he had been buying candy
for his candy store. He felt like a fellow about to enter the
den of a hungry lion. He was sure the proprietor would
tell on him and he would be expelled. Then he happened
to look up at the sign over the store which read:

HAGEN'S GROCERY STORE
AND MEAT MARKET

This wouldn't mean a thing to a kid in Tom's shoes
unless he had a great brain like my brother. Tom knew that
Hagen was a German name and most Germans were
Lutherans. His great brain told him that Mr. Hagen wasn't
a Catholic, or else Father Rodriguez wouldn't have to
stand guard to make sure no kid bought more than ten
cents worth of candy. Also the owner of the store would be
losing a dollar's worth of candy business a week if he told
Father Rodriguez. Tom kept his fingers crossed as he en-


102

tered the store. His future depended upon Mr. Hagen.
The fat proprietor looked at him as if he had never seen
him before and Tom uncrossed his fingers and smiled.

"What kind of candy do you want, young fellow?"
Mr. Hagen asked.

Tom bought ten cents worth of licorice and pepper-
mint sticks. He felt like whistling as he walked out of the
store and joined Jerry in the line.

"He isn't going to tell," he whispered. "The candy
store is still in business."

Tom wondered why Father Rodriguez was so strict
about candy in the academy. He decided to ask Father
O'Malley about it when school let out on Monday.

"Why does Father Rudriguez only let the fellows buy
candy once every four weeks?" he asked.

"There was a time," Father O'Malley said, "when the
boys could have all the sweets they wanted. Parents were
permitted to bring candy every visiting day. Out-of-town
parents were permitted to mail candy to their sons. And on
Saturdays the boys could go to the store and buy all the
candy they wanted."

"Why did Father Rodriguez stop it?" Tom asked.

"Because some of the boys ate so many sweets we had
an epidemic of stomachaches," Father O'Malley answered.
"And others weren't eating all of their meals to give them
a balanced diet."

"That makes sense," Tom admitted. "But why
doesn't Father Rodriguez tell that to the fellows instead
of just saying candy is bad for the teeth and health?"

"It amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?" Father
O'Malley answered.

103

Tom made a trip to the grocery store Friday evening
while the priests were at vespers.

"I'll bet you have been wondering why I didn't tell on
you," the fat proprietor said.

Tom knew the answer but wanted to hear what the
man would say.

"Why didn't you tell?" he asked.

"I knew you had to be from the academy," Mr. Hagen
said. "And I've heard those priests treat you kids like you
were inmates in a reformatory. So I just kept my mouth
shut."

Tom knew there was another reason. Mr. Hagen
didn't want to lose a dollar's worth of candy business a
week. But he didn't say anything.

As usual Jerry, Phil, and Tony each took a bar of
candy as Eheir share of the profits. Tom kept a bar for him-
self and sold the rest, making a neat profit of sixty cents.
Everything was just hunky-dory until the next morning
when Father Rodriguez sent for Tom. The Great Brain
couldn't imagine what the superintendent wanted, unless
some kid had snitched about the candy store. He was ex-
pecting the usual stern look on the priest's face when he
entered the superintendent's office. Instead, for the first
time, he saw Father Rodriguez actually smiling.

"I know you have anxiously been waiting for this day
to arrive," Father Rodriguez said.

"I have, Father?" Tom asked, puzzled. "Why?"

"Come now, Thomas," the priest chided him. "I
know you have been counting the days you have been
cleaning the washroom. And as of today you have gone an

104

entire month without getting a single demerit. I congratu-
late you."

Tom sure as heck didn't feel like being congratulated.
He felt like giving himself a hard kick in the behind for
not remembering to get some demerits so he wouldn't lose
the washroom job. Without it the Academy Candy Store
would be out of business. He had to keep that job.

"I would hate to have it on my conscience," he said,
" that some boy failed because he didn't have enough time
to study on account of having to clean the washroom. Los-
ing part of my study period doesn't bother me because of
my great brain. So maybe you should make the washroom
my permanent work assignment."

"You are really full of surprises today," the priest
said. "The boy who cleans the washroom has ample time to
study. Your permanent work assignment will be the hall-
way on the dormitory floor. You will sweep and dust it
every day and on Saturdays you will mop and polish it."

Tom made one desperate last attempt to save his
candy store. "If you haven't anybody to do the job," he
said, "I can take care of the washruom until you get some-
body."

"Boys being boys," Father Rodrigue/ said, "I never
run out of boys to peel potatoes and clean the washroom.
John Burton wilt clean it for one week starting today for
throwing spitballs in the classroom. He will be followed
by William Daniels for two weeks for coming late to class.
And by that time others will be waiting. You are excused,
Thomas."

Tom felt so far down in the dumps as he left the
superintendent's office that it would have taken a team of

105

mules to pull him out. He knew his money-loving heart
would never forgive his great brain for losing him a profit
of sixty cents a week. All he had to do was to get just five
demerits a month and he could have kept the washroom
job until school ended.

He went into the yard where his three friends were
waiting for him under their usual tree. He told them
what had happened.

"I guess my great brain went to sleep on me," he
concluded. "We sure as heck can't make every kid who
gets the washroom job a stockholder in the corporation."

Jerry shook his head sadly. "Good-bye, candy store,"
he said. "The washroom is the only way to get into the
attic."

That made Tom's great brain wake up in a hurry.
"Wrong," he said. "What about the storeroom on the third
floor? I bet there's a trapdoor into the attic from it."

"So what?" Jerry asked. "The door is always locked.
And Father Rodriguez carries the keys on that ring and
chain he always has with him."

"Maybe not," Tom said. "Remember the ring of keys
hanging on the wall in his office? I'll bet they are a dupli-
cate set in case one of the priests needs them when Father
Rodriguez isn't here. There is only one way to find out."

His three friends looked at him as if he was suggest-
ing they steal the crucifix from the altar in the chapel.
Phil was the first to recover from his astonishment.

"You get caught in his office when he isn't there and
you'll be expelled for sure," he said.

"I'll put my great brain to work on it," Tom said,
"and I personally guarantee we won't be caught."

106

I guess Tom's great brain wanted to redeem itself for
not reminding him to get some demerits, because he had a
plan all ready by the following Friday. He met with his
three friends in the yard after school. He rehearsed them
on what each had to do while the priests were at vespers
that evening.

At seven thirty-five Tom and his three friends left the
dormitory. Phil remained at the foot of the stairway on
the ground floor. Tony went into the library. Tom and
Jerry walked over to the doorway of the superintendent's
office. Jerry had a textbook with him and they pretended
to be arguing about a problem in it. They had to wait a
couple of minutes before Phil signaled that no kids were
coming down the stairway and Tony signaled that no kids
were leaving the library. Then Tom opened the door of
the office and slipped inside. He got the ring of keys and
put them in his pocket. He scratched on the door and
waited until he heard Jerry scratch back. Then he stepped
out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He and Jerry went up the stairs to the third floor,
with Tony and Phil following them. Phil went inside the
dormitory. Tony stood at the top of the stairway. Tom and
Jerry went to the door of the storeroom.

"We are all set," Tom whispered. "Phi! will stop any
kid coming out of the dormitory. Tony will let us know if
anybody is coming up the stairway. John Burton has the
door of the washroom locked so he can clean it. 1*11 start
trying the keys now."

Tom tried four keys before he found the one that
opened the storeroom. Inside there was enough moonlight
coming through the windows for them to see more religious
statues, crates, and boxes. But Tom was only interested in

107




the ceiling. And in one corner of it he saw a trapdoor lead-
ing to the attic. They slipped out and locked the door.

Then Tom and Jerry went down to the washroom on
the second Hoor and Tom made an impression of the key
in a bar of soap. He wiped the key off carefully before go-
ing back to the third floor and hiding the bar of soap un-
der the statue of Saint Francis. Jerry got Phil from the dor-
mitory and the four of them returned to the ground floor,
where they took up the same positions as before. When
the coast was clear Tom slipped into the superintendent's
office and returned the ring of keys to the peg on the wall.

Everything had been so easy up to this point that
Tom expected to hear Jerry scratching on the door imme-
diately. Instead a minute passed, and then another min-
ute, and Tom began to sweat. It seemed like an hour but
was actually only about five minutes before Jerry finally
scratched on the door. Tom slipped into the hallway.

"What took you so long?" Tom asked.

"Two eighth graders were standing in the doorway of
the library talking," Jerry said. "I couldn't just stand here
without attracting suspicion so I went into the library un-
til they left."

Tom met with his three friends at their usual tree in
the yard the next afternoon. He had a piece of wood, the
bar of soap, and his pocketknife. He sat on the far side of
the tree so his three friends could warn him if anybody ap-
proached. Tom was an expert whittler and could carve just
about anything. But it took him more than an hour to
make a wooden key from the impression in the bar of
soap. He hid the key under the statue of Saint Francis.

That night he lay awake until all the other boys were

109

asleep. He got a black crayon and his pocketknife and
crept into the hallway. He removed the wooden key from
under the statue and tried it in the lock of the storeroom
door. It didn't work. He then rubbed the black crayon on
the key and tried it again. He went into the washroom and
turned on the lights. He could tell from the crayon marks
that the key had to be carved in two places. He did the
carving and once again tried the key in the storeroom lock.
It turned halfway and stopped. Again he rubbed the black-
crayon on it and tried again. He went into the washroom.
The crayon marks told him that he had to make the notch
on top deeper. He did this and once again tried the key.
This time the wooden key opened the lock. Thanks to
Tom's great brain the Academy Candy Store was back in
business.

AH the fellows had complained so much about the
candy store's being closed the week before that Tom de-
cided to buy forty five-cent bars of candy instead of twenty
the following Friday evening. Of course, his money-loving
heart had something to do with the decision because he
had lost sixty cents in profit the week before. He waited
until Billy Daniels went to clean the washroom and the
priests were at vespers in the chapel. He left Phil in the
dormitory to warn if anybody was coming out. There was
nobody in the hallway. Jerry went down to the library
where he could watch the clock. Tom and Tony entered
the storeroom and locked the door behind them. They
climbed on top of crates and entered the attic through the
trapdoor. Tony remained in the attic while Tom made
the trip to the grocery store and back. He had forty bars
of candy in the paper sack.

110

Jerry was supposed to wait twenty minutes in the
library and then return to the third floor. But when Tom
scratched on the door there was no answering scratch from
Jerry. Tom waited a couple of minutes and then scratched
again- He heard Jerry scratch on the door and unlocked it-
With Jerry shielding him from anybody coming up the
stairway Tom locked the door and hid the key under the
statue of Saint Francis.

The candy-hungry boys sure made up for the week
the candy store had been closed. Tom made a profit of a
dollar and twenty cents besides two bars of candy for him-
self and each of his three friends. And that night he got
his first good night's sleep since losing his job in the wash-
room. I guess his money-loving heart had been keeping
him awake.

Ill

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Mental Marvel

TOM HAD NEVER LIKED liver and wouldn't eat
it on a bet. When he wrote me that they served beef liver
every Thursday at the academy 1 sure felt sorry for him.
Mamma said all boys disliked some kind of food. Tom
hated liver. Sweyn wouldn't eat a tomato, raw or cooked.
I hated celery; for my money, it was food for rabbits and
not for human beings. Papa never ate radishes because
they gave him gas. Mamma made gooseberry pies for us
but never ate a piece herself. So what Mamma should have
said is that all adults as well as all boys disliked some kind
of food.

Tom wrote me that he tried to fill up on bread and

112

saved his candy bar to eat on Thursday nights. But this
wasn't enough to stop him from going to bed hungry.
Then one Thursday evening his great brain told him it
was stupid to go to bed hungry when there was plenty to
eat in the kitchen. He called Jerry, Phil, and Tony over to
his bunk.

"How would you fellows like to have a nice sandwich
tonight?" he asked.

Phit rubbed his stomach. "I could go for a jam sand-
wich," he said.

"Me too," Tony said.

Jerry nodded. "I guess we all could. But how are we
going to get them?"

"We wait until the priests have gone to bed," Tom
said, "and then sneak down to the kitchen."

"It is too risky," Phil said. "One of the priests might
come into the kitchen to get a glass of milk or something."

"And besides," Tony said, "that would be stealing."

"No it wouldn't," Tom said. "Our parents are paying
for our room and board. The food in the kitchen is there
to feed us. So how can you call it stealing when we are just
taking something that belongs to us?"

Phil shrugged. "All right," he said, "maybe it isn't
stealing but it is too risky. We might even be expelled if
we are caught."

Jerry looked disgusted. "There goes the worry wart
again," he said. "We haven't even entered the kitchen and
he has already got us all expelled."

"I wish you would stop calling me a worry wart," Phil
said.

"I will stop when you stop acting like one," Jerry
said.

113

"No sense in arguing," Tom said. "You and I will
raid the kitchen. Jerry. And if Phil and Tony are afraid
we'll bring them back a sandwich."

Tom guessed right what Jerry would say.

"If they want a sandwich let them come with us," he
said.

"I'm not afraid," Tony said.

"Me neither," said Phil.

"All right," Tom said. "Just stay awake until the
other fellows are asleep."

Tom lay awake, his stomach growling from hunger,
until he was sure everybody but his three friends were
asleep. But Jerry was the only one who wasn't asleep. They
had to wake up Phil and Tony. They put on their slippers
and slid down the banister to the ground floor. There was
enough moonlight coming through the kitchen windows
for them to see. Tom found a loaf of bread and sliced it.
Then he got a piece of leftover baked ham from the icebox.
Tom made himself a ham sandwich while his three friends
made jam sandwiches. When they finished eating, Tom
was stilt hungry and made himself a jam sandwich.

"Let's all have another one," Jerry said. "And how
about a glass of milk?"

"Why not?" Tom asked.

Jerry patted his stomach after they had finished.
"This is the best idea your great brain ever had," he said.
"We can come down here every night and have a feast."

"No we can't," Tom said. "Father Petrie would get
suspicious. We will only come on Thursday nights. You
fellows know that is the night we have liver and I can't eat

it.

114

The following Thursday night Tom and his three
friends again raided the kitchen. Again Jerry said it was
the best idea Tom's great brain ever had. But he was sing-
ing a different tune one week later. The four of them
were sitting in the kitchen eating jam sandwiches and
drinking milk when the kitchen lights went on. Standing
in the doorway were Father Rodriguez and Father Petrie.
Although Tom and his friends had on white nightgowns,
they sure didn't look like four little angels. Angels don't
have jam on their mouths and guilty looks on their faces.

"Finish your sandwiches and milk, boys," Father Ro-
driguez said, looking like a cat that has just cornered four
mice. "You will all report to me in my office immediately
after school tomorrow." Then he turned and walked out
of the kitchen.

Tom stared at Father Petrie. "How did you know?"
he asked.

"Bless my soul, Thomas," the fat priest said. "A cook
knows what is in his kitchen just as a boy knows what is in
his pockets. I missed the bread, jam, and milk taken the
last two Thursday nights."

Tom and his three friends finished their sandwiches
and milk but without much appetite. As they started up
the stairway to the dormitory Phil turned to Tom.

"You and your great brain sure got us into a mess
this time," he said. "I just knew we would get caught."

"If you knew," Jerry said, "why did you come with
us?"

"Because I would rather get caught," Phil said, "than
have you and Tom think I was afraid."

"Me too," Tony said.

115

"Don't worry, fellows," Tom said. "I'll take all the
blame."

Phil grunted in disgust. "You took all the blame last
time," he said, "but Jerry, Tony, and I ended up peeling
spuds for three weeks."

The next day Tom felt a little hurt because Phil and
Tony seemed to be avoiding him. A few minutes after
three o'clock that afternoon they all stood before Father
Rodriguez in the superintendent's office.

The priest rubbed his forehead as if very tired.
"Thomas Fitzgerald," he said, "you are yet going to make
me wish I had been born a Protestant."

"I take all the blame," Tom said.

"You usually do," the superintendent said. "But the
four of you raided the kitchen and the four of you will be
punished for it. Making you peel potatoes or clean the
washroom seems to have no effect upon your deportment.
But I do have a punishment in mind that may make you
wish you had never raided the kitchen."

Tom couldn't think of any punishment worse than
peeling spuds or cleaning the washroom. "What is that?"
he asked.

"Twice each school year," Father Rodriguez said, "I
permit all the students to attend the Salt Lake Theater.
Our first trip to the theater is this coming Saturday after-
noon. But now you four boys aren't going to be permitted

to go."

"Please don't do that," Tom pleaded. "I've never
been inside a theater. Make us peel potatoes, clean the
washroom, give us demerits, anything you want, but please,
Father, let us go to the theater."

116

"The punishment stands," Father Rodriguez said.
"You boys are excused."

"It isn't fair," Tom cried, "to give us such a severe
punishment just because I can't eat liver."

Father Rodriguez leaned forward on his desk. "What
has liver to do with your raiding the kitchen?" he asked.

"I can't eat any kind of liver," Tom said. "I hate the
sight, smell, and taste of it. And I got so hungry on Thurs-
day nights that I talked the fellows into raiding the kitchen
with me."

"Do you mean to tell me that the only reason you
raided the kitchen was because you were hungry?" Father
Rodriguez asked.

"Yes, Father," Tom answered.

"Why didn't you tell me that you didn't like liver?"
the superintendent asked.

"What good would it do?" Tom asked. "There is no
prayer you could say for me that would make me eat
liver."

"I never want any boy in this academy to go to bed
hungry," Father Rodriguez said. "I shall arrange with
Father Petrie to give you fried eggs on Thursdays for sup-
per, Thomas. And I don't think I can punish you, because
I've been remiss in my duties as a superintendent and
priest. I should have made certain all the boys were eating
the food served them at every meal."

"Does that mean we can go to the theater Saturday?"
Tom asked.

"Yes," Father Rodriguez said. "There will be no
punishment for any of you. You are excused."

"Thank you. Father," Tom said. "Thank you very
much."

117

Tom's three friends patted him on the back after they
were out of the superintendent's office.

"Your great brain did it again," Jerry said. "You
talked Father Rodriguez right out of punishing us."

"It wasn't my great brain at all," Tom said. It was the
first time he hadn't given his great brain all the credit. "I
simply told the truth,"

Jerry grinned. "Then just go on telling the truth and
maybe that will make a Protestant out of Father Rodri-
guez," he said. "That would be one way to get rid of him."

"Yeah," Phil said, "especially since it looks as if the
Pope isn't going to answer your letter,"

Tom couldn't help feeling that maybe Father Rodri-
guez wasn't such a bad fellow after all. "Just what makes
you think another superintendent would be any better?"
he asked.

"Anybody," Jerry said, "would be better than Father
Rodriguez."

"I am beginning to wonder after what just hap-
pened," Tom said. "It is like my father used to say when
we went on a fishing and camping trip and the road was
bad. There is always a worse road than the one you are
traveling on."

Tom was just as excited as the rest of the boys when
they entered the Salt Lake Theater for the Saturday
matinee accompanied by Father Rodriguez and Father
O'Malley.

The theater was famous for the plays, operas, con-
certs, and vaudeville shows held there. Father Rodriguez
had chosen a week when a vaudeville show was playing.
Tom was thrilled with the theater itself and with the show.

118

There were acrobats, a trained-seal act, a song-and-dance
team, a comedian, a quartet, some Swiss bell ringers, and,
as the headliner, a mind-reading act called the Mental
Marvel.

It was this act all the fellows liked best. The Mental
Marvel had two people from the audience come up on the
stage and blindfold him- Then his assistant mingled with
the audience, asking people to hand him some article they
had on their person. The assistant would hold the article
in his hand and ask the Mental Marvel to read his mind
and tell the audience what it was- And just like a shot the
Mental Marvel would say it was a watch, a billfold, a pair
of glasses, or whatever the article happened to be.

Tom was as mystified as the other boys until he put
his great brain to work. He was positive that no one could
read another person's mind. There had to be some trick
to it. He watched and listened very carefully to every word
the assistant said.

The fellows were talking about the Mental Marvel all
the way back to the dormitory.

"The Mental Marvel's brain makes your great brain
look about the size of a pea," Rory Flynn said to Tom.
"Just imagine being able to read other people's minds."

"If the Mental Marvel could really read minds," Tom
said, "he wouldn't be traveling around the country in a
vaudeville show. He could be making a fortune."

"How?" Rory asked.

"Many ways," Tom said. "He could become a gam-
bler and know what cards the other players are holding."

"Not if he is an honest man," Rory said. "You are just
jealous because you can't read minds like the Mental
Marvel."

119

"Jerry and I could do the same thing with a little
practice." Tom said.

"Talk is cheap," Rory said. "I'll bet you can't."

Tom was pretty confident he knew how it was done.
But he wanted to make sure before he put up any hard
cash. And he knew if he acted reluctant that would make
Rory and the other kids all the more eager to bet. His
great brain and money-loving heart were working like
sixty to turn this to his financial advantage.

"Just have your money ready after supper on Monday
night," Tom said.

Tom walked over to his bunk and sat down with his
three friends.

"Boy, oh, boy," Jerry said. "You sure stuck your neck
out that time. You know you can't read my mind, even
with your great brain."

"Nobody can read another person's mind," Tom
said. "But my great brain did figure out how the Mental
Marvel and his assistant put on their mind-reading act. I
just need to work out the details. Phil will be visiting his
folks tomorrow so you and Tony meet me in our usual spot
in the yard. I'll have it all figured out by then."

When Tom met Jerry and Tony under their usual
tree the next afternoon he had a notebook with him.

"First," he said. "let me explain how the Mental Mar-
vel knew what the assistant held in his hand. I noticed that
each time, the assistant asked a slightly different question.
They used a code word for each article. For example, when
the assistant said, 'Please read my mind, Mental Marvel,
and tell me what I hold in my hand,' the code word 'please'
meant it was a watch. My great brain has figured out dif-

120

/

ferent words I can begin a sentence with. All you've got to
do. Jerry, is to memorize those words and the articles they
are code words for. I made up two lists, one for each of us."

He tore a sheet from the notebook and handed it to
Jerry. On it he had printed the following:

CAN means it is a CATECHISM
TELL means it is a ROSARY
OH means it is HOLY MEDALS
THIS means it is a PAIR OF GLASSES
WHAT means it is a RING
YOU means it is a WATCH
SEARCH means it is MONEY
READ means it is a LETTER
IF means it is a POCKETKNIFE
IT means it is a CRUCIFIX
i means it is a PENCIL
WILL means it is a COMB

Jerry looked at the list. "What if it is something we
don't have a code word for?" he asked.

"We've got a code word for just about everything the
fellows would have on them at the theater," Tom said.
"But if one of them does hold out something we don't
have a code word for I'll do the same thing the assistant
did and just pass them by. Start memorizing the code
words now. And after supper go to the chapel where it is
nice and quiet and do some more memorizing instead of
praying. We will meet here tomorrow after school for a
rehearsal."

Tom knew he could memorize the code words in no
time. He had picked Jerry to be his partner because the

121

red-headed boy had a better memory than Phil or Tony.
The four of them met in the yard on Monday after
school. Tom tested Jerry until he was satisfied Jerry knew
all the code words. Then he and Jerry began rehearsing
sentences beginning with code words. By the time they
returned to the dormitory to wash up for supper Tom
knew that both he and Jerry had the parts they would play
down pat.

After supper Tom waited until the four kids assigned
to the kitchen and dining room were finished before he
began the demonstration. His money-loving heart didn't
want to miss any bets. He had put the paper bag containing
the profits from the candy store under his pillow. He was
now ready to lead the lamb to the slaughter. He removed
the bag.

"Do you still want to bet, Rory, that Jerry and I can't
do what the Mental Marvel and his assistant did?" he
asked.

"Sure," Rory said. "But you must do it exactly like
they did it."

"I will let you blindfold Jerry and place him at one
end of the dormitory," Tom said. "And to make it even
tougher you can make him face the wall. I wil! stand at the
other end of the dormitory. You fellows will hand me ar-
ticles you had with you at the theater. I will ask Jerry to
identify them. If he misses one article I lose the bet. Now,
how many of you fellows want to bet besides Rory?"

Those kids must have thought they had a sure thing.
Every one of them except Tom's three friends raised their
hands.

"Phil," Tom said, "you go to the top of the stairway

122

and act as lookout. Tony, get a notebook and write down
the name of each fellow and how much he bets."

Tom then dumped his profits from the candy store
onto his bunk. "Get in line now to bet." he said. "You tell
Tony how much you want to put down. He'll write your
name and the amount and hand the money to me. I'll
drop it in the paper bag and then cover each bet with my
own money. After all bets are made, my brother Sweyn
will hold the stakes. If you fellows win, he can take the
notebook and pay each of you double the amount you bet
from the paper bag. Any questions?"

The boys lined up like sheep waiting to be sheared by
The Great Brain. Rory was first in line.

"I wish I had more than forty cents to bet," he said.

"So do I," Tom said. "So do I."

Sweyn was next and bet fifty cents. "This is one time
your great brain and big mouth are going to cost you
plenty," he said. "A joke is a joke but you can still call it
off."

"If you are so sure it can't be done," Tom said, "why
don't you bet a dollar?"

"Because fifty cents is all I've got," Sweyn said.

By the time all bets had been placed, there was more
than ten dollars in the paper bag. Tom stood to make a
fortune if he or Jerry didn't make a mistake. And he stood
to lose a fortune if they did. If that happened his money-
loving heart would break wide open.

"All right, Rory," he said. "Take Jerry to the end of
the dormitory, blindfold him, and face him against the
wall. The rest of you get ready to hand me articles you
had on you at the theater."

123

"Wait for me," Rory said. "I want to be first because I
know that will be the end of the demonstration."

A few minutes later the mind-reading demonstration
was ready to begin. Rory handed Tom his rosary.

"Tell me, Mental Marvel, what I am holding in my
hand," Tom said.

"A rosary," Jerry answered.

There was a gasp of astonishment from all the fel-
lows except Sweyn. "It was just a lucky guess," he said,
holding out his watch.

Tom took it. "You will have to read my mind. Mental
Marvel, to tell me what this is," he said.

"A watch," Jerry answered.

Larry Williams handed Tom his pocket-sized cate-
chism.

"Can you read my mind. Mental Marvei. and tell me
what this article is?" Tom asked.

"A catechism." Jerry answered.

By this time the fellows who had bet were staring at
Tom as if he was the devi! himself. He took a letter from
the next student.

"Read my mind. Mental Marvel, and tell me what I
hold in my hand." he said.

"A letter," Jerry answered.

Billy Daniels removed a ring from his finger and
handed it to Tom.

"What am I holding in my hand now, Mental Mar-
vel?" Tom asked.

"A ring," Jerry answered.

Willie Connors handed Tom his pocketknife.

"If you can tell me what I hold in my hand now,"
Tom said, "you are truly a Mental Marvel."

124

"A pocketknife," Jerry answered.

Tom returned the pocketknife. "That ends the dem-
onstration," he said. "Jerry and I have proved how the
Mental Marvel and his assistant did their mind-reading
act, and I've won all bets."

Harold Adams took off his glasses and held them out.
"Just one more, please," he said.

Tom took the glasses. "This is the last time you have
to read my mind. Mental Marvel, and tell what I hold
in my hand," he said.

"A pair of glasses," Jerry answered.

Tom gave the glasses back. "That ends the demonstra-
tion for sure," he said. In his letter he wrote me that he
had never seen such a bunch of open-mouthed kids. They
couldn't have been more astonished if he and Jerry had
jumped out the window and started flying around like
birds.

He told Jerry to take off the blindfold and then got
the paper bag with the money in it from Sweyn.

'T figured Rory and the others would bet," he said,
"but I didn't think my own brother would be that foolish."

Poor Sweyn was still in a daze, not only from what
he'd seen and heard but also from losing half a dollar. "I
still don't believe it," he said. "How did you do it?"

Rory nodded his head. "You have won our money,"
he said, "and that entitles us to know how it was done,"

"I don't remember promising I would tell you how it
was done," Tom said. His money-loving heart told him to
make them pay to find out. But his great brain reminded
him that this was a good time to get even with the eighth
graders for the torture tunnel. And anyway he had won
all their money.

125

"The only way you are ever going to find out how it
was done," he said, "is for the eighth graders to go through
the torture tunne] of the seventh graders."

Rory folded his arms on his chest. "I'm not going to
let you little seventh graders paddle me," he said.

Sweyn grabbed Rory's arm. "Yes you are," he said. "It
is worth it to find out how it was done."

Larry Williams nodded his head. "Sweyn is right," he
said. "And if you don't want all the eighth graders giving
you the silent treatment you'll do as Tom says."

Rory knew he was beat as all the other eighth graders
began nodding their heads. "All right," he said. "You little
seventh graders get your torture tunnel ready."

Tom got the seventh graders lined up in the aisle with
their legs apart and their geography books in their hands.

"Give it to them good and hard like they gave it to
us," he ordered

After the last eighth graders had crawled through the
torture tunnel all the kids gathered around Tom. He ex-
plained how the Mental Marvel and his assistant worked
with code words and then showed them the sheet of paper
with the words he and Jerry had used.

Sweyn pointed at the sheet. "What if somebody held
up an article you and Jerry didn't have a code word for?"
he asked

"I'd do the same thing the assistant did in the the-
ater," Tom said, "and just pass them up."

Sweyn nodded. "You're right," he said- "I noticed
how the assistant passed up a lot of people. Why, he even
ignored Rory, who was right near him holding out his
rosary."

"That is because they didn't have a code word for a

126




rosary," Tom said. "No more questions, please. To figure

this all out put a strain on my great brain and I want to
give it a rest."

Tom didn't really want to give his great brain a rest.

All he wanted to do was count the money and find out how
much he had won.

"Anybody could have figured it out," Rorysaid.
"Then why didn't you figure it out and save yourself
forty cents and a paddling?" Tom asked with a grin.

"You've got a smart mouth," Rory said. "And one of
these days I'm going to close it for you."

Tom handed the paper bag to Jerry. "I'll back up
anything I say with my fists any time," he said.

Sweyn stepped between them. "You start a fight in the
dormitory and you'll both be expelled," he said.

Tom had believed from his first day at the academy
that he would have to fight Rory sooner or later. His great
brain had planned how to do it without being expelled.

"Who is going to know there has been a fight?" he
asked. "Rory and I will go into the washroom, where no-
body can see us. And after I give him a black eye and a

bloody nose he can tell Father Rodriguez he fell down
the stairs."

"He is bigger and older than you," Sweyn said.
"So what," Tom said. "You know that with my cor-
respondence course in boxing from John I.. Sullivan and
all my experience fighting in Adenville, I've whipped kids
a lot bigger and tougher than him." Then he looked at
Rory. "You've been digging at me since school started.
Let's go to the washroom and settle it right now,"

Now I'm not saying that Rory Flynn was a coward.
But after hearing Tom confidently say he would black

128

Rory's eye and bloody his nose, and then nearing about
that course in boxing from the former champion of the
world and about Tom's whipping kids bigger and tougher,
for my money Rory would have been a fool to fight Tom.

"I'm not going to get expelled on account of you,"
Rory said. He walked to his bunk and sat down.

Jerry patted Tom on the back. "You sure bluffed
him," he said.

"I wasn't bluffing," Tom said. "Rory is just a big bag
of wind."

But Tom was going to learn that a big bag of wind
can blow a fellow right into a lot of trouble, as he told me
in his next letter.

129

CHAPTER NINE

Mystery of the Missing Mattress

PAPA HAD HIS ANNUAL physical checkup with
Dr. LeRoy just two days before the November reports on
Tom and Sweyn arrived from the academy. It was a good
thing Dr. LcRoy pronounced Papa in excellent health. I
say this because Papa would have had a nervous break-
down and apoplexy all at once after reading the report on
Tom. The report informed us that Tom had received fif-
teen demerits for the month, just five short of being ex-
pelled. The news made Papa do something I'd never seen
him do before. He always took a drink of brandy before
supper but that was all he ever drank. But after reading
the report he went into the pantry and poured himself a

130

big glass of brandy. He drank it and then returned to the
parlor, where he began pacing up and down like a caged
animal.

"I knew it couldn't last," he cried out. "Mark my
words, Tom will be expelled before Christmas."

This was certainly a switch from the month before
when he said he knew Tom just needed a little time to ad-
just. But Papa was like that. He took credit when it was a
credit to do so and neatly shifted the blame when it wasn't.

That was one time I wanted to confess that Tom had
been enclosing two letters in his envelopes. I wanted to
tell Papa that it wasn't Tom's fault, because my brother
had written me all about it. But I knew if I showed Papa
that one letter he would insist on reading all the letters
Tom had sent me. And that would have given him a ner-
vous breakdown and apoplexy even if he was in perfect
health.

It was all Rory Flynn's fault that Tom had got fifteen
demerits. It began one morning when Tom returned to
the dormitory after breakfast and found a blue slip on his
bunk. A blue slip meant an infraction of a rule and who-
ever received one had to report to the superintendent's
office after classes. One of the rules of the academy was that
all bunks had to be made up before the boys went to break-
fast. Then, after saying Grace Before Meals, Father Rodri-
guez would go to the dormitory for an inspection while the
fellows were eating. Tom knew darn well that he had
made up his bunk. Now it was all mussed up. And he
was pretty sure Rory had done it. But there wasn't any-
thing he could do but report to the superintendent's of-
fice. He was given five demerits.

Another rule was that all students had to have all

131

their textbooks when reporting for class in the morning.
The reason for this was that some of the students used to
leave textbooks which they'd been using for homework in
the dormitory. This meant Father O'Malley had to hold
up the class until the students went and got their books.

Two days after Tom had received five demerits for
not making up his bunk he couldn't find his textbook on
advanced arithmetic after breakfast. He was positive he
had left it on his desk with the other textbooks. He looked
all around but couldn't find it- He knew he couldn't bluff
it in class so he told Father O'Malley he had lost his ad-
vanced arithmetic textbook. He was sent to the super-
intendent's office and received another five demerits. Ken-
neth Bradley, whose permanent work assignment was to
sweep and dust the library after school, found Tom's
textbook lying on a table in the library. Tom knew he
hadn't been to the library the night before. And he was
now positive that Rory Flynn was behind all this.

The following week Tom found another blue slip on
his bunk for not making up his bed.

"This makes fifteen demerits this month," Father
Rodriguez said as he pronounced sentence in his office af-
ter school that day. "Why have you suddenly become so
careless and lazy?"

Tom knew he was neither careless nor lazy. He also

knew he couldn't tell the superintendent what he believed

to he true without being a tattletale.

"It won't happen again, Father," he said.
"It had better not," the priest said. "You are excused."

Tom joined his three friends under the tree in the
yard.

"We all know Rory is doing this to get even with me
132

for making him back down when I wanted to fight him,"
Tom said. "I saw he was the last one in the dining room
for breakfast this morning. He just waited until everybody
was out of the dormitory and then mussed up my bunk
like he did before."

Jerry scratched his head. "How did he plant the text-
book in the library?" he asked.

"He waited until everybody had left the dormitory
that morning," Tom said. "Then he took the textbook
and hid it. And he probably sneaked it into the library
during the noon hour. It I get five more demerits I can be
expelled. We've got to stop Rory."

"I've got it," Jerry said. "Let's wait until he goes to
sleep tonight and then take all his clothes and soak them
in water and tie them in knots. That will get him demerits
for showing up late for breakfast."

Tom shook his head. "He would only do the same to
me while I'm asleep," he said.

"How about putting rocks under his mattress?" Phil
asked, picking up a rock.

"He would just put rocks under my mattress," Tom
said. "But you have given me an idea, Phil. I'll put my
great brain to work on it."

Tom's great brain had a plan all figured out by Satur-
day. He had to take the entire seventh grade into his con-
fidence to make it work. This didn't worry him because
he knew none of the kids liked Rory and class spirit would
make them cooperate. He marched down to the dimly lit
chapel with his classmates for confession. They sat down
on their side of the chapel and the eighth graders sat on
the opposite side.

"Now remember," Tom whispered, "you go first,

133

Jerry, and make it the shortest confession on record. Then
you go. Tony, and make it the longest confession on rec-
ord. If I'm not back by the time you come out of the con-
fessional Phil will go and make his confession a good long
one."

The tinkle of a bell in the seventh-grade confessional
was heard. Jerry got up and walked toward it just as the
tinkle of a bell was heard on the eighth-grade side. Tom
watched an eighth grader start for the confessional and
then dropped down on his hands and knees. He crawled
along the aisle on the seventh-grade side to the rear of the
(hapel and from there into the hallway.

Everything now depended upon split-second timing.
Tom ran up to the third floor. He got the key from under
the statue of Saint Francis and unlocked the storeroom
door. Then he went to the dormitory and removed the
bed clothing from Rory's bunk. He carried Rory's mat-
tress into the storeroom, locked the door, and returned the
wooden key to its hiding place. Then he went back to the
dormitory and made up Rory's bunk without a mattress.
From there he crept down the stairway.

Jerry was in the hallway and motioned to him that
the coast was clear. Tom ran to the chapel, crawled on his
hands and knees down the seventh-grade side, and took his
place beside Phil before Tony came out of the confes-
sional.

Tom didn't receive any heavy penance from Father
O'Malley this time, because he could honestly say he
hadn't broken the fourth commandment and that he
didn't dislike Father Rodriguez anymore. He came out of
the chapel with Larry Williams and told him he was going
to the library.

134




Tom and his three friends had been sitting in the li-
brary for about fifteen minutes when Willie Connors came
running into the room.

"Somebody stole Rory's mattress," he said. "You had
better get up to the dorm, Tom, before he takes yours."

Tom and his three friends and half a dozen other
kids ran up to the dormitory. They arrived just as Rory
was pulling the covers from Tom's bunk.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" Tom asked.

"I know you fellows took my mattress," Rory said,
"so I'm going to take yours until you give me mine back."

"No you won't," said Tom.

"You bet you won't," Jerry said.

"Better not try it," added Phil.

Sweyn had come from the chapel and was listening.
"Why would anybody want your mattress when they've
got one of their own?" he asked. "Are you sure it is gone,
Rory?"

"Look for yourself," Rory said.

Tom walked over to Rory's bunk with Sweyn and his
three friends.

"It is gone," Tom said, looking as surprised as a dog
who finds its buried bone is missing.

"It sure is," Jerry said.

Phil shook his head as if bewildered. "Why would any-
body want to take Rory's mattress?" he asked.

"That is a good question," Tom said, "because it gives
us the answer. Nobody would want to take Rory's mattress,
which means he must have got rid of it himself."

Sweyn stared at Tom with a dumb look on his face.
"Why would he want to get rid of his own mattress?" he
asked.

136

"I don't like to say what I think happened in front of
all you fellows," Tom said.

"Go ahead and say it!" Rory shouted.

"Well," Tom said, "I think you wet the bed last night
and didn't want any of the fellows to see the stain. You
were so ashamed, you knew you had to get rid of the mat-
tress. And you remembered the old junkman who passes
by every Saturday night. So you threw the mattress out the
window, knowing the junkman would pick it up."

Rory looked as if he were going to explode. "I didn't
wet the bed!" he shouted. "I haven't wet the bed since I
was a baby! And I didn't throw my mattress out the win-
dow!"

"All right," Tom said with a straight face. "No sense
in getting all riled up about it. Some of your eighth-grade
friends are probably playing a joke on you. Did you look
in the washroom?"

"That is the first place I looked," Rory said.

"Did you look in the classrooms and washroom on the
second floor?" Tom asked.

"I looked there too," Rory said.

Tom shook his head. "I'm sure nobody would carry
your mattress all the way down to the ground floor to hide
it," he said. "That leaves only one conclusion."

"What conclusion?" Rory demanded.

"That I was right in the first place," Tom said.
"Maybe it isn't too late." He walked over and looked
down into the street. "Too late," he said. "The junkman
has already picked it up."

Rory doubled up his fists. "I didn't wet the bed and I
didn't throw my mattress out the window!" he shouted. "I
know you took it and I'm going to make you tell me where

137

you put it. I would rather be expelled tor fighting than let
the fellows think I wet the bed."

Tom spread out his hands. "How do you like that,
fellows?" he said. "Rory wants to fight me because he wet
the bed. I sure as heck didn't make him wet the bed."

AH the kids began to laugh except Rory. Then Tom's
face became serious.

"I'll fight you now or any time you want," he said.
"And you might as well get expelled for fighting because
when Father Rodriguez finds out you wet the bed and
threw your mattress out the window for the junkman he
will expel you anyway."

Sweyn stepped between them. He knew The Great
Brain better than Rory and the other kids. "This has gone
far enough," he said. "All right, T.D., where is the mat-
tress? All Rory has to do is to tell Father Rodriguez that
you took it and you'll be the one who is expelled."

Tom looked as innocent as a newborn baby. "That is
a stupid thing to say," he said. "Rory's mattress was here
when I went down to confession with the other seventh
graders. They will tell you I was in the chapel until after
my confession. And Larry Williams will tell you that I
came out of the chapel the same time he did and went
straight to the library. I wouldn't have any trouble con-
vincing Father Rodriguez that I couldn't possibly have
taken the mattress."

Tom's innocent act convinced Sweyn that The Great
Brain knew where the mattress was. He decided to appeal
to Tom's money-loving heart. "Let us assume you didn't
take the mattress," he said. "What is your price for putting
your great brain to work to solve the mystery?"

Tom considered tor a moment. "I just might do it if

138

all you eighth graders raise your right hands and swear
never to do anything that will make any seventh grader get
any demerits."

"What are you talking about?" Sweyn asked.

"Who do you think mussed up my bunk twice and got
me ten demerits?" Tom asked. "And who do you think
took my textbook and planted it in the library to get me
another five demerits? Nobody but Rory Flynn."

Sweyn turned to face Rory. "That was a dirty low-
down trick to pull," he said. "And if I'd caught you at it
you would be missing more than a mattress. You would be
missing a couple of teeth."

"Listen to who is talking," Tom said, really enjoying
himself. "The same brother who doesn't want me to get
into a fight."

Rory looked as guilty as a fox caught in a chicken
coop. "I was just playing a joke on him," he said to Sweyn.

"Making a fellow get demerits is no joke," Sweyn
said.

Tom touched Sweyn on the arm. "If I'd really put my
great brain to work on it," he said, "and was willing to do
such a low-down thing, I could have got Rory expelled in
one week."

"I won't do it again," Rory promised.

"You can bet you won't," Sweyn said, "because you
and all of us eighth graders are now going to take an oath
that we will never do anything that might get a seventh
grader demerits."

Tom couldn't help chuckling to himself as he heard
all the eighth graders take the oath.

"All right, T.D.," Sweyn said. "Where is Rory's mat-
tress?"

139

"How should I know?" Tom asked. "I only promised
to put my great brain to work on the mystery. But don't
worry. I'm sure I'll solve it before Father Rodriguez's in-
spection tomorrow morning."

Rory pointed at his bunk. "You mean I've got to sleep
on those hard boards tonight?" he asked.

Tom shrugged. "I sure as heck don't know where else
you can sleep," he said. "These bunks aren't big enough
for two fellows."

That was one night when everybody in the dormitory
had something to say after lights-out. Tom started it.

"Boy, oh, boy," he said. "This mattress sure feels nice
and soft."

"Mine too," Jerry said.

"I'm sure glad I'm not sleeping on boards," Phil said.

Larry Williams patted his pillow. "A fellow never
really appreciates a good mattress until he has to sleep
without one," he said.

And poor old Rory had to lie there on hard wooden
stats listening.

Tom remained awake until he was sure all the other
kids were asleep. Then he awakened Jerry. They got the
mattress from the storeroom and placed it on the floor be-
side Rory's bunk. Both of them fell asleep chuckling to
themselves.

When the six o'clock bell rang in the morning, Rory
got up, rubbing his sore muscles. When he saw the mat-
tress he almost jumped out of his nightgown.

"Look at that!" he shouted. "My mattress is lying
right there while I've been getting black and blue sleeping
on those boards."

Then Rory walked over to Tom's bunk. "I'm not go-

140

ing to fight you," he said, "and I'm not going to mess with
your great brain anymore. You leave me alone and I'll
leave you alone."

Tom pawned and stretched. "That sounds fair

enough," he said.

Tom didn't get any more demerits right up to the
time he and Sweyn came home for the Christmas vacation.
I was sure glad to see my brothers but couldn't help feeling
a little jealous of Tom. Our foster brother Frankie had
thought I was just about the greatest fellow in the world
until he met Tom. Now he followed The Great Brain
around adoringly like a little puppy.

Papa got Tom alone in the parlor the first thing. He
gave him a good dressing down for that first month's bad
report and the fifteen demerits he received in November.
And having got that out of his system Papa said we could
all enjoy the holidays.

I knew I would enjoy them because Papa told Tom to
help me with the chores. I could tell from the look on
Tom's face that he didn't like the idea of having to do
chores on his vacation. That first night Mamma allowed
Frankie and me to stay up until nine o'clock. Then we
went up to the room we shared with Tom. The Great
Brain sat on a chair and pulled off a shoe.

"What's new in town?" he asked.

"Nothing," I answered.

"You must be mistaken," he said. "There must be
something new in town since I've been away."

"I'm not mistaken," I said. "I've been right here in
Adenville all the time and it's just the same as it was when
you left for the academy."

141

"I'll bet I can prove there is something new in town,"
he said. "If I can't, I'll do your share of the chores while
I'm home. If I can, you do my share. Is it a bet?"

This was one bet I knew I was going to win. "It's a
bet," I said.

Tom pointed at Frankie. "We didn't have an adopted
brother when I left for the academy," he said. "And that
makes Frankie something new in town."

I felt as stupid as a donkey trying to fly. Tom had
been home less than one day and he had already connived
me into doing his share of the chores-

Frankie came over to my bed. "I'll help, John," he

said.

"The only one who can help me," I said sadly, "is the
fellow who invents a muzzle for human beings like they
have for dogs to keep my big mouth shut."

That made Tom and Frankie laugh but I didn't think
it was funny.

The next morning I started the chores by filling up
the woodbox in the kitchen. Mamma and Aunt Bertha
were washing the breakfast dishes. Mamma kept looking
at me with a funny expression. But she didn't say anything
until I brought in the first bucketful of coal.

"Why isn't Tom D. helping you?" she asked.

I sure as heck didn't want my own mother to know she
had given birth to a son so stupid he had bet there was
nothing new in town.

"Tom and I made a deal," I said.

"What kind of a deal?" she asked.

"What's the difference?" I asked.

142

"The difference is that I asked you what kind of a
deal," Mamma said. "Now you tell me."

"You'll be sorry if I do," I tried to warn her.

"Then let me be sorry," she said.

"Mamma," I said looking her right in the eye, "you
gave birth to a son who is a stupid jackass."

I thought that would make her cry. Instead she sort
of smiled.

"Let me be the judge of that," she said.

I told her about the bet I'd made with Tom.

"You tell Tom Dennis that I want to see him at once,"
she said when I finished.

I knew she was angry when she called Tom by his full
name. I went into the backyard where Tom was pushing
Frankie on the swing. I told him Mamma wanted to see
him. I followed him and Frankie into the kitchen.

"Tom Dennis," Mamma said firmly, "give me a defi-
nition of a town."

"Why are you angry at me?" Tom asked. "And why
do you want me to define a town?"

"Just do as I told you," Mamma said.

"A town," Tom said, "is a place where there are
homes and places of business and people living that doesn't
have a large enough population to be called a city."

"An excellent definition," Mamma said. "But you
lose the bet you made with John D. and I will tell you why.
Frankie came to Adenville many times with his parents
and brother before they were killed in the land slide. Mr.
Harmon at the Z.C.M.I. store knew him and so did a lot
of other people his father did business with. So Frankie
isn't anything new in town and you lose the bet."

143

I wasn't about to pass up a chance to rub salt in Tom's
wounds after the way he had tried to flimflam me. I fol-
lowed him down to the wood-and-coal shed.

"In case you've forgotten," I said, "after you fill all
the woodboxes and coal buckets, you feed and water our
team and our milk cow and Sweyn's mustang, Dusty, and
the chickens."

I followed Tom around pouring salt into his wounds
until he finished the chores. Then he said he had some im-
portant business and left. He came home for lunch with
Sweyn and Papa.

"And now," Papa said as we all sat down to lunch,
"please tell me, T.D., what you were doing reading all
those back issues of the Advocate."

"I didn't tell you this morning," Tom said, "because
I wanted you as a witness in front of Mamma." Then he
told Papa about the bet we had made and how Mamma
had ruled in my favor.

"It seems to me," Papa said when Tom finished, "that
your mother is right."

"No she isn't," Tom said. "According to your own
newspaper six new babies have been born in Adenville
since I left for the academy. And six new babies are cer-
tainly something new in town. And that means J.D. lost
the bet."

Papa shook his head as he looked across the table at
me. "I'm afraid T.D. is right," he said. "And I hope this
will teach you never to bet against The Great Brain
again."

In spite of my having to do all the chores it turned out
to be a happy Christmas. It didn't start out as one, though.
I had an old worn catcher's mitt. I had told Papa I wanted

144

a new mitt for Christmas and had showed him the Spal-
ding's Decker Patent Boys' League catcher's mitt I wanted
in the Sears Roebuck catalogue. I had let him know in
plenty of time to order it.

I don't believe there was a more disappointed kid in
the United States on Christmas morning than me. And I
blamed it all on the fact that Papa couldn't resist every
new invention he saw advertised. Our attic was full of
crazy inventions which didn't work, like the butter
churner you peddled instead of pumping by hand.

"I thought it would tighten your work, Tena," he had
said to Mamma after discovering it wasn't worth a darn.
And having passed the buck to Mamma that gave Papa the
right to order the next new invention he saw advertised.
But I didn't dream he would order some crazy invention
for my Christmas present instead of the catcher's mitt.

On Christmas morning Tom, Frankie, and I put on
our robes and ran down to the parlor with Sweyn right
behind us. Presents were all around the Christmas tree
and the red stockings on the mantelpiece were filled with
candy. Sweyn received a beaut of a fly-fishing rod and reel
with a box of fly hooks. Tom received a watch with a fob.
Frankie received several toys. And what did I get? None
of us knew. My present was a large leather-covered ball
and a metal hoop with a net on it attached to some boards
about three feet square. Papa had bought another of his
crazy inventions for my Christmas present. Even Tom with
his great brain didn't know what it was. Papa heard us
talking and came into the room with a robe over his night-
gown.

"We!!, J.D.," he said as proud as if he had given me
a catcher's mitt, "what do you think of it?"

145

"How can I think anything when I don't even know
what it is?" I said, letting him know I was disappointed.

"It is the latest game that is going over big back East,"
Papa said. "I read about it some time ago but didn't come
across it in a sport ing-goods catalogue until recently."

"How do you play it?" Tom asked.

"I will show you after breakfast," Papa said.

During breakfast Papa told us the game was called
basketball. It was originated by a man named Naismith
in 1891. Since then it had been introduced as a competitive
sport in several colleges and high schools back East. The
board with the hoop and net on it was called the back-
board.

After breakfast Papa got a hammer and some nails-
Tom and Sweyn carried the backboard down to our shed.
Papa nailed it to the alley side of the shed about six feet
from the ground. All the time I was wishing we didn't have
such mild winters in Adenville. Maybe if we had snow
Papa would have bought me a sled instead.

Papa laid the hammer to one side. "I realized that we
didn't have room for a regular basketball court," he said.
"That is why I only bought one backboard instead of two.
But you and your friends, J.D., can have a lot of fun play-
ing with just one backboard. You can improvise a game.
Draw a line in the dirt—what we will call the foul line-
about twelve feet from the backboard. You and I will play
T.D. and S.D. I'll start the game with a free throw."

Papa took the ball and toed the line I drew in the
dirt. "The idea is to pass the ball through the hoop," Papa
said. "The team who makes the most baskets wins the

game.

It only took me a few minutes to realize that basket-

146

ball, even with only one backboard, was a very exciting
game. I forgave Papa for not getting me the catcher's mitt.
Basketball was going to make me the most popular kid in
Adenville. I was already mentally selecting teams from
among my playmates.

Tom was very much interested in the game, but for a
different reason. He put his arm around my shoulders af-
ter we finished playing.

"You can make a fortune," he said, "by charging kids
to play basketball."

"I don't have a money-loving heart like you," I said.
"Any friend of mine can play free any time he wants."

"Have it your way," Tom said. "But you. won't need
the rule book with only one backboard. And I'll get that
sporting-goods catalogue from Papa."

"What are you going to do with them?" I asked.

"This is one game we can play at the academy," Tom
said. "There isn't room enough for baseball or football or
even for tennis. But we have a big gymnasium where we
can play basketball."

"I thought all sports were forbidden," I said.

"I'm putting my great brain to work to change that,"
he said.

Christmas vacation came to an end. Papa's last words
to Tom were that he expected The Great Brain to com-
plete the rest of the school year without any demerits. For
my money that was like expecting a kid not to eat any
more candy.

147

CHAPTER TEN

Basketball and the Bisko?

FATHER O'MALLEY MET Tom and Sweyn at the
depot in Salt Lake City.

"You have a wonderful surprise waiting for you at the
academy/' he said to Tom after greeting them.

Tom was as curious as a scout bumblebee in the early
spring. But the priest refused to tell him what the surprise
was.

Father Rodriguez was sitting at his desk when Tom
and Sweyn entered the office. And, wonder of wonders, the
superintendent was actually smiling as he greeted them.
Then he removed a letter from a drawer in the desk, han-
dling it as if it were a precious document.

148

"This letter arrived for you two days ago," he said to
Tom. "It is from the Vatican."

Tom had figured it would take about a month for his
letter to reach the Pope and about a month for an answer.
But after three months had passed with no answer he
hadn't expected any.

"And all this time," Tom said, "I've been thinking
Pope Leo wasn't going to bother to answer my letter."

Father Rodriguez pressed the letter against his chest.
"Dear God in heaven," he said, "a letter from the Holy
Father. What a priceless treasure. It is probably the only
letter ever received in Utah from a Pope. You must let us
put it in a glass case in the visitor's room for all to see."

Tom wasn't going to put the letter on display or even
let the superintendent read it if it said what he thought it
would. "You can exhibit the envelope with the Vatican
postmark," he said. "But I don't know about the letter
until I read it."

"Of course," Father Rodriguez said. "You can go into
the library and read it right now."

Tom went into the library and opened the envelope.
He was sure regretting he had ever written the Pope about
Father Rodriguez and the academy. What if on the basis of
his letter the Pope and Jesuit general had decided to get
rid of Father Rodriguez? Tom's hands were trembling
as he unfolded the letter. He breathed a sigh of relief when
he discovered it was just a printed form which read:

Your communication to His Holiness Pope Leo
XIII has been received at the Vatican. It is impos-
sible for the Holy Father to personally answer the
hundreds of letters he receives each month. In

149

the event your communication seeks spiritual
guidance or advice on personal problems please
consult your parish priest or the bishop of your
-. diocese.

Tom folded the printed form and put it in his pocket.
He knew if Sweyn and the other fellows knew he'd written
to the Pope and just got back a printed form they would
give him the good old raspberry. He certainly wasn't going
to let anybody but his three friends know- And that gave
him an idea. Why not let Father Rodriguez think he had
actually received a letter from the Pope? It just might
help him get a sports program going at the academy- He
returned to the superintendent's office and handed just
the envelope to Father Rodriguez.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said, "but what was inside the
envelope is confidential." That was no lie, he told himself.
He certainly wanted to keep it confidential that all he had
received was a printed form.

"I understand, Thomas," the priest said. "But can you
tell me what you wrote to His Holiness about?"

"It was about the academy," Tom answered. "Please
Father, may I talk to you about it later?"

"Of course," the superintendent said. "You are both
excused."

Sweyn was speechless until they left the office. "Do
you mean to tell me that you wrote a letter to the Pope
and he answered it?" he said. "I don't believe it. Let me
see the letter."

"You heard me tell Father Rodriguez it was confiden-
tial," Tom said. "And what do I care what you believe or

150

don't believe? I've got the letter right here in my pocket
and nobody is ever going to see it."

After Tom had greeted his three friends and un-
packed his suitcase he told them about the printed form.

"But Father Rodriguez thinks I got a letter from the
Pope." he said, "and that is going to help us get some
changes made around here."

"Like what?" Jerry asked.

Tom showed them the rule book on basketball and
the sport ing-goods catalogue. "The gymnasium has a
hardwood floor and a high ceiling," he said. "It is ideal for
a basketball court."

Jerry was doubtful. "I can tell you right now what
Father Rodriguez is going to say," he said. "He will say
we were sent here to get an education and not to play
games."

"Not if I can convince him without lying that Pope
Leo is in favor of a sports program," Tom said. "Mean-
while, I don't see any kids eating candy, which means that
we had better get the candy store open as soon as possible.
I'll make a trip to the grocery store Friday evening."

His three friends stared at him. Jerry was the first to
speak.

"Mean to tell me you didn't bring any with you?" he
asked.

"Why should I take that chance," Tom said, "when
we've got our candy store?"

The class in calisthenics was the last class of the day
for the seventh and eighth graders. Father Rodriguez al-
ways led the exercises dressed in a sweat shirt and gym

151

pants. Tom waited until the class was over on Friday. He
walked up to the superintendent, who was wiping sweat
from his face with a towel.

"It is too bad the fellows don't have anything to do
between now and suppertime," he said. "Do you believe
in the old saying that a healthy body makes for a healthy
mind?"

"Yes, Thomas," the priest answered. "That is why we
have this class in calisthenics, to keep you boys physically
fit."

"But that is only for one hour on school days," Tom
said. "A growing boy needs a lot more exercise than that."

Father Rodriguez finished wiping the sweat from his
face and stared at Tom. "What are you trying to tell me?"
he asked.

"I think Pope Leo would like it if we had some sports
here at the academy," Tom said. "Take this gymnasium. It
could be fixed up so we could play basketball. And all the
boys would get to play because there are five players
on each team: a center, two guards, and two forwards. We
could have a first and second team for each grade. And the
seventh-grade teams could play against the eighth-grade
teams."

"I have never heard of the game," Father Rodriguez
said.

"A lot of schools back East play basketball now," Tom
said. "And if we had basketball here we would be the first
Catholic academy to introduce the sport."

Father Rodriguez shook his head. "Even if we could
get permission from Pope Leo and the general of the So-
ciety of Jesus," he said, "we have no money in our budget
for any athletic program."

152

"If each boy got just one dollar from his parents,"
Tom said, "we would have enough money to buy two back-
boards, a basketball, a referee's whistle, and enough paint
for the foul lines and boundary lines. My mother always
said the devil will find work for idle hands. Basketball
would help to keep the fellows out of trouble."

"All right, Thomas," the superintendent said. "I can't
see any possible harm in it in view of the fact that His
Holiness apparently gave his blessing to an athletic pro-
gram, and he must have consulted the Jesuit general about
it."

Tom didn't say anything. Even with his great brain
he couldn't think of anything to say without letting Father
Rodriguez know he was jumping to the wrong conclusion.

Six weeks later the first basketball practice was held in
the gymnasium with Father Rodriguez acting as coach.
Practice continued for one week and then the superintend-
ent picked the first and second teams for both grades.
Sweyn and Rory made the eighth-grade first team with
Rory as captain. Tom and Jerry made the seventh-grade
first team with Tom as captain. Tom challenged the
eighth-grade first team to a game. He and his teammates
soon discovered they played under a disadvantage because
the eighth graders were all taller than they were. Tom put
his great brain to work on how to beat them. But his team
kept on losing to the eighth-grade first team, although they
could beat the eighth-grade second team.

Basketball made Tom such a hero to all the fellows
that Sweyn wrote to Papa and Mamma about it- Papa
considered the introduction of basketball in a western
school newsworthy enough to put on the wire services to

153

the Salt Lake City newspapers. Sports writers from both
newspapers came to the academy to watch a game between
the seventh- and eighth-grade first teams. The stories they
printed attracted the attention of superintendents of other
parochial and public schools, and they requested permis-
sion to come and watch. There were so many requests that
Father Rodriguez decided to invite them all to a game on
a Friday afternoon.

Tom held a secret practice with the seventh grade
first and second teams to prepare for the big game.

"My great brain has figured out a way we might beat
the eighth graders this time," he said as his teammates
crowded around him in the gymnasium. "Instead of leav-
ing one guard at our end of the court, all five of us will
take the ball down to the other end. That will give us man
for man instead of just four of us against their five players-
And with our superior speed we should be able to get a
lot of baskets that way."

Jerry shook his head. "I don't think it's wise to leave
our basket unguarded," he said.

"Let's try it right now," Tom said. "The second team
will use the system against us and see if they do any better
than last time."

The second team piled up more points in less time
than they ever had before and Tom was confident his
system would work. But his money-loving heart told him
not to bet any money unless he had a sure thing. And that
made his great brain come up with a plan.

That evening after supper he gathered the eighth
graders around him in the dormitory. He opened a note-
book.

154

"I have here the final scores of all the games played
by our first team against your first team," he said. "And
if I add them all up you have beaten us by an average of
eighteen points each game."

Rory grinned. "And we'll beat you by more than that
Friday," he said.

Rory didn't know it but he had walked right into a
trap.

"I don't believe you can beat us by eighteen points
Friday," Tom said-

"Wouldn't care to bet on it, would you?" Rory asked.

"Let me get this straight," Tom said. "If you beat us
by eighteen or more points you win the bet. If you beat us
by less than eighteen points I win the bet. Is that right?"

Rory and all the other eighth graders nodded their
heads.

Before setting up the eighth graders for the bet Tom
had got his bag of money from under the statue of Saint
Francis and placed it under his pillow. He went to his
bunk and took it out.

"Step right up and make your bets," he said, jingling
the coins in the bag. "I'm covering all of them."

Those eighth graders were sure confident their team
would win by eighteen or more points! Every one of them
put down a bet. Tom stood to win or lose almost five
dollars.

But on Friday morning it didn't look as if that game
would ever be played. Father Rodriguez interrupted a his-
tory lesson to call Tom from the classroom. At first Tom
thought he had found out about the betting on the game.
But he knew he was wrong when he entered the superin-

155

tendent's office. He had never seen a Catholic bishop in his
life but he knew he was looking at one now. The heavyset
man with iron-gray hair sitting at the desk was wearing the
purple robe and the ring of a bishop.

The Right Reverend Francis Miglaccio was the
bishop of the diocese that at the time consisted of four
states. He only came to Sait Lake City once a year. What
brought about this unusual visit was a clipping from one
of the Salt Lake City newspapers about basketball being
played at the Catholic Academy for Boys. Some Catholic
who was against a sports program in a Catholic school had
mailed it to him.

""   "I am your bishop," the man said in a commanding
voice, picking up the envelope that had been received from
the Vatican. "And you, I presume, are the Thomas D.
Fitzgerald, Esquire to whom this envelope is addressed.
Father Rodriguez has informed me that you obtained per-
mission from His Holiness Pope Leo XIII to introduce an
athletic program in this school. I find this difficult to be-
lieve. So you will show me the letter you say you received
from the Holy Father."

Tom knew he was caught. There was no hope for
escape. He couldn't lie to a bishop or refuse an order given
by a bishop- Not even his great brain could get him out of
this one.

"I didn't receive a letter from the Pope," he confessed.
"It was just a printed form sent to thousands of Catholics
who write to him,"

Father Rodriguez turned pale and pressed his hand to
his forehead. "But you told me you had received a letter
from Pope Leo," he protested. "And you also told me that

156

he had given his permission for us to introduce an athletic
program, here."

"I confess that I led you to believe I'd received a letter
from the Pope," Tom said. "But I never actually said I had
received a letter. And I admit I said I thought Pope Leo
would approve of us having basketball here- But what I
think and what the Holy Father may think are two differ-
ent things."

Father Rodriguez clasped his hands as if in prayer.
"You tricked me," he said sadly. "I know you have always
disliked me, Thomas, but I never thought you could do
such a thing to me."

"I admit I didn't like you at first," Tom said. "But I
like you fine now, just fine. And I also honor and respect
you."

"Bless you for that," Father Rodriguez said.

Tom turned his head to look at the bishop. "There
hasn't been one student who has received any demerits
since basketball started," he said. "The game is being
played in many schools back East. And this afternoon
superintendents of parochial and public schools in Salt
Lake City are coming to watch the game. I am sorry for
getting Father Rodriguez into trouble with you but I can't
see where any harm has been done."

Bishop Miglaccio leaned forward. "There will be no
basketball game this afternoon," he said. "There never has
been and never will be an athletic program in a Catholic
school. You are dismissed."

Tom walked over and knelt before Father Rodriguez.
"Forgive me, Father," he cried, "I didn't mean to hurt you
or to get you into any trouble. I just wanted to make the

157               - .      /

academy a place where fellows would want to go to school
and not just have to go because their parents sent them.
I wanted the fellows to be proud of the academy and have
some school spirit and some fun once in a while. I'm sorry,
Father. As God is my judge I am truly sorry. Please forgive
me."

Father Rodriguez made the sign of the cross. "I for-
give you, Thomas," he said.                                    f~.

Tom stood up. "Thank you. Father," he said.               i

Tom didn't bother going back to the classroom. He       ;

knew he was going to be expelled. He went up to the dor-
mitory instead. He got his suitcase from under his bunk
and began packing. When he finished he got his bag of
money from under the statue of Saint Francis and put it in       •
the suitcase. He would wait until noon to return the       '"
money bet on the game and say good-bye to Sweyn and his
friends. He was sitting on his bunk with his back toward       ^
the doorway, so he wasn't aware Father Rodriguez had       ''
entered the dormitory until the priest spoke.

"What are you doing, Thomas?" the superintendent
asked.                                                      \

"I know I'm going to be expelled," Tom said. "I'll
leave as soon as I say good-bye to my brother and my
friends. I have some money and will take the next train
home."

"Unpack your things," Father Rodriguez said. "You
aren't going to be expelled. Bishop Miglaccio has decided
to reserve judgment until after the basketball game this
afternoon."                                                  \

Tom couldn't have been more surprised if he'd been
told that Bishop Miglaccio was going to be the referee for
the game.                                                    ^

158

"What . . . what made him change his mind?" he
asked.

"He told me it was what you said to me," the super-
intendent said. "And bless you for that, Tom."

If Tom was surprised before, he was now doubly sur-
prised. "You called me Tom," he said.

"You once told me you preferred it to Thomas,"
Father Rodriguez said smiling. "And now you had better
be getting back to your classroom."

When the first teams of the seventh and eighth grades
took to the floor of the gymnasium that afternoon it was
packed with spectators. After a few warm-ups the game
began with Father Rodriguez as referee and Father O'Mal-
ley using a large blackboard, chalk, and eraser to keep
score.

Tom's plan of using a five-man otfense worked quite
well. His team was behind only six points at the end of the
first half. But during the second half the eighth-grade team
began using the system also. Going into the fourth quarter
the score was twenty-eight to fourteen. With five minutes
left to play Tom called for a time-out. The score was now
thirty-two to sixteen.

"When we get the ball," Tom said in the huddle,
"don't try to make any baskets. Just keep passing it
around at our end of the court."

Jerry got the ball and instead of taking it down to-
ward the eighth-grade basket he dribbled it toward his
own backboard. The eighth-grade team waited at their
end of the court. They waited and waited and then it
finally dawned on them that they were only winning by
sixteen points. Down the court they came. But Tom's team

159




had a lot more speed and just kept passing the ball to one
another until the whistle blew ending the game. Tom's
great brain had made him four dollars and eighty cents
because his team was beat by only sixteen points.

Bishop Miglaccio held mass in the academy chapel on
Sunday. Afterward he called Tom to the superintendent's
office.

"I enjoyed the basketball game," he said. "And I was
pleased with the congratulations Father Rodriguez and I
received from the superintendents of other schools. A
league is going to be formed next year. Do you know what
that means, Thomas?"

"It means you have made a lot of kids happy," Tom
said.

"That isn't quite what I meant," Bishop Miglaccio
said. "It means there will be interscholastic rivalry in
basketball next year. Your eighth-grade academy team will
be playing the eighth-grade teams of other schools. I shall
be here for the final game of the season and expect to see
the academy win the championship."

"We will win it," Tom said confidently. "I'll have all
summer to put my great brain to work on plays."

"Oh, yes," Bishop Miglaccio said. "Father Rodriguez
has told me about your great brain. Have you ever thought
of repaying God for giving it to you by becoming a priest?"

"I haven't decided what I want to be yet," Tom said.

"Now before I leave," Bishop Miglaccio said. "I want
you to tell us what you put in that letter you wrote to Pope
Leo."

"What I put in the letter doesn't count anymore,"
Tom said.

161

"We would still like to know," Bishop Miglaccio said,

Tom was so ashamed that he couldn't even look at
Father Rodriguez. "For one thing," he said, "I wrote that
this academy was more like a reform school than an acad-
emy. I know now I was wrong about that. If Father Rodri-
guez didn't maintain discipline the kids would walk all
over him and the other priests. And I wrote that I thought
the punishments were too severe. I was wrong about that
too. I know now that making a boy get up at four o'clock
in the morning to peel potatoes for breaking a rule is going
to make him think twice before he does it again. But the
worst thing of all was that I asked the Pope to replace
Father Rodriguez."

Tom raised his head and looked at the bishop. "I was
dead wrong about that too," he said. "My trouble and the
trouble with all the fellows was that we were afraid of
Father Rodriguez. We feared him because he could hand
down demerits and punishments and even expel us. And
no one can like anybody he is afraid of. That is why we
disliked him. But my great brain is going to change all
that."

Bishop Miglaccio stared at Tom. "And just how do
you propose to overcome this fear the boys have of Father
Rodriguez?" he asked.

"The same way I did it myself," Tom answered. "I
am going to convince them that they don't really fear
Father Rodriguez but themselves. They are really afraid
they might break a rule or do something that will get them
demerits or punishment. And if they are going to dislike
anybody because of this fear, they should start disliking
themselves. When I get through I'll personally guarantee

162

there won't be one fellow in this academy who can hon-
estly say he dislikes Father Rodriguez."

Bishop Miglaccio shook his head slowly, "It will be a
great loss to the Church if you don't become a priest," he
said.

Father Rodriguez smiled. "I am glad you wrote that
letter and told us what you wrote," he said.

"You are?" Tom asked with surprise. "Why, Father?"

"It is proof you have matured a great deal since writ-
ing it," the superintendent said, "and helping boys to
mature is a very important part of my job here."

Well, all I can say is that maybe Tom did mature a
great deal during his first year at the academy, but he sure
as heck didn't reform. He didn't get any more demerits tor
the rest of the school year, which made Papa and Mamma
happy. But I knew it was only because Tom got mature
enough not to get caught. He ran his candy store full blast
until the last week of school. And he was the only kid in
the history of the Catholic Academy for Boys who made
going to school a profitable financial venture. When he
removed the paper bag from under the statue of Saint
Francis on the last day of school there was over thirty dol-
lars in it. On the train ride home Tom sat staring out the
window for a long time. "I'll bet I know what you are
thinking about," Sweyn said. "You are wondering what
you are going to do with all that money you made at the
academy."

"That's a bet you would lose," Tom said. "I was
thinking that all the kids in Adenville must have saved up
quite a bit of money since I've been away. And also about

163

all the presents they received for Christmas and their birth-
days. Now please be quiet. I've got to put my great brain to
work on plans for making this a very profitable summer
vacation."

What Tom should have said was that he was going to
put his great brain and his money-loving heart to work on
plans for swindling the kids in Adenville during the sum-
mer vacation. It had taken me a long time but my little
brain had finally figured out what made Tom tick. A fel-
low with a great brain and a normal heart becomes a sci-
entist or a philosopher. It wasn't Tom's great brain that
made him a confidence man but his money-loving heart.

And to think my college-educated father had been
foolish enough to hope the Jesuit priests at the academy
would reform my brother. I had only a little brain and a
fourth-grade education but I knew better. For my money,
the Pope himself couldn't reform Tom unless he agreed
to make The Great Brain a cardinal. And then just maybe
Tom would reform. I say fust maybe because if The Great
Brain couldn't make a deal with the college of cardinals to
make him the next pope, he would probably refuse to
become a cardinal.

164

About the Author and Artist

JOHN D. FITZGERALD'S stories of the Great Brain are
based on his own childhood in Utah, where lie had a conniving
older brother named Tom. These reminiscences have led to
three popular earlier books, The Gicat Rrnm, More Adven-
tures of the Great Brain, and Me and My Little Brain. Mr.
Fitzgerald is also the author of seveial adult books, including
Papa Married a Mormon. He now lives with his wife in Titus-
ville, Florida.

MERCER MAYER's delightfully droll illustrations appear in
all of The Great Brain books. He is also the author-illustrator
of many books of his own, including the three wordless A Boy,
a Dog and a Frog books, There's a Nightmare in My Closet,
and A Special Trick. Mr. Mayer was born in Little Rock. Ar-
kansas, and now lives with his wife Marianna in Sea Cliff, New
York.

THE SHATTERED OATH

This is a work of fiction All the characters and events portrayed
in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people
or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 1995 by Bill Fawcett & Associates

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN; 0-671-87672-4
Cover art by Ruth Sanderson
First printing, July 1995

Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Wndhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed m the United States of America

A PTHNCe AC HOMC
CHAPCeR1

The garden was a subtle mix of tame and wild, of rocky
outcroppings and soft green slopes, all beneath the sunless
sky of Faerie. The quiet air was fragrant with the scents of
pure white roses and a multihued riot of wildflowers; off
by herself in a little bower, a green-haired servant stroked
music from a silver-stringed harp.

And Ardagh lithanial, Sidhe prince and lord of this garden
and its surrounding estate, sat seemingly at ease amid all
the tranquil beauty, his airy palace with its slender columns
and gleaming white walls to his back, and appeared to give
all his attention to his guest.

But behind the narrow, sharply planed mask of his face
with its slanted, fiercely green eyes, the prince brooded-
TaII and elegantly slender as all his race. Ardagh was of the
dark-haired branch of the royal line (some whispered, though
seldom where the prince could overhear, that such hair,
sleekly black as sorcery, meant a taint of human blood some-
where in the past), the son of his late father's second wife.
It was his older half-brother, Eirithan Lithanial—green-eyed
as he but silvery-fair of hair—who sat the throne.

Which was quite to Ardagh's satisfaction.

Not that anyone seems willing to believe it. Least of all
Eirithan

They'd had some friendly moments together, the broth-
ers, some times of sharing jests and tales. Eirithan wasn't

2                  josepha Shennan

all that much Ardaghs senior, after all; barely twenty years
separated them, a mere blink of time to the Sidhe- But,
Ardagh thought bitterly, the shadow of the crown had always
hung over them. Even at their friendliest, they'd both known
the rightful heir had never quite been easy about this - . .
unnecessary younger brother. And now that Eirithan ruled,
the happier days seemed gone for good, replaced by end-
less suspicion.

Suspicion shared, it would seem, the prince thought with
a touch of dark humor, by his guest. "Must we have that
servant forever lurking behind us?" Lord Iliach snapped
suddenly.

"What's this, my lord?" Ardagh asked, brow raised. "Are
you afraid of being overheard? Have you a need for fear?"

"No, no, of course not."

Of course not, the prince echoed silently. Lord Uiach
would never be crass enough to actually accuse him of
ambition. Instead, the Sidhe lord, most fashionable in deep
blue silks that made the most of his golden hair and blue-
green eyes (and clashed most jarringly with Ardagh's own
red-violet robes) merely smiled and began chatting of small
matters. But the smile never quite touched his cool, slanted
eyes.

"What a lovely garden this is!" Iliach exclaimed suddenly.
"How clever of you. Prince Ardagh, to allow the land itself
to shape its own design. Such a pleasant touch ofwildness."

Now what games are you playing? Ardagh wondered-
Iliach was, after all, a true Sidhe of me royal court: clever,
sly and subtly malicious; there was never a word he said
that didn't contain several hidden meanings- He reminds
me, the prince thought wryly, of why I shun my brother's
court. "Why, my lord Iliach," Ardagh asked with feigned
amusement, "what are you hinting? That I was, perhaps,
too weak to impose sufficient magic on it? Too weak to shape
things properly?"

Iliach straightened as though genuinely dismayed. "Oh,
never that! I only meant to frame a comparison. Might it
not be said a garden is symbolic of a realm?"

"Might it?"

THE SHATTERED OATH           3

"Why, indeed! A foolish ruler tries to force his subjects
to his will. A wise ruler, however, is like a wise gardener,
knowing when to impose some will on his subjects, when
to allow them a touch of freedom."

"As," Ardagh said mildly, "does my brother."

Iliach raised an elegant golden brow at the implicit warn-
ing. and fell silent. Somewhere in the garden, Serenai, Uiach's
wife, wandered with her ladies, cooing over this flower and
that, garnering specimens for her own garden; it was Uiach's
excuse for being here. The women's voices, light and incon-
sequential as birdsong, drifted back to where the two men
sat, and Iliach smiled anew.

"My Serenai is such a charming creature!"

Amagh dipped his head politely; "charming" was the
kindest word one could apply to pretty, vapid Serenai. Iliach
purred, "What a pity. Prince Ardagh, mat you haven't yet
taken a wife of your own. Unlike your brother, of course,
and his lovely Karanila."

Karanila, Ardagh thought, with her coldly perfect face
and unreadable eyes that just might hold a hint of malice
behind them . . .

"And what a pity," Iliach murmured, "that our ruler has
no child of his blood as yet. But then," he added delicately,
"he does have you as his heir,"

Just once. ifiach, come to the point! All at once over-
whelmed by impatience, Ardagh snapped, "Does that please
you, my lord?"

"I beg your—"

"Look you, I know you and my royal brother have quar-
reled in the past. Oh, don't give me that so-innocent stare!
Being who and what I am, how could I not know?"

Iliach waved a graceful hand in surrender.

"I also know," Ardagh continued, "that you have been
trying for long and long to reinstate yourself in my brother's
favor. Without success."

"Ah, but you—"

"But I do not envy my brother his role. I do not wish
to usurp it. You and he and everyone at court knows I
have so sworn! I have given my word to do nothing to

4                  Josephs Sherman

harm him or his reign. Do you think me an oathbreaker,
my lord?"

Oathbreaking was one of the worst crimes possible to a
folk who never lied. "Never that!" Iliach exclaimed with what
seemed real shock.

Arda^i smiled thinly. Then you will believe me when I
say I wish my brother a long, prosperous life and many heirs
of his body."

"Doesn't every loyal subject wish the same?" Iliach smiled
his charming, insincere smile, and added, "Why, Prince
Ardagh, don't glower so! No need to be upset- We were
merely talking . . . gardening."

Of course. Just like Lady Tathaniai and Lord Charalian
who'd come here before him, and the other half-dozen who
happened to have remote blood-ties to the current royal
line; the Sidfae might not actually be immortal, but they
boasted such long lives few of them could puzzle out all
the eons-long twists of genealogy. There were always pos-
sible claimants to any throne.

Ambition, Ardagh thought, was one way for shaBow minds
to ward off boredom.

But not one of you would-be traitors will believe I wont
be used in your games!

If only Eirithan wasn't so capricious a ruler none of this
nonsense would be necessary. Ardagh clenched his teeth,
thinking of all those endless, expensive, time-and-magic-
wasting court revels—which, of course he, as prince, had
to attend—with his brother watching with cold suspicion.

And then you punish our people for your own waste and
neglect of our land. You're ruling over Sidhe, brother, not
some magidcless tittle humans aching for a master!

Ardagh knew something about humanity. The prince had
once, out of curiosity, crossed Realms into their mortal
lands—warily at night to avoid the alien and, for all he knew,
deadly to Sidhe, earthly sun—and been bemused by the
barbaric vitality he'd seen, even though he didn't pretend
to truly understand those bizarre, short-lived creatures. (A
flash of memory: sharing the tale of his adventures with
Eirithan, the two of them agreeing humanity was hardly

THE SHATTERED OATH           5

something on which any sensible Sidhe would care to spend
much time.)

No, my brother, we don't have anything in common with
those nwster-and-slavejblk. And I only wish I could get you
to see that.

Enough of this. "I see that your wife has finished her
gathering," the prince said shortly "She wishes to leave. Good
day to you. Lord Iliach."

Ardagh waited, chin resting on steepled hands, till the
lord and lady were well out ofhearing. flown away in their
graceful winged chariot, then got to his feet in a restless
surge of energy, and paced down the narrow paths of his
garden. The green-haired harpist froze when he strode past
her bower, staring up at him, her golden, sllt-pupiled eyes
widening in alarm.

"Angry?" she whimpered.

"Not at you, Ninef

"Certain?"

Ardagh sighed. "Yes, little one. I'm certain. Here, look."

A flash of will sent a cascade of rose petals fluttering down
about Ninet: an easy illusion to draw from the magic-rich
essence that was Faerie. Ninet giggled, then snapped at the
petals, trying to catch them in her teeth before the tiny surge
of magic faded and the illusion-petals vanished.

"Gone," she said with a little sigh. Putting down her harp,
the being flowed to Ardagh's side, no taller than a Sidhe
child against his height, slim and sleek as a cat, more innocent
than either. "Music?"

"I beard it, Ninet. It was very pretty."

Ninet, as far as the prince could tell, was the result of
someone's experiment, not quite animal, not quite sprite,
abandoned to wander aimlessly till she'd turned up on his
estate. Her intelligence was hardly human, let alone Sidhe,
expressing itself mostly in music. Ardagh glanced down at
her puzzled face and dropped a reassuring hand to the
smooth green hair. Ninet pushed into the caress like a cat,
and the prince smiled faintly.

"Ninet.Iam so very weary of political games! Iwant—"
He stopped with a sharp laugh. "I admit it. I don't know quite

6                  Josepha Shennan

what I want from my life." Adventure, his mind told him
suddenly, unbidden. Excitement. A chance to use my magic
for something more than gardening)

Bah, ridiculous. He wasn't a child to dream such foolish
things. And yet. . . "There has to be more than this—this
green quiet," Ardagh said, "lovely though it is. But that
doesn't mean I lust for a crown!"

Ninet blinked. "Crown?" she repeated blankly.

"A form of bondage," Ardagh told her dryly. "Ae, never
mind. What I want hardly matters: I can harmy back away
from my bloodline until and unless Eirithan can finally sire
an heir." That was no easy thing for a member of such an
infertile race; their father had been considered truly amazing
for having sired not one but two healthy sons. "Ha, and once
my brother has a child, I become even more 'unnecessary'!
Isn't that a charming thought?"

"Means?"

That means, little one, that for now we can expect more
visits from malcontents."

Ninet, of course, understood almost nothing of what he
was saying, but she nodded wisely, eyes solemn. "And as
for my brother," Ardagh continued, stroking her hair absently,
"Eirithan may not trust me at his side, buthe certainly won't
let me out from under his eye, either!"

Ninet blinked. "Not happy?" she asked nervously. "Go?"

"I can't! Don't you see— No. Of course you can't." Very
slowly, Ardagh told her, "As long as I remain Eirithan's heir,
I can't just up and disappear. Do you understand that?"

"What?"

"Ae, Ninet. I may not be sure what I want, or what my
future holds, but this is my estate, and I have no intention
of surrendering it." He paused thoughtfully. "I do wonder,
though, just how many of my servants are reporting to my
brother." The prince had long ago cast a security spell over
the entire estate; no one could work magic without his
knowing it. "But there are always more mundane ways of
transmitting information." He ruffled Ae little being's hair.
"Enough."

"Music?" she asked hopefully.

THE SHATTERED OATH           7

"Yes, Ninet, I think I would like to hear more of your
music, and— What is it?" Ardagh snapped at the servant
who had suddenly appeared at his side.

The slender, silver-haired being bowed warily. "Your
pardon, my prince, but had you forgotten your royal brother's
revel this night?"

Ah yes, he had. Ardagh sighed. "Very well. Have my
spidersilk robes laid out. The ... red ones, I think." He
paused. "Now what?"

The servant licked its thin lips nervously- The theme,
my prince! The theme of this night's revel is—"

dh Powers, he was sick of these endless, meaningless
themes! "I don't care what it is!" Ardagh exploded. "The
red robes are suitably royal, and the red robes will do!"

Eirithan Uthanial, tall and regal in flowing silver robes,
silvery hair framing his impassive face, listened without
stirring to what his spy was telling him. This Uiach was such
a slippery creature, noble enough of blood and never quite
treasonous, but willing to bend to whomever promised him
the best reward. Look at him now, smiling so ingratiatingly,
saying absolutely nothing of use. Eirithan held up an aris-
tocratic hand for silence.

"In short," he said coldly, "no matter what you tried, my
brother would not be baited."

"Ah ... no, my liege. He claimed most vehemently that
he remains true to the vow he swore to you."

"So. Leave me."

Eirithan watched the Sidhe lord leave, then got to his
feet in a swirl of silver robes. He began pacing restlessly
through the small audience hall. ignoring the precise beauty
of walls magicked so they seemed lined with windows into
fantastic realms rather than with mere paintings, glad that
there was no one else in the hall to see bis uneasiness.

What games are you playing, Ardagh? So seemingly inno-
cent. there in your pretty gardens far from my court. You
are my brother, we share the same ambitious blood—you
can't be content like that. You must make a move against
me. but when? How?

Josepha Sherman

He never had been able to understand Ardagh, not even
back when they both had been boys and could share some
jests, some hints of friendship.

No. It had never quite been friendship. How could it be?
How could he ever forget, even for a moment, what his
brother represented? Though up to now Ardagh had never
provided me slightest reason for action (for murder, whis-
pered Eirithan's mind, making him shiver: He is my brother,
I mill not shed his blood), he might someday prove the
greatest threat to Eirithan's reign in all the realm—

"My liege." The voice was smooth and rich as velvet.
Eirithan stopped dead.

"Karanila. What would you, wife?"

She moved softly to his side, almost as tall as he, beau-
tiful, slender and graceful as a hunting hound, her long,
moon-pale hair caught in a hundred intricate, jewel-stud-
ded braids. The scent of her subtle fragrance, the delicate
touch other hand on his arm, sent a sudden flash of desire
through him.

So beautiful, so beautiful. . . if only I could trust her!

Malicious for malice's sake, that was Karanila.

With a surge of will, Eirithan forced himself sternly back
under controT- Karanila smiled. "So distraught, husband, so
remote. What troubles you?"

"Nothing to worry you."

She stiffened slightly. "It's Ardagh, isn't it? Ae, again."

Eirithan glanced sharply at her. "What does that mean?"

She turned away, toying with the end of one gleaming
braid. "Nothing to worry you."

"Dont play gamesi What is it? Has Ardagh dared approach
you?"

Her sideways little smile was infuriatingly innocent.
"Would he dare?"

Eirithan caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to face
him. "I told you, don't jest with me! Has Ardagh tried to
betray me?"

Karanila's eyes were unreadable, her mind closed to him.
She hesitated just long enough to set his nerves on edge,
then pulled free, raising a hand to gently trace the lines of

THE SHATTERED OATH           9

Eirithan's face. He jerked his bead back angrily, and Karanilq
chuckled, deep in her throat "No, my husband," she purred,
"he has not." She paused a heartbeat longer before adding
thoughtfully, "Yet."

"Stop that." Eirithan pulled Karanila to him again, more
gently this time. "Dance with him tonight, yes? Talk with
him. A woman can learn things from a man he never meant
to tell her."

Karanila chuckled again. "Shall I? Shall I, indeed? And
do you trust me tuat much, my husband?"

Eirithan froze, reluctant to admit the truth, unable by
his Sidhe nature to lie. Karanila disengaged herself gently
from his grip and walked away, her laughter trailing lightly
back to where he stood.

Lord Uiach looked neither left nor right as he strode down
Ae intricately intertwined corridors of his estate, but every
'psychic sense was alert and quivering. At last he allowed
himself the smallest sigh of relief. Serenai was off with her
women in her garden, cooing over her plant cuttings. No
one else was watching or following. Iliach dared one bold
look about, just to set his mind at ease, then slid behind a
billowing hanging, barely noting the woven, magic-worked
figures moving slowly through a never-ending dance. Beyond
lay a small, secret room, barely large enough to hold those
who sat within.

"My lords, lady." His welcoming sweep of hand took in
them all: icy-eyed Lady Tathaniai in ice-blue silks, sturdy,
impassive Lord Charauan, and the brother-lords Sestailan
and Teretal, elegant as ever, their hair bright as spun gol^—
all those ambitious souls who were his allies. For now. Until
they no longer needed each other. "My pardon for arriv-
ing so late, but... as you can guess. I was detained."

"Well?" Sestailan asked coolly. "Does he suspect?"

Uiach sighed. "Of course he does. Our liege lord remains
his usual suspicious self- But he can prove nothing." The
Sidhe lord sank into a chair, calling a wine-filled goblet to
him with a twist of will. "And no, I did not give him any-
thing about us. For all that he listened so closely to every

10 Josepha Sherman

word I said, our dear Eirithan never once suspected I was
anything but his humble servant."

"And the other?" Teretal wondered, leaning forward.

"Who? Ardagh?" Iliach took a long sip from his goblet-
"What a tiresomely honest creature He is!"

"But is he with us?" Lord Charalian snapped.

"No. Not yet. He remains his usual self; haughty, hos-
tile, and so proud of his honor he has no sympathy for any
. . . weaker sorts."

Lady Tathaniai raised a warning hand. "Don't scorn the
prince too much, my lord. Haughty he may be, but he's no
fool."

Sestailaa laughed softly. 'True enough. And that pride
of his may prove very useful."

Iliach matched their suddenly sly smiles with bis own.
"Useful, indeed. Play one brother against the other care-
fully enough, and—" He gave a graceful little shrug. "Who
can say what will result? Or who may remain in power?"

"Or," Teretal purred, "who may end up there?"

The theme of this night's revel, Ardagh saw. was winter
sorcery. Aristocratic dancers in drifting silks the many cool
shades of snow under moonlight, guttering here and there
with drops of silver, moved smoothly to music from crys-
talline flutes and silver-strung harps, all within a vast hall
of the royal rath, his brother's ornate fortress, transformed
by enchantment into the illusion of a gleaming blue-white
cave of ice.

It all, Ardagh thought dryly, looked like one great, over-
blown sugar cake.

The prince stood straight-backed and silent at the side
of his brother's throne, refusing to admit that his servant
had been right: the red of his robes was Jarringly loud against
so much silvery-white. He also refused to acknowledge the
cool glances a good many of the Sidhe nobles turned his
way as they whirled by. He knew well enough they thought
him overly proud because he kept to himself, because he
kept his vows and refused to play their subtle games-

Ardagh danced sideways to where Eirithan sat all in silver,

THE SHATTERED OATH

11

pale face and hair all adding to the illusion of an icy statue.
Only the eyes were alive, studying the dancers as though
puzzling over their innermost thoughts.

Probably wondering which of them are phtfing against
him. Or with me.

"So solemn," purred a velvety voice, and Ardagh started,
then dipped his head in a polite little bow.

"Karanila."

If her husband was an icy statue, Karanila was a statue
come to life, the floating folds other pure white gown shim-
mering like winter mist, her hair and face frosted with a haze
of glittering silver. Her smile was coolly amused. "I find myself
without a partner for this dance." Her eyes glinted slyly. "My
husband refuses to join me. Will you not take his place?"

Ardagh refused to take her words at anything but face
value. "I'm not in the mood for dancing."

"Come now, Ardagh. I promise you a mere dance won't
compromise your precious honor."

The prince bit back an impatient oath. Karanila was beau-
tiful as ever, the cold silver frosting of face, hair and cos-
tume making the woman beneath the chill facade seem all
the more sensual for the contrast. If she were anyone else,
he would probably have enjoyed the mutual game of seduc-
tion and surrender. But she was who she was, and the only
way to stop her slightly malicious teasing was to yield to
her more open demand. Her hand resting lightly on his arm,
Ardagh led Karanila out onto (he dance floor, moving grace-
fully through the intricate steps with her, aware that many
of the others had retreated to watch.

As Eirithan was watching.

"How my husband stares," Karanila purred, as the dance
brought them nearly into each other's arms. "Almost as
though he expected us to be plotting something devious."

"Nonsense."

The dance drew them apart. Ardagh moved through the
pattern with this lady and that till he found himself con-
fronted by Karanila again.

"Or," she added with an odd little smile, "as though we
were planning to betray him."

12 Josephs Shemian

"I'm not. Are you?"

'"Why, Ardaghi Such a question!"

The dance drew them apart once more. Ardagh waited
impatiently for it to end, hoping it would before he had to
face Karanila and continue their ludicrous duel. Ae, no, here
they were again, face-to-face, and her eyes alive with mis-
chief.

"And can you really say you never even thought about
betraying him?" she murmured. "Never? Not even for me?"

Her lovely face was turned to his, her body so close he
could feel its warmth, so close they were nearly touching.
But Ardagh could have sworn he felt a subtle, chill under-
tone beneath the flirtation, and. glanced up at Eirithan again,
seeing the sudden tense alertness.

So that's it. You're using Karanila, brother, trying to trick
me one way or another. Damn you}

He stopped short, the dancers eddying about him in
surprise. With a curt bow to Karanila, Ardagh stalked from
the dance floor, ignoring her indignation. Eirithan stiffened
as he approached, and the prince snarled, "Don't worry,
brother. I'm not trying to assassinate you."

"What—"

"How dare you try trapping me?"

"Mind your tone!" With an intricate wave of his hand,
Eirithan created a barrier of secrecy about them, a vague
shimmering of the air that held in sound.

But the courtiers could still see through that barrier.
Belatedly aware of them staring in wild curiosity, Ardagh
turned his back on them, adding in a fierce whisper, "When
are you going to stop these ridiculous games?"

"I play no games."

"Oh no, of course not! Since the day you took our father's
throne, everything you've said or done where I'm concerned
has been aimed at forcing me to break my vow!"

"Now that is truly ridiculous," Eirithan said coldly. "I am
doing nothing more than keeping my throne secure."

Powers, they might as well stifl be boys! Mixed in with
the moments of friendship Eirithan had given him had been
unpredictable bouts of anger, bewildering to the younger

THE SHATTERED OATH

13

boy. It wasn't until he'd become an adult that Ardagh had
realized the reason behind that rage. Of course Eirithan
had never quite dared destroy his unwanted younger half-
brother; not even the most jealous of princes would Idll
anything as rare and precious as a child. But that hadn't
stopped him from forcing Ardagh into duels with sword or
spelf—practice duels, he'd claimed, but vicious enough.

And just as stupid as this whole discussion! "Look you,
Eirithan, there are times when I very much regret my vow
to you—but swear it I did! And if you paid as much atten-
tion to your people as you do to trying to trap me, you
wouldn't have to worry about your throne!"

Ignoring Eirithan s command to stop, Ardagh destroyed
the magical barrier with a surge of his own Power and began
to stalk angrily away. But before he'd gone a dozen steps,
he nearly collided with a breathless, wild-eyed messenger.
As the startled prince stepped aside, the messenger gasped
to Eirithan, "My—my liege, we n-need help—Wyvem—
village—"

Ardagh felt the shiver of magic brush him: someone was
casting a restorative spell on the exhausted man, who stag-
gered, then began more strongly, "A wyvem has attacked
a village, killed a man and two children."

There was a collective gasp of horror from the courtiers:

precious children slain! Eirithan sprang to his feet, the very
image of outraged royalty.

"Come, my friends!" he shouted. "We shall have a royal
hunt! This monstrous Idller shall be slain!"

Melodramatic, a cynical part ofArdagh's mind whispered.
But he wondered aloud, inexplicably uneasy, "The wyvern
normally hunts deer and other such creatures. Why should
it leave the forest? Why take on prey foreign to it?"

But in all the sudden swirlings of excitement, no one
heeded him.

CHAPCeR 2

The courtiers, Ardagb noted wryly, were taking to die
excitement of preparing for a royal hunt with all the fer-
vor of long-lived folk too familiar with boredom. They were
laughing and calling to each other with all the glee of chil-
dren, the air about them sparkling with Power as they altered
elegant robes to more practical riding gear, had their shin-
ing Faerie steeds brought to them, and summoned this bit
of armor or that favorite weapon- Ardagh barely managed
to do his own summoning of hunting armor from his estate
without having his conjuration speff interrupted by all die
furor. He glanced about at the wild confusion and gave up
any hope of finding a servant to help him.

Ah well. impractical armor it would be if I couldn't don
it all by myself.

Fighting his way out of a sea of people, the prince worked
his way into a quiet little alcove.

Not so quiet at that. As he finished fastening the leather
cuirass, muttering to himself at the idiots who'd designed
the thing with clasps at the back, the prince looked up and
fell silent, raising a wry brow at the small group of nobles
who'd so suddenly joined him.

"My lord Iliach. Ah. and Lords Teretal and Sestailan as
well. And with such wary looks on your faces' Dare I ask
what this is about?"

Iliach glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "We have only

14

THE SHATTERED OATH

15

a few moments of privacy before anyone starts suspecting,"
he murmured.

"Have we?"

"Prince Ardagh, all at court saw your quarrel. All know
how your royal brother feels towards you."

"Do you, now?"

"None would blame you if you—"

"If I what?" Ardagh interrupted coldly.

"Why, made a move towards—"

"Treason?"

"So strong a word!"

"So accurate a word." Ardagh glared at them without
trying to disguise his contempt. "Have you finally grown
tired of masked allusions, or are we going to dance deli-
cately about the subject one more time? For the last time,
my lords," he continued before they could protest, "I am
not interested in betraying my brother. I have, whether you
like the fact or not," or, a cynical part of his mind added
silently, whether I like the fact or not, "sworn my vow of
fealty to him. None of you, singly or together, can make
any offer strong enough to turn me into an oathbreaker.
Ah, you flinch at that word! Yet that is exactly what you'd
make me, my lords!"

They started to disagree, then fell awkwardly silent, unable
even now to utter falsehoods. Ardagh grinned at them like
a wolf. "One thing more, my lords, I will not be anyone's
puppet! Is that understood?"

One by one, reluctantly, they bowed their heads in sub-
mission. But a little prickle of worry cut through Ardagh s
contempt as he watched. Even the smallest scavengers
may bring down a dragon if there are enough of them.
And he'd just declared himself a threat to these scaven-
gers, particularly now that they'd as good as announced
treason against their ruler. They dared not risk letting him
speak to Eirithan.

Oh. you idiot! For all that his heart was suddenly rac-
ing, Ardagh kept his voice regally cold and level. "Don't
fear, my lords. I shall say nothing to my brother—as long
as you do nothing against him."

16 Josepha Shemwn

The Sidhe were capable of incredibly devious actions,
but no matter what plans they might think he was foment-
ing, the scavengers had to believe he meant what he'd said.
And that, in turn, Ardagh told himself, would have to serve
as the best security he could find for now.

Defiantly turning his back on the nobles, the prince
rejoined the safer swirl of Sidhe and horse and hounds,
alt the while half-expecting an assassin's spell. He could
feel the plotters' hatred burning at him even as he swung
into the saddle of the arched-necked Faerie steed a ser-
vant brought for him. Grimly ignoring his uneasiness,
Ardagh took the handful of light, silver-tipped javelins
offered him, settling all but one into the sheath set in
the saddle for that purpose, thoughtfully netting that one
in his hand, approving of its balance, musing that it would
work as well against a Sidhe as a wyvem, should it come
to that.

But with a clear blare of horns wild enough to set the
blood racing the hunt was away, and there was no more
time for worry. Bent low over the neck of his silvery horse,
Ardagh felt its smooth muscles working easily beneath him,
building up greater and greater speed as it ran with eager
delight till the wind fairly shrieked in his ears. The prince
buried his head in die long, silky mane, grinning. Ahead,
the royal hounds coursed like sleek arrows, low to the ground,
their hides burning white, their ears blazing red- Silent
hunters, these, till the prey was roused; their very silence
made them all the more chilling.

Finally, the blast of a horn—a tangle of confusion and
baying of hounds—die wyvem burst from concealment,
rearing up on its powerful hind legs, short, ridiculous forelegs
clutched at its chest. Somediing seemed wrong widi die
viciously fanged moudi, and after a moment Ardagh real-
ized what it was, and knew why die beast had turned from
its natural prey to easier lolls: one side of die long, narrow
jaw hung askew, broken by accident or by some hunter too
fearful to finish what he'd begun. Ardagh rose in die stir-
rups, javelin raised—

But too many branches were between him and die wyvem,

THE SHATTERED OATH

17

and he settled back widi an angry sigh. Let the hounds do
dieir work and flush die beast totally out of hiding.

The wyvern roared its pain and rage as one of the hounds
nipped it on the flank. The long, poison-tipped tail came
lashing savagely about, but die hounds were too battle-wise
to be so easuy stabbed. One dog, not quite as quick as die
rest, yipped as the weight of die wyvern's tail caught it
broadside and hurled it aside, but the odiers darted in to
faarry the wyvem, biting at flank or legs.
"Be wary!" someone yelled. "It's going to charge!"
Ardagh's hand tightened about die javelin. Steadying his
nervous horse widi knee pressure, he told die wyvera silently,
Come. Give me just one clear shot.

Widiout warning, the wyvem rushed from cover. Ardagh
grinned fiercely, javelin raised. Just another moment . . .
But anottier horse josded his own, and die prince glanced

sideways— Eiridian, fierce-eyed and angry, wanting die kill
for his own.

Sorry, brother, the honor is mine!
Ardagh raised his javelin again, but Eiridian's horse was
charging forward, blocking his aim. And die prince—

—all at once could not lower die javelin, could not drop
it, could not do anything but feel die pressure on him from
five odier minds. Damn diem, damn diem, how could he
have been so stupid? A trap, it was all a trap, even die wyvem;

its jaw had been deliberately broken, he didn't doubt it now,
though which of die traitors had actually—

—die traitors led by Lord Iliach—

—the traitors who were using him as dieir royal assas-
sin, forcing his arm back for die dirow—

They will not/ Ardagh thought fiercely. / . . . will. . .
not. . . do this thing!

But he had no choice. Heart pounding, breadi coming
in gasps, die prince realized diat diough he might be stronger
magically dian any one of the traitors, he couldn't overwhelm
all five. His arm continued preparing die dirow no matter
how much he fought, die javelin aimed straight at Eiridian's
heart—

Damn you, not

18

Josephs Sherman

As the javelin left his hand, Ardagh hurled every bit of
will not against the traitors but at the javelin itself. Pow-
ers, there wasn't enough time, it wasn't going to work, it

would never—

But the weapon merely grazed Eirithan's face, whirring
on to strike the wyvern cleanly. The beast roared its pain,
staggering back, off balance- The hounds lunged, dragging
it down, and a dozen flashing javelins made an end of it.
And Ardagh, suddenly released, struck out at the traitors
with all the raw Power in him, hearing someone cry out in
pain. feeling someone fall.

In the next moment, magic seized him from all sides. Held
helpless by the sudden flood of Power, the prince tried to
cry out to the courtiers to let him go, that it wasn't he who
was the traitor, but he could barely drag enough air into
his lungs to breathe. They had all seen him hurl the jav-
elin; they weren't about to release a would-be assassin.

Bttt I'm not. damn you, I'm not!

Eirithan, hand to bleeding face, Was staring at Ardagh,
eyes wide with shock- "Traitor!" he gasped at last.

Ardagh managed to choke out a defiant "No!" but could

get no further.

Eirithan kneed his horse to the princes side, still star-
ing. "I always knew you were not to be trusted, even when
you were a boy, I knew it."

Oh, nonsense! ~fou knew no such thing!

"But I never dreamed you would go this far," Eirithan
continued. "I never dreamed you would actually try to kill

me.

The effort to speak nearly strangled Ardagh. "I didn't!"

he gasped.

'Silence, Uar, oathbreaker!" Terror blazed from Eirithan,
the terror of someone seeing his long-held fears proven true.

"No! You must—"

The magical bonds clamped down ever more severely.
Sagging in the saddle, barely able to cling to consciousness,
Ardagh could no longer utter any sound at all, and Eirithan
continued sharply, to all me others, "We are returning, now\
This traitor must be punished!"

THE SHATTERED OATH

19

•       •       •

It could not have been called a fair or honest trial by any
standards, Ardagh thought bitterly, not with everyone's
magical bonds still holding him so tightly he couldn't say a
word in his defense. No one else was saying anything in
his defense, either.

Of course not. No one's going to be impolitic enough to
challenge Eirithan. Especially since everyone saw me cast
that cursed spear.

At least the bonds bad been loosened enough so the prince
could breathe and stand without aid. But cursed if he was
going to let anyone see the helpless honor he feitt The prince
stood as proudly as the bonds would let him, forcing his
face into a cold mask that revealed nothing at all as Eirithan
accused him of crime after crime. Almost worse than lis-
tening to the litany was seeing the true traitors (the remaining
traitors; he saw with a flash of fierce satisfaction that his
last, desperate attack had eliminated Teretal) standing to
one side in sanctimonious sadness. A good many layers of
these cursed magical bonds were their sendings.

Don't you Seel their falseness? he screamed silently at
Eirithan. Don't you realize that they're the real peril?

No, Eirithan plainly realized nothing of the sort. He
seemed to be coming to the end of his accusations now,
and Ardagh braced himself, more afraid now than he would
have wanted to admit: the Sidhe were not a gentle people
when it came to punishment, and death would almost cer-
tainly be the least terrible part of a traitor's fate.

But Eirithan hesitated, then waved his counsellors to him.
They conferred for so long Ardagh wanted to shout at them
to make up their minds, no matter how terrible the deci-
sion, just make up their minds and end the suspense. He
could see the word "death" on many lips.

All at once Eirithan turned back to Ardagh, and the
prince was surprised to see a hint of... could it possibly
be concern mixed in with the fear and rage? "I should con-
demn you to death, Ardagh," he said hesitantly. "That is a
traitor's fate, after aB. But you and I are the last of our blood.
I ... I will not take my brother's life."

ffi

Joseph Sherman

Then let me go, damn you. Let me show you the real
traitors!

"No," Eirithan continued more resolutely, "I shall not take
your life. Instead, my false, false brother, I shall exile you."
His face suddenly devoid of all emotion, voice ringing out
as cold and clear as a hunting horn, Eirithan cried, "Hear
my words, my people! I hereby declare that he who was
known as Ardagh Uthanial is of Uthanial blood no longer,
prince no longer. He is a traitor, a nameless, clantess
oathbreaker, and as such can no longer be allowed to live
within our Realm.

"And so I hereby declare this nameless one shall be cast
into exile! He shall be banished forever to the one Realm
that will harbor such an oathbreaker, the one Realm I have
found in which falsehood is no sin and the folk are as treach-
erous as he:

This nameless one is hereby cast out to live whatever
miserable life he can achieve not amid the lordly Sidhe but
amid the lowly humankind. And never shall he return!"

No, oh no, Ardagh thought in panic, J am Sidhe, still Sidhe
no matter what you daim!I cannot survive in that barbaric
world! Eirithan, no!

But, helpless in his bonds, he could say nothing. Half-
choking on rage and despair, the prince watched Eirithan
and his sages, with an extravagant waste of magic, cast open
a shimmering Portal

That's my spell, curse you, the one I taught you when I
first told you about hunwnityl

A spell that was about to be used on him. Ardagh fought
his bonds savagely, uselessly, as two servants caught him
by the arms.

No! I shaB. not he tossed away like some shameful slave!

Something of his despair and desperate pride must have
torn free to touch Eirithan's mind, for at a commanding
wave of his hand, the courtiers (murmuring in disapproval)
dissolved their magical bonds. But Ardagh, poised on the
very edge of the Portal, saw the coldness in their eyes and
knew it was already too late for him. The slightest wrong
move or word on his part would mean the hurling of a storm

THE SHATTERED OATH           21

of spears. He must step through the Portal into wrongful
exile, or die here and now.

I'will not let you slay me. curse you! Ardagh thoudit
And at least I can take this much vengeance. He shouted
with all the helpless fury in him, "Look to your back
Eirithan! The traitors still live—"

The spears were thrown. Before they could strike, he
leaped boldly through the Portal to meet his fate.

KINGS AND QUeCNS
CHAPCeD 3

Aedh mac Neill, High King of Eriu for nigh these five
years, woke with a start, staring wildly at nothing, heart
pounding as though he'd just been fighting a battle. Beside
him, his wife Eithne stirred, brushing tangled chestnut hair
back from her face, blinking sleepily at him.

"Aedh?" she murmured. "What's wrong?"

He took a deep, steadying breath, then touched her cheek
with a gentle hand. "Nothing. Only a dream."

The woman straightened, raising herself on one elbow,
eyes suddenly focused with alarm. "With enough power to
it to wake you!"

"Eithne . . ."

"Don't give me that superior look! Dreams have mean-
ing, love, you know—"

"Oh, I know nothing of the sort."

"What did you dream?" Eithne insisted, "Come, tell me."

Aedh sighed, rolling over onto his back, looking blankly
up at the canopy overhead, considering. "It was an odd
thing," he said at last. "Not a nightmare, not exactly . . .
just strange. I dreamed I was in the midst of battle, alone,
set round with foes."

"Och!"

"But just when things were looking very grim indeed,"
Aedh continued thoughtfully, "a stranger slipped through
the toes to my side." He glanced sideways at his wife. "Now,

22

THE SHATTERED OATH

23

I don't know what made me dream him up, Eithne! He was
the most foreign-looking fellow I ever could have imagined:

tall, pale of skin, and almost as beautiful as a woman. But
whatever else he was, that man could fight like a very devil!
And between us, we won the day. I woke up just as we were
grinning in triumph at each other." Aedh turned to look
Sully at Eithne. "So. That's the lot of it. Are you satisfied?"

Eithne wouldn't meet his gaze- "You were right," she
murmured after a moment. "It could only have been a
dream, nothing more than that."

He grunted in satisfaction. "Go back to sleep. The hour's
still early."

"Mm-hmm." Eithne curled comfortably against him, all
warm, cozy softness, head pillowed against his chest. Aedh
smiled and held her close, for the moment wonderfully
content.

But his dream-prodded mind refused to relax, insisting
on remembering actual battle after battle. And at last he
gave up all hope of sleep. He might be Aedh Ordnigh, Aedh
the Ordained,, rightful High King in the sight of God and
man, but that wasn't making his reign any easier.

And had you expected it to be any other way?

Hardly. The land of Eriu was divioed among a seemingly
endless number of lesser kings—some of them ruling over
as few as a hundred men—and all of them, great and small,
were an ambitious, skeptical lot, not particularly willing to
see anyone set over them. The very first year ofAedh's reign,
when he should have had at least a short period of grace,
had seen him having to ride out against the stubborn king
of Meath to prove he, Aedh Ordnigh of the Ui Neill sept,
the noblest, most powerful of dynasties, was, and would
remain, ruler of alf Eriu.

Not that such a victory made much of an impression on
the rest of the Janfs. No, that would hace been far too simple.

In these past four years, Aedh realized with a start, he
could count maybe ten months all told when he hadn't been
forced to ride out somewhere, sword in hand. And who
knew but that someone else wouldn't be cnallenging him
tomorrow, or the day after that. The king mentally ticked

24 Josephs Sherman

off the most blatant possibilities: There were the two am-
bitious sons of the fate king of Meath to consider, and
trouble out of Leinster that might yet lead to war. Add to
that the various factions here at court, most of whom were
related to other kings and burning with their own ambi-
tion. And just to keep matters nicely stirred, there were also
those two swift raids to the north of Eriu by the Loch-
laanach, the seafaring barbarians come down from their
frozen northern lands. Those raids just might not be iso-
lated occurrences—

Och, weS, nobody ever promised me this ivoutd be an
easy way to live! And 1 certainly don't intend to meekly
surrender the crown. The way Father did.

Aedh straightened carefully, not wanting to disturb Eithne
(the one quiet, peaceful, loving part of his life, his Eithne,
and the two children they'd gotten between them, brave
young Niall and pretty little Fainche). He was sturdy of build
and, he knew proudly, still folly as fit and strong as a younger
man, but now and again he could feel the pull of old wounds
warning him he wasn't invulnerable. There were few enough
of those wounds. God be praised, and none of them truly
serious: for a warrior king in his mid-thirties, Aedh admit-
ted, he'd been remarkably fortunate—or (who knew?)
shielded by some divine Power.

Father? Aedh wondered wryly. Is this your doing?

He sighed, softly so Eithne would not be disturbed.
Niall Frasach had been a good man, some said a saintly
man. Aedh could remember a boyhood filled with the ever-
growing legends of his father queuing demons by sheer
sanctity. Niall Frasach, Niall Condail: Niall the Pure of
Mind, who had finally abdicated the throne for a monas-
tery.

Ah, yes. And in the process, Aedh thought, his father had
conveniently left behind all the unsettled problems and plots
of the less pure of mind for his successor to solve, and
involved his son in a ten-year struggle to claim the throne
and prove himself High King. Being the son of a saint might
be good for one's soul, but it certainly wasn't an easy thing
for someone living in the here and now.

THE SHATTERED OATH

25

Well, he was High King now, damn all his enemies to
tbp monks' Hell, and couldn't imagine being anything other
than High King.

Pulling aside a bed-hanging a finger's breadth, Aedh
Danced out at the cool grey light of early morning and sighed
anew. A feather bed was a wonderfully comfortable thing,
whether or not one had been sleeping, but the day was here
•nd he could hardly lie abed any longer. The life of a king
was ringed round with rules and prohibitions, including what
he should and should not do each day. And today, the mid-
day of the week, was the one deemed suitable for royal
hunting.

"So be it," Aedh muttered, disentangBng himself care-
fully from his wife, and got to his feet.

"You're not leaving?" Eithne cried from behind him, and
Aedh turned to her-

She was sitting up in bed, bedclothes gathered about her,
hair a wild cloud, looking as soft and vulnerable as a giri
wfao'd never borne a child. And for a moment such a wave
of pure tenderness surged through Aedh that he ached to
rejoin her in their bed and never leave.

Nonsense. He was a man grown, not a romantic boy.
"What's this, wife?" he asked Uditly. "Still worried about
Bay dream? Come now, we both know it was nothing but a
rifly, powerless little thing. Or... is there something you're
keeping from me?"

"No, of course not" She said that just a touch too quickly,
Aedh thought. "But everyone knows you go hunting on this
day of the week. Anyone could be lying in wait—"

"Eithne. My dearest. My darling, loving, tenderhearted
wife." Aedh bent to kiss her gently. "I've gone hunting before
without this fuss- What would they think of a king who hid
behind his fortress walls, afraid to stir? How long do you
think I would keep my throne?"

"But—"

"I'm not a fool. I will be wary."

Eithne sighed. "Of course. I'm the one who's being foolish.
Go on, and good hunting to you, love."

e   •   •

26 Josepha Sherman

Queen Eithne stood at the open window, watching
fervently as Aedh rode away. Och, but he was splendid and
shining, sitting his horse as straight and proud as a man half
his age (not mat he was that old, she told herself sternly,
no more than ten years her senior; there were only the fewest
threads of silver amid the reddish hair and beard, and they
gleaming like royal ornaments in the sun). Ahead of him
coursed a slew of fine hounds, and all around him rode
Aedh's own chosen guard; Eithne knew them man and dog,
and trusted the lot-

At the king's side rode batde-wise Cadwal ap Dyfri, that
rarity among mercenaries: a man who'd made it to middle
years. A curt, crusty man, Cadwal, trusting almost no one,
guarding his secrets like a miser his gold, but a truly skill-
ml fighter, and in his own bought-and-paid-for way more
loyal to Aedh than many a courtier. Eithne knew he would
die before he let harm come to the king who'd never once
treated him as anything less than a man of honor.

Then why am I so uneasy? What was the meaning of that
cursed dream?

Feeling just a touch foolish, she snatched up a small
handful of earth from one of the pots of herbs she kept to
sweeten the air, and hurled it after her husband, a childish
charm to bring him safely back to her. Arms hugged tightly
about herself, Eithne stood watching as Aedh rode down
from the royal keep, down through the many outbuildings
and the earthen rings of defense, down into the endless
expanse of forest, till she could see him no more. Only then
did she turn away, calling for her women to come and dress
her and bring her children to her.

As always, her heart gave a little leap at the sight of the
two lovely young things. Niall, now nearly eleven, was
straight-bacKed as his father but as lightly built as a young
falcon, his stare Aedh's steady grey gaze. The boy was just
at the age of not wanting to be embarrassed by a mother s
hugs, but little Fainche, all of five, rushed eagerly into
Eithne's arms. The woman lowered her face to the girl,
nuzzling the curly reddish hair, delighted by the fresh, clean,
baby smell of her.

THE SHATTERED OATH

27

With a reluctant sigh, Eithne straightened. "Off with you
•now. To your studies, the both of you. Niall, don't give me
iuch a long look! Time enough to be following your father
to the hunt when you're older."

"How much older?"

"Och. child, time passes soon enough, all too sooni
Besides, do you think your father wouldbe High King if
he had neglected his studying?"

"He would be High King no matter what!" Niall said body,
and Eithne stifled a smile.

"As will you, someday," she told him solemnly, "God
willing." But, oh pleese you listening Ones. not for many
hng years. "But only if you finish your lessons! Now, off
mm you, I say! And you," Eithne added to her servants,
"off with you, too. I wish to be alone."

She waited in sudden tension, listening. feeUne, till she
was sure no one was watching. Clutching her cloak to her,
Eithne hurried to the one secret chamber not even Aedh
had seen: the chamber that was barred with Words and
Wishes from being discovered. Slipping inside, she shut and
bolted the door behind her, then stood for a moment, bit-
ing her lip in anxious thought. Yes ... this was the ritual
she'd work.

Eithne hurriedly cast open a small chest and set out candles
at north, south, east, west. She paused, willing everything
from her mind but the words other spell... (he words, and
an image of Aedh, proud and full of health ... Aedh...

Holomg that image firmly in her mind, she lit a taper,
then the southern candle. As it caught fire, Eithne mur-
mured, "Nothing from the south can harm Aedh, nothing
cause him peril."

The western, northern, eastern candles were lit as well,
the spell repeated- Eithne sat in die small space between
the candles, watching them bum, concentrating with all her
might oafeeiing any danger to Aedh burning as well, melting
harmlessly away, leaving him safe. safe, safe. . . .

At last, drained, Eithne got to her feet, staggering a little,
then damped the candle stubs and returned them to the
chest For a time she stood motionless, trying to regain her

28 ]osepha Sherman

strength, then let out her breath in a long sigh. She'd done
what she could to protect her husband. The rest was up to
the gods.

Ah, yes, the gods, Eithne thought with the tiniest of
shivers, the Dagda and Brigit—whom the Christians had
tried so earnestly to turn into one of their saints—and bright,
shining Aengus. Father Seadna. the High King's priest, was
a tolerant man, but there were limits. And Aedh ... oh,
Aedh loved her, she never doubted that, but he must never,
never leam, he who had been ordained king by the Chris-
tian priests, that his wife secretly practiced a far older reli-
gion, that she secretly worked her magics to protect him.

Wearily, Eithne returned to the royal chambers. Aedh
was shielded by God and man and magic. Everything would
be well.

Then why did a darkness still seem to hang over him for
all her spells, to hang over them all?

Outside the grianan, the ladies' house, of the royal pal-
ace of Clonach, the small kingdom that lay several days'
riding north from the High King's seat, the morning shone
clear and fine, the distant sea deepest blue sparkling with
sunlight. The roar of surf on rocks was far enough away to
be muted to a familiar, soothing thrum, but Queen Derval
of Clonach paid all that no heed. Slender and golden-haired,
her pale, smooth skin the love of poets and despair of other
women, she put down her needlework with an impatient
sigh and sat watching her tall, aubum-haired husband pace
restlessly back and forth till at last she could stand it no
longer. "Now what's the matter?"

Donnchadh, King of Clonach, stopped short to stare at
her. Like a deer caught by wolves, Derval thought in dis-
approval. Or o little boy in fear cf punishment. "Am I doing
the right thing?" he challenged her. "Am I?"

Derval let out her breath in a sharp hiss. "That again!
Do you wish justice or not?"

"Of course, but—"

"But what? You are of the Ui Neill sept, just like Aedh,
you are every bit as worthy as—"

THE SHATTERED OATH

29

"He has been crowned Ard Ri before God and man,"
Donnchadh said severely, and Derval sighed yet again.

"A man made king," she said as carefully as though speak-
ing to a child, "can still be unmade. I thought we had settled
aBthis, husband. We both agreed Aedh is too weak, son of
a saint that he is, too ... educated a man to properly guard
Eriu—particularly with this new threat of longboat raids
hanging over us."

Tes, Yes. Its my lands that lie in direct peril from those
raiders, not his."

"Will you stop that pacing?" Derval rose, nearly as tall
as her husband, to block his path. "Listen to yourself! For
shame, Donnchadh!"

-What—"

"Whining like this—you sound like a frightened child,
not a king."

Face dark with sudden rage, he raised a hand to strike,
and just for an instant, seeing the fury in his eyes. Derval
felt a spasm of genuine fear. But even though her heart was
pounding, she refused to flinch, scaring steadily back at him.
And Donnchadh was the first to give way, turning suddenly
aside to look out the unshuttered window.

Weakling! Derval thought in contempt, and moved to
stand beside him, staring out to where their son, golden
young Fearghal, at sixteen already nearly as tall as his sire,
was testing his swordplay against one of his comrades. A
sudden unexpected pang stabbed her heart at the sight.
Fearghal, though no one dared remind him of it, was the
second-bom, not the true heir to Clonach. That claim
belonged to the firstborn son, to Breasal. Breasal, who was
hostage for his father's good behavior, there at the High
King's court so far from Clonach, where he'd lived for so
many years he must now be King Aedh's creature. You always
were a sickly child, poor boy, Derval thought, so slight and
gpntle I could almost think you a changeling. You could never
have held a throne.

Look at this. She was already thinking of him in the past
tense. Fiercely shutting her mind against the pain she felt,
a mother's pain, Derval added. If I must sacrifice you, my

•h

Jay

30 Josephs Sherman

firstborn son, I wiU. Thought it wB. tear at my heart to do
it, I will do what must be done. At least one of my children
WtU sit on the High Kings throne.

"Good," Donncnadh muttered, watching Feargfaal closely.
"Yes. Hit him again, there, and there. Ah, yes, well struck."

Does he even remember Breasal^ Derval wondered, and
in that moment hated her husband with all her heart.

Fearghal, meanwhile, beat his opponent back and back
again, finally trapping him against a whitewashed stone wall.
Ttie other boy tried to surrender, but Fearghal struck the
sword from his band, then swept his feet roughly out from
under him. As the other boy went crashing to the ground,
Fearghal stood over him, laughing. "So," Derval said soffly.
"Do you want our son on the High King's throne or not?"

Donnchadh's bands tightened on die sill. "You know I
do."

"Well, then."

The man's shoulders sagged in sudden resignation. "I
know, I know." The glance he gave her was full of despair
"And I have done what I must. Treason though it might
be, I have done what I must."

It is no treason if it sets my son, my Feargfial on the High
King's throne. Derval thought, but said nothing.

cue exiLe

CHAPCeT? 4

How long had he been huddling here, too dazed to move?
Ardagh Lithanial, exiled prince of Faerie, straightened slowly,
aching in mind and body, trying to remember all that had
happened. There'd been the passage through the Portal,
the bewildering sense of being not here, not there ... then
a rough hardness all around him that he now realized must
have been die stony walls of a cave. Somehow he must have
staggered out of it, only to collapse . . . where?

Wait now, the cave . . . what if the Portal was still open
within it? Ardagh whirled and saw—

"Ae,no . . ."

The cave was small, dank—and most definitely finite.

But I know the Portal spell. I can reopen it and. .. alii
haveto do is . . is .

No, this couldn't be! He couldn't have forgotten, not so
totally! A coldness settling in his heart, Ardagh fought and
fought with his memory. He must remember, he had to
remember!

He couldn't. The shape of the Realm-crossing spell was
gone from his mind as though it had been cut away.

For the first time the full weight of what had been done
to him fell upon Ardagh. His legs gave way beneath the
burden and he crumpled, shrouded in a fog of mindless
grief and terror, so overwhelmed by the size of his loss he
had to catch a fold of his sleeve between his teeth to keep

31

32 Josepha Sherman

from screaming. He had nothing, no rank, no home, no

nam<

No, curse it, he had not lost his name; no matter what
else they'd taken from him, he was still Ardagh Lithanial!

Gradually the prince became aware of an odd warmth
stealing through me chill, gentle on head and arm. Blink-
ing in contusion, he looked down at himself, seeing a strange
golden light. . . .

Sunlight! Mortal sunlight, and he was—

Obviously not about to be charred to ash. Maybe the
rumors were true and his dark hair did mean a taint of human
blood. A protective taint

Ah well, if me sun wasn't going to kill him, he was going
to have to do something about staying alive. Ardagh got
slowly to his feet, looking warily about. He was standing
in a small glade, surrounded by dense forest, though he
couldn't have put a name to any of the not-quite-of-Faerie
trees. The lig^it that filtered down through the leaves seemed
so strange that at first he couldn't puzzle out the difference.

Ah, o? course! If a sun—a single, central fire rather than
me glowing, overall Faerie radiance—was to be of any use,
it would have to be strong enough to actually cast shad-
ows!

How bizarre! Like a candle flame, but so much more
powerful!

The strangeness of the concept sent a new shiver racing
through him. And yet, as Ardagh raised a hand to the sun-
light, turning his arm this way and mat in Sidhe curiosity
to see the effect, then twisting his whole body about to watch
the alien, fascinating way his shadow stretched and shrank,
he had to admit that the dappling, golden effects of sun-
light weren't totally unattractive.

But this experimentation wasn't getting him anywhere-
Ardagh took a deep, testing breath of air that was clean and
cool, rich with the inimitable sweet-spicy scent of new
vegetation. One small stroke of luck, he thought. I might
have been transported into the heart of winter.

So, now. The sunlight wouldn't hurt him and me season
was Earthly spring. But as he warily opened his senses to

THE SHATTERED OATH

33

^the world about him, Ardagh suddenly shivered. For all the
pretty freshness about him, the air, the whole land, had a
certain flat feel to it that sounded a warning chime in his
.mind- Where was the lands Power? He comd hardly have
'<«pected this Realm to be as Powerful as Faerie, where the
yw stuff of magic was literally everywhere, easily drawn
jaam the very air and soil. But surely this couldn't be a world
without any magic at all . . . ? Powers, Powers, surely he
hadn't been abandoned in a Realm where he was totally
defenseless?

Heart racing in renewed panic, Ardagh tried spell after
spell. NothingiNothing worked, nothing roused, nothing—

No. Stop mat- There was Power in this Realm; he could
sense it, even if the shape of it was strange and weak. And
gome of his magic, the inner magic that was fueled only
by his own mind and will and didn't depend on outside
Power, still remained; Ardagh felt it shimmering within him.
But oh, it was such a pale, pathetic thing compared to the
Splendors he had known!

The splendors from which the traitors had sundered him.

At that thought, the first hot stirrings of fury shot through
him, cutting through shock. Ardagh, smiling without humor,
welcomed that fury, carefully nursing it into full flame. Yes,
yes, the traitors thought him safely out of their path, trapped
nere in mis alien place. They thought he could never return.

"All the Powers hear me," he vowed savagely, "I shall go
back. No matter how long it takes, I will find a way home.
Powers hear me, I shall prove my innocence. And, oh Pow-
ers, I swear this: those who betrayed me shall pay!"

What wonderful melodramatics, a comer of his mind
observed. And proclamations might be well and good in me
right surroundings, but it was nothing short of stupid to make
so much noise in a strange place.

Besides, Ardagh admitted with a touch of humor, vow-
making or no, he could hardly stand here for the rest of
his life.

And to think i once wished/or adventure. Ay me. never
make an idle wish: It just may be granted. I only hope some-
one is kind to poor Ninet.

34 Jo$epha Shennan

But what was he going to do? Where was he to go? Ardagh
looked helplessly around at forest, and forest, and forest.
A prince wasn't exactly well trained in wilderness life; he
doubted he could have lived off the land even in Faerie.
He hadn't the slightest chance of success here, where even
the trees were unfamiliar The weather had grown comfort-
ably warm and soft, but surely it wouldn't stay that way
forever. What was he going to do for food or shelter or—

Ardagh took a deep breath, willing his thoughts to calm-
ness. If he wished to survive in this realm, he needed to
find himself some humans as soon as possible, and make
some manner of life with them.

With whom? Peasants? The prince tried to picture himself
cutting wood or digging up roots or doing whatever other
lowly things peasants did, and shuddered delicately. He might
be an exue, but he was certainly not going to lose what-
ever shreds of honor might be left to him! No, somewhere
out there must be what passed for a human aristocracy, no
matter how pale a shadow it might be of Sidhe nobility. All
he had to do was find it, then make himself a place as ...
as advisor, perhaps. Granted, he didn't even know the name
of this land, let alone anything of its politics, but one could
always learn what needed to be learned. Yes . . . humans
being the short-lived creatures they were, any of them would
surely be glad of Sidhe wisdom, even if Ardagh never risked
revealing himself as Other. Work his way into a high enough
position, and he would live as an honored guest.

At least t0l I can find the way hack home.

Ardagh glanced down at himself. Good, serviceable hunt-
ing learners and boots . . . strong, soft spidersilk tunic
underneath the leather . . . Fortunate that Eirithan hadn't
thought to relieve him of sword and dagger. And, the prince
mused wryly, he did have his wits. Many a hero of many
a tale had started with less!

A scramble up a tree showed him a darker shadow among
the forest that must mean a road. Full of determination,
Ardagh Lithanial, lost prince of Faerie, set forth on his
journey.

^       %       ^

THE SHATTERED OATH           35

^ T?wo days later, Ardagh wasn't feeling so sure of himself
ipr his fortunes. Yes, the weather remained mild, but it
seemed to rain every day, a soft, endless drizzle that worked
jUx way down through the ceiling of leaves in a gentle,
sdentiess mist. He was perpetually damp and tired and dis-
gustingly dusty, aching from having slept on beds of gath-
egted leaves, and hungrier than he could ever have imagined.
there was a wealth of greenness all about, but of course,
Ardagh admitted dourly, he had no way of knowing what
was edible; the three small fish he had snatched out of a
stream and die one scrawny rabbit he'd caught, Sidhe reac-
tions swift as any predator, had hardly been enough to fill
his stomach for long.

I'm a prince, curse it, not a—a vagrant!

But it was the smallest flare of insulted pride, half-smoth-
ered by the ever-present weight of fear that was worse than
any physical discomfort: the tear that was composed mostly
rf terrible, endless loneliness and the knowledge that search
tins Realm though he might, he would never, never find
another of his kind- Even at his most solitary, back on his
estate, there'd never been a time when he couldn't seek
out someone else.

Ardagh gave a shaky sigh. By now the sight of anyone,
even the lowliest of humans, would have been more wel-
come than he ever would have cared to admit, but he hadn't
seen the slightest sign of life—

TIB nowl The prince darted aside in sudden startled alarm,
vanishing into the underbrush like a deer, staring at the
newcomers. Rougher of skin than any Sidhe, stockier of
build, broader of face ... His eyes widened at the sight of
taeir facial hair; save for eyebrows his people had none.

Animals, shaggy, hairy animals . .

Not quite. Warriors, these, from the tough look of them,
armed with sword and spear—

Iron swords! Iron spears! Powers, why hadn't he remem-
bered humans used iron, that metal most dangerous to
Faerie folk, sickening iron, a wound from which would
almost surely lead to Sidhe death!

Eh well, the prince thought with desperate humor,

36 Josepha Skerman

struggling with his new surge of panic, he would just have
to take care not to get wounded.

But what were warriors doing here, so far from any habi-
tation? Sidhe curiosity awakened anew, stronger than any
alarm. Not quite ready to reveal himself, Ardagh stalked the
men at a silent, wary distance. They were trying their best
not to be seen or heard—though to his keen ears they were
making enough noise for an army. But there didn't seem to
be anything to hunt that was worth so much caution!

Ha, they were stopping for a rest, over the protests of the
one who seemed to be their leader. The prince smiled thinly
and settled himself comfortably on a rock. Now, let him try
something. . . . The spell should work, since it was cast by
him on him and required no external fueling. Silently, he
mouthed the words, willing the ma^c into being.. . .

And suddenly he couldn't breathe, couldn't mink, couldn't
hear or see or—

It was over. The world cleared about him, and Ardagh,
gasping for breath, trembling, head swimming, realized mat
he would have to be wary even with the sadly diminished
powers left to him. The Language Spell certainty shouldn't
have had such dramatic effects.

This wortd, the prince thought bitterly, just does not care
for Sidhe maeics. Here, like it or not, he was the alien.




Still the speU had worked. His mind was beginning to clear,
and as it did, Ardagh realized with a litde shock of relief that
now he could actually understand what the humans were
saying. Some of the panic of being lost in a totally foreign
worid diminished now that he had their language.

The humans certainly weren't in the mood to appreci-
ate the fine, clear day around them. Ardagh heard com-
plaints of, "Not used to fighting on foot," and, "Shouldn't
have to crawl our way to battle1"

"Can't risk horses," someone muttered. They make too
much noise."

One warrior cursed under his breath. "I don't like it. Don't
like it at all. This isn't some petty litde under-king we're
going after, it's the Ard Ri, the High King himself!"

Hi^,h King! Ardagh echoed silently A High King must

THE SHATTERED OATH           37

HISe^ty be one who ruled over all others, kings and com-
jjfeBcrs alike: a human of considerable might. He could
aRMlely enjoy a comfortable life at such a king's court, at least
^comfortable a life as might be had among humanity—




^'ElEcept mat these men seemed determined to prevent it
ji^CWou arguing with King Donnchadh?" their leader
Himped. "He's the one you swore fealty to, not some high
|yiQ mighty Ard Ri. And he's the one who gave us our
Outers."
-^Huh. Don't see Donnchadh here."

"You want a king to take part in an ambush?"
^ "How come it's not honorable for him, but all right for
4tt? We're free men, not slaves! I tell you, I don't like it!"
^ "Maybe you'd rather take on Aedh in his fortress? No?
Itris is his hunting day, our only clear chance at him, so
let's shut up and get ready!"

^ Why, the traitors! Ardagh thought indignantly. Traitors
MKtnst their liege lord as surely as lliach and the others!

U Cursed if he was going to let them wreck his safety
Before he'd even won it! Ardagh stole silently ahead, hunt-
log for this mysterious Aedh, this High King. Ah yes. now
&6 heard hootbeats on the road ahead of him, rapidly
l—lded his way. and the idle yapping of hounds who hadn't
|f«t found a trail.

^,A*d what happens when the hounds catch my scent?
.^xdagh thought in sudden alarm. I most certainly won't smeu
Iffce a human to them. For aU I know, they'U try to attack!
^ Warily, he swung up into a tree and perched on a thick
iMmnch, screened by leaves, and stared in open curiosity at
ibis new group of humans. They were better clad than the
^fiwt lot, wrapped round in what seemed to be long plaid
Woolen cloaks over tunics that looked almost as sleekly
|HDOoth as his own. Their saddles had no stirrups, but they

^ their small, sturdy horses with an ease that spoke of years
training.

? One rider caught and held me prince's glance: a strongly
J^btiilt man, red of hair and beard, a warrior by his build, a
sr by his bearing. At his side rode a second human, a
B-worn, grizzle-bearded warrior—Cadwal, his name




38 ]osepha Shermmi

seemed to be—who deferred to the red-haired man as
though to a king—

Ha, yest Ardagh came so sharply alert he nearly slipped
from his perch. This red-haired man was High King Aedh
himself—the man the traitors meant to kill!

They shaS. not! Ardagh leaped down from biding with a
warning cry, "A trap! Beware the ambush!"

Swords shrieked out of scabbards, spears flashed up—
For a moment Ardagh was sure he was going to be spitted,
and hastily added, "Not me, them," even as the traitors came
rushing out of their failed ambush.

The prince whipped out his own sword as a warrior closed
with him, a pang ofwony stabbing through him that Faerie
metal might not hold up against iron. But tfae blades clashed
together again and again without damage.

So be it! Ardagh thought. With a savage laugh, the prince
dove into battle, his pent-up fury, loss and rage tearing free
in one wild, deadly dance of combat. He was quicker than
the humans, more graceful, swifter to react; he lunged,
parried and slashed with feral joy, hardly aware of (he burning
sickness of iron all around him.

Caught in his battle-frenzy, Ardagh saw one of the war-
riors guarding the High King fall, and vaulted into the empty
saddle with inhuman speed, blocking the downward swing
of an enemy blade that would have cut into Aedh's neck,
barely keeping his balance on impact with no stirrups against
whicn to brace himself. He heard the king's hasty gasp of
thanks, caught grizzled Cadwal's approving glance, then the
three of Aem were fighting together, Aidagh and the human
warrior guarding Aedh between them as though they'd been
rehearsing it for days.

At last nis mad strength began to ebb. Ardagh came back
to himself with a jolt, drained and panting, glancing wildly
around for more foes but finding none. Sudden shame
overwhelmed him. Powers, how could he have done this?
He had lost self-control as badly as any human!

But how good it had felt to know the joy of battle; not
some sly treachery against which one was helpless, but an
honest battle that could be fought and won.

THE SHATTERED OATH

39

, --Won, yes. The last of the would-be assassins was on the
ffifound, gasping out his life, and the prince heard Aedh snari,
"Sony! Find out who sent him!"
y But the warrior who'd hurriedly bent over the man
Heightened with a sigh. "Too late."

,^Dainn!" That was Cadwal, sword still in hand. "Dunod,
Igmn, Garwyn, scout out the woods. Make sure there aren't
jmf more of the vermin lurking.'*
a?There aren't," Ardagh said. "I was following them for
•Bietune."
,, She warrior gave him a wolf-fierce stare. "Why?"

"Better to have that lot before me than after me!"

."Easy answer, but—"

s.' Aedh impatiently waved them to silence. Then do you
iaow who sent them?"

"Hhink," the prince began warily, "it was a king named
fSssa. .. ae. Dun something."

"Donnchadh?" Aedh snapped. "Is that the name?"
^ Tm not sure," the prince admitted. "All your names sound
dBxeign to me. Ah—is something wrong?"
A' 'She High King was staring at him as H seeing him clearly
JOT tile first time- "Good God," Aedh said with genuine
^Bwerence. "You're real."
^'*I. . . beg your pardon?"

;> ^That dream—och, never mind. Let's just say my wife
fcgoing to be insufferably smug for a time." Aedh's voice
ifllfclpened. "Are you hurt, man;'"

'pArdagh, following the king's alarmed glance, looked down
1-iumself and gasped to see a long, deep slash crossing the
' Bnt of his leather armor. Powers! If it had cut just a bit

teper, he would have been sliced, and by poisonous iron!

fo," he said after a moment-

"Now that's a fortunate thing, ah ..."

"Ardagh Lithanial." Ae, why not be honest about it?
prince Ardagh Lithanial."

"So-o!" Aedh's lift of a brow was skeptical. "And where

ght Prince Ardagh Lithanial be from? Nowhere near here,

it's for certain!"

"Ah, no. My lands lie far away, indeed."

40 Josepha Sherman

"Cathay?" one of the warriors asked tentatively. When
Ardagh hesitated, not quite sure how to reply, the man
continued as eagerly as a child reciting a favorite story, "I've
heard traders' tales about men from that land who have such
dark hair and such slanted eyes. Yes, and the tales say they
wear silk even into batde, too!" At CadwaTs warning glance,
the man added hastily, "Not that I mean to pry, Prince
Ardagh!"

Ardagh waved a gracious hand, denying nothing- He'd
never heard of Cathay, but if these men wanted tobeheve
him from there, well and good; the land was apparently so
far away none of them knew anything about it, either!

"Enough questioning," Aedh cut in. "Prince Ardagh, I
owe you my life, my gratitude, and my hospitality." He must
surety still be wary of this bedraggled stranger—Cadwal most
blatantly was—even if said stranger had saved his life, but
the king added without more than the slightest hesitation,
"Will it please you to return with me to my fortress?"

Powers, yes! Ardagh gave the man an exceptionally grace-
ful, elegant bow to hide his sudden surge of rehef. Food
and shelter and clean clothes—no, more than that, a home
of suitably high status, even if it was among humans!

For a man who had narrowly escaped assassination, King
Aedh seemed remarkably calm, mildly pointing out this
landmark or that to the prince as they rode. Either the
human had survived so many attempts on his life that he
could almost take them for granted, or he had a truly regal
amount of self-control. Almost as much self-control as a
Sidhe, Ardagh thought with a touch of surprised approval.

"Travel is a fine and fascinating thing," Aedh said with-
out warning.

"It can be," Ardagh agreed warily.

"I admit, being who and what I am, I've hardly had the
chance to do much wandering."

Ardagh acknowledged that with a dip of his head. "A king
has little free time."

"Ah, but you, surely. Prince Ardagh, would be able to
speak about such matters as travel with authority."

THE SHATTERED OATH

41

gj^Ardagh fought down a grin, beginning to enjoy this odd
Hde duel of words. "Would I?"
.-, ,^Why, are you not most remarkably far-travelled?"
^"Farther than you could dream," the prince said with
heartfelt honesty.

,^ 9mm the glint ha Aedh's grey eyes, he was enjoying this
Sisae as well. Instead of coming right out and asking direct
aMestions, he commented vaguely, "You must have seen
Htfny wonders."

^ ^"Indeed." Smiling to himself, Ardagh skirted falsehood
ta delicate Sidhe style; he certainly bad seen things a human

•gold find wondrous, even if travelling hadn't been involved.
i"! wast tell you of some of them. At a later time," he added
Iftfually, watching for Aedh's reaction. When the king
showed not the slightest sign of surprise at that, Ardagh

—iled to himself; die man had as good as welcomed him
A^rtay.

"You must admit," Aedh remarked in a sudden, offhand
(Banner, "that it's a bit unusual to see a prince travelling
done."

'Sometimes one has no choice." Feeling the king's sud-
dea sharp gaze on him, Ardagh added flady, "Particularly
when one is the younger brother of a most suspicious ruler."

"Ah. That would be an awkward thing."

Ardagh glanced his way. "Especially when one has no
iBlBention of breaking one's oath of fealty."

- It was Aedh's turn to say, "Indeed," managing to put a
Duorid of meaning—skepticism, sympathy, approval—in the
we word. "And now is it such a one is alone and afoot?"
My, how nicely this human king played the game, never
"ite overriding the bounds of courtesy. This was promis-
j, Ardagh thought; the man had a sharp intellect to him.
; would almost certainly welcome a cfever advisor.
"Any man may fall afoul of bad fortune," Ardagh said,
leaving Aedh to make of that what he would. "But now,"

-Ifae prince added smoothly, "my luck seems to have turned."*

:r Aedh grinned- "So it has. See now, we've returned to

IFtemainn."

? That? Oh, surely that couldn't be a royal home! Yes, it

42                 Josepha Sherman

was clearly a fortress of sorts, a series of earthen embank-
ments, rings within rings, over which the upper half of a
round, broad tower could be seen, but it was all so—primi-
tive! No, there must be some mistake, or a jest, an odd
human jest, and they'd be riding on and—

No. Guards stood atop the earthen ramparts, saluting their
king, welcoming him back. A wooden gate was cast open
and the hunting party made its way through a narrow maze
of corridors that smelled strongly of earth and damp and,
Ardagh thought with distaste, garbage. They came at last
into a vast grassy space covered here and there by round
houses of wood and thatch; only the round central tower
Ardagh had seen from outside was of stone. The air was
cleaner here, but as die prince glanced about, misery settled

over his spirit.

This was indeed the royal home, the High King's fortress.

This was the finest, fairest palace to be found in human

lands.

This barbaric place of earth and wood and stone was to

be his home.

A HOMO AWAY FROM
HOMe

CHAPCeR 5

One diing these humans appeared to be, Aidagh mused,
was enthusiastic. A swarm of mem, plaid cloaks flapping as
they ran, scurried from keep and outbuilding and craftsman's
stafi, bowing to their king, chattering with his warriors. Some
took the hounds in charge, others the horses—but no matter
what they did, all of them, the prince realized, were mak-
ing excuses to stare at him. Their broad, ruddy faces—some
ofmem actually covered with hair!—were so very different
from the pale, narrow, elegantly planed Sidhe norm that
Ardagh could hardly blame them for being curious; he was
barely keeping from staring at them in turn. He also seemed
to be the only one with dark hair in the entire fortress, and
the prince had to Bght a sudden, ridiculously self-conscious
urge to raise a hand to smooth his battle-tangled locks.

But suddenly Ardagh forgot all about awkwardness. A tall,
slender woman had come rushing out from the keep like a
young girl, gold glinting from head and neck, long, chest-
nut-bright hair streaming out behind her, to fling herself
into Aedh's arms, gasping, "You're safe!"

"Och, Eithne! Of course I'm safe. I told you all would
be well." The brusque words were belied by the gentleness
in Aedh's voice and in the equally gentle curve of his arms
around her. "Come, wife, enough of this. We have a guest."

43

44

Josepha Sherman

"Och!" The woman drew back in embarrassment, hastily
arranging die line of her gown and cloak. "Your pardon,"
she began to Ardagh, then stopped short, staring.

Ardagh stared as well, seeing past the ruddy skin and green
eyes to a glittering hint of—why, yes, the woman bore a
trace of Power! Power carefully hidden, as though she didn't
dare let anyone know about it... Now, isn't this interest-
ing? Ardagh thought, and stored the fact away for future
reference. And was she sensing something of who and what
he was? Was her gift strong enough for that? No... it would
seem not. She seemed perfectly willing to accept him as

human.

Aedh was watching his wife with a hint of amusement
in his eyes. "Eithne, may I present the Prince Ardagh
Uthanial of Cathay? Ardagh, this lovely lady is my wife,

Queen Eithne."

As Ardagh bowed politely, he heard the king add softly

to Eithne, "He saved my life."

"Your dream!"

"Yes, if you insist, my dream." But Aedh's voice wasn't
quite as condescending as his words. "There were would-
be assassins— No, no, it's all right, I'm not hurt, in good
part thanks to Prince Ardagh. Yes, love, just as in the dream.
You have my permission to say 'I told you so' as often as

you wish!"

But Eithne, face gone ashen, was offering Ardagb a curtsey
of her own. "My thanks. Prince Ardagh, my true, heartfelt

thanks."

"I did what needed to be done," Ardagh told her, which
was true enough, even if what he'd done had been insur-
ing his own safety.

"But we can hardly leave our guest standing here," King
Aedh cut in, and signalled to some plainly clad men—more
servants, Ardagh assumed—who came running eagerly for-
ward. "See that Prince Ardagh is treated according to his
rank, according to the full laws of hospitality."

The servants bowed obediently, glancing sideways at
Ardagh, their eyes bright with curiosity. Aedh added to the
prince, "We will, if it pleases you, sit together a bit later

THE SHATTERED OATH

45

and ... chat. And you will, of course, be my honored guest
at dinner."

And beyond, Ardagh told him silently. But gently, gen-
tly—time enough to make himself an indispensable part of
the realm once he'd learned the rules.

And so Ardagh said merely, "As it pleases you." With a
polite dip of the head to Aedh and his wife, he followed
the servants away. They led him not into the main keep,
but down a narrow, grassy corridor between two wooden,
thatch-roofed buildings, stopping before a small, round hut
set apart from the others by a low wall.

"If it pleases you. Prince Ardagh?"

As they moved respectfully aside, Ardagh paused for a
moment, looking into darkness, thoughts of treachery in his
mind. But even if die walls of the hut were of woven wick-
erwork, they'd been whitewashed and polished to an elegant,
gleaming purity, and the doorposts themselves were intri-
cately carved wood inlaid with bits of bright silver. Hardly
a place for betrayal-

By now, his eyes were adjusting fully to the dimness
within. Ardagh saw that for all the hut's simplicity, it held
a nicely built table, a chest for possessions, and what looked
like a very comfortable bed with an enticindy thick feather
mattress. There were no true windows, but slits in the
wooden walls just below the shingled roof let in some light
and air.

So now, a guest house—and one, presumably for honor-
able guests. Or what passes for a guest house in human
society.

Aware that the servants were waiting for some response,
the prince nodded- "Quite satisfactory."

An awkward pause followed, as it dawned on the servants
that he had no belongings to be stored away. They glanced
at each other, then at him, and one oftfiem said wanly, "You
will want personal servants assigned to you, of course."

"Why?"

That caught the humans by surprise. "Why—uh—
because—"

"I assure you, I am quite capable of dressing and taking

46                 ]osepha Sherman

care of myself." And the last thing I want is one of your
kind sharing this place with me.

The servants glanced at each other, blatantly thinking by
this point that he was a complete eccentric. One of them
asked, as if he wasn't at all sure of the response he was going
to get, "If you will follow us. Prince Ardagh?"

"Lead on."

They led him on through the wooden maze to a second
building, as dim and windowless as the first. Again Ardagh
waited uneasily for his vision to adjust, then let out his breath

in a sigh of relief.

A bathhouse. The humans' idea of hospitality, the Pow-
ers be praised, included a bath. Ardagh waited, fighting back
impatience, as the servants laboriously brought bucket after
bucket of hot water, then gladly surrendered his hopelessly
travel-stained clothing—but not his sword, he wasn't quite
that trusting, placing me weapon instead to one side where
he could reach it should need be—and settled blissfully into

the bath.

As he luxuriated in the hot water, feeling the aches of
battle and long, hard travel seeping away, Ardagh found
himself struggling to keep awake.

Idiot! These people may have the concept of laws of
hospitality, but they are also capable of falsehood!

Ah, but when was the last time he'd slept in a bed? For
that matter, when was the last time he'd slept the night
through? Travelling through wilderness didn't exactly lend

itself to peaceful rest

Forcing his mind to stay at least reasonably alert, Ardagh
mused that though the human way of life here might look
impossibly barbaric, at least the folk did seem to place some
worth on cleanliness; they afl bore a faint, unavoidably animal
smell that seemed to be the scent common to humanity,
but their clothes and bodies were spotless. Maybe it wouldn't
be quite as intolerable to live among them as he'd first feared.

Tour Highness?"

Ah well, he could hardly lie here all day. His own cloth-
ing bad been whisked away, but surely other clothes of suit-
able quality would be provided. Ardagh let the careful

THE SHATTERED OATH

47

servants dry him (sensing their bemusement at his Sidhe
lack of body hair; they aU seemed by comparison hairy as
animals) and gingerly comb out his tangled hair, then stood
courteously still as they dressed him in a linen tunic so finely
woven it was pleasantly soft against the skin and smelled
faintly of the sweet herbs with which it must have been
stored, snug-fitting woollen leggings, and over all one of
the apparently ubiquitous plaid woolen cloaks, this one in
a pattern of dark red crossed with sky blue that showed a
nice appreciation for the contrast it made with his fair sidn
and dark hair. A servant showed him the proper way of
wrapping the cloak—the brat, the man called it—and pin-
ning it in place with an enamelled brooch. Ardagh's hand
hesitated when he realized the pin of the brooch was iron,
but there was a minimal amount of the metal after all, and
it was well insulated by the thick wool of the brat. The prince
slipped his feet into his own soft boots, which had been
neatly cleaned and brushed during his bath, then glanced
at himself in the sleek bronze mirror a servant held for him
and winced at how unSidhe he looked.

"Your Highness, if you would follow me . . . ?"

Ah yes. The royal. . . chat. Now he must prove himself
worthy of further hospitality. Even though he knew noth-
ing of the politics here or even the name ofthe land—Ardagh
straightened, channelling his thoughts to quiet self-control.
What wasn't known could be learned.

"So be it," he said. "Lead on."

The royal palace seemed to be more a collection of con-
nected buildings than one cohesive structure. Ardagh was
led to a quiet Btde stone building jutting out from a wall
of the central keep. This, he was told, was "the conversa-
tion house," presumably, judging from the solid, secure look
of it, a place where one could talk in private.

It was windowless, as the bathhouse had been, though
a small central hearth cast a sharp, flickering glow and sun-
light filtered down through the smoke hole overhead.
Ardagh kept his face properly impassive, but he couldn't
hold back a spasm of distaste. Didn't these humans know
the art of building proper windows or creating large enough

48

Josephs Sherman

sheets of glass to fill them? Or, he thought in sudden wari-
ness, was this closeness intended to ward off would-be

assassins?
A pity they don't haw magic to help them. It would make

their lives so much simpler!

"Prince Ardagh," said a now-familiar voice. "Please, enter."
King Aedh, his hunting clothes replaced by a fine, sofUy
woven red brat and a linen tunic so white it glowed in the
faint light, was sitting at die far end of the little house, gold
dinting richly from neck and brow. He looked very much
Eke a man totally at his ease, without the slightest sign of
reaction from his narrow escape, though Ardagh suspected
that the king's relaxed appearance was as much a disguise
as his own mask of Sidhe calm.

As the prince approached, he saw two more men seated
to Aedh's left and right. One, on the king's right, was almost
as elegantly clad as Aedh, his hair and beard neatly combed.
His tunic and cloak were of a more subdued blue and green
patterning, but he, also, gleamed with gold here and there.
The other man, who sat on the king's left, was clean-shaven,
his grey eyes more tranquil than those of Aedh, deep as
shadowed pools. He alone showed no sign of riches, wear-
ing a plain robe woven of what looted lifce bleached white
wool; the only real spot of color about him was the narrow
ribbon of embroidery at the edge of his wide sleeves.

Ardagh, not completely sure how one judged human age,
guessed that both men must be older man Aedh: the hair
of the white-robed man had been severely trimmed, but
enough remained to show liberal streaks of grey, while the
hair and beard of the other fellow was a solid ash-grey, and
his pleasant, plain face was tined. There was nothing old,
however about his wise green eyes; they sparkled with life

and a hint of a wry, clever wit

To my left," Aedh introduced, "is Father Seadna. Good
Father, may I introduce you to Prince Ardagh Uthanial?"

Those quiet grey eyes studied the prince as though try-
ing to puzzle out everything about him- "I have been told
how you saved the life of our king. Please accept my grati-
tude in the name of the Church."

THE SHATTERED OATH

49

Ardagh was clearly expected to understand what that
meant and make some ritual response. Lost, he bowed
politely and hoped that was enough. Evidently it was,
because Father Seadna returned the courtesy without any
sign of surprise.

"And this," Aedh continued, giving the man on his right
a quick, affectionate glance, "is Fothad mac Ailin, once my
tutor, now my chief poet. And, I might add, my chief advi-
sor in state affairs, just as Father Seadna is mine in less
secular matters."

Ah.

But he could hardly have expected a king to lack for
advisors. Besides, Ardagh reminded himself, he knew nothing
of this land, not even its name; he would need someone
willing to teach him what he needed to learn. What better
way to deal with a potential rival than to turn him to an
ally? Face carefully neutral, Ardagh sank smoothly to the
small, cushioned couch he'd been offered and dipped his
head to Fothad with the same polite courtesy he a shown
to Father Seadna, and received Fothad's equally polite bow
in return.

"Thank you for answering my summons so promptly,"
Aedh said without irony. "I know you must be weary."

Ardagh brushed that off. "I can understand that you'd
wish to question me. King Aedh."

"Och, no. Prince Ardagh, that's hardly our way!" the king
said with such theatricaT indignation Ardagh knew it was
feigned. "To force a guest to submit to questioning would
be against all the laws of hospitality."

Indeed. But, Ardagh thought cynically, there were always
ways to sidestep such laws, particularly when one was a
human. "I see," the prince said in a voice carefully empty
of sarcasm- "What, then, shall we discuss?"

Aedh smiled slightly. "Why, I thought you simply might
wish to ... relax a bit after mis strenuous day. Remember
what you could of the name you overheard."

Ardagh sighed. "Believe me. King Aedh, if I could, I
would. But at the time I hardly knew I'd need to remem-
ber it."

50

Josephs Sherman

"Ah well, no," the king agreed, "how could you?" Aedh
paused a moment. "Perhaps we could discuss something
else—though of course 1 would not dream of questioning

you."

"Of course not."

"But perhaps it just might please you to volunteer, if you
would, some assurance mat your royal brother isn't hard

on your heels."

That," Ardagh said shortly, "he most definitely is not.
My brother has no intention of ever seeing me again, and
I will swear to it by whatever oath you wish."

"And of course," Father Seadna murmured, "you have
no desire at all to gather an army to yourself."

Ardagh raised a wry eyebrow. "From here, you mean?
To attack my brother? Wiro the distances between this realm
and that being as vast as they are? My word on this. King
Aedh, such a thing would truly be impossible."

"Would it, now?* Fothad wondered softly.

Ardagh stiffened. Did the human realize the insult he'd
just implied? No. no, of course he didn't; he couldn't. With
a sudden inner chill he remembered where he was. These
people could never understand anything of Sidhe honor.
They thought nothing of falsehood, and he was forever

trapped among them—

No, damn Eirithan and all the rest of that treacherous
royal court to the Outer Dark, he was not forever trapped!
He would return. And right now he needed these humans;

he must not let them alienate him. Struggling with despair
and rage, the prince snapped, biting each word off sharply,
"I have just given my word. My people do not lie."

Fothad flinched and held up an apologetic hand, "For-
^ve me. I meant no insult."

He seemed genuinely contrite, and after a tense moment,
Ardagh dipped his head in acceptance. Aedh continued as
calmly as though the moment of tension had never hap-
pened, "And what, I wonder, would a prince of Cathay wish

from this far-off land?"

"The same thing any other man alone might wish," Ardagfa

retorted. "Food. Shelter. A safe place to rest."

THE SHATTERED OATH

51

"More than that, surely."

The prince hesitated, hating the thought of showing
anything the humans might interpret as weakness. At last
he admitted with reluctant frankness, "King Aedh, what 1
want just now is simply this: sanctuary. A place where I may
stay and think on what to do next."

That," Aedh assured him, "you have."

But Ardagh thought he caught the faintest hint of what
could only be human pity in the man's voice. Stung, he
added sharply, "I have no intention of accepting charity."
With a quick glance at Fothad, the prince added, "I am
sure you have truly wise counselors there at your side.
But perhaps you can make use of someone not quite so
famihar with this realm. There may be times when sub-
jective wisdom might not be as useful as objective obser-
vation."

Aedh glanced at his ministers. Fothad waved a hand in
wry salute, and Father Seadna smiled fleetingly.

"I promise you," Ardagh added with delicate irony, "I am
not exactly untrained in the world of royal politics."

Aedh chuckled. "No, you wouldn't be, would you?" The
fcing got suddenly to his feet, stretching. "It truly has been
a most strenuous day so far."

"A master of understatement,** Fotfaad murmured, and
Aedh laughed.

"Come, Prince Ardagh, by now our dinner must surely
be ready. You," the king added to Ardagh with an open grin,
"could surely use a good meal, from me looks of you. No,
man, don't glare at me. I doubt I could have survived in
me wilderness for long, either. A peasant could probably
have lived off that woodland with ease, but you and I are
trained for more ... civilized battles." Wry humor glinted
in the grey eyes. That iact," he said, almost casually, "speaks
In your favor more than any fine words."

"I... beg your pardon?"

"Why, Prince Ardagh, had you been in better condition,
had you not shown such blatant signs of hardship, such
princely ignorance ofwoodsmanship—particularly with the
forest so green and lush about you—I would never have

52                 Josephs Shemwn

believed you were who and what you claim. Now come,
our dinner waits."

Following King Aedh and his Queen through the now
almost tc^daitoess, servants lighting their way with torches
(disturbing the Sidhe's flawless night vision), Ardagh braced
himself for the new flood of human^uriosity that was sure
to come at dinner. The dining hall proved to be—of course,
the prince thought wearily—yet another separate building.
Sensible, he supposed, since most of the structures here
seemed to be of flammable wood and thatch, to keep the
cooking fires isolated lest they—

Ardagh stopped short in the doorway, hit by such a storm
of noise and smell and heat that for a moment he couldn't
have moved to save himself. Humans all around, talking
and laughing and shouting, the scent of them mingling with
the reek of roasting meat and grease and the smoke from
torches and central fire pits that wasn't quite finding the
smoke holes in the roof, and the cold, cold burning of iron
from everyone, everything—
I can't/1—can'tl

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Ardagh raced wildly
back out into the nigfat. As his legs gave out from under
him and he crumpled to his knees, the prince had time for
one brief thankful thought that no one had followed him.
Then he was lost in a time of seemingly endless misery as
his too-empty stomach insisted, no matter how he fought
with it, on continuing the useless struggle of trying to rid

itself of food that wasn't there.

Then, just when he had finally won the battle for con-
trol, a sudden voice asked, "Are you ill?"

Ardagh started, glancing up, gasping and drained, and
saw a woman's dark blue eyes staring down at him, set in a
fierce, keen-featured face framed by a mass of deep red
hair. Furious at having been caught in such humiliation, the
prince ached to blast the impudent human where she

stood—

Foolish. Even if he had wanted to so stupidly lose his
sanctuary, he had no such battie-magic in this Power-feeble

THE SHATTERED OATH

53

Realm. Yet under the circumstances, he could hardly defend
himself properiy with words, either. 'What can I say? "I can't
stand the noise you humans make. I can't stand your ani-
mal smell. I can't stand the feel of your iron."
No, no, all that was impossible to admit.
Contempt flared in the woman's eyes, "Now, aren't you
ashamed of yourself?" she snapped.

Stunned, he glared wordlessly up at her, and she hur-
ried on, "I mean, a fine royal man like yourself losing himself
to drink, and here it is still so eariy in the evening!"

"I—am—not—drunk."

The words were bitten off with such savage force he saw
the woman flinch. As though angry at herself for that weak-
ness, she retorted sharply, "Oh, no, of course not. It sim-
ply amused you to grovel on the ground tike a dog emptying
his stomach."

Before Ardagh could find anything safe and sensible to
say, the woman turned away, red braids snapping out behind
her, and was gone, leaving him still crouching there, blaz-
ing with useless rage.

Struggling back to his feet, Ardagfa forced himself back
to the dining hall. Come what may, he was not going to show
any further weakness to these people!

So, now ... he froze in the doorway, his stomach trying
its best to rebel all over again: the hall was just as noisy,
just as thick with smoke and the feel of iron.

Come now, you fool, you have some Power left. Use it.
Isolate the smoke ... accept it, a natural scent, nothing ter-
rible about it.

Yes. His will held true. The smoke was not truly foul,
just a bit thicker than might be preferred. Only smoke. That
much was conquered.

Now, you must isolate the srneus of food.
It was just as natural for his stomach to rebel, since it
had been nearly empty for too long. But food was life, and
he would not let himself turn away from life. Ardagh care-
fully analyzed scent after scent - , . yes. He could hold the
smell of roasting meat separate from the rest, an aroma no
longer sickening but warm and savory and promising.

54                 fosepha Sherman

Now, isolate the human noise . . . separate out the ani-
mal sounds, hunt for the emotions underneath.

Delicately, Ardagh separated out anger and greed—the
quick, transient emotions that seemed so much a part of
what he'd seen so far of humankind; carefully he hunted
for the true, basic shape of mood in that hall.

Which, he realized with some surprise, was happiness, the
comfortable easiness of those among friends, at peace with
what and where they were. And, again to Ardagh's surprise,
he felt a little pang almost of envy shoot through him- How
strange to have friends! How strange to be so totally at ease
with others, to play with them so freely and boisterously!

One thing more must be considered. Iron.

But with me overwhelming distractions of sight and sound
and odor reduced, me terrible/eef of iron was, a not reduced,
at least bearable, Ardagh took a deep, steadying breath and

reentered the hall.

Silence fell. Hands froze on drinking horns, heads turned

in his direction. Even the servants turning the iron spits
over the central fires stopped to stare. Sure that every gaze
in the hall was on him, the prince strode, straight-backed
and proud, across the rush-covered floor to where King Aedh
gestured to him. No true chairs here; the king and his wife
sat, like everyone else, on low, hide-covered benches behind
the length of the equally low, dish-laden table. As Ardagh
took bis seat at Aedh's side, between the king and Fothad,
crossing his long legs in imitation of the others, the king

glanced at him in sympathy.

"Delayed reaction to battle, eh? I've felt that a few times

myself."

Powers, does everyone know where I've been and what

1 was doing?

Maybe not. Aedh, at least, had guessed- The clever grey

gaze flicked over him, and the king smiled slightly. "Go easy
on the ale till you've given your stomach something solid

to work on."

Excellent idea. Ardagh ignored the bronze-studded drink-
ing horn set before him and chewed slowly on a section of
freshly baked bread. Then, when he was sure that would

THE SHATTERED OATH

55

I

stay where it should, he warily helped himself to some of
the roast being offered to him and bit into it. Ah, sweet
and crisp, lovely. He could have closed his eyes in bliss,
unable to remember the last time he'd tasted cooked meat.
Such niceties as forks were unknown here, but he hardly
cared about that right now. Besides, one could nibble daintily
enough if one were careful and ones hands were clean.

'What would this meat be?" he asked after a time, and
got a bemused glance from Fothad.

"You are from a far land if you fail to recognize boar."

Ardagh raised a wry eyebrow. "Does mat mean you believe
me?"

Fothad grinned. "Who am I to argue with my king?" But
be softened the cynical reply by adding, "It must be a fright-
ening thing to be a stranger in a foreign land. If you have
questions about the rules of this realm, don't hesitate to
ask me."

Ah. Good. That might have been said merely out of human
courtesy, but Ardagfa quickly returned the grin. "Oh, don't
fear. I intend to do just that."

A woman stirred at Fothad's free side, glancing quickly
at Ardagh then away, and the prince straightened. This was
the sharp-eyed female who'd mistaken him for a drunken
human. Her face now burning red, she was trying her best
to ignore him.

So be it, Ardagh thought. I don't want anything to do
with you, oh sharp-tongued woman, either. Life is going to
be difficult enough without any such complications!

Fothad glanced from him to the woman, one eyebrow
raised. Whatever he might have been wondering, his voice
was carefully bland as he said, "Prince Ardagh, may I present
my daughter, Sorcha ni Fothad? Sorcha, mis is Prince Ardagh
lithanial of Cathay."

Ardagh dipped his head in curt politeness, and received
an equally curt dip of the head in return.

His daughter. Wonderful. Nothing is going to be easy for
me in this Realm, is it?

Ignoring father and dau^iter both, he bit savagely into
the roast boar.

Josepha Shemwn

56

9     •

Eithne stole wary glances past the sturdy bulk of her
husband at the stranger. Right now, lost in a positive rapture
of eating, he looked anything but exotic, even with that glossy
black hair and those odd, slanted eyes: the man plainly hadn't
eaten well for some time. But, for all his hunger, his man-
ners remained impeccable. A prince, indeed, Eithne mused.
And yet, and yet, underneath it all, there was the faintest,
strangest hint of... she wasn't quite sure what she/eft. Not
for the first time cursing her small, unpredictable magic,
Eithne shivered suddenly, and Aedh glanced her way.

"Cold. love?"

She shook her head. "A thought, nothing more."           |s

Ardagh seemed totally oblivious to her wonderings. But     •;;

somehow she was sure he knew. He knew who and what     ^;

she was, while she, oh she still knew nothing at all about     ^
him....                                                  ^X

Yes, I know he saved your life, and for that I shall never     ':;.
he grateful enough. But. . . what have you welcomed into     ^
our home?                                              ^

yi^-.

Much later, curled next to Aedh in their bed, Eithne lay     '.:'^
awake for what seemed an eternity, still wondering. At last,     Jt
when the night was at its deepest, she slipped silently from     Jt,
the bed. Behind her, Aedh grunted in his sleep, stirring     ;-"'
restlessly, and she froze. But men he settled back into sleep,
snoring softly. Eithne let out her breath in a soundless sigh.
Moving to the window, she softly cast open a shutter and

looked out into the night.

It was the darkest hour. But even so, someone was moving
out there, a barely visible shape in the darkness. A guard?

Eithne wondered for a moment.

No. As that someone turned, Eithne caught the faintest
gleam of pale skin, as though it held its own light,

The stranger, the foreign prince who called himself Ardagh
Uthanial, was prowling through the night, graceful and silent
as a cat, the darkness dearly no barrier to him. going nowhere
in particular but pacing restlessly like a man unable to
sleep—or, Eithne thought uneasily, like one hunting for
something he knew he would never find,

THE SHATTERED OATH

57

Exile, she remembered with a sudden touch ofptty, feeling
as he neared her window a hint of his anguish. A tost, lonely
exile.

But exiled from where?

As though realizing he was being watched, the prince
stopped short- His green gaze, glinting in the darkness like
the eyes of an animal, looked up and locked with her own,
and Eithne, staring into those clear, cool eyes that were like
a blank mirror giving up nothing at all, thought with a little
chill racing through her. Alien, alien.

And in mat moment, her own small magics rousing, she
knew exactly how alien. "Sidhe," she breathed.

Oh no, mat couldn't be. The Sidhe were only beings out
of stories; he was human, he had to be. ...

As though he'd heard her whisper, the prince gave her
tfae most elegant, most mocking of bows, then moved silently
off into the night.

IN A SCttANGe LAND
CHAPCeR 6

King Aedh glanced impatiently across the parchment map
at his Chief Poet and counselor. "Oh come now, Fothad,
no more lectures. What do you think I've done?"

Fothad sighed. They were alone in Aedh's private audi-
ence chamber. The walls were of good, solid stone, the roof
of solid slating, but that didn't stop him from keeping his
voice low. "I know, I know. You've sent out your spies. There
hasn't been enough time yet for them to report back to you
as to who was behind that bungled attempt at killing you.

But . . ."

"I have also sent out friendly little messages to all the

underkmgs, reminding them ever so politely that I hold their

eldest sons at Fremainn."

"As fosterlings."

"Don't mince words. 1 hold them as every High King
before me has held vassal children; as hostages against their

parents' continued loyalty."

"But you treat the youngsters like fosterlings'" Fothad

argued. "You'd never hurt a child!"

Aedh's glance hardened. "Wouldn't I? As High King I
would do what I must, Fothad, never forget that. Unfor-
tunately, the real problem isn't what I might or might not
do, it's that some virile king might be ruthless enough to
say, 'I can always make more sons,' and simply sacrifice the

eldest."

58

THE SHATTERED OATH

59

"Oh, thank you for setting my mind at ease!"

"Look you, man, I am not taking the attack too lightly.
But it could have come from a dozen sources." The long's
finger stabbed at the parchment, pointing out Meath, Lei-
cester, various clan-sites and lesser kingdoms. "Any one of
these rulers could be bearing a grudge or carrying an
unseemly ambition. The good God knows I have enemies
enough here at court! I can hardly ride out against every-
one."

"Well, no. but—"

"No. Fothad. Let it go. Like it or not, my friend, that
bungled ambush can liardly be my prime concern. If I spent
all my time worrying about personal safety, how long do
you think I'd hold my throne?"

"Ah well, there is that," the poet admitted reluctantly.

"So now, on to other matters. What have you gathered?"

Fothad glanced down at his parchment serous, unroll-
ing them one by one. "First: The two heirs of Meath are
already at each other's throats."

" 'Already?' Say 'again,' rather." Aedh shook his head. "I
hated to divide me kingdom between them—thafs asking
two ambitious young men to be as saintly as my father—
but what else was there to do? Kill one of them at random
and let the other live as the only heir? Better to let them
settle it, and only step in if their quarrel threatens to spill
over into the rest of Eriu. Go on, what else?"

Fothad studied his notes again, "Father Seadna has prob-
ably told you this already, but Breasal mac Segeni, the Abbot
of la, has died."

"Hardly unexpected. He'd been in that abbey for... what
.. . twenty or twenty-one years at least, and wasn't a child
when he entered holy orders. Send royal regrets to la. What
else?"

"The usual. Quarrels and minor battles between this sept
and that. Lord AileII of Cobba has lost a son in one of those
fights."

"Not an Ui Neill clansman, thankfully. I don't have to
get personally involved. Mmm, but I can't send him offi-
cial condolences, either. It would look as though I were taking

60                 Josephs Sherrwn

sides in the quarrel. Private sympathies, then," Aedh decided.

"What else?"

Fothad hunted through the scrolls. "Nothing overiy dra-
matic, God be praised. Various small quarrels among the
folk here at Fremainn. Nothing warranting your attention.
And before you ask: There have been no new Lochlannach
raids."

"Yet."
The poet glanced up from his notes. "Those raids could

have been isolated incidents."

Aedh snorted. "You don't believe that any more than do
I. That's a harsh, hard land those Northerners inhabit, and
I can't really blame them for envying us our fertile green

Eriu."

"Indeed." Fothad's voice was dry. "All it takes to become

a successful raider in the Northern lands is a good ship,
a fair amount of armed men, and a totally ruthless mind."

"And too much idle time. Most of those raiders seem
to be landless men or second sons shut out of inherit-
ances." Aedh smiled without humor. "The Lochlannach
aren't a genuine threat as of now, disorganized as they

are."

"But if they ever do come up with one unifying war

leader—-"

"We'll worry about that if and when it happens." Aedh

pushed the parchment map aside. "What of our guest?"
Fothad blinked. "Ardagh Uthanial, you mean? The wan-
dering prince of Cathay? 'He who is in straits must make

shift some way.' "

"And, 'There's no hearth like your own.' I can quote

proverbs, too. Stop evading. What of him?"

Fothad hesitated, then shook his head. "An amazing man,

that, truly amazing."

"You believe he's what he claims?"

"An exile from a far-off land? Och, yes. There's an unden-
iable hint of sorrow to the man. Besides, no one could carry
on such a perfect act of being so totally ignorant of every-
thing about us—or feign such a hunger about learning how

to live here."

THE SHATTERED OATH

61

Aedh grinned. "You don't exactly mind playing the role
of tutor once more, do you? Particularly when the pupil is
an adult and not one of my offspring."

"Ah well, your children are both nice, bright students."

"When they're attentive."

Fothad grinned. "When they're attentive. They are very
young, after all. And," he added slyly, "they do take after
their father."

"So superior!" Aedh teased. "You weren't all that much
older than I when you tutored me."

True. And most terrified of my suddenly high rank. Och,
but as for the prince, I must admit that after listening to
childish prattle, it is a pleasure to deal with an adult mind."

Aedb chuckled. "So my wife tells me." He leaned for-
ward, humor fading from his face. "Speaking of women, one
thing more: While my Eithne is far too sensible for such
foolishness, the other women of our court seem to be finding
our elegant prince quite appealing. And he is not exactly
repelling their interest."

"He is a rather handsome man," Fothad said carefully.

"So be is. Quite striking. And presumably the morals of
Cathay are quite different from our own. But he is techni-
cally cu gfcis, after all, a 'grey dog' exile from overseas without
legal standing."

"Though of course," Fothad added, "as a prince he has
a good deal of status."

Aedh nodded. "But even so, we can't have a foreign exile
causing trouble. Speak to him, Fothad."

"Me?" the poet said in dismay. "Shouldn't that be more
of a Job for Father Seadna?"

"What could he do? Our good monk has already told me
Prince Ardagh has not the vaguest idea of Church dogma;

the prince can hardly be harangued like some Eriu sinner.
Besides," Aedh added with a wry quirk of the mouth, "what
does a chaste monk know of the ways of a man with a
woman?"

The wryness, Fothad knew, was because while Father
Seadna was, indeed, celibate, it wasn't unheard-of for some
monks of Eriu, and even some abbots, to wed. "No, my

62                 Josepha Sherman

friend," the king continued, "the job, as you put it, is yours.
Slip a touch of... prudence into one of your lessons."
Fothad sighed. "Prudence, my king, it is."

Ardagh leaned casually against the wall of his "home,"
pretending to be looking out at the grassy yard beyond and
the maze of buildings, ignoring the usual light mist that
couldn't quite be caSed rain. He kept his face absolutely
clear of any trace of emotion. "And so, if I understand
correctly, the ideal state of grace involves celibacy."

"Chastity," Father Seadna corrected, glancing at the prince
as if hunting mockery. "The two are not exactly the same."

"Granted- But either way, if one loves and weds and
creates young, one can no longer be in that state of grace."

The monk, unexpectedly, grinned. "You argue like an
acolyte trying to stir up debate. Prince Ardagh, if you'll

pardon me for saying so."

Ardagh hesitated, wondering what would happen if he
should choose to take otfense. It was amusing to play with
the monk, even if these "chance encounters" were happening
so often that "chance" was being stretched almost to the
breaking point; it was amusing to try to puzzle out the
convolutions of human religion even if the monk was almost
certainly trying in a gentle, subtle way to convert him.

Odd thoug/it, that. to daim to know the one true path
to the Unknowable, and to try to make others worship that

way as well.

But at the same time, (here was a quiet radiance to Father

Seadna, clear to Sidhe eyes, that kept the prince from open
mockery; whatever else mis monk might be, he took genuine

joy in his faith.

Ah well. "I meant no harm," Ardagh said.
"I know that." Father Seadna's eyes were suddenly very

serious. "And I know why whenever we meet you banter

words with me like dais."

"Do you?"
The monk paused thoughtfully. "You are a very lonely

man, Prince Ardagh," he said at last, "and that, I think, not
merely because of your exile."

THE SHATTERED OATH

63

Ardagh only just kept the surprise from his face. "What's
this? Are you finally admitting you're seeking to convert me?"

Father Seadna never flinched. "Were I a priest of Rome,"
he retorted, a touch sharply, "in the heart of Mother
Church, I don't doubt I'd be trying my best to convert
you from ..." he hesitated in an attempt at tact, "what-


ever.

"My people have their beliefs, I assure you." Not as rig-
idly shaped or held as those humans professed, of course;

no Sidhe would be so arrogant as to claim to know every
Answer, or name Names as lightly. "But you are not a priest
of Rome. Nor, I think," he added, one brow raised, "would
you wish to be."

"You misunderstand me. We may be far from Rome here
in Eriu, but we are all still children of the one Church."
"Even King Aedh."

"Especially King Aedh! He was ordained by the Church
in the sight of God and man."

"Even if he is not always a totally dutiful child of that
Church? I have heard rumors of quarrels with this abbot
and that, over politics, over status, over the fact that he never
^fostered his son in a monastery as they wished."

"A king's life," Father Seadna said sternly, "is not an easy
one, particularly when that man is High King of Eriu."

"And he has only the one precious son and heir, and
, doesn't want to risk him."

"One can hardly blame him. And you are trying to stir
up contention yet again, Prince Ardagh."
Ardagh grinned, "Perhaps."

Father Seadna shook his head. "You must surety be aware
y now that there are many other monks here at court
Intending to the folk of Fremainn. The Ard Ri could have
^quested any religious man he wished to minister to his own
loul's needs, up to the greatest of abbots, yet be chose me.
E still am not certain why." I am, thought Ardagh- four sin-
verity shines like a light. Being Sidhe, he added with cyni-
|cal honesty, It keeps you from being a political threat to him.
^^hat he has," Father Seadna continued, "is still a matter over
uch I fight a daily battle against the Sin of Pride."

64

Josepha Sherman

"And you will not hear anyone speak out against him?

Fair enough."

Father Seadna sighed. "You twist words -nicely. Prince
Ardag^L As a monk ofEriu, just as if I were of Rome, I should
be doing my utmost to turn you to the Light. But—"

"But I am a prince," Ardagh cut in sardonically, "and a

royal guest."

"But I will not," the monk corrected sternly, "I cannot

force you to salvation against your will."

All at once, Ardagh was very weary of the conversation.
"I will find my own salvation, thank you," he said. "Good
day to you." With a curt bow, he left.

They ready do speak so incredibly casually of Names of
Power, without once considering the risk of angering those
Names; they prattle easily of the Hereafter when they don't
even know that much about the Here, they have one Church,
but the branch cf their faith that's based in Rome—I assume
that's yet another far-off city—that Roman faith seems alien-
ated from the one here in Eriu—

Bah, I wiU never understand their ways!

But how had that monk been so damnably sure-sighted?
Ardagh's stride slowed to a stop. "A very lonely man." How

had Father Seadna known—

"Ha." Easy enough to guess that an exile would be lonely,
and to pretend from that guess to have great insight. All at
once fiercely impatient with himself for having wondered,
even for a moment, Ardagh stalked away.

Fothad mac Ailin, poet and minister, sat alone in his
chambers, bent over his harp, all and only poet at the
moment, lost in the song that insisted, come what may, on
being created now. Every few seconds he would stop to
scratch notes down on the scrap of parchment on the table
at his side. More work for my Sorcha to transcribe, poor
lass! the poet thought vaguely. But the song was still call-
ing to him, and Fothad surrendered,-diving into the sea of

music once more.

A sea from which he surfaced after a time with a sigh of
satisfaction. There were places in the melody that weren't

THE SHATTERED OATH

65

yet quite right, and a few rough rhymes that definitely
needed smoothing, but overall—

Fothad looked up with a start. "Ah. Prince Ardagh."
No telling how long the man had been standing there,
watching with those dear, uncanny green eyes of his. Fothad
knew better than to ask how he'd gotten into this private
chamber; in the days since the prince's arrival, Ardagh had
proven he could move as silently and secretly as a cat when
we fancy took him, and had a very odd notion of what was
or was not proper.

Uncanny, indeed. That the man realty was a prince, Fothad
had no doubt. As he'd told the king, Ardagh's every move
spoke of noble breeding. But what was going on in that
elegant, sharply planed head . . . even after these several
days, Fothad still had no idea of diat. Prince Ardagb was
swift as the wind when it came to learning whatever he
wished to know. But what he wished to know—there was
no predicting that.

Odd man, odd man. But I don't think there's a bit of harm
in him—or rather, the poet amended, no harm in him for
anyone who's helping him. There's something, about those
clear, sharp eyes... I don't think I'd like to be on the wrong
fide of his anger.

• "Forgive me," Prince Ardagh said. "I was enjoying your
music. I didn't mean to disturb you."
',:•• Fothad waved a hand, feeling a little surge of pleasure
'at the genuine appreciation he heard in that melodic voice.
TNo matter. I need to take a rest from the song before I
«an put the final polish to it."

I " 'A poem ought to be well made at first.' " the prince
;;tatoned with false solemnity.




|" " 'For there is many a one to ruin it afterwards,'" Fothad
ilcapped, smiling. "Adages come in handy, don't they?"
s "In any language," Prince Ardagh agreed. "But as a poet
Eriu, you can wield more than mere adages, am I not
ht?"
'1 don't quite understand."

'Isn't it true that a Chief Poet is able to compose Pow-
* satires?"

66

Josepha Sherman

The emphasis on "Powerful" left no doubt the prince
referred to magic. 'The ... ah ... bards of the past were
supposed to be able to create satires with enough strength

in them to kill, yes."

"And now? Isn't one of your duties to protect die king

from sorcery?"

Fothad stirred uncomfortably. "Prince Ardagh, you speak
of the old, pagan days. Of course," honesty made hhn add,
"any poet worth the title is quite able to take revenge on
anyone who crosses him, and without needing a touch of
magic. Just think of how catchy some tunes can be, haunt-
ing the mind and spreading from one person to another."

The prince chuckled. "And if those catchy melodies are
linked to scandalous, equally catchy words about an offender,
words that also linger in the mind and spread from one
person to another—ae, yes, that would be as good a revenge

as anything magical!"

Fothad decided to drop the subject before it went any
further. "So now, adages and satires aside, do you wish a
lesson?"

"Indeed."

The poet struggled to hide his pleased grin. He had to
admit, born tutor that he was, that he took fire from the
prince's seemingly endless hunger for knowledge about the
land, about its customs and politics, its duns and monas-
teries and villages, and even the names of its birds and beasts
and the tales of its people (particularly stories dealing with
doorways into magical Realms: no accounting, Fothad
mused, for what someone found interesting). The prince
was absorbing social customs with ease, seemed puzzled
by the tenets of Christianity—the poet gingerly decided to
leave that topic to Father Seadna—and showed a fascina-
tion with Eriu's convoluted politics. Och, and he also revealed
a most satisfying love of, no, a downright hunger for, music!
There was a satisfaction in teaching such an eager student
Fothad admitted he hadn't known since he was a very young
man and King Aedh was a boy.

And even Aedh was newr quite so quick. "What would

you like to study today?"

THE SHATTERED OATH

67

The humor left Prince Ardagh's face. "I wish to know
more about the laws of this land."

"Now, there's a broad topic! Can you give me a spe-
cific—"

"What," the prince asked flatly, "is a cu glas?"

He must have overheard someone talking about him.
Hedging frantically, Fothad began, "Well, it literally means
"grey dog,' but it doesn't really apply to you."

"Does it not? Is not a cu gAzs an exile from overseas?"

"Ah, yes, but. . ."

"What I wish to know, Fothad mac AUin, is how status
is calculated in this land, and what constitutes honor. In
particular," the prince said, fixing the poet with a steady
green stare, "I wish to know my own legal standing here."

"It's a bit unusual," Fothad admitted. "In ordinary cases,
a man such as yourself, an ... ah ... exile from overseas,
would - - . wel! ... be without an honor-price. You know
what that is?"

"The fine one must pay when he has injured or slain
another- Reimbursement, as it were, to the victim or the
victim's family." A slanted black brow arched up. "Are you
saying that anyone can try to slay me with impunity?"

"No, no, of course not' Even if you are a—a foreigner,
you are still a prince, and so no one would dare raise a band
against you."

"Wise of them," Prince Ardagh murmured almost too
softly for it to have been a threat; for a moment the green
eyes were alarmingly cold. "Then, since I am a prince and
do, apparently, have some manner of honor-price even
though no one can puzzle out exactly what sort, does that
mean I am bound by the restrictions you folk put on roy-
alty?"

Fothad hesitated, considering carefiilly. "Yes and no- Wait,
hear me out." The poet ticked the rules off on his fingers.
"A king, and by extension any royal man, must not work at
common trades. But I can hardly see you in that situation."

"Hardly," the prince agreed.

"A king—in theory at any rate—must never be defeated
in battle. But since you are not a ruler, that law doesn't really

68                 ]osepha Shennan

apply to you, either. The good Lord willing, none of us shall
see combat soon anyhow."

"Indeed. Go on."

"Let me think a moment.. . ah, yes. A king must never

default on an oath—"

"My people," the prince cut in, "do not lie."
"I see. Then that isn't a problem, either, is it?" You're
babbling, Fothad scolded himself. Stop it. He was used to
dealing with emissaries from all the many kings of Eriu,
reflecting all die aspects of human emotion, without so much
as flinching. But there was something about the steady stare
of these odd green eyes, revealing nothing of the thoughts
behind their coolness, that was very unsettling. The next
law that Fothad had been about to mention was the anti-
quated one that a Icing's body must be without blemish, but
looking at the elegant creature before him, the poet didn't

even bother mentioning it.

"Of course even a king must obey the law," Fothad con-
tinued hastily, "but once again, that should not be a prob-
lem. You are not a criminal, nor one who—"

He stopped short. Prince Ardagh had, without warn-
ing, dropped his gaze to one of the parchment scrolls that
shared me table with Fothad's music, as though all at once
bored with the whole subject of law. As the prince gently
began unrolling the scroll, revealing a map of Eriu, Fothad
asked warily, "Is there anything else you would like to

know?"

"Yes- More about the geography of this land, if you would."

I cannot puzzle the man out. He shifts interests as swiftly
as a child, but there's certainly nothingjuvenQe about that
keen -mind. Watching the prince study the map, a slight
melancholy all at once surrounding him, Fothad felt a sudden
stab of pity for this lost exile and asked impulsively, "Are

you happy here?"

Prinoe Ardagh glanced up, not a trace of emotion in those

cool green eyes. "What would you have me say? I am grateful
for this sanctuary, yes, and for the time you and the High
King have spared me. But I am still too well aware of being
a stranger. As the people here are aware."

THE SHATTEBED OATH           69

"You can hardly blame them for still staring," Fothad
murmured. "We don't see one like yourself very often."

"No," the prince agreed, and Fothad caught the faint-
est hint of a smile on me fair face. "This edge of land, here,"
An elegant forefinger tapped the eastern coast. "What lies
beyond?"

"Didn't you come that way?" Fothad asked. "Most trav-
ellers do pass through Cymru on their way to—"

*"Cymru. That would be the homeland of the warrior
Cadwal."
"Ah .. . yes."

"What is a man of Cymru doing here? Is there friend-
ship between the two lands? I thought not."

"No," Fothad admitted, "not exactly. Though the folk there
are said to be our distant kin." He glanced warily at the
prince. "Then you have seen Cymru."
"No."

Fothad glanced at him in surprise. "Then how would you
! know how things stood between the two lands?"

"I have eyes and ears," the prince reminded him. "And
; I see how folk here look at Cadwal and his men. Or is that
faint contempt shown because they are mercenaries?" He
hesitated over that word, as though it was particularly for-
?eign to him, then shook his head. "We do not have such a
|concept as 'mercenary' in my land."

I "Ah... I see" Fothad felt like a man struggling upstream,
|Bghting to keep up with the prince's unpredictable leaps
S,ef logic. "I suspect it's a little of both his origin and his
'"ffofession with Cadwal. Though he's never once shown any
lesire to return to Cymru and stays as loyal to our king as
ny born of Eriu."

"More so, I should think," Prince Ardagh mused, with
ast the slightest touch of cynicism. "At least as long as the
ligh King's gold continues. An odd thing, that, to buy a
rarrior's honor."

"Well, yes, in a way, but it is as fitting for a king to include
uch mercenaries in his retinue as those he has saved from
ljustice, servitude or— So now," the poet said firmly,
' tennined to regain control of the conversation, "if you

70 Josephs Sherman

didn't pass through Cymru, which way did you travel? Down
from me lands of the Lochlannach?" At the prince's blank
stare, Fothad added with a small touch of triumph. Then
you had to have come through the land of the Franks. Now,
there's a long way about to reach Eriu! I hope you are a
good sailor."

An impatient shrug; Prince Ardagh, Fothad noted, man-
aged to make even. that simple gesture graceful. But then,
such a beautiful fellow could hardly be anything but graceful.

Which reminded Fothad of that one rather awkward
subject the king had instructed him to broach. Thank you,
Aeah, he thought with heavy irony. I truly appreciate your
leaving this task to me.

"Prince Ardagh ..." the poet began hesitantly. "I don't
mean to meddle in your affairs...." Oh, ridiculous choice
of words! "But I don't know how the laws of your land stand

... ah ... one particular matter,"

in

"I don't—"

"I mean in regards to ... to women."

The prince stared blankly at him. Fothad sighed deeply
and tried again. "Regarding the courting of women," he

corrected.

The uncanny eyes sparked with understanding, then went
very cold. There is a limit to how I will obey your laws,"
Prince Ardagh murmured. "What I do or do not is not the
business of any other. And I do no harm to any of your people
or their honor."

"Uh, no ..." Fothad began. "But. . . you can't court
every woman."

To his astonishment, the prince chuckled. "If you mean
by that delicate phrasing what I think, no. Even were I as
hot-blooded as one of your sturdy little stallions, I could
not possibly 'court* every woman in this fortress." But there
was no matching warmth in his eyes. "Fothad mac Ailin, I
do appreciate your teachings. But you are not to meddle
in my life."

"Dammit, man, I'm not meddling! I'm trying to keep you

out of duels!"

"Ah, that. I would not fear such things."

THE SHATTERED OATH

71

There was suddenly such chill, inhuman delight in the
prince's smile that Fothad felt a thrill of horror stab through
him. But before he could find anything to say in reply, the
coldness was gone so swiftly he was left wondering what
he'd seen.

"Don'ffcar," Prince Ardagh continued gently. "I will even
vow this: I will not bring needless harm to you or yours or
any here, nor will I do damage to the hospitality King Aedh
has granted me." He paused, this time smiling quite charm-
ingly. There. Does that set your mind at ease?"

Not exactly. But one could only argue with a prince so
far. Particularly a prince with such uncanny eyes. Fothad
grinned wryly and held up a hand in surrender.

"My lady?"

At the servant's hesitant voice, Sorcba ni Fothad looked
up with a start, blinking in surprise at how dark the little
chamber had grown. Och, it couldn't be nightfall already?

"Do you wish me to light a lamp, my lady?"

"No. I've done enough work for now." Sorcha rubbed
her eyes with a weary hand, then got slowly up from the
table, stretching stiff muscles, feeling far older than the young
woman she was. "Just cap the ink bottle, if you would, and
rinse the pens." Glancing down at the newly drawn lines
on the precious sheets of parchment, she added, "Don't
touch these. Let them dry thoroughly. I don't want to have
to draw them again."

"Ah, no, my lady." The woman paused. "Will you be join-
ing the royal court for dinner?"

Was it that late already? "Of course. No." Sorcha added,
wiping her hands clean on a scrap of linen, "you don't have
to escort me." Not a man of King Aedh's court would ever
dare to raise a hand to a woman of that court, let alone one
who was the Chief Poet's daughter.

No time to change clothing, not if she didn't mean to
make a dramatic entrance long after the other women had
retired. Well, what she was wearing was decent enough.
Sorcha hastily checked hands and face for inkstains, peer-
ing into the precious little glass mirror the servant hefd for

72

Josepha Shemwn

her. Snatching up her soft woolen brat and wrapping it
about herself, she paused long enough for the woman to
pin it securely at the shoulder, then hurried out of the
chamber.

The day had passed so cursedly fast! Not that she had
done much with it, no, even though her father would have
claimed she had earned her keep by transcribing his songs
from those ridiculous scrawls of his (easier, he admitted to
her, to decipher the old druidic ogham) into something more
easily read by those who came after him. Sorcha flinched
from the thought of her father not being there someday,
and set her mind instead to complaining about being used
like some priestly clerk.

Might as weU be a clerk stuck in some monastery— That
made her laugh aloud. Not that I'd ever be suited to a
monastery, not mentally and most certainly not physically!
But isn't there anything else I can do. not as my father's
daughter but as myself? As an. adult?

But that was the way die law was written, like it or not:

a woman was under her father's protection until she wed, and
then she was under her husband's protection. Well, Sorcha
thought, she'd been a wife once, however briefly. Even if
Meauan hadn't exactly been the husband of every girl's
dream, he had at least allowed her to think for herself.

AQowed? Ha, no, he was thankful someone else could take
charge of things for him.

While he lived. Meallan's unexpected death had brought
her back here to where she'd been raised. She was her
father's legal heir, since Fothad had no other child—at least
the law granted her that much, woman or no—with noth-
ing much to do now that she was a widow but follow Fothad's
wishes and wait to inherit.

I don't want to inherit, not if it means my father's death.
But oh. I don't want to be trapped here. either!

Fothad had expected his daughter to use her brain, teach-
ing her everything from music composition (though she knew
her songs were pale imitations ofhia own) to writing, and
sfae thanked him for it. But what good was all her learn-
ing? If only there was something different for her to do with

THE SHATTEHED OATH

73

it, something different to see, someone with whom she could
discuss what she knew!

Lost in these frustrating thoughts, hardly watching where
she was going, Sorcha nearly comded with a tall, dark-haired
man—

"Prince Ardagh!" she gasped.

Of course she knew he had been studying with her father
on and off in the past few days, learning about the land of
Eriu, but up to this time Sorcha had managed to avoid him.
How could she possibly face the man? Sorcha reddened
every time she thought of how she'd found him huddled
in misery on the ground, how she'd harangued him for
drunkenness.

"I'm sorry," she blurted.

His eyes—those amazing green eyes—studied her coolly.
"No harm was done." His voice was smooth as flowing
water.

"No, you don't understand. I—I'm talking about the other
night- When I . . " She shook her head. "I had no right
accusing you as I did. You are a royal guest. What you do
or don't do isn't my business."

But a small voice in her mind was protesting. But he's a
hero; he shouldn't have been wallowing on the ground like
a sot. Like Meailan.

"I was not drunk." This time the words were said with-
out rancor. His eyes really were most remarkably green,
Sorcha thought uneasily, clear as glass yet revealing abso-
lutely nothing of the mind behind them.

"Of course not," she said hastily. "I—"

"You don't believe me? Do you think me a liar?" There
was a hint of barely controlled anger in the smooth voice,
as though she'd accused him of something oracene.

"I'm sony," Sorcha said, and meant it. "Look you," she
added in sudden fierce honesty, "my late husband, Meailan,
was a man of good, noble birth, but he drank too much.
He often rushed out into the night to—to—"

"Empty his stomach?" the prince finished delicately. "I
see. And you thought I, too, was in a similar state."

"You don't understand, Meailan died that way. One night,

74

Josephs Sherman

he just. . . didn't return. By the time we found him, sound
asleep in the cold and wet, he—he had caught a fatal chill."

"Ah." The eerie, too steady green gaze gave up nothing
of his thoughts. "You were concerned for the royal guest."

Was he mocking her? "I was disappointed," Sorcha said
flatly, "that a prince of Cathay shoufd prove just as weak

as anyone else."

This time he did laugh. "Whatever else I may be, I am
not a supernatural creature, Sorcha ni Fothad. Don't try
to turn me into something more than I am."

His eyes were still cool as before, but a new warmth hinted
in his elegant voice, a new music glinted in its smoothness.
Sorcha was astonished to find herself taking a step forward
in spite of herself, fascinated by the strange, finely carved
beauty of his face and the lithe, graceful lines of his body.
Meallan must have been a fine-looking man in his youth,
but time and drink had done their damage- Being of noble
birth, daughter of the Chief Poet, Sorcha had never been
allowed to do more than dream about any other men (not,
she thought wildly, like the old, pagan days, when a woman
could take any man she wished without shame). Now, with-
out warning, here she was wondering what it would be like
to Be in the arms of this elegant stranger who—

This was ridiculous! She didn't know me prince, she didn't
even truly like the prince, and she was not some sflly little
servant girl to let a smooth voice sway her! Backing up in
sudden fury, Sorcha snapped, "No, Prince Ardagh, I wouldn't
dream of turning you into something you're not. Royal blood
or no, you're nothing more than a man, just like any other."
His smile was infuriatingly amused. "Not exactly that."
Sorcha didn't wait to hear more. She turned and stalked
away. Behind her, she could hear Prince Ardagh calling her
name. a touch of surprise in bis voice, but Sorcha, trem-
bling with anger, refused to listen,

King Donnchadh ofClonach cut and slashed and cut again
at his opponent, driving the hapless warrior back across the
grassy practice field, hardly noticing the frantic light in the
man's eyes, taking out in this bout au his savage frustration.

THE SHATTERED OATH

75

Why had he been given such terrible luck? He was of
the royal clan, the Ui Neill sept—as Derval never failed to
remind him. Oh, granted, bis was a distant branch, but he
was Ui Neill just the same. And yet here he was, stuck in
his rocky little ancestral kingdom while Aedh mac Neill held
the Ard Ri's throne.

Stuck with a shrew. Donnchadh thought with petty malice.

No. Whatever else Derval might be, she was never any-
thing as small-minded as a shrew- The woman frightened
him sometimes: it was like living with a sword craned by a
master—sleek, sharp, and ever dangerous. Derval, Donn-
chadh mused, had nothing ofwomamy softness to her, there
were times when he wondered how she'd ever managed
to bring children to term. And he knew she held him, her
husband and king, in contempt as a weakling.

I'm not weak, damn you, he snapped at her (but silently,
always silently), lama fcing. I cannot act as rashly as you
would like.

And yet, Donnchadh reminded himself, he had let her
srsuade him to send those assassins. Aedh might be dying,
sad, even now.

Then why hwe I had no word? Where are my men, curse
them aH? Where are they?

'•  Donnchadh's sword wavered, and the warrior, laughing
; in surprise, pressed his sudden advantage. The king came
' back to himself with a start just in time to ward off defeat,
[?and drove his opponent staggering back,
;  A sudden commotion broke his concentration, making
(? Donnchadh turn in anger to see who dared interrupt him.
I Several servants were gathered about a fallen warrior, helping
|the bedraggled, tattered man to his feet.
^ Dear Cod. Oh dear Cod.

f It was one of the men he'd sent to kill the High King.
^erce with panic, Donnchadh strode forward, brushing the
^servants away. "Well?" he asked sharply, catching the war-
l.rior before the man could crumple again. "What news? What
Happened to the rest of your men?"
| "Dead." The man's voice was a weary whisper. His eyes
|dosed and he sagged in Donnchadh's grip. "Betrayed."

76 Josepha Sherman

"Betrayed! By whom?"

The warrior shook his head slightly. "Never saw him before
... we were in ambush . .. the way we planned. King. . .
King Aedh would never have known we were there ... not
till too late . . ."

For a time he was sure he wasn't going to get an answer.
But then the warrior roused enough to repeat vaguely,
"Never saw him before ... he was beautiful as an angel
. . . but he could fight like a devil." The man chuckled
weakly at his own wit. "Like a devil . . ."

"And the king! What of King Aedh?"

The warrior stared up at Donnchadh with wry, feverish
eyes. "King Aedh lives, never fear... King Aedh lives -. ."

"But does he know who sent the ambush?" Donnchadh
asked fiercely. "Answer me! Does he know?"

But with a small, weary sigh, the warrior slipped away
into death and left Donnchadh alone with his fear. He let
the body fall with a shudder, turning away—

To be faced with Derval. Her face a beautiful mask, she
said only, "We must talk."

When they were alone in her grianan, Donnchadh began
to stammer out his fears. But Derval held up a restraining
hand. "There are only two possibilities. One; Aedh has no
idea who sent those men, and we are safe. Two: He knows,
and we must prepare accordingly."

"Easily saidf" Donnchadh snapped. "What would you have
me do? Declare open war on him? Try my tiny army against
the forces of the Ard Ri?"

"No. Of course not. Whether or not Aedh knows what
you attempted—"

"Me!" Donnchadh exploded. "It wasn't my idea alone.
As I remember, dear wife, it was you who goaded me on!"

Her perfect mouth tightened ever so shghtiy. "Whether
or not Aedh knows what we attempted," she said, "we must
find ourselves a powerful ally."

"And who would you suggest?"

"There are other kings. Many who are not happy with
Aedh holding the throne."

"Many who are not happy with any of the Ui Neill sept!

THE SHATTERED OATH           77

Would you have me deal with my enemies? Or maybe you'd
rather I allied mvself with the Lochlannach!" To his hor-
ror, Derval actually fell silent at that, eyes thoughtful. "You
can't be considering that!" Donnchadh gasped.

After a long moment she shook her head. "No. That would
hardly be wise."

He snorted. "Of course not. I'm not stupid enough to
deal with those Godless barbarians!"

"You're not strong enough," she corrected quietly. "And
no. I am not insulting you, husband, merely stating a fact.
You are not as strong as them."

But Donnchadh, astonished, surprised a flicker of fear
in Derval's eyes. She's as frightened as me! Frightened of
Aedh— "We must have an aUy before our luck runs out "
Derval murmured. "But who? Who?"

Husband and wife fell silent, thinking feverishly. But
neither could find an answer.

D1SCANC CLOUDS

CHAPCeP 7

The morning of this early summer day was pleasantly
warm, the sky for once a clear, bright blue as Ardagh stood
in the doorway of his guesthouse. All around him bustled
busy human life, the usual tangle of visiting dignitaries,
various courtiers, and the horde of servants scurrying about
with sacks of grain or buckets of water and taking care of
the hundred little tasks necessary to keep a fortress this size
running smoothly. But the prince's house, positioned well,
stood in a small circle of blessed quiet.

Thank you. King Aedh. for that.

Since there was no one to watch the lapse of dignity,
Ardagh threw back his head like a child to let the sunlight
pour down on his upturned face. One of the nicer things
about this Realm was the sunlight—rare enough in a cli-
mate that often seemed as much mist as air—though he'd
been warned by just about everyone not to let the sun shine
too brightly or too long on his fair skin. Well, it didn't seem
to be doing him any harm, though his skin was gradually
taking on an odd golden tone. Intriguing, Ardagn mused,
looking down and turning a hand this way and that to study
it. Rather attractive, in a way. The women here seemed
to like it well enough, too, Fothad's prudish warnings not-
withstanding.

Ah yes, Fothad. Ardagh let his hand drop to his side.
tranquility shattered. Fothad, with his endless fund of

78

THE SHATTERED OATH

79

information, his wonderfully satisfying music—and his odd,
odd questions. "Are you happy here?" Happy here? Had
he ever known happiness, truly known it, even back in the
Sidhe Realm?

Ae, and wasn't this ridiculous? In his native Realm, he'd
' had a rightful place, a purpose. Here, in this alien place,
he was lost, and between the poet and his warnings and
Father Seadna with his "you are a lonely man" it was no
wonder they had him confused and—

Bah, he shouldn't be worrying about what humans
thought! Oh, they had their points; a love of laughter and
music, a gift for metalwork that was nearly the equal of
Anything of Sidhe-work. But at best, they were hardly a study
in logic, and at worst a mass of unpredictable contradic-
tions. That woman, now, that Sorcha ni Fothad. Fothad's
sharp-tongued daughter... any woman of the Sidhe would
have understood he'd only been jesting with her the other
day, flirting to make her smile. But she'd thought he had

• genuinely been out to seduce her!

As if I'd risk complications with her father. Even if I were
, attracted to such a—a prickly woman.

No, no, aQ these folks were confusing! Monasteries, now:

° From what Father Seadna had told him, monasteries dot-
b, ted Eriu; the man came from one of them himself. According

•IT to him, the places were centers of learning, which was a
ty 'good thing—out Ardagb had teased out of Fothad the infor-
||-ination that they were also independent, sternly managed
It little cities containing (with a few odd exceptions) nothing
I, but male clerics.
^. How can humans possibly believe that men and women

•^sre separate creations, one superior to the other? And why
j|s(fc they make such a ridiculous fuss over something as natural
^yid joyous as mating?

^ Ah well. He could not expect humans to be as advanced
^•as the Sidhe. But, like it or not, frustrated and confused
ad out-and-out bewildered though those humans made him,
e must learn to live among them.
I've been here . . . what, perhaps a month of their time,
~ J what have I accomplished? Gathered a few pretty tales

80 Josepha Sherman

of Doorways that don't give me the slightest due as to how
to get home. learned some facts about the people and cus-
toms of this land . . .

Honesty made him admit that a month wasnt long in
which to study an entire culture. And even a Sidhe could
only absorb so much knowledge at a time. But how, the
prince mused, was he going to use that knowledge? Oh yes,
the High King would almost surely give him sanctuary for
as long as Ardagh requested. But what honor was there in
being a mere idler? The prince suddenly rubbed a band
over his eyes.

Curse it to the Darkness!

Fortunate humans, able to lie even to themselves. He,
however, couldn't hide from the fear forever nagging at his
mind: Was this Realm weakening him? Was it changng him?
Would it, at the last, make him forget who and what he was?

Of course not! It's the lack of magic in this cursed Kealm
that's bothering me. If only I could find some good strong
source of Power! Yes, oh yes, how wonderful it would feel
if only he could cast some genuine spell, no matter what
or why, just to shake his senses, just to remind him of himself!

The sound of swords clashing together brought the prince
sharply back to his surroundings. Every morning, Cadwal
and his warriors exercised in die grassy field behind the royal
keep, within sight of Ardagh's guesthouse, practicing their
weaponry in the unromantic, matter-of-fact fashion of men
whose bves depended on those skills. Watching them now,
the prince felt his own hand close refleriveJy about an
imaginary hilt. He'd gone without his own weapons prac-
tice too fong—not a wise thing when the edge of a blade
was the best weapon available to him.

I wonder what they would say if I asked to practice with
them. Or is the thought of a prince dueling with common
mercenaries so outlandish they'd be mortified? There've been
enough misunderstandings already. I don't want any—




The prince whirled at a sudden sound to his left, then
froze in utter astonishment A child! By the Powers, a child!
A human child, a small girt, standing as frozen as he, star-
ing at him with wide, astonished eyes. Ardagh crouched

THE SHATTERED OATH

81

down to his unexpected visitor's level, studying her in wonder.
Look at this, look at the perfection of the small face, the
delicate lashes and charming little nose! The Sidhe being
the barely fertile people they were, he'd only seen children
twice in his life, and never this close. Oh, what a naarvel-
' ous thing, this beautiful, perfect new youngster!

"Now, who may you be, little one?" Ardagh asked gen-
tly.

She continued to stare, thumb going nervously to her
mouth. Ardagh sat back on his heels in dismay. Didn't she
understand him?

"Can you talk?" he asked doubtfully, not at all sure when
intelligence first showed in human children, "Are you old
enough for that?"

She lowered the thumb in contempt. "Course I can. I'm
five."

"Oh, I see." The prince bit back a delighted laugh. "For-
give me, my lady. I didn't mean to insult you."

She accepted his apology with a wave of a chubby hand.

"But how is it my humble home is graced by so charm-
ing a visitor?" No, that was far beyond me little one's under-
standing. "What are you doing here?"

The child hesitated, then said firmly, "Running away."

"I see. But why?"

"It's Niall's fault."

"Niall," Ardagh repeated blankly.

"Uh-huh. He's always teasing me. Says I'm just a baby.
But I'm not a baby."

"I know, I know," Ardagh assured her, struggling to keep
his voice solemn. "You're five. A grand age, indeed. But who
is this bothersome Niall?"

Her contemptuous stare told him he didn't know any-
thing. "My brother."

"Do you mean Prince Niall?" Ardagh asked in sudden
comprehension. "Yes? That means you must be Princess
Fainche."

"Course I am."

Ardagh got to his feet and bowed deeply. "I am honored.
But you don't really want to run away, do you?"

82 Josepha Sherrwm

"Yes, I do."

But she didn't sound very sure. Ardagh crouched down
again. "It's a big, lonely world out there," he told her sol-
emnly. The nights are quite dark, and full of wild animals."

Her eyes were very big. "Don't care."

"You're very brave. I suppose even a raging boar wouldn't
frighten you. There are many of diem in me woods, you
know. Wolves, too. And bears. You really are very brave.
So brave, indeed, that no silly brother like Niall is going to
bother youi"

She nodded fiercely.

"Well, then," Ardagh said, getting to his feet, "Acre realty
isn't any reason for you to run away, is there? If you do,
Niall will never be able to see just how brave you are."

She eyed him warily, then nodded again.

"Good!" Ardagh exclaimed. With any luck at all, no one
would have noticed yet that the child was missing, and he
could put her back where she belonged before anyone had
a chance to panic. "Come, we'll go back together so you
can tell Nialfyou won't let him tease you any more."

To his utter delight, she put her small, warm, slightiy sticky
hand trustingly into bis. How perfect it was, each tiny fin-
ger tipped by a precise little nail! Did humans appreciate
me wonder of their own young? Or did they, easily fertile
creatures that they were, take children as a matter of course?

Ardagh's nocturnal prowtings had made him familiar with
every way into the royal keep. If they slipped in by this out-
of-the-way entrance, he should be able to get the child back
to—

No.

'"Faincbe!" Queen Eithne came rushing forward, flanked
by half a dozen flustered servants, and the prince sighed.
The little gut pulled back at her mother's cry, but Ardagh
wouldn't let her go. "Come, my brave one," he whispered.
"You must prove just how brave you are."

He heard Fainche's soft little intake of breath. Then she
stepped her hand from his. Fighting back a grin, Ardagh saw
her march as proudly as any ruler to her mother, who looked
plainly torn between the urge to slap or hug her wandering

THE SHATTERED OATH           83

daughter. At last Eithne drew the little girl fiercely into her
arms, staring over Fainche's head at Ardagh like a wild thing
defending her young. Stung, the prince assured her, "She's
unhurt."

Eithne ushered the child into the arms of the servant
women, who scurried off with Fainche into the keep. But
the queen remained. "What were you doing with her?"

"Ir" Ardagh said in surprise- "Seeing her back home. I
believe she was running away." Smiling at the memory, he
added, "The child told me quite emphatically that she wasn't
a baby, no matter what her brother said."

Eithne showed not the slightest trace of a smile. "But
why was she with you?"

"I found her standing just outside the guesthouse. Prob-
ably trying to figure out what she wanted to do next. The
little one wasn't too enthused at the thought of—" Ardagh
broke off in sudden horror, staring at the grim-faced Eithne.
"You don't think I would have hurt her, do you? What
manner of folk am I among? Who would ever hurt some-
thing as precious as a child?"

Eithne's fierce gaze never wavered. "Not hurt her, Prince
Ardagh. Steal her. That is what your people do with human
children, isn't it? Steal them away?"

Ardagh let his expression go absolutely blank. "My
people?"

"The Sidhe, Prince Ardagh. The Fair Folk, the People
of Peace, whatever you want to call them." Eithne stopped
short, as though longing to hear him argue with her, to deny
the whole thing.

"For what it's worth," Ardagh said, "I have never stolen
a changeling in my life."

"Don't mock me."

"I wasn't. Merely stating a fact. Have you told anyone
else your suspicions?"

She shook her head, eyes wary. "Who would believe me?"

"Who, indeed?" Feeling her flicker of fear, he added,
"What I told your husband is a fact, too: I really am a prince,
I really do have an older brother on the throne, and I really
am in exile to, among other things, preserve the security

84 Josephs Shernwn

of the realm. And," he added, "I really do appreciate this
sanctuary."

"But you are of the Sidhe- Y-you aren't human."

Ardagh sighed. "Yes, I am, indeed, of the Sidhe. No, I
am not human. But I assure you, that does not make me a
monster, either." He paused, studying her. "Now, I won-
der, are you going to be as honest with me?"

"I... don't.. ."

"Come now. Queen Eithne. If no one else here has
doubted I am from far-distant Cathay, why are you the
amazing exception?"

"I guessed the truth. I am good at—"

"Oh, please. Even I can tefl thafs a lie."

"What of it? I am not honor-bound to tell you anything."

"Such melodrama. I'll make a pact with you, Queen
Eithne: you keep my secret, I keep yours."

"My—"

"Secret, yes. Magic calls to mag^c, if one has the ears to
hear."

"That's ridiculous! I don't—I'm not—"

"I think I know why you hide your Power. Father Seadna
has cornered me often enough to lecture me about the
Christian faith. It does not take kindly to magic, does it?
And your husband's reign is sanctified oy the Church. How
awkward it would be should the High King's wife prove to
be a—"

"I am a good Christian!"

"Queen Eithne, it hardly matters to me what you are or
are not, what you practice, what you believe. I simply don't
want to have to watch my back every waking moment."

"What are you trying to say?"

He smiled without humor. "What do you think? As I told
you, I'm offering a pact. A royal treaty, if you would. I will
keep your secret if you say nothing of mine."
"That is nothing short of blackmail!"
"Call it, rather, practicality." He paused, watching her
stunned, furious face. "So. Have we that pact? I would much
rather have an ally than an enemy. What about you?"
She was silent a long time, then suddenly burst out, "First

THE SHATTERED OATH

85

you must swear, on your honor as a prince, that you mean
no harm to my family or any of my people."

Ardagh frowned. "I have already given that vow to
Fothad."

"Not to me!"

"Humans! If it will soothe your mind, I do so swear to
you as well: I mean no harm to you and yours nor to any
of your people. Though of course," he added darkly, "I wm
defend myself if attacked."

She never flinched. "Fair enough."

"So. The oath is sworn. And my people never lie."

"S-so I've heard."

"Enough games!" the prince snapped- "Look you, I really
would appreciate having one soul in this place of humans
with whom I don't have to pretend. And I suspect you feel
the same." He watched her gaze flicker. "Well? Are we
agreed? Are we allies?'

Eithne sighed. "What choice have I? Yes. Prince Ardagh,
tor the moment at least, we are allies."

The prince cocked his head in a sudden burst of Sidhe
curiosity. "Now that we have that matter settled, perhaps
you can tell me what's bothering you." He permitted him-
self a quick grin. "Besides me, I mean."

"I don't—"

"You can hardly hide it from me. There's an aura of
uneasiness dark as a cloud over you."

"You sense that, do you?" Eithne's shoulders sagged. "The
maddening thing is that I don't know what's bothering me."
She glanced sharply up. "And please don't say something
soothing; it's not just my imagination."

"No. Your Power is too true for that."

"I suppose I should thank you for that." Eithne shud-
dered. hugging her arms about herself. "I've been feeling
the vaguest sense of a premonition for some time now. I
thought it had vanished after the assassination attempt, and
I told myself. That's it, the danger's over." But the premo-
nition hasn't faded- Something is going to happen, some-
thing terrible, and I—I don't know what it is or how to stop
it."

86 Josephs Sherman

Ardagn stood rigid, refusing to show anything of the
sudden panic he felt. Anything that was perilous for the
humans would probably be perilous for him, as well.

But only humans panicked over What Might Be. "Pre-
cognition was never one of my best abilities," the prince
admitted, "even in the Sidhe Realm. But you have an ally
now. Whatever happens, remember that."

For whatever good it did in this magic-poor Realm.

This seemed to be his day for seeing children. Not at all
displeased, Ardagh, on his way back from his newfound and
unexpected royaT alliance, paused to one side of the grassy
central court as a whole horde of shouting, laughing young-
sters scurried by. All boys, they ranged from barely older
than little Fainche to nearly adult. The royal hostages, the
prince realized suddenly.

Hostages, maybe, but they didn't look abused in any way.
A bit overwhelmed by all their young energy, Ardagh stood
watching them, still laughing and roughhousing, settle into
groups sorted by general age and size. Ah, they were here
for weapons practice; Aedh was plainly taking his host
responsibilities seriously. And by making their lives here so
pleasant, the prince thought, wise in the ways of royal poli-
tics, he's also raising a whole generation of important allies
who will think fondly of him,

But not all the youngsters were out there on the prac-
tice field. Ardagh noticed a slender figure hovering wist-
fully to one side, not far from where he stood. A boy—no,
a young man—no, a boy, Ardagh finally decided, a skinny
youngster just at that age when it was so difficult to decide
whether a child had quite reached adulthood.

"Aren't you supposed to be out there with the rest of
them?" the prince asked, and the boy gave a little gasp of
surprise and whirled, revealing a face too finely drawn, too
pale for human health, and blue eyes far too weary for a boy.

"P-prince Ardagh."

"You recognize me, lad, but I'm afraid I don't know you."

"Oh, I—I'm Breasal mac Donnchadh. My father is king
of Clonach."

THE SHATTERED OATH

87

"Yes, I know that much." Ardagh dipped his head in an
amused little salute. "Pleased to meet you, Breasal mac
Donnchadh. But why aren't you at weapons practice?"

"I... cannot." It was the merest whisper. "I haven't the
strength. The last time I tried, I—I . . . fainted."

"I see," Ardagh said helplessly. The Sidhe, with their low
rate of fertility, had their share of sickly children, but those
either began to thrive as their magic matured or simply died
as babes. What did one say to a nearly grown boy who looked
frail enough to fall over at a push?

And yet, and yet, this was still a child, and as such to be
cherished. The prince continued awkwardly, trying to find
comforting words a human child would understand, "Ah
well, sworuplay isn't the whole of life. Look at Fothad mac
Ailin—he's definitely not a swordsman, but be certainly is
an asset to the king. And the scholar who's the royal judge
.. . ae, what's his name ..."

"Neasan mac Dubhan."

"Exactly. Thank you. Neither of those men are warriors,
but the court couldnt function as well without them. Leam
all the other lessons you're being taught, and you'll still prove
an asset to your father."

A shadow passed over the weary eyes. "My father does
not care what befalls me." It was said with such matter-of-
fact calm that a shiver raced through Ardagh.

"Nonsense."

"It's true. Prince Ardagh." Breasal shrugged slightly. "I
would never have the strength to rule Clonach. I am no
use to him.'

"B-but a parent doesn't just abandon a child! Surely he
at least sends you messages—"

"Your pardon. Prince Ardagh, but I haven't heard a word
from Clonach since the day I was brought here." Color
suffused the pale face as the boy added fiercely, "And please
don't feel sony for me. KingAedh has been more of a father
to me than my own blood kin, and I will be happy to stay
here and—and serve him as well as I can for as long as he'll
let me." Breasal broke off, gasping, but before Ardagh could
move, the boy seemed to pufl himself back under control,

88 Josepha Sherman

saying with desperate pride, "Now, if you will excuse me,
Prince Ardagh?"

Watching Breasal hurry off, the prince shook his head
in confusion. I wiU never understand humans, never,
never!

Ae, but he still had a chance to learn something more
about them, Ardagh remembered with a Utde jolt. Royal
judge Neasan mac Dubhan was trying Fremainn legal cases
today, and any of the nobility wno cared to observe was wel-
come to attend; most did, finding attendance politic. With
one last rueful shake of his head over human foibles, the
prince started off for the king's court of law.

Ardagh glanced subtly about. The court of law consisted
of one rectangular hall, part of the royal keep, with the door
on one end and three rows of seats along the remaining
three sides. He had been seated on the left-hand side, the
side reserved, so he'd been told, for higher nobility or vis-
iting royalty.

The prince recognized most of the aristocratic lot near
him. To his immediate left was young Eirnin mac Flainn,
ruddy hair and face clashing splendidly with the brilliant
blues and yellows of his tunic and brat. Amulets disguised
as ornaments hung from about his neck and glittered on
his fingers, but not one of them, Ardagb felt contemptu-
ously, had a shred of Power to them.

He also has a most decidedly ... slimy feel to him. If he
were a merchant, Ardagh mused, he'd be f^ving short mea-
sure. If he wasn't poisoning his customers outrtgfit.

Still, unpleasant fellow and superstitious fool though he
was, Eirnin was still a kinsman to the warring brother-kings
of Meath, which meant he must be granted respect.

The man to Ardagh's right wasn't much more appealing.
This was Odran mac Daire, lean as a grey-haired hunting
hound, his eyes grim and cold and devoid of humor, elegant
in his more subdued violet and wine-red,

Unpleasant feUow. He. if I'm not mistaken, is every bit
as nasty a soul as Eimin: the sort who would arrange quiet
"accidents" for his enemies.

THE SHATTERED OATH

89

But Odran was of the Ui Neill sept, which made him Idn
to King Aedh himself.

Human politics aren't oQ, that different from those at my
'brother's court. Smile and keep smiling and never quite say
what you're thinking. Bah. I thought I was through with
that nonsense.

Behind the prince in the second row sat several other
men of varying degrees of distinction, all with close ties to
this king or that important clan.

And not a one of them, I would guess, who doesn't envy
Aedh up there on his royal dais. I can feel enough ambi-
tion swirling among the lot to stun Ethenian the Jealous.

There at the head of the hall sat King Aedh on a slight
dais, flanked by Fothad on one side and Father Seadna on
the other. This once, however, the king sat behind some-
one: Neasan mac Dubhan, a quiet, competent, plain-
featured man of middle years, who ruled the hall—at least
in theory—while the royal law court was in session. Ardagh
guessed that Aedh would be quick enough to intervene if
he saw anything of which he didn't approve, but so far there
hadn't been the slightest need to overturn any of the judge's
rulings. Neasan had cut right through the dozen or so minor
cases before him without once even raising his voice.

I'm sure that everyone's glad there are only minor cases
to be heard today, Ardagh thought. But I doubt I would
have been so patient about the whole affair.

A Fremainn worker brought suit against a carpenter
because he had been injured by a splinter flying from the
carpenter's adze. Neasan had dismissed the case, mildly
commenting that splinters flew where they would without
any human malice being involved. The judge also ruled
invalid a land contract made between two lesser nobles after
witnesses swore one of the men had been drunk at the time,
and ordered one guard to pay honor-price to another whose
nose had been broken during a fight over a matter neither
of them could recall.

At least I see that humans are capable of logic, the prince
admitted, watching Neasan with grudging admiration. Some-
times. Ae, but these petty matters are hardly the stuff of

90 Josepha Sherman

great drama! All I've learned so far is that humans get
muddled by drink and sometimes have short tempers. Noth-
ing that I hadn't already guessed.

Stealing a sly glance at King Aedh, Ardagh decided the
man looked eveiy bit as bored as he felt.

"If there are no more cases," Neasan began.

"Your pardon," cut in a woman's voice, sharp as the call
of a trumpet, and Ardagh sat bolt upright in surprise.

Sorcha ni Fothad came striding into the court, green gown
swirling about her legs, to stop short before the judge with
a curt bow and a deeper one for the king and her father.
Ignoring Fothad's scandalized whisper of "Sorcha! You
shouldn't be here!" she said fiercely to Neasan, "There is
yet one case that has not been heard. I cry justice for one
of my maidservants."

A wild murmuring spread throughout the court, and a
puzzled Ardagh took advantage of the confusion to ask
Odran, "What is so unusual about her being here?"

That earned him a stem glance. "She is a woman!"

"Yes, obviously, but—"

The testimony of a woman is not legal."

"Whyever not?"

But just then Aedh thundered out a commanding,
"Silence!" In the sudden stillness that followed, Neasan said
gentfy, "Lady Sorcha, you know this procedure is most irreg-
ular."

"I also know that my maidservant has no Bving father
to protect her. She is under my protection and, woman
though I may be, she has no one else to speak in her

behalf."

Neasan hesitated a moment, plainly mulling over die laws.
Aedh leaned forward impatiently, as though about to prod
him, but the judge said, "There is precedent for women
speaking in defense of the helpless. Tell us the crime."

"Rape," Sorcha said bluntly.

" 'Rape?* " Ardagh whispered to Odran. "I don't know
the word."

He received a second sharp glance and a hissed, "Forced
fornication."

THE SHATTERED OATH

91

Ardagh sat back in shock. What foulness was this? Pow-
ers, what manner of perverse creature could even dream
of—

- "Can you be more specific?" Neasan asked, seemingly
unruffled.

Sorcha glared, hands on hips. "Must I name her? Surely
the poor woman has been harmed enough already!"

Neasan paused, then shook his head. "Your concern for
your servants' well-being does you credit, Lady Sorcha. You
may withhold the woman's name for now. But I really must
have more details."

Sorcha took a deep breath. "Yesterday night, my maid-
servant felt faint and left her bed for a breath of air. It was
foolish of her to go alone, perhaps. But she felt quite safe
in the king's fortress—wrongly, as it turns out! She was seized
upon in a corridor by—by one I shall name in a bit. He
made some attempts to woo her, she told me, but when
she refused him, he took her against her will."

"And yet she said nothing to you or anyone else till
today?"

"She was too terrified to speak of it till this day! He was
fer above her in rank—and he threatened to kill her if she
told a soul. It was only when I questioned her at length
that the poor thing broke down and admitted what had
happened."

"And can you name her alleged attacker?"
"Oh, I can, indeed!" Sorcha snapped. "It was this man!"
Her finger stabbed at Eimin mac Flainn. As the startled
murmurings burst out again, (he noble stiffened in outrage.

*I protest! I have had nothing to do with a—a servant! And
I will not be verbally assaulted by this woman or anyone
eke!"

And you, Ardagh realized in sudden disgust, are as guilty
as the Darkness. I can feel the ugliness spilling from you.

"No one is assaulting you, my lord," Neasan murmured.
"Lady Sorcha, this is a harsh charge you've made. But I must
ask if the woman in question made any outcry at the time."

Sorcha winced. "Of the attack? No. She was too afraid."

"I see." The judge settled back in his chair with a sigh.

92 Josephs Sherman

"You know the law, Lady Soroha. If she is assaulted while
within a settlement, a woman is obliged to call for help."

"Not if she's afraid the man will kiU her if she screams!"

"I'm sorry. That is the law." Neasan paused. "Were there
any witnesses?"

Sorcha's shoulders sagged. "No."

"Well, then. I am sorry, but..."

Powers! They're actuauy going to let the creature escape!

Not if he could help it. "A moment, please," Ardagh cafled
out, and heads turned his way. "If I may be allowed to speak?"

At Neasan's startled nod, the prince left his seat to stand
beside Sorcha. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Trying to correct a wrong," he hissed back. "Quickly,
does the maid have any marks on her?"

"What—"

"Does she?"

"Y-yes. There's a purplish birthmark, like a star, on her
left thigh, but—"

"Excellent!" To Neasan, Ardagh said, "My lord, there is
no such thing as this 'rape' in my. .. land. In fact, I find it
difficult to believe such a crime can exist at all. But I do
believe I can learn the truth of guilt or innocence for you,
if I may."

Neasan hesitated, frowning, then glanced back at King
Aedh, plainly at a loss. Aedh. just as puzzled, hesitated as well,
then nodded. "Go ahead. Prince Ardagh," the judge said.

"Thank you." He strolled over to where Eirnin sat. "My
Lord Eimin, in my land we have ways of determining guilt
or innocence that may surprise you." So much was quite
true. "Why, some might say we need only stare into a man's
eyes." "Some" might say anything.

"What nonsense is this?"

"No nonsense. You see," Ardagh continued, skirting false-
hood, "it just may be that we can read in those eyes exactly
what has happened, and if that is so, then there is no way
to hide that truth from us. Will you let me stare into your
eyes, my lord?"

Eirnin's face was nearly as red as his hair. "I—no! My
Lord Neasan, I must object to—"

THE SHATTERED OATH

93

"Come, come, my Lord Eimin," Ardagh purred. "What
harm in this? Surely you are innocent?"

-Yes, but—"

- "Then let me stare into your eyes." Ardagh stared, put-
ting into that steady look every bit of Sidhe arrogance.

Eimin stood the alien green gaze for a few tense moments,
the fear radiating from Him. And then he scrambled to his
feet, one hand clutching at the amulets about his neck.
"Sorcerer!" he shouted.

"I? But I have done nothing but stare, my lord. While
you, I think, have done much more. Was it possible that I
saw a woman in your eyes, my lord, her clothing torn?" No,
it was not possible- But you don't know that, human, do
you? "Was it possible that I saw her lips move in entreaty?
Ah, and was it possible that I saw a mark on her left thigh,
one shaped most fetchingly like a star?"

"You couldn't have known about that!" Eirnin shouted,
then froze, realizing he'd just as good as confessed his crime.
"But—but I am Eirnin mac Flainn! And it was only a
servant!"

"No great person in herself," Neasan agreed. "But a ser-
vant of Sorcha ni Fothad, which is to say of Fothad mac
Ailin, Chief Minister and Poet to the Ard Ri himself."

Satisfied, Ardagh glanced at Sorcha. But instead of the
joy or relief he'd expected, he saw only tight-mouthed ten-
sion. "What is it?" he whispered.

"Not now!" she snapped back,

Of course no real harm could come to Eirnin; his rank
was too high for that. "But you must pay an honor-price,"
Neasan ruled, "equal to the honor-price of the woman's
guardian."

"That cannot be another woman!"

"No," the judge agreed. "The proper legal guardian in
this case would be, perforce, the guardian of Sorcha ni
Fothad, namely Fothad mac Ailin. Oh, and of course since
the woman you have admitted raping is most surely of
marriageable age, the law states that you must pay half her
honor-price as well."

Ardagh watched Eirnin's mouth fall open in shock as he

94 Josepha Sherman

realized the extent of the two fines. Paying them—particu-
larly matching the honor-price of the Chief Poet himself—
would most certainly bankrupt the man. He would not dare
return to his own estate, not with all knowing why he fled.

Instead he must stay here, totally dependent on KmgAedh
for charity. How nicely ironic.

Trembling slightly, Eirnin bowed to the king. "With your
leave." At Aedh's cold nod, the man hurried off.

But now, Ardagh realized, all attention was on him. And
not a few hands were surreptitiously making signs against
evil. Oh, you superstitious idiots! He laughed sharpy, the
sound ringing out loudly in the suddenly quiet hall. "What,"
Ardagh shouted, "did you think I used magic? All I did
was use his own fear against himi"

"The birthmark," Neasan said- "How did you know of

the birthmark?"

"Powers, how do you think? The lady here told me!"
There was a new moment of confused silence. Then Aedh

broke it with a hearty laugh. "Clever, Prince Ardagh. most

clever!"

But the laugh sounded forced. I've made you a new
enemy, haven't I? Ardagh thought. Or at least sharpened
an enmity that already existed But what else was there to

do?

At Aedh's nod, Neasan mac Dubhan stated, "This court

session is hereby declared closed."

Before anyone could stop him, Ardagh maneuvered his
way out through the bustle of folk leaving the hall and caught
up with Sorcha ni Fothad-

"What's wrong?"

She glanced quickly his way. "Don't you know who Eimin

mac Flainn is?"

"Indeed. No deed is without its complications, is it? But
you must have considered that before you made your

attack."

Sorcha sighed. "Yes. And ... I... you ..." She stopped
short. "Well now, to be blunt, I didn't expect any help from

you."

Stung, he asked, "Why not?"

THE SHATTERED OATH

95

"Why, because, Prince Ardagh, you are a—you—°
"I have never," Ardagh snapped, "taken a woman against
her will. Nor will I ever do so."

She stared at him, eyes wondering- "You mean that."
"Of course I do! Once and for all, Sorcha ni Fothad, I
never lie! That creature was about to walk away from the
perversion of something joyous into an evil act, and I—simply
could not fail to act."

For a moment more Sorcha looked up at him, her face
just then open and defenseless, and Ardagh, with a pleas-
ant jolt of surprise, found himself thinking. Lovely eyes.
Lovely woman. When she isn't on the attack.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Sorcha reddened and
looked away. "I thought I understood who and what you
are. Apparently I was wrong."

"Very probably," Ardagh agreed with a wry little laugh.
"But what you are," she added sharply, "that I haven't
decided. Watch your back. Prince Ardagh. Eimin mac Flainn
can make a deadly foe."
"So," Ardagh said, "can I."
"I don't doubt it. Oh, and .. . thank you,"
Before he could reply, Sorcha ni Fothad had hurried away.

cue vi si COD

CHAPCeR 8

Bishop Geivinus, no longer young but still tall and strongly
built as the noble Franldsh warrior stock from which he
came, walked in welcome solitude. Elsewhere in the teeming
maze that was die Vatican complex was the usual crowd of
bishops and deacons, notaries and accountants necessary
to keep such a complicated organization functioning. But
this one slightly out-of-the-way hall was quiet and private,
faintly scented as nearly every hallway was with incense and
candle wax, and glowing softly with gold in the ever-present
candlelight There was not the slightest hint of turmoil,
religious or political.

Almost, Gervinus thought, ffs though there wasn't unde-
clared war between the Roman Church factions and those
of my own Frankish lands. Were I a truly religious man, I
would be horrified by such hatreds within the faith.

The bishop continued on down the quiet halls, hearing
his own footsteps seeming loud against the inlaid marble
floors by contrast with the surrounding silence, his thoughts

still on politics.

Undeclared war between the two factions, indeed: Barely
a year ago, Roman agents had actually attacked and neariy
killed die pope himself, angry at his alliance with die mighty
Emperor Charles, he who was as often named Char-
lemagne. Only that alliance had rescued die badly injured
Leo from a most unpleasant death, and it was he who

96

THE SHATTERED OATH

97

would soon, barring further turbulence, crown his rescuer
as emperor.

Charlemagne. My own family's liege lord. And which side
should I back in this ecumenical battle, I wonder? Which
side is most likely to win?

Had matters been slighdy different, diere wouldn't have
been a question. After all, as die son of a high-ranking
Frankish noble, a man of some importance at Charlemagne's
court, Gervinus had been born into a predictable, well-
regulated world.

Unfortunately, he had been born the second son. The
superfluous son. It had been many years since older brodier
Conrad, solid and strong as dieir father and brainless as a
true warrior, had brought that fact home to him, but the
bitterness remained. They'd bodi been children back then,
Conrad nine and Gervinus seven, but as fierce as any older
foes. That day. Conrad had been sitting on his- younger
brodier's chest after yet anodier of dieir vicious fights, taunt-
ing him widi, "You'll never be anyone of worth. You'll be
nodiing but a musty old priest."

Gervinus' mouth tightened with die memory, remember-
ing even now his shock, his pain. His pride. He hadn't let
any tears show dien, for all his rage and hurt. Nor had he
wept later, when his fadier. diat taU. grim man who almost
never laughed, had beaten him for getting into and losing
yet anodier fight. Instead, ignoring his aching body, die boy
had asked coolly, "Why must I be a priest?"

As always, his fadier had looked away from his steady
gaze. Gervinus had learned at an early age that he was
considered by everyone in the keep as a frightemngly bright,
frighteningly cold child. "What else is diere for you to be?"
his fadier had asked. "Conrad is the eldest, and of course
the firstborn boy must inherit all."

"But why?"

That had brought a frown. "A nobles estate can hardly
be portioned out uke some peasant's land! Come, boy, you're
surely old enough to realize diat diere's no odier honor-
able post for a second son dian die Church."

"But I don't want to be a priest!"

98 Josephs Sherman

For a moment, he'd been sure his father was going to
strike him. But then the man, unexpectedly, had smued.
Think about it, boy. Think of how higp a clever priest might
rise- The power behind the throne, boy. The power behind
the throne. Ah yes, I see the ambition flickering in those
cold eyes of yours. Young as you are, you know exactly what
I mean."

So he had. But later that ni^it, he'd methodically set about
destroying every one of Conrad's weapons and noble dress.

Fortunate my father didn't beat me to death for that. But
then he wouldn't have had a son to donate to the Church.

The bishop stopped in front of a door as though read-
justing the drape of his robes. Beyond, he knew. lay a small
council chamber, empty as it usually was and far more private
than his own spartan quarters. Hearing voices behind him,
Gervinus turned, nodding politely to the two deacons who
were passing him, chatting softly together. The young men
fell silent, shying slightly from him like two startled wild
things, then returned his nod and hurried on.

Idiots.

Once he was alone again, Gervinus bent to the door's
lock and murmured a phrase that was neither Latin nor the
Franldsh tongue. The words were nonsense to him, but he
had learned from the first memorization that they were
enough to focus Power with the softest of chela, the door
swung open. He slipped inside, closing the door silently
behind him, and repeated his small spell in reverse. The
room was now guarded against any chance intruders.

Ignoring the religious images watching somberly from
every wall, Gervinus sat at the heavy oak table that domi-
nated the room and waited to catch his breath. Maybe the
tales told of sorcerers casting spell after easy spell, but he
knew the truth: one could only work sorcery after long study
and careful concentration, and even then only in Smited
fashion.

One did what one could- Recovered, the bishop drew
out of his robes a plain, leather-bound book sealed with a
small, intricate lock, and an equally plain little mirror. For
a moment he sat studying them. Such ordinary-seeming

THE SHATTERED OATH

99

objects- Yet the mirror had taken long months to make and
had nearly cost him his life: only at the last moment had
he remembered that it was perilous for any sentient being
to be the first to glance at the polished surface. The dog
he'd forced to gaze into the mirror had died in convulsions
from the uncontrollable surge of Power that set the mir-
ror to functioning. And as for the book, his precious
grimoire—

Gervinus shook his head. Every now and then the sheer
strangeness of the path his life had taken struck him like a
blow. He had never actually intended to study sorcery. No,
in me Prankish monastery where he'd first been sent (a quick
memory: the disquieting glint of relief in his father's eyes
at being rid of his troublesome son), the boy-Gervinus.
thrilled by his introduction to the literate world, had
devoured whatever his tutors had given him to study, whether
letters, psalms, mathematics or grammar, but always with
an eye towards purely normal, purely temporal power. Even
when he'd stolen into the monastery's small library at night
to read every precious book or scroll he could find, he had
certainty never dreamed of anything more.

Until, that night when he had found one crumbling little
scroll on which was scrawled what was undeniably a spell
of Summoning. Too curious to be afraid, the boy-Gervinus
had carefully carried out each step, standing, trembling just
a bit, in a chalked circle, whispering the ugly, alien syllables.

And Something had come. Something strange and chill
and ... empty. Gervinus tensed slightly even now, remem-
bering the moment his life had been forever changed. For
that Something had whispered to him that he, too, was
empty, that he believed in nothing, in no one, but himself
. .. night after night, that same chill voice had whispered
in his dreams, temng him the same terrible truth, until at
last the terror was gone and only the truth remained. After
ail, even back then, he had believed omy in himself, in what
he could win through wit and will.

Why not? Look what the supposed One True Faith pro-
duced: my father, illiterate and proud of his ignorance, who
never once showed that so-vaunted Christian love to his own

100 Josepha Sherman

son. and my brother, ecfuaUy illiterate and stupidly content
in his ignorance, who showed most unChnstian hate towards
his own brother yet never once suffered/or it—

Bah, what could such a faith possibly hold for him? And
if there were times after Its visits that his dreams turned
dark, warning of endless nothingness, why, what were dreams
but foolish fancies?

So, now. If the only path of power open to him meant
he must spout Churchly dogma even if he believed none
of it. so be it. Granted, he'd expected, being a noble's son,
to be rewarded with a post at the emperor's court, Char-
lemagne, who thought nothing of creating his own bishops
when he pleased, taking papal consent for granted. Even
though the emperor was seldom at that court, etf battling
Saxons or Slavs or anyone else who debated his rule, there
would have been no end to how high an ambitious cleric
might rise at the royal court.

Instead, Gervinus thought with a touch of impatience,
here he was trapped in Rome, watching Pope Hadrian die
and Pope Leo replace him, watching this faction try to oust
that one, doing nothing much else all these tedious years.
He'd been pulled from me Prankish monastery at his fathers
whim. Why? Some misguided attempt of the man to enter
international politics? Or merely the urge to separate war-
ring brothers as far as possible? Why bother? Dear Conrad
was and remained as he had always been, in excellent health,
and his brood mare of a wife had by now given him two
equally healthy sons. Gervinus snorted. Short of murder-
ing two generations of kin without leaving a trace, there
wasn't a secular hooe for him.

Ah well, one took power where one found it And the
learning to be found here had been so intoxicating: the books,
so many more than could be found in any Prankish mon-
astery, the chance, for the first time in his life, to fully use
his mind and stretch his knowledge—even, Gervinus added
silently, beyond the limits allowed the clergy.

Oh, yes. Secret excursions into the depths of the Vatican
library had unearthed some very strange books, ostensibly
hidden there to keep them out of the reach of Darkness,

THE SHATTERED OATH

101

books so much more powerful than that one pathetic little
spell-scroll back in the Prankish monastery. He already had
a talent for sorcery, surely; (hat Summonirg, amateurish but
effective, had proved it. And now at last he'd had a chance
to expand that talent. The grimoire had come from that
sorcerous cache of books, and hour after hour of study,
Gervinus knew, had made him quite proficient in its use.

But what good is it? I don't dare risk anything truly
Powerful, not here in the very heart of the Church!Look-
ing back at himself as the brash, bitter, lonely young man
he'd been, hating Rome, hating everything about the Roman
Church that was so alien to a Prankish boy, Gervinus shook
his head at opportunities lost. What a fool he'd been! No
matter how I despised them, I should have wooed friends,
allies.

Instead, his early aloofness had branded him unpleas-
ant, unsociable, coldly brilliant. All, Gervinus admitted
frankly, quite true: he was brilliant, and he had no desire
for the weaknesses that were good fellowship or the sins
of the flesh. But that coldness meant that while he had at
first managed to rise rapidly through the clerical ranks, it
had been only so high and no higher. Yes, he had gained
the status of bishop, but Auxiliary Bishop only, without a
diocese, without a purpose, without a use save to serve as
errand boy to the Curiate.

He came sharply alert. No time now for reflection. Deep
within the Vatican's maze, members of that Curiate had just
begun their meeting, activating the spell he'd set in their
chambers. Unlocking his precious grimoire, staring into his
sorcerous mirror, Gervinus began his muttered chant. Soon
a wavering image formed in the highly polished silver, soon
he could hear voices, thin and faint as though from a great
distance. Straining, the bishop could make out tantalizing
bits, just enough to let him know they were discussing, as
was everyone these uncertain days, the politics of Church
and empire.

And... him? Was that his name being mentioned? Some-
thing about... "troublemaker ... cold-blooded ,.. can't
tell which side he's on." Frowning, Gervinus struggled to hear

102 josepha Sherman

more. Something about, "... must be rid of him." "But
how?" "... can't just see he vanishes ... noble-bom ..."

They were silent a good while, so long that Gervinus" spell
began to fade. Just when he thought it would disappear
altogether, he saw one of those Churchly bureaucrats
straighten and say, "Mother Church's reach . . . stretched
... over the far realms ... not enough news from the distant
lands." There was a frenzy of excitement from the others,
a good deal of jabbering he couldn't hear. And then the spell
dissipated and was gone. Gervinus slumped in his chair,
drained and exhilarated at once,

They were going to rid themselves of him, those bureau-
crats, and never once see the favor they were granting him.
He would at last be free of this prison! It only remained
to see to which far-flung land he would be sent, and then
he could begin to plan, to act, to finally use his talents.

Bishop Gervinus, late of Rome, originally of the Prank-
ish lands, stood at the ship's rail, mysterious in his hooded
cloak, hiding his impatience behind a mask of tranquility
as he looked out over the flat expanse of blue. With the
ship becalmed, there was nothing to do but wait. He was
pretending not to hear the whispers of the sailors around
him—not an easy thing to do, what with no sound from the
motionless ship or the limply hanging sail and Church stan-
dard, or the utterly tranquil ocean.

Bah, whispers were nothing. Gervinus was used to such
foolishness as these idiots were sharing the lower classes
were full of their superstitions- If me commons thought him,
despite his clerical garb, somehow in league with Darkness
just because he held himself aloof from them, what man
of any importance would stoop to listen to them?

Even, Gervinus reflected with a moment's sardonic hu-
mor, if they might happen to be correct.

His thoughts were interrupted by a nervous sailor, doing
whatever it was sailors did when a ship was becalmed. The
bishop raised a hand in casual benediction as the man passed,
and me sailor dipped his head in uneasy thanks-

Idiot. Idiots aS.

THE SHATTERED OATH

103

Tour pardon. Holiness." It was die ship's captain this
time, a roughly made, weather-worn man whose hodgepodge
of an accent indicated someone who spent more time in
foreign ports than at home. Diffidence sat most uneasily
on him. "You asked for me?"

"Indeed." Gervinus said. "We have been becalmed for
nigh a day now. What do you intend to do about it?"

"Well... uh ... there isn't too much we can do, HoH-
ness, not without wind. Unusual for it to turn so calm
this far into autumn, but," with a helpless shrug, "there
you are." He glanced hopefully at the bishop. "I don't
suppose you . . ."

Gervinus stared. Did the idiot really think he was going
to get down on his knees here and now and pray for wind?
"I shall do what I can. In my cabin."

The ship was crowded with his retinue of guards and
servants, but at least he needed to share the cramped little
room that was misnamed the cabin of honor only with the
acolyte Arnulf, a youngster of Prankish blood like himself;

a valuable find, not for his intellect (dubious) or cunning
(low) but because he shared certain sorcerous views.

The bishop paused in the doorway in distaste as the stench
of sickness reached him. Gervinus had the stomach of a sailor,
but his acolyte did not. Closing and bolting the rickety door
behind him, the bishop snapped, "Get up, Arnulf. The sea's
as still as glass. You can't possibly still be ill."

Amulfs face was a ghastly green, but he staggered to his
feet, a slight young man asking hopefully, "Is Eriu in sight?"

"No. Nor is it likely to be any time soon unless we do
something about it"

Amulfs eyes widened. The others—"

"Will hear nothing unless you keep shouting like that
And," Gervinus added grimly, "I'm sure you wm continue
to keep a discreet tongue in your head."

"Of course. Master!"

Of course, Gervinus mocked silently. It had nothing to
do with priestly obedience. Amulf longed for Power far more
than for Salvation.

Reaching into his belt-pouch, the bishop pulled out a

104 Josephs. Sherman

simple copper ring set with a small red stone, slipping it
onto his left hand. From the clothes chest at the foot of
his narrow bunk, he extracted his precious grimoire with
its intricate little lock. Gervinus paused, studying it for a
moment. Lately he had felt the oddest puff whenever he
attempted sorcery, as though some outside Something was
enticing him to use Power whether he would or not.

Nonsense.

His glance sharpened, noticing the faintest of scratches
marring the smooth surface; Amulf, the young idiot, had
been trying to steal a bit of his master's knowledge.

I should let him open the book. Let him team for him-
self what true Power means—and how perilous it can be.

But a dead acolyte would be a nuisance. He needed
Amulf, for now at least.

At a murmured word from the bishop, the lock fell open.
"Clear me a space," he said over his shoulder, "and fill that
bowl with fresh water."

"You're not going to call on him again, are you?*

Gervinus turned to stare so coldly that Amulf shivered
and dropped his head in submission. "What I do or do not
is not for you to question," the bishop murmured. "Now
do as I tell you."

As Amulf hurried to obey. Gervinus stood motionless,
focusing his thoughts, ignoring the fierce, distracting surge
of joy his sorcery always brougpt him, then opened the book
and began, quietly, to read Words that were in no human
tongue. The cabins stale air began to stir, ruffling his robes,
but the bishop never faltered. Midway through the calling,
he thrust his ring-bearing hand into the water, submerg-
ing ring and stone, continuing without pause to read the
spell to its final twisting end.

The cabin shook to a sudden blast of cold, dank air.
Something came, something vaguely manlike yet so shrouded
with mist even Gervinus couldn't make out its true shape.
But it could only be the being he'd summoned-

"Arridu."

"What would you?" The soft voice was the sound of wind
whispering over ice.

THE SHATTERED OATH

105

"Something of your power."

Arridu glanced about the cramped cabin and laughed
coldly. "A storm? While you are trapped on this fragile little
piece of wood? That would be . . . anwsing."

One did not show strong emotion to a demon. "Not a
storm," Gervinus said in a perfect counterfeit of calmness.
"Merely a wind. A steady wind to cany this 'piece of wood,"
as you so poetically call it, west and northwest to the land
known as Eriu."

•W/iy should I do this thing?"

"Because, Arridu, I know your true name, I bear your
ring."

The misty shape swirled and shifted. The air filled with
the rank stench of wind over swampland. "True. true," the
demon said at last. "But I must be paid. Give me a sailor's
life. A life for a wind."

Gervinus hesitated a careful moment. "A sailor's life," he
repeated. "Neither I nor my acolyte are sailors, understand
that."

"Understood."

"A sailor's life you shall have, then. Done."

Arridu laughed and vanished in a swirl of mist and a roar
of wind. Gervinus staggered, bracing himself against a wall
as the wind rose and rose. "So be it," he murmured.

It would be a simple thing to see that a sailor slipped
overboard during the windstorm. All knew that sailors could
not swim. It would be thought a sad accident, nothing more.

And soon enough, they would be in Eriu, and he would
never have to see this ridiculous ship again.

"Uh . - . your Holiness?" It was the captain, nervously
approaching Gervinus where he stood at the rail, wind tan-
gling his robes about him.

"What?" Gervinus just barely kept from snarling. The
demon had kept its pledge, but with a touch of true, demonic
malice: The howling wind that had followed, driving the
ship before it, had been only one small degree removed
from a storm, shredding sails and standards, nearly snap-
ping the mast itself. Only the one unfortunate sailor had

106 Josepha Shernwn

been draped screaming overboard, but the survival of the
ship had been a narrow dung.

"You asked me to inform you when Eriu was in right.
Well... uh ... it is, although it's going to take us & while
to limp into shore, the sails being torn the way they are."

Idiot. I already knew that. But Gervinus dipped his head
in a curt bow. "Thank you. You may leave me. I would not
keep you from your duties."

After a moment, the captain bowed just as curtly, and
left Gervinus to his brooding. He glanced up at the once-
proud Church standard where it hung in sad, useless tat-
ters, and clenched his teeth.

Arridu nearly escaped my control. And yet that is such a
minor demon, its powers ortly of one Element! If I cannot
control it, if I cannot wield true, stronger Power, I am nought.

He would manage, Gervinus told himself. He would, in
fact, triumph. Not one of the Curiate had expected him to
give in so graciously when they'd told him he was being
seat to Eriu "to see that our far-off brethren do not sink
back into the ways of Pagandom." Not one of them had
guessed why he'd been so humbly willing to travel such a
vast distance and endure so many hardships along the way.
But all those pious bureaucrats would have been horrified
at his smile just now, thin and cold as the edge of a knife.

In this far-flung comer of Christendom, so far from Borne
and the reach of Mother Church, he would settle. The
people here would have no sophistication- How could they,
die ignorant louts, sitting out here on the edge of me world?
They would know nothing of Rome, or even of the secular
splendor of Charlemagne's court, and be easily fascinated
by anyone coming from so far away. Ah yes, through sor-
cery and cunning, he would bend their High King to his
use, turn the man into his puppet. In this far-flung corner
of Christendom, he would build his realm.

And if it meant rousing Darkness to do it, why, so be it.

FINDING A PURPOSC
CHAPCeR 9

Eithne turned her head on the pillow to look at her
husband, a shapeless mass lying beside her in the darkness.
"Aedh?" she asked softly.

"Mmm."

"Aedh, are you still awake?"

He grunteo, "I am now."

"Aedh, i've been thinking."

"Good. Keep it up."

That made Eithne giggle in spite of herself. "Stop that!
I'm trying to be serious."

Aedh sighed and turned over with a great creaking of
the bedframe to face her. "I see I'll get no sleep this night
unless I hear you out. What's troubling you, Eithne?"

The words burst from her before she could stop them.
"Prince Ardagh." Feeling Aedh tense, Eithne added hast-
ily, "Oh, I don't mean he's laid a band on me or said a word
out of place, nothing at all Bke that." I am of the Sidhe I
am not human—no, she would not think of that. "But. . .
what is to become of him?"

'Who knows? By the Laws of Hospitality, he is free to
shelter here as long as he behaves himself. And I wouldn't
throw out a man of royal blood, one who has no means of
support."

That's just it He's a prince; he can't be expected to work
like a crofter or turn mercenary like Cadwal."

107

108 Josepha Shemuin

"What are you proposing?"

To her amazement, Eithne suddenly realized she was on
the verge of tears. "I—I don't know. He needs something
to do, something with a purpose."

"Here now, since when have you started worrying about
the man? I thought you didn't like him!"

"I... don't, not really. But..." He is a creature of magic,
of wonder, that's what hurts my heart, because our poor
mortal realm diminishes him. "He has a fine, sharp mind.
You told me how cleverly he handled himself during the
law court."

"Clever. He sharpened Eimin's enmity and possibly allied
the kings of Meath against me."

"I doubt that. They'd never be able to agree long enough
to muster an army."

Aedh snorted. "Well put. And I must admit Prince Ardagh
has been useful enough in my council meetings."

"Only useful? That wasn't what you said when he solved
that argument over . . . what was it, cattle? . .. with a few
neat words."

"Acerbic words that left the claimants too embarrassed
over their behavior to fight. God knows, I don't dare loose
the man against any royal emissaries—no predicting what
he'd do to mem!—but I agree, when he chooses, our princely
guest can be close to brilliant in his own odd way."

"Exactly! There must be some way you can make better
use of him. Aedh? He saved your life. Don't you trust him
by now?"

"Do you?"

Eithne remembered the vow the Sidhe had sworn to her,
his eyes coolly earnest: his folk never lied. "Yes," she said
softly.

"Eithna, Eithne," Aedh murmured, amusement in his
voice. "My strange, unpredictable wife."

"Hey now, what does that mean?"

"So sensible at most times, so dreamy at others—you
should have been a bard, Eithne."

She snorted. "I have small gift for music."

True," he admitted, and Eittme smacked his shoulder.

THE SHATTERED OATH

109

Chuckling, Aedh added, "Sensible and dreamy she is, and
most wonderfully full of love and pity as well. And I thank
the Lord each day that she's mine."

But even as her husband drew her into an embrace that
was more sleepy than lustful, Eithne thought with a sud-
den pang of guilt, / am not honest with you. Aedh, I can-
not be. It's not for pity or love of Ardagh that I try to help
him. No, my dearest love, it's because by giving Prince
Ardagh a purpose, keeping him content, he is far less likely
to betray me.

"Cadwal."

The mercenary whirled, going into an instinctive battle
stance. But in the next moment he straightened, hand drop-
ping from the hilt of his half-drawn sword. "Dewi Sant, man,
you move like a cat!" In the next moment, he could feel
his face burning, because you didn't talk like that to roy-
alty.

Prince Ardagh didn't seem offended. 'Tour pardon. I
sometimes forget . . . others' hearing isn't as keen as my
own."

Now, what did that slight hesitation imply? Without
warning, a half-forgotten wisp of childhood lore brushed
CadwaTs mind. Instead of "others," could the prince have
been about to say "humans"?

Pw, no, of course not. Enough years had passed, with
enough hardship and fighting to fill them, for him not to
harbor foolish fancies. "Your pardon for my bluntness. Prince
Ardagh, but you look like a hunting beast ready to pounce.
I do something to offend you?"

The startling green eyes blinked in surprise. "No, of course
not. Cadwal, I have recently seen you teaching young Niall
some of the fine points of swordplay."

Cadwal grinned, feeling the usual little thrill of pride that
King Aedh had entrusted him, the Cymru foreigner, the
mercenary, with the training of his son. "The young prince
has the making of a fine warrior. God grant," he added hastily,
"he not need those skills for many years yet."

"Indeed. But if it is not considered odd for you to be

110 Josepha Sherman

training one prince, then surely you may duel with me as
well. If, Ardagh added with what was very clearly an after-
thought, "you wish it."

Arrogant creature, aren't you? Cadwal asked silently. But
then, so are most princes. "I've seen you once in battle,"
the mercenary drawled, "and I wouldn't mind crossing
swords with you, see more of your Cathayan style of fight-
ing. Do us both a bit of good."

To his surprise, that sparked a genuine grin from the aloof
prince. "When and where?"

Cadwal felt himself starting to grin as well "Now's as good
a time as any, as soon as we get ourselves some blunted
training swords from the armory." No way I'm going to risk
drawing a prince's blood. "And we can use the same train-
ing field my men and I always use."

The prince followed him without argument to the sturdy
oaken building. Figuring that a man who—royal or no—
was a good swordsman would enjoy seeing the weapons in
the High King's armory, Cadwal stepped aside to let the
prince enter.

But to his surprise, the man stopped short in the door-
way, his face gone pale, almost as ifne was struggling against
sudden nausea. Or, whispered an unbidden fittle voice in
Cadwal's mind, against the presence of so much massed iron?
But then the mercenary snapped at himself. Stop that, you
idiot! You sound like an old woman! "Something the mat-
ter, Prince Ardagh?"

"Nothing." But in his eyes glinted definite distress. He
scared of the dark? Maybe. Or maybe he's one of those folks
whose sight doesn't adjust to darkness quickly.

Whatever the cause, it wouldn't be wise to embarrass a
prince any further. The mercenary said lightly, "Wait here.
I'll get the swords. Won't take a minute."

He hardly needed light to find weapons he and his men
used every day. Picking a handful, Cadwal brou^it them
out to where the prince was waiting, then frowned. "You
sure you're all right?"

"Quite sure." Prince Ardagh selected a sword, testing it
in a few efficient moves. "This will serve- Shall we?" He

THE SHATTERED OATH          111

gave that unexpected, infectious grin again, eyes laughing
too, and Cadwal forgave him a good deal of his arrogance.

"We shall, indeed?"

Och, this was a fine swordsman, indeed, quicker on his
feet than it was right for a. man to be, smooth to lunge or
parry, so graceful Cadwal felt clumsy as a fool by compari-
son. But me prince had clearly fought in few actual battles,
at least not battles won by the sword; he lacked the down-
right cunning of a successful mercenary. Cadwal. unable
to so much as touch the fellow, still managed to hold his
own, even managed to drive the prince back a few steps,
vaguely aware that they'd gathered quite an audience, his
men and Aedh's.

Making wagers, are they? You better not be wagering
against me, my boys, or 1'U have you running laps round
the fortress tiU your eyes cross.

Best to stop this duel right about now, before either one
of them got embarrassed by a loss. But something very odd
was happening. Bit by bit, the prince's clear green gaze was
changing, hardening, growing alarmingly cold, inhumanly
wild.

Och, we've roused some old memories, have we? Nasty
memories, to look at those eyes. You're not even really see-
ing me any longer, are you?

Enough of this. Cadwal hastily stepped back and low-
ered his sword, yelling, "Cease!"

For a moment he wasn't sure that was going to mean
anything to his now savage opponent, but then the prince
stopped short, almost as if he'd been slapped, eyes still
inhumanly fierce.

"Why did you halt?" he asked hoarsely.

Cadwal forced himself to meet the fierce glare without
blinking. "Because you were getting too serious," he said,
and saw Prince Aroagh flinch. "It stopped being merely a
test of skill to you. Look you, I'd as soon face a raging boar
with not a weapon in my hand as a swordsman who's lost
control of his emotions."

For a moment he was sure the prince was going to strike
him. But just as Cadwal was wondering what he'd do if that

112 Josephs Sherman

happened, Ardagh shuddered and turned away, admitting
softly, "You're right.''

Their audience was watching with rigid fascination.
Cadwal moved to Prince Ardagh's side so he wouldn't be
overheard by those idle idiots and murmured, "It's no easy
thing to be an exile. I know that, believe me." That earned
him a quick glare, but Cadwal continued in a burst of anger,
"Maybe I'm not a prince or anything fine like that, but do
you think eriles been any easier for me?"

He wasn't prepared for the sudden sympathy that flashed
in the green eyes. "No. Of course it hasn't. But... how do
you bear it?"

"Och, you do." Cadwal said gruffly, "You live each day
as it comes, and you bear it"

The prince turned to study him, frowning slightly. "There
is more to you than the man who fights for pay- How did
one like you ever become a mercenary?"

A quick stab of pain, an unwanted flash of memory, death
and pain and despair—He doesn't know, he doesn't under-
stand. "I killed a man who needed killing," Cadwal snapped.
"If ever we come to share a few drinks together," as if royalty
and mercenaries ever do. "then maybe I'll tell you about
it."

"I'm sorry." To Cadwal's surprise, that sounded genuine.
"I didn't mean to bring old pain to the present."

The mercenary brusquely waved that away. "Hiraeth
makes fools of us all,"

"Hiraeth?"

"It's a Cymreig word. Means . . . well, it doesn't trans-
late, not exactly. Hiraeth is 5omething more than mere
homesickness, more litre , . . Bke the bittersweet ache for
what you can't ever have again."

"Ah." It was the barest whisper. "Hiraeth. indeed."

He might have said more, but just at that moment there
came a shout:

"Prince Ardagh? Ah, Prince Ardagh, there you are!"

"Fothad mac Ailin," Cadwal said. "It's been . . . inter-
esting, Prince Ardagh. But it looks hke this is where we both
go back to work."

THE SHATTEBED OATH          113

Ardagh, still shaken by his odd duel and the odder con-
versation, stood waiting for Fothad, hurrying down the grassy
field to reach him. Did Cadwal realize why I couldn't enter
that armory? That sudden surge of iron.., and did he guess
who I was seeing during the duel? Did he guess how dose
I came to cutting him down because I ached to kiU my
brother instead? Ardagh shuddered, repinning his woolen
brat more closely, chilled by more than sudden inactivity.
Eirithan, we were never friends, but I never knew tul now
Just how much I hated you.

But here was Fothad, and here was an end to musing.
As the Chief Poet paused to catch his breath, his face was
practically beaming with delight. "I have exciting news for
you. Prince Ardagn, news that I think you'll enjoy."

"Indeed?" the prince asked warily.

"Why, yes. A merchant has just arrived at court—and he
has travelled all the way from Cathay!"

Ae.

Fothad, taking the prince's surprised dismay for subdued
pleasure, chattered on, "Just think of it, Prince Ardagh.
Someone who can share your native tongue with you. Some-
one who can give you news of your home."

Someone who can betray me as an impostor, Ardagh
thought. But there was no plausible excuse he could give
for not seeing the man, so he grimly followed in Fothad's
wake.

The merchant, a stout, sturdy, brown-haired man, was
standing in the open meadow before the royal keep, sur-
rounded by his goods and a bevy of bargain-hunting
women. Queen Eithne, Ardagh noted with a quick flash
of humor, stood to one side, clearly aching to be foraging
with the others but held back by her rank. Aedh stood
with her, red hair and gold crown bright in a glint of sun-
Hght, a hint of a smile crooking up the comer of his mouth.
But then his gaze met and locked with that of Ardagh.
And there was something veiy odd about the suddenly
speculative stare.

Testing me, are you? Ardagh wondered. Human or Sidhe,

114 Josephs Sherman

it would seem that a king is always a suspicious soul. But
then. he has to be such, if he is to survive.

"So, Prince Ardagh," Aedh said, as lightly as though not
the slightest wisp of suspicion was troubling him. "I have
someone for you to meet: Seanan mac Cian, far-wander-
ing merchant."

The merchant turned to face Ardagh, a smile on his broad
face: the sort of man, Ardagh guessed, who can go anywhere
because be sees no difference between this culture and that
"So now. Your Highness, they told me ..." He stopped,
running a hand through his thick brown hair. "Funny, now,
I've seen lots of Cathayan folk, but I've got to say I never
saw anyone who looked quite like you, begging your royal
pardon."

Ardagh heard Queen Eithne draw her breath in sharply,
plainly seeing the end of everything for both of them. Don't
panic, he totd her. Not yet.

He couldn't make any specific statements about Cathay;

he didn't know anything specific to say! There are many
folk," Ardagh mused aloud, using vague truth to skirt false-
hood, "and most amazingly far-travelled though you are, you
could hardly have seen them all."

Seanan mac Cian, of course, could only assume that"...
in Cathay" was included in that ambiguous statement. He
nodded enthusiastically. "Och, and isn't that the truth. Your
Highness? I've travelled a good deal, indeed, long years of
travel, but it's a bis land, Cathay is, so much vaster man this
one, as I don't have to tell you. Yes, and it's a land with a good
many kingdoms in it I certainty can't daim to have seen mem
all, or all me inhabitants, either. I'm sorry that I seem to have
missed your kingdom entirely." He grinned apologetically.
"Still, you might enjoy hearing the sound of this."

The merchant burst into a spate of oddly cadenced, totally
incomprehensible words.

Cathayan. And I'm supposed to understand what he's
saying. Suddenly inspired, me prince replied in as rapid a
flood of words in his native Sidhe tongue, saying nothing
much, then stopped at the merchant's puzzled frown, smiling
inwardly.

THE SHATTERED OATH

115

"Sorry, Your Highness," Seanan mac Cian said after a
moment. "I'd forgotten just how many dialects there are
in Camay. It looks like I never did touch o& yours." He
scratched his head again. "I really am sony about this.
Haven't seen your kingdom or learned your language. I hope
you'll not hold my failure against me."

Ardagh waved that away with a gracious hand, and the
human's face brightened. "But at least I can give you some
news of what's going on in the parts of Cathay I did see, if
you'd like."

"If you would." Ardagh politely listened to a recital about
places he'd never seen, people of whom he'd never heard.
Since he was surely expected to ask, the prince inquired
about his brother, his lands, keeping his expression eager
as though he really hoped for an answer, knowing it was
impossible for me merchant to give him anything more than
an awkward apology. He haroiy listened to that, looking
instead directly at Aedh, who gave him the most subtle of
smiles before turning away.

Ardagh paced restlessly about the confines of Fremainn,
mulling over what had happened between him and the trader,
between him and Aedh. At last he found a perch on the edge
of a low wall, and wondered, Ae, Aedh, do youfinaUy accept
the story you humans have placed on me? Do you believe I
do come from Cathay? Do you truly trust me? The prince
settled me folds of his clothing more comfortably, the feel of
wool and linen against his skin all at once very alien. I can't
let things come so near to crisis again. I must make myself so
valuable to the king that no one wiU dream to question me.
But how? lama being of magic; I never realized it so strongly
as now, when that part of my self is aS. but denied me I need
magic about me to sharpen my mind and wifl. And yet where
am I to find any ataUin this Power-weak Realm?

A small, solid body plumped down beside him on the
wall. "Princess Fainche! Where did you come from?"

"Bored," she told him.

He couldn't resist the temptation to tease me little dung.
"You come from Bored?"

116 Josepha Sherman

''No!" the child said with an indignant stare. "Tie les-
sons were boring. Boring, boring, boring!"

"I get the image," Ardagh cut in hastily. "What were you
studying?" At her not-quite understanding frown, he
amended, "Ah, that is, what were the lessons about?"

She sat, kicked her legs back and forth for a bit, then
shrugged. "Things. People and—and—things."

"I see." History? Geography? "But off stories are about
people, and people can be quite fascinating."

Tell me a story."

Ardagb just barely managed to bite back a laugh at die
autocratic tone. "Only if you ask me politely, youngung. You
are a princess, after all."

She considered that carefully, then nodded and said quite
seriously. "Please tell me a story."

That pretty little face! She wasn't at all aware of her own
power yet, but Fainche was going to make quite an appealing
woman someday. With a jolt, Ardagh realized that with his
long Sidhe life, he just might come to see that woman grown
while he, himself remained unchanged.

Shaken at the sudden reminder of the gulf between him
and humanity, the prince began the first tale that came to
mind, a true story as it happened, a Sidhe tale of a cap-
tured prince and the heroic band who had set out to free
him. It was an exciting adventure, what with monsters and
sorcery die band had faced. It was also such a strong remin-
der of home that Ardagh, caught in a surge of nostalgia,
lost himself in the tale, seeing it in his mind as firmly as if
he stood beneath the clear, sunless Sidhe sky, unknowingly
casting a spell of wonder along widi his words.

Wonder or no, he had to catch his breadi after a wild
battle with a dragon. Jarred back to die present the prince
realized for the first time diat he had attracted quite an
audience of children, some of diem lingering on die edges,
wary as wild things drawn by a lure, odiers flopping right
down at his feet to listen widi openmouthed awe.

What a ... bizarre situation!

There beyond die children, not quite hidden in shadow,
stood King Aedh and a whole bevy of aides and attendants—

THE SHATTERED OATH          117

and die maidservants who were surely supposed to be in
charge of Fainche. This time die smile die king gave Ardagh
was hill and quite genuine.

Ae, but his audience was growing resdess. Ardagh hast-
ily returned to die tale, and the rescue of die captive prince
from his forest prison, dus time refusing to lose himself so
totally.

The forest prison... die forest! Powers, how very obvi-
ous! The forest, of course, diere was die answer to his lack
of magic!

"And so," Ardagh concluded hastily, "die prince and his
gallant band returned home, where he ruled wisely and
happily all his days. The end. Now, go back to whatever
you were doing before this. Except for you," he added,
catching Princess Fainche by die hand. "You, I will deliver
personally. King Aedh, I believe this child belongs to you."

"Indeed." He caught his daughter by die shoulders.
"Fainche, you must not run off like diat."

She met his glare bravely. "I was bored!"

"Life can't always be as fascinating as one of Prince
Ardagh's stories. This isn't a joke, Fainche! Do you want die
servants to be hurt because you ran away from diem? They
will be, you know, if dial happens again. Do you want diat?"

"N-no."

"Good! I don't want to hear diat you've left your lessons
widiout permission again. Is diat understood? Well? Is it?"

Crestfallen, bitingher lower lip, Fainche nodded.

"Remember id Remember diat if you want to be treated
like a princess, you must act like one. And that," Aedh added,
"includes sitting dirougfa your lessons even if tiiey bore you!
Now, off widi you." He pointed Fainche in me right direction
and swatted her on the rump to send her hurrying into die
arms of die anxious maidservants.

Sensing Ardagh's gaze on him, Aedh turned back to the
prince. "My apologies. Prince Ardagjb. Famche's a good littie
girl for die most part, but she's just at diat 'very much inde-
pendent' stage."

"And it worries you."

"Of course it does! Every time I hear that she's run off

118 Josepha Sherman

again, I dunk, 'A foe has her!' And the terrible thing is that
it just could happen. My son and daughter would make
incredibly valuable hostages." He shook his head. "Now I
see why the rule of fosterage started. Not that I'd worry
the less if Niall and Fainche were being raised and trained
by someone else."

"But surely your children are safe within Fremainn."

"Och, probably. I still worry." Aedh paused. "I take it you
aren't a father."

"No. My people are ... not particularly fertile, and so
we cherish all children. I cannot understand the idea of
anyone willingly harming such a precious being. Or sim-
ply abandoning one."

"I assume that means you've met Breasal mac Donn-
chadh."

"Yes."

Aedh sighed. "I doubt he'U make it to manhood, the poor
sad, sickly boy, and I suspect he had a miserable time of it
at home, but I try to give Breasal at least some chance at
happiness while he's here."

"I know." Ardagh, paused, frowning. "What is it?"

Aedh shook his head. "You are a bewildering man, Prince
Ardagh, quite bewildering. Gentle and cold, aloof and gen-
erous—och, well, Father Seadna would say that all humans
are such a muddle of contradictions!" At the smallest of
impatient "ahems" behind him, Aedh glanced back at the
eagerly waiting aides and gave a wry uttle smile. "If you
wul excuse me, it's time for me to stop being the father and
go back to being the king."

He disappeared back into the royal keep, closely followed
by his entourage. But for the first time, Ardagh thought,
there had been genuine friendship warming his voice.

Is that aH it took? The kindness I would have shown to
any child? Is that aU it took to finally make you trust me?

Ah, but now that he was alone again, Ardagh could let
himself think about the forest. He hadn't had a chance to
notice much of anything before, when his only concern had
been to find shelter and food, but any forest had a strong
life-force—one from which magic could be drawn, even in

THE SHATTERED OATH

119

this Power-weak Realm. Ae, yes, out among all that green,
vibrant life, he would find restoring Power. And then, and
then . . .

Tomorrow is the High King's hunting day, the prince
realized. And I shall most definitely see that I am included
in his party!




PLOCS

CHAPCeP10

Bishop Gervinus, late of Rome, stood on a narrow, muddy
street, a rickety wooden dock washed by the sea on one
side, ugly little wood and stone buildings on the other, and
fought with himself for patience as he'd been fighting since
he and his retinue had come ashore a day ago.

Did I really think of rousing Darkness to win myself a
kingdom? No, no, far easier if I'd set myself to rousing stu-
pidity instead!

For surely he had never been surrounded by such dolts.
here in this provincial little Eriu excuse for a seaport. There
was nothing more than the one dock and hardly any town
worthy of note. The buildings were mostly small, mostly
smelling strongly of fish. The people were mostly tall, mostly
fair of hair and skin—but they, too, smelled strongly of fish.
Gervinus frowned at their gaudy woolen cloaks, which were
checked in the loudest combinations of color. What sane
mind would dream of weaving sky blue and sun yellow and
bilious green into the same pattern?

Rather alarmingly, no Church messenger had put into
this port. Not one of the local folk seemed to -have been
expecting his arrival. Perhaps the messenger had never
arrived; perhaps he had been swamped in a storm or slain
by bandits. Or, thought Gervinus, perhaps he had never been
sent at all. Maybe the Curiate really did mean to be rid of
him.

120

THB SHATTERED OATH          121

No matter. I shaB. still win.

At least these idiots had been clever enough to recog-
nize him right away as a man of the Church, giving him
nervous little bows whenever they looked his way. But not
one of diem spoke more than a few mangled words of Latin
or any other civilized tongue.

"My Lord Bishop." It was the head of his guards, going
quickly to one knee. "Your pardon, Your Grace, but there
is not a horse-litter or carriage to be found."

"But have you found sufficient mounts?"

"That, yes, Your Grace, though the horses here are little
taller than ponies."

"No matter." As the son of a Frankish noble, Gervinus
had grown up knowing how to ride anything on four legs.
"I wm ride astride. It will do me no harm to be reminded
of humility." Even if I feel it not. "See to it that we have
sufficient provisions for the entire retinue."

"I have already done that. Your Grace."

"Excellent," Gervinus murmured, and held out his hand
so the guard might kiss his holy ring. "But have you yet found
anyone to serve as guide?"

The guard winced. "Not yet. Your Grace. We've all tried,
but no one here seems to understand exactly where you
want to go."

Gervinus drew his hand back sharply. "Get up, man. I
will try this myself."

He had studied the Celtic language back in Rome; it was
not that complex a tongue. "Tara," he said to the local folk,
then bit back a sigh of frustration at the blank stares he
received. Take me to Tara," he repeated slowly and care-
fully. But the language he had studied back in the refined
libraries of Rome seemed to be almost as alien as Latin to
these idiots. "Do you understand me? Take—me—to—
Tara." God, wasn't there anyone here with something besides
mist between the ears?

The locals were chattering together, gesturing wildly,
plainly debating what this odd stranger really wanted. Sud-
denly one of them, a stocky little mouse of a fellow, as
brightly redheaded as thougn he'd been topped with a live

122 Josephs Sherman

coal, said, "Aha!" in sudden inspiration and turned to
Gervinus. "Your—ah—Grace?"

His accent was like nothing the bishop had studied back
in Rome, lilting and unexpectedly musical, but with the strew
placed in equally unexpected places. "Would it be Teamhair
you're wanting?"

"That's what I've been saying all along," Gervinus said
with great restraint. "Tara."

"Ah- Well. I'm not sure why you'd be wanting to go there,
Your Grace, not that it's anything of my business, but I do
know the way to Teamhair."

At last! "Very good," Cervinus said shortly. "I wish to be
in Tara without rurther delay."

"This?" Gervinus erupted, staring up at the earthen rings,
the grassy, tranquil mounds where buildings might once have
stood. Oh, it was an impressive enough site in its way, this
series of ancient hill forts dominating the gentle landscape
about it—but it was never what he had expected. "This is
Tara, Fortress of Kings?"

The little guide scratched his bead. "It's Teamhair, sure
enough, just as My Lord Bishop wanted."

"But where are they? The king and his court—where is
everyone?"

The man frowned in confusion. "I thought you knew. Your
Grace. Teamhair's still tho—ah—ritual home of the High
King, it's where he was crowned king and all. But no one's
actually lived here for... well now, it must be over a hun-
dred years."

Why had no one back in Rome thought to tell him this?
Was their information so very much out of date? Were they
trying to make him look a fool? "Then where—"

"High King Aedh—I'm guessing that's who you're seek-
ing, Your Grace, King Aedh Ordnigh, you being of the
Church—well. he and his court would be at Fremainn, his
royal fortress, this time of year."

Then why didn't you teS me this before?"

"You didn't ask. Your Grace! Teamhair,' you told me, plain
as can be, 'take me to Teamhair.' And here we are."

THE SHATTERED OATH          123

For one wild moment, Gervinus ached to call back Arridu
to rend this idiot to bits. But of course that would have been
downright foolish; even if he dared risk it, his whole reti-
nue would serve as perilous witnesses. Instead, the bishop
managed to grate out, almost steadily, "Fremainn. That is
where I wish to be. Fremainn. Do you understand me? I
wish—no, wait. If this is such a sacred site, why are no guards
surrounding it?"

The guide scratched his head. "Never thought about it
much. But I guess Teamhair's powerful enough to protect
itself. Who would dare harm it?"

Dolt. T see. Then there is no reason for me not to see
it at closer range myself. Stay here, all of you."

As the guide and his retinue both watched in bewilder-
ment, Gervinus climbed up the long, grassy slope to stand
at last, catching his breath, amid the wide plain and mounds
of Tara. Ancient fortifications, as he'd guessed, worn down
by time and covered with grass. Burial mounds, also ancient:

those he had seen in his Prankish boyhood days. I wonder
what ridiculous legends the locals haw buut up around them.

There was not a sound save for the soft whisper of the
wind and the light, cheerful chirping of a few sparrows, but
the sense of the past was veiy strong. To the bishop's left
loomed what must be the heart of me site, the sanctuary
where the High Kings of Eriu were crowned, and Gervinus
snorted at die mix of Christian and pagan: Church masses
might have been performed here under the open sly, but
that standing stone so near the altar had nothing whatso-
ever to do with Christianity. It reminded him instead of the
menhirs of Franldsh lands, but he didn't doubt it was the
Ua Fail, the stone that was supposed to cry out when a
true king touched it.

What if...? the bishop thought in sudden fierce curi-
osity, and raised a hand to touch the stone. But he froze
just short of its surface. What if something did happen, and
not anything he might want? What if there was some sor-
cery here that would recognize him for the outsider he was
and—

Nonsense. It was just a stone, nothing more than that.

124 Josepha Sherman

So short a time here and already he was acting like one of
the superstitious idiots.

Pagans, Gervinus thought with a rush of contempt. Chris-
tianized pagans. How easy they will be to corrupt.

If he had the time and the solitude, he would have
worked a testing spell to prove the stone's lack of Power.
But revealing his sorcery so soon would be truly stupid.
And without sorcery, there was nothing more to be learned
here.

He stopped short. Someone had laid down a floral offering
here, hiding it amid a little jumble of rocks. Now, why would
anyone try to hide—ah. The offering hadn't been made to
the Christian site at all, but to the standing stone.

Pagans, Gervinus repeated, this time in genuine shock.
Ah, but here is my lever by which to move a king: these
pagans must be removed by whatever means I deem nec-
essary. This land. I will state in horror, must be restored
to the True Faith—and what man wiU dare stand against
me?

Gervinus hurried back down to the others and told the
guide, enunciating carefully, "I wish to be in Fremainn. Take
me there. Now."

The little man shrugged as though he wasn't about to be
surprised by anything this stranger demanded. "Whatever
you say. Your Grace."

It was starting to rain. Of course it was starting to rain,
Gervinus thought, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his
head. What else could he expect from this barbaric place?

Still, barbaric or not, it was a kingdom. And it would yet
be his.

Earlier it had been raining in the gentie. determined way
that seemed so typical of the land, but with equally typi-
cal suddenness, the weather had turned sunny. Ardagh sat
outside his guest house, sword in one hand, soft cloth in
the other, polishing the straight, slender blade with meticu-
lous care, enjoying the way it gleamed in the autumn sun-
light At first he'd been rather worried about what the mortal
sun might do to Faerie metal, but obviously the blade was

THE SHATTERED OATH          125

taking no more harm from it than did he. Instead, as he
turned the sword this way and that, being careful he hadn't
missed a spot, it seemed to take on a new light, so brightly
clear Ardagh fancied he could almost use the blade as a
scrying mirror. Surely he really could catch the quickest,
most fleeting glimpses of Sidhe splendor . . . Sidhe faces
... his brother's face—

Bah. no. This was ridiculous. All he was doing was daz-
zling his vision and—

He was being watched. Ardagh looked down the length
of the sword at a small, straight-backed figure: yet another
child, a boy this time and older than Fainche, though there
was something to the set of his cheekbones that reminded
the prince of her. The boy was slender in an agile, fierce
young way, his eyes a familiar grey stare ... ah, of course.
The only one of the children here who'd been rather dis-
tant to him. Shy? Or just regally wary?

"Prince Niafl." Ardagh dipped his head politely and
received an equally polite bow in return.

"Prince Ardagh."

Silence fell. Ardagh returned to cleaning his sword. The
Faerie alloy wasn't liable to corrosion the way mortal iron
rusted, but that didn't mean it didn't need care. He had
no intention of being left having to rely on an iron Eriu
blade which, though it would undeniably be of fine design,
would sicken him every time he drew it. Out of the corner
of his eye, he saw the boy follow each stroke of the cloth
with fascination. "You have something to say to me. Prince
Niall?"

The boy started. "My sister likes you."

"So I gathered. Why does that bring you here?"

"I wanted to—to see if you were safe."

Ardagh glanced up at the intent young face. So, now, for
all his teasing, the boy did care for his sister. "Safe?" the
prince echoed, letting his voice and eyes go Sidhe chill and
watching Niall blanch slightly, though the boy never flinched.
"I am not safe, boy. I never will be safe. But I also will never,
ever harm a child. Is that understood and accepted?"

Niall blinked as though suddenly released from a spell.

126 Josephs Shernum

Hesitantty, now very much a child himself, he nodded, then
asked, almost shyly, "That blade isn't silver, is it? No, it
couldn't be; silver's too soft to hold an edge, Cadwal\told
me that."

"Cadwal's right. There's silver in here, indeed." Ar3agh
turned the blade to catch the light, then sheathed it. "But
there are other, stronger metals in the mix as well. The same
is true of my dagger."

He drew that and began to work on it as well. After a
nervous moment. Prince Niall crouched at his side, watching
intently- "I like the hilt," he said suddenly. "It echoes die
bilt of your sword."

Ardagh grimaced. "It should; the set took long enough
for the smiths to make." Even with magic.

"What are those twining ornaments? I mean, I can guess
they give you a better grip, but what are they? Some sort
of birds of prey?"

"Nothing you'd recognize in this land, but yes." Ardagh
held the dagger lightly by the quillon for a moment so the
boy could get a better look at the elegant, fierce thierien,
then went back to his polishing. "You enjoy weaponry, do
you?"

The solemn grey eyes blazed into life. "Och, yes! Some-
times I get hurt or so weary I ache all over, but it's ... well,
Cadwal would be angry at me for 'making light' of his live-
lihood, but it's fun."

Ardagh chuckled- "I've been there." Though not for longer
than you would believe. "And you're right, for the most part,
it is." More so for you. my little human friend, since you
don't have an older brother trying his "accidental" best to
fctff you during practice. "Eh, but you must have other lessons
as well."

"They can be fun, too," Niall said with such careful tact
that Ardagh nearly laughed.

"I see you've already learned one of the lessons of poli-
tic behavior." Returning his dagger to its sheath, the prince
got to his feet. "But our political meeting is at an end, I
fear. You will be accompanying your father on today's hunt?"

"Yes! He finally—yes!"

THE SHATTERED OATH          127

"So be it," Ardagh said with a formal tittle bow, face
showing not a trace of his amusement. "1 will see you there."

"Damn him. Damn him. Damn him!"

The young man paced savagely back and forth in his small
chamber, brilliant blue and yeuow brat swirling and tan-
gling about him. He was Eimin mac Fiainn, cousin to the
kings of Meath, he was somebody. Or he had been. But now,
thanks to that cursed prince of Cathay—

"May demons drag him to the deepest pit of hell!"

Thanks to the prince, Eimin was now little more than a
beggar. He couldn't stalk off home, not with his honor-price
sooadly damaged, and calling for aid from his royal cous-
ins was impossible; even if he could get a message to them,
Conchobar and Ailill were too busy trying to kill each other
for the throne of Meath to bother with him. That left Eimin
with nothing to do but live off the High King's charity, while
his friends—

"Ha! Friends!"

They had dropped him quickly enough, the treacherous,
worthless wretches, with not a word of explanation, not a
word of sympathy, not even a jesting. "How was she?"

"How was she!" Eimin spat. "She was a damned ser-
vant. a nothing. How dare everyone make such a fuss over
her?"

Rape. How could you call the taking of a nobody like
that rape? Just because she'd put up a struggle—they all
did, it was part of the game! Hundreds of nobles before
him had helped themselves to hundreds of women, and yet
here he was, singled out and disgraced just for—for being
a normal, virile man!

Of course his friends had deserted him. In a flash of
honesty, Eimin admitted he would have done the same had
it been another in the same situation. One did not risk
association with someone fallen out of the royal favor.

Never mind that. The question was how to get back into
that favor. And... what was he to do about the prince who'd
brought him to this ridiculous pass? At the thought, Eimin
stopped short, heart racing, and his hand stole, almost of

128 Josephs Sherman

its own accord, to one of the amulets dangling from about
his neck.

But then he tore the little clay trinket from him with a
savage oath. What good had it done him? The sorcerer who'd
sold it to him had swom it would ward off all magic, but it
certainly hadn't stopped Prince Ardagh from looking right
into his mind and dragging out the truth! Who knew what
other dark powers the prince possessed?

Cod, maybe he's reading my thoughts right now and—

No. What had happened in the law court had been a trick.
And even if it hadn't been, even if maybe the prince did
have some eerie powers, he was mortal, just like any other
man. He could bleed and hurt and die.

And die. Eimin repeated, and clenched his hand about
an imaginary hilt. Aedh had taken most of his retinue from
him, but he still did have a few of his own servants left,
and one or two of those might actually be loyal.

No, wait. One of them was totally loyal. It wasn't out of
any love for him, Eimin knew, but because one night the
man had made the mistake of getting drunk and letting his
master overhear his secret. Self-preservation was a strong
motive for loyalty, Eirmn told himself with a sudden fierce
smile, and when you added the man's total ruthlessness to
the mix—

Och, but nothing must happen within Fremainn. There
were too many potential witnesses here, too many chances
for discovery. But what about during the hunt? Everyone
knew accidents could happen when all were excited and
weapons were close to hand. The prince was such an odd
creature that he might be caught away from the rest of the
hunting party. If that happened, oh, perfect. It would look
like the work of a bandit. Everyone would go running off
on a useless search. And he, Eimin thought with a savage
grin, would be avenged.

Go hunting. Prince Ardagh. he urged. Go hunting, and
be hunted—to death!

Sleek hounds loping in the fore, the High King's hunt-
ing party rode down from the fortress of Fremainn, cloaks

THE SHATTERED OATH

129

flying, homs sounding. And in their midst, sitting his sturdy
little horse with ease, rode Ardagh. They passed beneath
the first canopies of leaves, and were suddenly taken from
a world of shifting grey clouds and flashes of sunlight into
one of soft green mystery. Ardagh drew in a deep breath
of sharp, clean vegetable scents and laughed. Although the
month was late, the last of summer still dung to these lands.
The wild, strong life-force of the yet-unsleeping forest sur-
rounded him, striking him so strong a blow he swayed in
the saddle.

King Aedh glanced sharply his way. "Are you all right?"

"Quite, quite." Aware how both die king and young Prince
Niall were staring, the prince bit down on his tongue before
he could keep from babbling like an i<3iot, feeling the won-
derful life surging at him from all sides. "King Aedh," he
continued, caremDy skirting falsehood, "I... quite lost track
of days." True enough. "There is something I must do in
dais forest. You might call it a ... personal ritual." Among
other things.

He saw uneasiness in the king's eyes. Aedh's full title was,
Ardagh reminded himself. High King Aedh Ordnigh, Aedh
the Ordained, ordained by the Church; even if, as the prince
had teased Father Seadna, Aedh had his occasional quarrels
with the equally strong-willed abbots who ruled the mon-
asteries as he ruled Eriu, the king could hardly be comfort-
able with what he had to assume would be a pagan rite.

But, bound by the Laws of Hospitality, Aedh could not
argue, except to ask, "You are not thinking of hunting alone?
A prince who hunts alone," he added at Ardagh's puzzled
frown, "loses some of his honor-price in the eyes of men—
and in courts of law."

Once more confused by the maze of human rules, Ardagh
assured the king, "No- I am not going to hunt alone."

"I take it you will not need a bodyguard?"

The implication of that, at least, was clear: if they needed
to send out a search party for Ardagh, the king would not
be pleased. The prince smiled slightly. "No," he promised.
"I will not get lost. And I will catch up with your hunting
party in a bit."

130 Josephs Shenrun

Giving the reins of his horse to a bewildered guard, he
waited, forcing his face to stay a polite, tranquil mask, untfil
the last of the minting party was gone. Then at last Ardagh
threw himself full-length on the ground, breathing in me
rich, loamy scent, digging his fingers into die earth as if
he meant to take root. Ae, Powers, Powers, how wondrous
this felt! Yes, this was an ahen Realm, yes, the fed of the
very ground was alien to him, but the life-force was there,
the magic. It was not at all as casually strong as that of the
Sidhe Realm, it was not that easy to absorb, but it was
wondrous just the same, slowly seeping into mind and body,
giving him new strength, new sharpness, new life. . . .

But he dare stay apart from the others no longer. Ach-
ing with reluctance, Ardagh disengaged himself from Ae
forest and sat up, dizzy and elated and feeling truly Sidhe
as he had not for so long. Perhaps there wasn't me easy
Power to be had from air and earth and water of his native
Realm, but this would do, ae yes, this would do. He raised
his arms, casting up an extravagant fountain of magical
sparks, red, blue, gold, laughing at the sheer triviality, the
sheer delight of it.

Powers, yes, yes, now I can bear to live among the
humans and yet stay me. AU I need do is let them think it
a religious need that I make regular pilgrimages out here,
and I can regather my strength. Aedh would probably think
him a worshipper of the human's Mother Earth. Ha, well.
in a manner of speaking, I suppose I am, and if there's any
One who con hear me, thank you!

The prince got to his feet, then froze, frowning slightly,
listening, feeling with every newly restored magical sense. He
wasn't yet familiar enough with humanity to be sure what he'd
felt: trouble, surely, but of what sort or from whom ...

Ardagh shook his head impatiently. There was only one
human he knew who might be able to find the exact source
of the trouble. Not Aedh, of course. Clever king though
the man might be, he had no magic to aid him—no magic
of his own, that was.

Eithne is not going to like this, Ardagh thought with a
wry smile. But, Uke it or not, we have no choice.

THE SHATTERED OATH

131

With mat, he went in search of King Aedh and Ae hunting
party.

The murderer crouched in foresty shadow, knife in hand,
waiting, tense with suspense as he always was before a kill.
There was no guarantee Prince Ardagh would return this
way, none at all. Still, this was the most clearly marked trail
back to the hunting party.

Then where was die man? Maybe something had already
gotten Prince Ardagh. Ha, like what? Boar would have made
enough noise to bring everyone here in a rush, and noth-
ing much else was going to attack a man, not when tfiere
was still so much regular prey to be had.

So. The prince was alive. For now

But if I miss. and Eimin mac Flainn learns I failed. he'U
kill me.

Now, the young idiot's too squeamish for that. More his
style to haw me accused of some crime or other and watch
someone else do the dirty job for him Be just as dead either
way

Staying nice and safe under a noble s protection had
seemed pretty good at first, what with there being not many
places left for a killer to hide. Damn him, I never should
have been so stupid. Never should have gotten drunk. Never
should have let that idiot know I'd done in a few targets.

Well, one more wouldn't matter, royal blood or no: once
it was spilled, all blood looked the same. Eimin had given
him a nice, heavy pouch, though they both knew the con-
tents were merely a token payment for services rendered.
Eimin's continued protection was the main reward. One
more target, then he was safely back under that protection.

Ardagh froze, every sense alert, Sidhe vision easily spotting
Ae human hiding in shadow, the plainly clad man without
the slightest hint of who he was or who'd sent him out here.
Sidhe instinct^efa the cold bite of the iron blade in the man's
hand, felt the coldness of the man himself, the dim echo
of others' dying gasps, the dim soent of spilled blood. A
murderer. An assassin.

132 Josepha Shemvin

And it's me for whom he waits this time. the prince
realized with a shock of surprise. A bad mistake, human,
a fatal mistake.

Silent as a predator, Ardagh stalked the human, stood
for a moment, calculating, men reached out and coolly
tapped the man on the shoulder. As the man spun about
with a strangled yelp, the prince asked mildly:

"Waiting for me?"

To his surprise, the human reacted almost as swiftly as
a Sidhe, lunging at him with the deadly iron blade. Ardagh
sprang hastily back, realizing with a shock that die Realm
hadn't given him enough Power for a death-spell, whipping
out his own silvery dagger instead, even as part of his mind
was screaming. What are you doing? You're a prince, not
a trained knife-fighter!

What else could he do without battle-magic? Running
was out of the question: no Sidhe fled from combat, not
without so much as a wound being delivered. Ardagh circled
the human, seeing how easily the man kept pace with him,
seeing how low and steady he heid that iron dagger. Not a
good sign, that, not at all. It meant the humanknew how
to do fatal damage with one upward stab, so Ardagh burst
into motion, lunging, leaping, feinting, making up in Sidhe
speed and grace what he lacked in practicaT experience,
dodging the iron blade again and again. But if the human
couldn't touch him, he couldn't quite get past the human's
guard, either-

It's going to depend on which of us has the greater stamina.
Which one of us makes the first mistake.

Ardagh sprang back—and his heel slipped on an exposed
root. As the prince flailed wildly for balance, the human
threw himself into Ardagk They both crashed to the ground,
the prince landing with bruising force on his back, strug-
gling to catch his breath and block the human's knife. I wSl
not die from clumsiness! Ardagh vowed, and caught the
human's descending knife-hand with his own free hand, die
impact jarring all the way up to his shoulder, battling to bring
his Sidhe dagger into play. The human slammed his own
free hand down on Ardagns knife-hand, pinning it against

THE SHATTERED OATH          133

the ground, then slowly began forcing his iron knife down,
point aiming relendessly toward the prince's unprotected
throat.

He's too strong! I can't hold him!

Gambling wildly, Ardagh suddenly released the man's
wrist, twisting to one side with all his might, feeling the knife
plunge down into the tangle of his clothing, not into him.
In the bare instant that the human was off-balance, the
prince tore his pinned hand free and lunged blindly up with
his blade. He heard the human grunt, felt him roll aside,
and stabbed again, then scrambled to his feet, knife poised.
The human stared up at him with puzzled eyes, as though
hardly believing what had just happened. He might have
tried to speak, but all Ardagh heard was the softest of sighs.
And then there was nothing, not even breath.

Aware at first only that he was, amazingly, alive and no
worse than bruised—although his dodiing was rather repul-
sively stained—the prince stood shaking with reaction and
struggling to catch his breath. Ae, Powers, that had been a
close thing, far too close! A shame, though, that the human
had died before confessing who'd sent him.

If anyone did. He could have been a bandit.

And the woods could be full of flying fish. Glancing
down at his dagger, Ardagh shuddered and wiped it clean
on die human s clothing, then straightened, listening. The
sound of the struggle was bringing the royal hunting party
here to investigate. The prince hastily dropped to one knee
beside die body to search for any clues he could find. A
pouch . . . coins, and somediing else. His hand closed
about a small, hard object. Pulling it free, Ardagh stared
for a moment, dien smiled.

Ah. yes . . . clumsy of you, Eimin. very clumsy

As King Aedh and his men came crashing through the
underbrush on dieir horses, Ardagh quickly slipped die tell-
tale pouch and its contents into the folds of his brat, dien
scrambled back to his feet. The humans were ail staring at
him, htde Niall's eyes wide widi horror. Aedh's glance swept
down from the disheveled prince to stop at die body. deary
registering bandit, then swept back up again.

134 Josepha Sherman

"None of that's yours, I hope?"                i
Ardagh looked down at his bloodstained self in distaste

and shook his head, waiting for the lecture he was sure was

going to follow.

But all King Aedh added was a laconic, "Now you see

yet another reason for a prince not to go hunting alone.

Let's get you back to Fremainn, shall we?"

. . AND COUNCePPLOCS

CHAPCeP11

Slipping into the room unseen that night had been no
problem for one of the Sidhe. Ardagh stood silently watching
his enemy for a time as the man prepared for bed without
the slightest sign of alarm, savoring this moment of keen
anticipation. But if he waited any longer, the element of
surprise might be lost, so the prince said quietly, "Eirnin
mac Flainn."

The man turned so quickly he nearly fell. And to Ardagh's
pleasure, Eirnin actually blanched, eyes wide with horror
at the sight of the prince. He opened his mouth to shout,
but Ardagh snapped, "I wouldn't."

"You—how dad you—"

"How did I what?" the prince purred. "Get in here?
Did you really think mere doors could keep me out? Ah,
or were you, perhaps, wondering how I survived that little
surprise you had waiting for me in the forest?"

"I—I didn't—"

"Tsk. Anyone setting an assassin in place should not be
so careless—or so foolish—as to leave any evidence behind."
Ardagh held up the little clay amulet he'd found within the
assassin's pouch. "You didn't mean to give him this, I'm sure.
I see that the thong has been snapped, as though you tore
it from you—ah, you did, didn't you, probably when you
realized it didn't hold any Power at all against someone like
me. You should have checked to see where it landed, Eimin.

135

136                Josephs Shemwn

• /
But, alas, you didn't. You dumped the assassin's payment
into his pouch without once looking at what you did. And
so there it lay, all tangled up in with that payment."

"What did you do to him?" It was the barest whisper.

Ardagh smiled. "Do you really need to know?" He kept
his voice silken-smooth, gently edged with menace. "I don't
approve of people who try to kill me. I don't approve of
you, Eimin mac Flainn."

He took a slow, menacing step forward, a predator stalking
his prey. Eimin backed up and continued to back up until
he came to a sudden halt against the far wall. "Don't. . ."

"Don't what, Eirnin mac Flainn? Don't kill you? Oh, I
have no intention of... lolling you. Dead, you are no longer
amusing. Alive ..." He laughed, and saw the human flinch,
"I give you your life, Eimin mac Flainn. For now. It is a
rift I can take back any time I wish. Remember that, Eirnin
mac Flainn. You live only because I let you live."

With the human nearly hysterical with superstitious dread,
it was not at all difficult for Ardagh to cast the illusion that
he'd stepped into shadow and simply vanished, rather than
left by me door. Delighted with the ease with which even
that admittedly small illusion-spell had worked, delighted,
too, with his revenge on Eimin mac Flainn, the prince went
his way. Every word he'd told the man was quite true: it
was more amusing to keep an enemy alive and most thor-
oughly, most satisfactorily, demoralized.

That night, he slept quite tranquilly, and smiled in his
sleep.

Ardagh stood hidden in shadow in the royal keep this
afternoon, quietly watching and waiting. Queen Eithne was
there in her sunny little grianan, her women's house, but
to the prince's annoyance, she was not alone. The queen
sat embroidering a tunic; another woman sat beside her,
working on her own project. The two of them made a pretty
sight, the sunlight turning their hair to rich gold or blazing
red and their needlework to stitched rainbows of color, and
at first glance they were the very image of domesticity.

But they were speaking of war.

THE SHATTERED OATH

137

"With the winter coming, we're surely safe for now. But
once the warm weather is here again, the danger is sure to
come as well," Eithne mused.

"Once the northern sea ice has fully melted," the other
woman agreed: it was Sorcha ni Fothad, Ardagh realized
with a slight start, her eyes bright and fierce as those of a
hawk. "Enough so that ships can put to sea. When a war
leader has been cooped up all the long, dark winter with
restless warriors, what better time to take ship and let off
all that pent-up energy in some nice, fast raids?"

With a sudden burst of energy, Sorcha sprang to her feet,
letting her needlework drop to her chair, and began to pace,
resdess as those warriors herself. "The only question is: where
are those raids going to be? Where are they going to strike?"

are

"Eriu," Eithne said flatiy. "That much seems dear. They've
already discovered that there are riches to be found in these
lands. The only real question is: whose kingdom will be struck
first? Aedh has been debating—Sorcha, do stop that pacing."

"Och, I'm sony. I didn't even realize I was doing it. It's
just. . ."

"I know. The waiting is maddening."

Sorcha flinched as if she'd been slapped and turned
sharply to face the queen, "More so for women. We're not
supposed to do anything, not even plan our men's strategy!"

"Sorcha."

"I know, I know, that's the way things are. It doesn't mean
I have to be happy with them. But can't King Aedh—"

"Do what? There's a limit to even the High King's reach
and the span of his armies. To predict exactly where the
raids will come would require more than normal means."

For a startled moment, seeing the odd flicker of light in
Eithne's eyes, Ardagh was sure she was about to confess
to using magic to aid her husband. But all at once the queen
pretended to become totally involved in her needlework
instead.

Not so Sorcha. "If only there was something we could
do. If only there was something I could do!"

Eithne glanced up with a laugh- "What do you mean?
Take up the sword?"

138 josepha Sherman

"Why not? Our mothers' mothers did!" -
"These aren't the olden days."

Sorcha's sigh held a world of frustration. "No. And so I
must wield a pen instead of a blade."

"Father Seadna claims the pen is a mightier weapon than
any blade," Eithne said gently.

"Tell that to the Lochlannach," Sorcha retorted, then
stiffened with a little cry of dismay. "A pen, yes! I nearly
forgot. Queen Eithne, please excuse me." Her face was
scarlet with embarrassment. "I promised to transcribe some
of his poetry for my father before the day is out."

"A promise is a promise," Eithne agreed, amused. "Off
with you, my dear.

As Sorcha hurried past him, so close Ardagh could have
touched her sleeve, he thought, It's true: she would have
made a fine warrior-maid. And, rather to his surprise, found
himself adding in sympathy; No wonder she is as prickly
as she is, a falcon trapped in a pigeon's role.

But now Queen Eithne was alone, and alone she might
not be again, so Ardagh slipped silently into the grianan.
As he expected, she was instantly aware of him, glancing
sharply up. Also as he'd expected, she made no outcry, only
hissed, "You shouldn't be in here!"

"Doubtlessly not."

"You don't understand! If anyone finds you here—"

They won't. Nor," he added, "did anyone see me enter.
Nor will they see me leave."

She blinked. "You look somehow . . . different."

"I am different. I found a new source of Power to restore
me." At least up to a point.

Her eyes widened slightly in alarm, but she said only a
sarcastic, "How nice for you. But why are you here?"

"What better chance to speak with you alone?"

Eithne froze, suddenly aware of: "You've killed someone.
Recently."

"Yesterday. Didn't your husband tell you?"

"Och, of course. The bandit. I'm glad you weren't hurt,
but you shouldn't have been—"

"It wasn't a bandit,"

THE SHATTERED OATH

139

"What!"
"Simply put: I was attacked. I slew the attacker, and gave

a warning to the one who'd sent him. There's the end of it."
"How can you be so calm?"

Ardagh shrugged. "Because it isn't important any longer."
"You tell me that someone tried to kul you, then you say

that it isn't important? Prince Ardagh, you can't just—"
"The matter," Ardagh said firmly, "is settled."
Eithne stared- "You aren't human, are you?"
Ardagh ignored that obvious point. "Queen Eithne, what

happened is past. What we need to discuss now is magic."
Her hands clenched on the needlework. "No."
"Magic, and the dark cloud menacing your husband."
The needlework slipped to the floor in a bright cascade

of color. "I told you, if I could have put a name to it—"
"I can't, either. But together, ah, together, who knows

what we might be able to leam?"

She started to speak, stopped, tried again. "You're ask-
ing me to risk everything."

"You've done it before. Queen Eithne, neither one of us

can afford to see your husband threatened."

She winced. "No. All right, then. Let us see what we can do."

Ardagh looked about the small, secret chamber and sighed
faintly Eithne glanced at him. "What?"

"Nothing. Merely a touch of regret that magic should be
something feared and forbidden in this Realm."

"That is as it is."

"I'm not mocking you," Ardagh told her softly, "nor con-
demning."

"Och, I know. It's only that I've had to hide my—my abili-
ties for so long. Not," she added with a quick glance his
way, "that they're such grand ones. Not like anything your
folk could—"

"Eithne, I cannot teach you anything of our spells. While
all my people have innate Power, a prince of the Sidhe is
taught only as many spells as might be of use to him, and
frankly, they're nothing a human could work, certainly not
in this Power-weak Realm."

140 Josepha Sherman

"I ... hadn't expected anything else."

That was as blatant a lie as he'd heard from a human,
but Ardagh kept silent, watching with sharp curiosity as
Eithne drew a circle in chalk about them and set candles
at the cardinal points, listening to her murmured benedic-
tions as she lit each candle.

I trust this room has some ventilation? Ardagh thought,
nose wrinkling fastidiously at the heavy scent of burning
wax. Ah yes. there, near the ceiling. What a primitive form
of Setting Wards this is—but it's amazing that a human can
set them at all. "We can't use a mirror," Eithne- said sud-
denly. "Not without moonlight to shine upon it."

Ardagh shrugged. "Mirrors are overrated. Water or earth
or even the blade of a dagger will do as well. Actually," he
added thoughtfully, drawing his own knife, "since we're
almost certainly dealing with threats of a militant nature,
a blade might be the most effective." Particularly one that
has already taken a life.

"That's not iron," Eithne began, then gave a self-impa-
tient little, "Tchah. Of course it wouldn't be iron. What is
it, some manner of silver alloy?"

"Alloyed with metals not found in your Realm. But now,
since silver can symbolize the moon, the mystic connec-
tion can only help."

"Yes ... hold the blade so the candle flames hit it squarely
and make it shine."

"Wait." Ardagh moved behind Eithne, encircling her
with his arms before she could pull away, the knife before
them both. The startled woman made one abortive at-
tempt to break free, then froze, hissing, "What are you
doing?"

"Hush, now. I'm hardly after your honor, or however that
foolish human phrase goes."

That forced a nervous little giggle from her. "Hardly,"
she agreed. "You'd never be so foolish. But what—"

"Hush. If we are to use both our strengths, we must be
in contact. Now, let us both stare into the blade. . . ."

Dimly he heard her murmuring her own divination spell,
the words plainly improvised to fit the new situation;

THE SHATTERED OATH          141

"Mirror of silver,
Mirror of light,

Grant to us the gift of sight.
Clear the mists and let us see
As we will, so let it be."

feeble poetry, he thought with a touch of Sidhe disdain,
then blocked that from his mind as the Power began to rise,
a strange, uncomfortable mix of familiar Sidhe magic and
unfamiliar human, and he saw ... he saw what? Vague
images . . .

... a face, two faces... a man and woman, tail and golden-
haired, crowned, the man in particular marred by a psy-
chic stain of guilt and fear . . .

^      ... a dragon fiercely looming up out of water . . .
;'      ... a dark cloud so heavy with menace the coldness made

•^    him shudder, a dark cloud cut by a cross . . .

&      Ardagh came back to himself with a gasp, releasing the

||   equally shaken Eithne. "I saw something," he told her,

^    sheathing his knife, "but I'm not sure what any of it meant.

J    What about you?"

^      She shook her head. "I'm not sure. I think 1 saw a man

^   and woman."

;.      "So did I." Quickly he described them, and Eithne stiff-

•<-    ened. "I know those two!" she snapped. They can only be
H   King Donnchadh and his Queen Derval. And that taint of
|   shame and fear," Eithne added with increasing rage, "surely
^    means they were behind the attempt to slay Aedh, the curse
%'    of the crows on them!" At Ardagh's puzzled look, she added

impatiently, "That means . . . och, that they never enjoy
|    the fruit of their foul work."

^      Eithne broke off to snuff the candles carefully, working
'I,    from west to east, murmuring words of dismissal as she went.
^    She erased the chalked circle with equal care, then looked
l|    up at Ardagh, "It was Derval's doing, surely." she told him,
brushing stray strands of hair back from her face. "That
woman is as close to being a snake—ha, yes, Donnchadh
is ambitious, but he'd never have acted without her push-
ing him, for her glory and that of their precious son."

142 Josephs Sherman

Ardagh frowned. "I thought their son was here. I've met
him, Breasal."

"Yes, the poor sickly creature. He wanders about tike a
ghost with his sad, sad eyes, as though the first breeze would
blow him away. Och, well, no wonder he's sad. Derval has
never once sent a message of love to him, neither she nor
her husband."

-"So the boy told me. That is one thing I cannot under-
stand. No matter how disappointed they may be in him,
the poor youngster, he is still their child!"

Eithne was silent for a moment, busy putting the candles
carefully away in their storage chest. "I can see where that
might be puzzling to you, you being what you are. Unfor-
tunately, humans aren't quite so careful about their young.
Donnchadh and Derval have, as the merchants might put
it, written Breasal off as a loss."

"But how could they dare risk—ah, of course. There's a
second son."

°A second. Healthy son. Unfortunately, Aedh can hardly
hold this second-bom child as hostage as well. And so, he
has no real hold over those two."

Stunned by this glimpse of human cruelty, of the casual
casting aside of a precious child, Ardagh hid behind a rig-
idly controlled mask of calm. "What a pity this is all totally
useless."

"Useless!" Eithne exploded. "They tried to kiB my husband!"

"You and I know that, but there's not one scrap of non-
magical evidence you can offer King Aedh to prove it."

"But—they—curse them, no. There isn't. But at least they
were terrified enough by their failure not to dare try again.
For now, at least."

There's more we need to discuss," Ardagh said- "I saw
other visions than that one. Tell me, when we stared into
the blade's gleaming, did you see the dragon as well?"

The queen shuddered, anger fading. "Not clearly. But
that omen is far too clear. A dragon can only signify the
Lochlannach; their ships bear dragon figureheads. I don't
suppose you saw where the thing was coming ashore?"

"Unfortunately, no." Aroag^i paused, studying the woman,

THE SHATTERED OATH

143

then continued warily, "But neither King Donnchadh and
his queen nor the dragon were the worst menace I sensed.
There was ... I can only call it Darkness. Did you see it
or sense it?"

"I thought your people could see in the dark. Why would
you be afraid of—"

"It wasn't a natural darkness; of course my people have
no fear of that. No, this was a Darkness," he emphasized
the word, "a Darkness of spirit chill enough to make me
shiver. And .., there seemed to be a cross cutting through

Eithne shook her head, frowning in confusion. "Your
magic is far stronger than mine. I didn't see or sense any-
thing like that. And I have not the faintest idea what it might
mean. Though now that I think about it, there are two
possible explanations," she added slowly. "One is that the—
the Darkness is something that can be dispelled by the
Church. The other . . ."

She broke off, eyes full of sudden alarm, and Ardagh
finished for her, "The other is that the peril comes to us
from the Church itself." He rubbed a hand over eyes that
all at once felt painfully weary.

"Prince Ardagh?"

"I'm sony. The ritual has drained my strength more than
I'd expected." That one little respite in the forest had very
plainly not been long enough. "Eithne, I must disappear
into the forest yet again, this time for a longer span, to
thoroughly . . . well, call it replenishing my magical self.
Drawing Power from the land. But I shall return, I prom-
ise that. You will not have to face this Darkness alone."

"So the Church can burn us together," Eithne murmured.
"That really gives me comfort." She stopped short. "Och,
no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. It's just... I wish I could
tell Aedh the truth."

"I know."

"But," Eithne continued with a shrug. "I can't. Go do
what you must. Prince Ardagh." The comers other mouth
tilted up in a wry little smile. "If it has any courtesy at all,
the Darkness will wait till you return."

CHe KING OF
CHe WOODLAND

CHAPCeT3 12

King Aedh stared at his guest as if he thought the prince
had gone mad. "You wish to go where?"

Ardagh stifled a sigh and repeated, "I need to return to
the forest. Alone."

"Are you insane? The last time you were out there alone,
you almost got yourself killed!"

That wilTnot happen again,"

"Oh no, of course not. You've spoken to every bandit in
the forest and made them promise not to touch you."

The man who attacked me wasn't a bandit. And the
matter is settled. So if you will just give me the permission

to—"

"Wait, now," the king said sharply. "Back up a little. What
do you mean, The man wasn't a bandit'?"

Ah. This wasn't Eithne, more interested in matters magical
than political. "He wasn't," Ardagh began in a sleek rush,
"but I assure you that I have made certain his master will
not bother me again and—"

"Stop trying to race past me with those smooth words
of yours. Name me this master who sent out an assassin."

"I would rather .not."

"I don't care about your would-nots. Who was it? Who
would be harboring so powerful a grudge a^inst you? Unless

144

THE SHATTERED OATH            145

you've been making enemies behind my back there shouldn't
be any... Eimin!" Aedh realized suddenly. "It was Eimin
mac Flainn, wasn't it? Ha^ yes, that's just the sort of cow-
ardly attack he'd favor."

"Whether or not it was he," Ardagh said evasively, "I assure
you, the one who was responsible for the attack has been
made too thoroughly terrified of me to act again."

Aedh smacked bis hand against his forehead "Of course!
How foolish of me not to have thought of such a tactic. The
next time someone tries to kill me, I'll just shout 'Boo!' at
him, and that's the end of it."

"Please. We both know Eimin mac Flainn—yes, yes, it
was he, I admit it—Eirnin is full of wild superstitions- It
was no difficult thing to play to those fears the way I did
in the court of law. He will not dare to bother me again."

Aedh started to speak, stopped, started again, "I suppose
I should just be thankful you didn't kill the man."

Ardagh blinked, "There was no need."

" 'No need,' he says, as casually as though be was talk-
ing about ending a game offidchel. God, I can't even begin
to guess what politics are like in your homeland."

That struck Ardagh as unexpectedly funny. With a laugh,
he admitted, They are sometimes very strange. Even to
us. If you permit it, I would like to attend some of your
political sessions."

"Ha. You'd find them dull by comparison."

But he hadn't actually forbidden it, so Ardagh pushed
on. "King Aedh, I really do need to return to the forest."

"But why? Och, no, man, don't bridle. I'm not questioning
your religious beliefs or—or whatever it is that we're dis-
cussing here. But I cannot let a guest in my holding go
wandering off into the wilderness alone! No, never mind
the bandit-who-wasn't-a-bandit; I'll take you at your word
that the matter's settled. I'm talking about prohibitions—
questions of honor—you are a prince!"

These humans have more rules about what is and is not
proper than even the Sidhe! "Your concern does you great
credit. King Aedh," Ardagh said with careful formality. "But
you need not worry, I promise you. No dishonor will be

146 Josepha Sherman

brought to you by my actions. Nor, for that matter, have I
any intention of losing any of my own honor. I will not wan-
der far from Fremainn, nor wul I wind up lost in the wil-
derness like a strayed child." I can't; I've magically set the
location ofFremainn in my mind. "And I am not," he added
sardonically, "going off to worship dark gods or sacriBoe niny
little animals."

That roused a reluctant little laugh from the king, and
Ardagb continued with a slight smile, "I merely need to be
apart from others for a time. Focus my thoughts. Clear my
mind." Restore my magic. "It is a custom." Of some people,
if not mine.

Aedh all at once threw up his hands in surrender. "I won't
pretend to understand what you're talking about or what's
going on behind that fair face of yours, but I would not have
it said I held a guest prisoner. Go if you must. Return when
you will."

And don't get yourself lost or disgrace anyone, Ardagh
added silently for him, or you're on your own. Understood.

Someone was following him. Ardagh rode on as though
he wasn't at all aware of the subtle tracker, then smiled to
himself. One of King Aedh's mercenaries, no doubt of it.
No doubt, either, why he'd been sent: I'd be wondering what
my guest was doing, too, were I the king. Sorry to disap-
point you, Aedh.

Ardagh slipped from his horse, leaving the animal as safe
as a whispered Sidhe Warding Spell that hopefully had
worked could make it, and moved silently through the for-
est, shedding the merely human follower with ease. The
prince moved easily as a wild thing past oak and ash, try-
ing to avoid places touched by humanity. Overhead, some
of the trees were already losing their leaves, but the under-
brush, more sheltered from the changing season, grew
progressively more tangled as he went along, a good sign
that no humans had come this way. Ardagh slid through
the tangle without trouble, glorying in the sweet, sharp green
scents and the life all around him.

Ah, here was a site that fit what he sought almost exactly,

THE SHATTERED OATH

147

a quiet little glade with no trace of humanity in it at all.
Yes, and bisected by a sleek stream as well: Earth and Water
combined. Doubly Powerful, Ardagh thought with a pleased
nod, with the earth just bare enough so mere would be no
interference from the lesser lives of plants.

The prince stretched himself oat by the side of the
stream, facedown, making himself as comfortable as pos-
sible so his body wouldn't distract him with complaints
before he had sunk sufficiently deeply into trance. He let
one hand touch the water, and dug the fingers of his other
hand into the earth. Slowly, in contact with two Elements
at once, Ardagh silently recited disciplines that caused his
mind to relax . . . relax . . . relax . . . feeling the strength
of Earth and Water seeping into him . . . feeling con-
scious thought sliding away into tranquility . . .

And for a time there was no time.

The renewed Power surging throughout his being brought
Ardagh back to himself with a start. He rolled over onto
his back, blinking up at a world gone dim blue with twi-
light. The chill of coming night was rising from the earth,
and he shivered suddenly, curling up reflexively, hugging
the numb fingers of the hand that had trailed in the water,
massaging life back into them. His whole body ached dully,
stiff but not unbearably so.

All at once Ardagh yawned and unfolded again, stretch-
ing like a cat. Mind and body snapped back together, fully
reunited, and the prince sat up, listening to the forest stir-
ring around him, all the hundred little lives chirping or
whirring or rustling with the coming of night, Sidhe vision
as sharp in the darkness as theirs.

Ae, but now he was truly aware of sitting on chill earth
and breathing chill air, and Ardagh scrambled to his feet,
pulling his woolen brat tightly about himself, glad of its
warmth. Summer or autumn, this land never seemed to get
genuinely hot or dry or even reliably warm.

But cold or no, the prince thought with a rush of joy, he
felt most wondrously whole at last.

How foolish of me to have believed my first little touching

148 Josepha Shemuin

of the earth the other day would haw been sufficient. Oh,
granted, no matter how long he tried, he never would be
able to rouse enough Power to work High Magic in this
Realm; Ardagh had already accepted that handicap. But this
time what Power I've absorbed should stay with me for far
longer than a day; this time I can actually use whatever
magics there are available to me. This time I can actually
be a true Sidhe, not a poor imitation of a human.

But he still needed die humans, Ardagh reminded him-
self. And he had best return to Fremainn before Aedh
thought him eaten by wild beasts. Or in league with demons.

Besides, the prince realized with a shock of surprise, while
this forest solitude was wondrously restoring, he rather
missed the bright bustle of life at Fremainn. By now, all
those cheerful, busy human lives would be sitting down to
their communal dinner, laughing and quarrelling (sometimes
both at the same time), including strong, clever Aedh and
his equally strong and clever wife, and Sorcha—

Now why, of all those folk. Ardagh wondered with a
bemused litde frown, should I think of Sorcha?

Time enough to consider that when he was back inside
the fortress. Ardagh shrugged, and set out for Fremainn.

Only to stop short, every sense at once painfully alert.
Ae, Powers, Powers, could it be . . . ?

"Sidhe," he breathed, not yet daring to hope. Heart racing,
Ae prince followed the elusive psychic trace he had so
suddenly felt, terrified that it woufd vanish before he could
find—

"That's quite far enough," said a voice, and Ardagh nearly
cried out, for the words had been in the Hig^i Sidhe lan-
guage.

A figure stood leaning against a tree witfi studied ease;

only another Sidhe would have spotted him at all, or sensed
the dangerous alertness behind the apparently lazy pose.
He was clearly of noble blood, the high-cheekboned face
refined of line, the tall, slender figure elegantly dad in tunic
and hose of midnight blue silk shot through with gold thread:

spidersuk, Ardagh thought, with a pang of nostalgia. The
others hair was a thick fall of gold so fair it was nearly silver,

THE SHATTERED OATH          149

far smoother and finer than any human hair, and his eyes
were the true cool green slanted eyes of the Sidhe-

"And what name might be given to you and claimed by
you and known to your family?" he asked Ardagh lighdy,
only the barest touch of warning in his voice.

There was no possible answer to that intricate, carefully
worded statement other than the truth. "I am Ardagh
Uthanial," the prince said, thinking that at least he need
not include his regal tide.

For what good that did. "Uthanial," the other mused.
"Now I do believe diat Lithanial is the name of a royal house,
though one whose holdings lie quite far from my own lands."

"Your lands."

The other Sidhe pushed off from the tree with easy grace,
making it seem only chance that as he now was standing,
he blocked Ardagh's path completely. "Why, yes, stranger.
And only a stranger to this Realm would not know me. I
am Finvarra, or so the humans name me: Fair Hair, more
or less." He shook his shining mane with a laugh. "It rather
suits me, does it not? I am," he added, almost as an after-
thought, "king of the lands that brush against these mortal
ones. And even tfiough this is not quite my domain on which
we stand, I still would like to know what a prince of the
Uthanial house does here."

The Sidhe tongue sounded so wonderful to one who had
never thought to hear it again that Ardagh almost foiled to
catch the unvoiced question. Tour pardon," he said hast-
ily. "I have no desire to trespass or intention of doing so.
But I also have no choice about being in Ulis Realm."

"So, now. What might diat mean?"

"that means," Ardagh said, too bitter to even try for Sidhe
evasiveness, "(hat I have been most falsely accused of treason
by my royal brother and sent to exile in this human land."

Finvarra's fair eyebrows shot up. "Indeed! And you are
still Sidhe enough to have no ability to lie, that much I sense
plainly."

"I do not lie," Ardagh agreed.

"Which means that you can only be telling a true tale—
or at least one you honestly believe to be true."

150 Josepfw Sherman

"It is true. I made the exceedingly foolish mistake of
underestimating certain nobles.''

A fair, slanted brow lifted slightly. "Ambitious ones, I take
it."

"Veiy."

"And your brother, I also assume, never quite trusted you."

"How could he? I am his closest kin."

"And therefore his potential rival, whether or not you
meant to be such."

"I did not."

"Ah." It was a politely neutral sound. "Even so, being
what you were, I imagine that he was eager to believe the
worst of you."

"1 never wanted his throne," Ardagh said flatly. "I still
do not. I have never conspired against him alone or in any
alliance. This I swear by earth and sky and Power."

Finvarra's face showed not die slightest trace of emotion
at that potent oath: this was, Ardagh thought, a true Sidhe,
no doubt of it. "And so you are falsely exiled, eh?" No
emotion showed in Finvarra's voice, either. "And with no
means of return?"

Sudden hope blazed through Ardagh so fiercely his legs
nearly lost their strength, "Y-you can help me," he gasped,
stammering in his haste. "Yours is a Sidhe Realm. If you
will but rive me passage through it, that will sorely break
my brother's speH and let me find my way back into my
homeland. WiUyou do this thing?" Powers, Powers, say yes!

Finvarra hesitated a maddeningly long while, eyeing
Ardagh speculativefy. "Why?" be asked at last. "Are you likely
to take the crown from your brother? No, you have already
sworn not to do that. Why should I risk helping you, then,
exiled prince who could never become a useml auy? I would
not become involved in Uthanial feuds."

"You would not!" Ardagh cried. "Only let me pass through
your lands, and I swear you will have no further involve-
ment."

"Not from you. But can you swear for your brother as
well? Prince Ardagh, I have had feuds enough with others
of the Sidhe; we both know how those games are played.

THE SHATTERED OATH          151

And while wars can at times be entertaining, they do tend
to be annoyingly destructive, both to my own lands and to
the human lands they touch."

Ardagh blinked in confusion. "You . . - care about
humans?"

Finvarra shrugged. "I take a human use-name, don't I?"

"But why?"

"Why? I like them! For all their mortal limitations, the
men make fine gaming and hunting partners, and the women
..." He smiled reminiscently. "An, yes. All in all, they are
an entertaining lot, these humans, and not without their
kindnesses."

"Yes," Ardagh cut in helplessly, "but—"

"You haven't learned that yet? Listen, now, once I was
being chased—and by what and by whom is not the issue.
Say only that I was on a Sidhe steed shod properly in sil-
ver, and eager to reach a safe Doorway home. But my horse
threw a shoe, and the moment the poor beast's bare hoof
came in contact with mortal soil, the animal stumbled and
could no longer run. I would have been in a foul fix, indeed,
for the sun was close to rising, and I'm sure you know the
limits sunlight places on our kind."

He paused for a moment, for all the world like a bard
building suspense- Ardagh, recognizing a classic Sidhe tech-
nique of delaying a decision through distraction and nearly
wild with impatience for the stoiy to be done, prodded,
"What then?"

"Why, then, by sheerest chance I came upon the forge
of a human blacksmith. He must surely have known the
horse was no earthly horse and the rider no earthly man,
but he saw only my desperate need, and shod that horse
safely with silver so we could escape pursuit." Finvarra
showed his ready grin. "Oh, I saw that blacksmith richly
rewarded, I assure youl He found a nice treasure of coins
blowing in on the morning wind."

"I see."

"No, Prince Ardagh, I don't think you do, not really. But
then, to be fair, few of our kind have the patience to deal
with humankind. A pity."

152 Josepha Sherman

"King Finvarra, please. Will you let me pass?"

The tang's slanted gaze slid evasively away. "Perhaps. But
the true question is: will my land let you pass?" Something
that might almost have been a most unSidhe-like flash of
pity crossed Finvarra's face. "Come, let us see."

He led Ardagh to a small hill, far too smooth and regu-
larly shaped to have been natural. 'The humans think we
dwell in burial mounds," Finvarra said over his shoulder.
"Sometimes I think they confuse us with the ghosts of then-
ancient dead. But the confusion serves me well: I can hide
Doorways in plain sight and not have any human dare tamper
with them."

Unless that human is a gnaw robber seeking human trea-
sure. Ardagh thought but didn't say. "And this—"

"Is a Doorway, yes, a minor one. Watch."

Finvarra murmured a series of intricate Words of Power,
and a Doorway opened itself in the side of the mound.
Ardagh caught a sudden sharp glimpse of clear Sidhe light,
blazing Sidhe color, and cried out in an agony of longing.

"Wait," Finvarra said gently. "Wait."

The king slipped lightTy from the human world into his
Realm, disappearing as though he'd passed through a tan-
gible veil- Ardagh, standing tensely in the human night, on
me very brink of Otherness denied him, heard more Words
of Power drift back to him, distorted by the barrier between
the Realms, and dimly felt magic swirling in that Sidhe
Otherness. Please, oh please . . .

But then Finvarra was climbing back into the human
world, and his step was weary. "I'm sony," he said softly.
"I am sorry."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Literally nothing. Prince Ardagh, your brother
set his speB far too well. No matter how I sought to cajole
it, the land just will not let you pass. Ah, wait, wait, all is
not terrible. I will send along whatever message you please;

that. I can do."

A message. To whom? Ardagh wondered bitterly. Who
would care what befalls me? "Yes," he said, struggling to
keep his voice steady. "If you would. King Finvarra, send

THE SHATTERED OATH

153

a message to my brother. Tell him I live. Tell him I hve
and thrive and will yet return. Tell him that, if you would."

Finvarra shrugged. "Not the most tactful of messages. But
yes, it shall be sent to him." Poised on the edge of his king-
dom, the Sidhe king paused. "Prince Ardagh," he added, his
voice almost gende, "the human worid is not such a terrible
place. Surely you know that already. There is much enjoy-
ment to be found here. Ae, but you don't want to hear con-
dolences. Farewell, Prince Ardagh. It may be that we shall
meet again; I am, as you've gathered, often in the human
Realm, Whatever happens, may the Powers guide you."

"May they, indeed," Ardagh murmured, watching Finvarra
disappear into his Realm. "May they, indeed."

Ardagh rode wearily back up the hill to the fortress of
Fremainn, the morning bright about him. No matter what
complications his absence might have caused, he could not
have returned before this; he could not have borne being
among those cheerful humans.

But what is, is. And what is set, he added fiercely, can
be cancelled. There has never yet been an enchantment that
could not be broken, Eirithan's banishment spell among them.
And till I find the way to break that spell, why, till then I
shall live as fine a life as this Realm shall allow.

To Ardagh's surprise (and slightly damaged pride), no one
seemed to have even noticed his overnight absence. Instead,
as the prince re-entered Fremainn and dismounted, he found
himself in the midst of a wild swirl of excitement. Catch-
ing a servant by the arm before the man could scuttle past.
Ardagh asked, "What is happening?"

"Don't you know, Prince Ardagh? We have received an
important visitor this morning, a very important visitor
indeed! Please, I must finish my duties."

As the human scurried off, Ardagh, frowning slightly,
sighted a familiar face and called out, "Cadwal- A moment,
if you would."

The mercenary stopped short, his face harried. "Prince
Ardagh, I'm afraid I must go se^ve the king. And his guest."

154 Josephs Sherman

Ardagh fought not to shout with impatience. "Who is his
guest?"

"Och, that's right, you couldn't have heard or seen; you
weren't here. As of this morning, we are hosting a bishop
and all his retinue. The holy man has come all the way from
Rome to see us." To Ardagh's surprise, he heard sharp sar-
casm in Cadwal's voice. "Trying to make sure we haven't
gone sBding back into pagan ways, begging your royal par-
don," the mercenary added. "Ha, therehe is, standing with
King Aedh." He gave Ardagh a quick, speculative glance,
"I guess you'll be wanting to meet the man."

Not particularly. Ardagh had caught the faint edge of
hostility towards the Roman Church in Father Seadna's
words often enough, and had no desire to get involved in
human religious quarrels. But the prince could hardly refuse,
not without some more tactful reason than that, so he fol-
lowed Cadwal to where the bishop, with his retinue trail-
ing behind him, and King Aedh, with his retinue grouped
behind him, stood together in the open field before the royal
keep.

Neutral territory, Ardagh thought, and wondered a bit
at the military thought.

The Roman bishop was every bit as tall as King Aedh,
and as strongly built as a warrior, but lean almost to the
point ofgauntness, as if his faith or some other driving force
had consumed all spare flesh. He had pushed back his
hooded travelling cloak, revealing robes that hung in intri-
cate folds, white and green, patterned in gold with die signs
of the Church. His eyes, Ardagh noticed warily, were cold.

"Ah, Prince Ardagh!" Aedh cried with the enthusiasm of
someone thankful for tfae interruption. "I am glad to see
you here. I wish you to meet our holy visitor. This is Bishop
Gervinus, who has made the long journey all the way from
Rome to see to our salvation."

Ardagh caught the ever-so-slight hostility behind the
smooth words and wasn't really surprised; a king could hardly
enjoy welcoming anyone who might challenge his power.
But Aedh continued, the very image of urbanity, "And this,
My Lord Bishop, is Ardagh Uthanial, Prince of Cathay."

THE SHATTERED OATH

155

"Indeed." The bishop smiled—with mouth, not eyes—
and held out a hand, making it very clear he intended the
prince to kneel, or perhaps even to kiss that hand or pos-
sibly the ring glinting there.

I kneel to no one. least of aU to a human.

Ignoring the bishop's gesture. Ardagh dipped his head
in politic courtesy instead, and saw Bishop Gervinus frown
slightly.

But what Gervinus thought of his manners meant noth-
ing, For in that moment, in a sudden surge ofSidhe Power,
Ardagh knew as surely as if the newcomer had sworn it,
This tnshop is the Darkness Eithne feared. The Darkness
has come upon this land.

SCRANGeiMeSS
IN CH€ TM1GHC

CHAPCeP 13

Stunned by what he had just sensed, Ardagh couldn't do
anything at first but stare, thinking in a rush, No magic to
this one, no innate Power at aU, but Darkness clings to him
regardless: why? how? who is he?, struggling to keep his
face from showing the shock he felt, and hunt for some-
thing safe and neutral to say.

Trie bishop was under no such handicap. "Prince Ardagh."
he said smoothly. "You remind me of my proper humility."
His accent was heavy, but he spoke the language well
enough- "Here I dared think I had suffered hardship jour-
neying here from Rome. Yet you've travelled all the way
from Cathay! You must have suffered far worse privation
than ever I could have dreamed, coming to Eriu from so
much farther away."

"Farther than any could dream," Ardagh agreed truth-
fully.

"How poetic," Gervinus's smile was quite charming and
manifestly false.

King Aedh could only have been aware of the sudden
tension between his two visitors- And even though Ardagh
knew the king was no more pleased about the bishop's
presence than was he, not a trace of anything but urbanity
showed on Aedh's face and in his voice. "Your Grace, pray

156

THE SHATTERED OATH          157

forgive us." he said, moving subtly between prince and
bishop. "It is most rude of us to keep you standing while
your retinue has already begun settling into their quarters.
Come, Bishop Gervinus, if you would. I will have you shown
to your guest house."

One that's not too near mine, I hope, Ardagh thought. No,
on second thouf^it, the closer you are placed, the easierit wiS
be for me to keep watch on you. Bishop Cervinus of Home.

The easier it will be to leam what you really are and why
you are really here.

As Amr-lf shooed the king's servants out of the guest house
and began unpacking the bishop's belongings and his own,
Gervinus sat unheeding, lost in his musings. Only when the
acolyte picked up the chest containing the precious grimoire
did the bishop come to himself and snap, "Not that! Leave
that box alone."

Gervinus's iips tightened at Amulfs guilty start. The idiot
really had been about to tiy getting his hands on the grimoire
yet again. Ton never leam, do you? You think you can steal
my sorcery. I am going to have to do something about you,
Amulf. But not auite yet.

He glanced about the guest house indifferently, noting
the well-made bed of this main chamber, the pallet for
Amulf, the finely tooled chests and chairs. The central fire-
place would probably provide sufficient heat, but if the
smoke hole in the roof didn't draw efficiently, it was going
to provide a good deal of smoke as well. The outer room,
meant for his servants, was even simpler. Still, his quarters
back in the Vatican had been more spartan. And everything
here was, rather surprisingly for barbarians, spotlessly dean.
Since Aedh would hardTy want to insult a bishop—and
through the bishop, the Church itself—Gervinus doubted
that mere was any place better in the fortress.

Except, perhaps, for whichever hut the foreign prince
inhabits.

Ah yes, the prince . . . what is he. I wonder? The men
of Camay were said to be dark of hair and slanted of eye,
and that. Prince Ardagh most certainly was. But his were

158 Josepha Shemwn

particularly odd eyes, almost uncannily green, clear and
opaque in one. They revealed absolutely nothing of the

green, clear and

in one. iney revealed aosoiutely nothing of the
tnoughts behind their surface, and that, Gervinus mused,
he trusted not at all. I think I must leam more about him.
Tonight, perhaps . . yes^ the bishop decided, and put the
mysterious prince temporarily from his thoughts. There were,
after all, much more important matters to consider.

The first of which was that, just as with that tiny port
city, no one here had been expecting his arrival. No mes-
senger from Rome had ever arrived, or so the High King
swore. Granted, it was a long, perilous journey mat not
everyone survived, but Gervinus, ignoring his little stab of
insulted pride, had to wonder yet again if any messenger
had ever been sent at all.

Could that be? Could they reaUy have sent me off into
nowhere? If so—ah, they realty do wish to be rid of me.
don't they?

Surprising that such a thought should hurt. It wasn't as
though he cared what others thought of him, and he was
long years from being the boy who'd been rejected by father
ana family. After all, one could only trust one's self, one's
will.

As he trusted his own. What those bureaucratic fools of
the Curtate didn't realize was that their contempt had ac-
tually done him a favor. Without interference from Rome,
Gervinus told himself, he was free to act as he would. Do
what he would.

But it may not be quite as simple as I'd first thought to
win control in this land. This King Aedh is far from being
the naive barbarian I had expected. No, indeed. There had
been a firm will glinting in those grey eyes that had warned
his would not be an easy mind to overwhelm.

Deus vult, Gervinus thought with mocldng piety, God wiQs
it. Before he could do anything at all, he must first leam
everything he could about the king, about his court, about
all his people.

And as for the Prince of Cathay, if he attempts to stand
in my way . .. for all his oddness, he is only one man. And
one man can so easily meet with a tragic accident.

THE SHATTERED OATH          159

«        •        •

Queen Derval of Clonach sat in a perfect imitation of
calmness in her husbands keep, hands folded neatly in her
lap, eyes downcast, watching from under the sweep of golden
eyelashes as her husband and son raged at each other. They
were such handsome creatures, the two of diem, the father
ruddy, the son golden. What a pity one of them at least was
such a fool.

"It's been nearly two months since you sent out your men!"
young Fearghal stormed. "Two months since that stupid,
bungled attack, and we have done nothing to rid ourselves
of the tyrant!"

" 'We?' " Donnchadh roared. "What is this 'we,' boy? Yes.
I do say boy, you young idiot! A boy is what you are,
Fearghal, all wild words and mindless bluster—do you think
this is nothing but a hunting trip, something to be easily
planned and executed?"

"I'm not—"

"It is the overthrow of a king, curse you, not the slaying
of a deer! A king, Fearghal, the Ard Ri himself—"

"I know that. Father! But why aren't we planning some-
thing right now? Why aren't we doing anything at all?"
Savagely, the boy continued, a wolf CUD, Derval thought,
challenging a wolf. "Is something bothering you, perhaps?
Can it Be, oh Father, that you are afraid? Afraid to—"

Donnchadh's savage slap sent him slamming back into a
wall. Derval unfolded her hands and said coldly, "Enough."

"But he—" Fearghal gasped at the same time as his father's
furious, "He dared—"

"Look at you." The queen made no attempt to keep the
scorn from her voice. "Just look at you, brawling like two
drunken peasants. And isn't this the way to win a throne?
Don't you make fine leaders of the people, you two who
can't even keep the peace between yourselves?"

Donnchadh opened his mouth, and for one wild moment
Derval was sure he was going to whine a childish, "He started
it!" But the King of Cionach only snarled, "Get out of here,
Fearghal. Get out! Your mother and I have words to dis-


cuss.

160 josepha Sherman

Fearghal, Derval saw with a little prickle of pleasure,
looked her way first for approval. She nodded, ignoring
Donnchadh's glower, and the boy stormed his angry way
out. "Close the door after you." Derval said tranquilly, and
refused to wince at the slam that followed. "Oh, do sit down,
Donnchadh. My neck is sore from staring up at you."

That boy needs to have some manners knocked into his
thick head!"

"He is but young. He will learn. And, like it or not,
Donnchadh. our son has raised a good point. What are we
to do about Aedh?"

"Are you accusing me, too?" the man cried. "I cannot
risk another open attack on him!"

"Don't be foolish. We both agreed to that."

Donnchadh studied her, frowning. "What is it? You've
already found a plan, haven't you? What?"

She permitted herself a small smile. "What better way
to undermine a fortress than by boring from within? Not
all who are part of Aedh's court are truly loyal to him."

"Of course not. But—"

"But," Derval cut in smoothly, "just as we are of the Ui
Neill sept. so are others there. Odran mac Daire for one."

Donnchadh snorted. That cold-blooded creature! I doubt
he has the fire for ambition."

"No?" It was a purr. "Cold cunning is far more endur-
ing than mere flame."

°Ha. Even if he did ever dream of rebellion, he'd dream
of a crown as well."

"Why, let him dream. With secret promises of our aid
to sweeten his slumber."

"I am not going to aid another to the throne!"

Derval bit back an impatient snari at her husband's slow-
ness. "Of course you aren't." Idiot. "We will offer him our
aid, husband, make an alliance with our distant Ui Neill
cousin—but after he's done our work for him, who's to say
we ever made that offer?"

Donnchadh stared, then laughed, then stared again.
"Sweet Jesus and all the saints, I'm glad you're on my side,
Derval."

THE SHATTERED OATH          161

"As well you should be," she said without a trace of
warmth. "As well you should be."

Bishop Gervinus glanced about the small audience hall,
the "conversation house," as it was apparently named, aware
chat three pairs of alert eyes were watching his every move,
their owners being King Aedh and, flanking him. Father
Seadna, the monk who was apparently Aedh's personal priest,
and Fothad mac Aihn, who was, if Gervinus understood him
correctly, both Chief Poet and Chief Minister to the king,
the one title being seemingly as important to these barbaric
people as the other.

"You need have no fear," Gervinus told them in his most
urbane voice, but saw no change in those wary stares. "Yes,
I have been sent here by the Curtate of Rome, but I assure
you that my mission is not one of condemnation. It is merely
that, as you must surely admit, your land of Eriu lies very
far away from the parent Church. So far, indeed, that it has
been virtually out of touch with Rome for many years."

"And so," King Aedh said without a touch of expression,
"you have been sent to be sure we still are good children
of Mother Church."

Gervinus frowned slightly at the unvoiced cynicism. Oh
yes, this king, barbarian or no, was no fool. "I am sure
you and your people both are quite faithful. King Aedh.
But . . ." He raised a helpless hand. "I have my orders.
Yon do understand."

"Of course," the king agreed. "Be welcome to my realm,
Bishop Gervinus," His voice was still carefully empty of any
emotion. "If there is anything 1 or any of my people may
do to make your visit here more pleasant, please do not
hesitate to ask."

What if I told you that what I want is your throne?
Gervinus thought with a flash of dark humor. "I'm sure my
visit will be pleasant, indeed." And profitable, oh yes. Quite
profitable.

By chance or design, Ardagh found himself seated beside
Bishop Gervinus at dinner—a dinner, the prince thought,

162 Josephs Shennan

that was rapidly turning into a most uncomfortable affair,
with everyone on edge about the ecclesiastical stranger in
their midst, not sure what to say or do. Father Seadna, for
one, was far more reserved even than his usual quiet self.

You don't like having someone from the Roman Church
here, do you? the prince mused. Particularly not one whose
rank is so much higher, king's priest thoufyi you are, than
yours.

Queen Eithne, too, said virtually nothing, save for the
occasional polite murmur. She, Ardagh didn't doubt, was
as uneasy about Bishop Gervinus as he, her slight magic
stirring in response to his aura, though of course she could
hardly mention it. Only King Aedh and Fothad mac Ailin
did their best to pretend nothing at all was unusual, keep-
ing up a witty, entertaining banter that didn't quite sound
true.

Gervinus didn't seem to notice the uneasiness surrounding
him, or if he did notice, to mind. "Prince Ardagh." he
murmured. "I'm sure you know that the Church has its
believers in Cathay."

"Indeed." I know it now.

Watching him closely, the bishop continued, "But those
believers, alas, are in the minority."

"That is as it is."

Gervinus frowned at that carefully bland statement "Can
it be, then, that you are not a Christian, Prince Ardagh?"

Both King Aedh and Father Seadna stirred uneasily; they'd
been tiptoeing around that awkward fact since his arrival.
Ardagh merely smiled. "Would my answer trouble you?"

"Why, only if you told me you were, indeed, not of the
faith, for then I would worry for die state and safety of your
immortal soul."

"Your concern seems most kind." Even if it's false. "But
I assure you that you need have flo fear. My soul is quite
safe where it is."

Aedh's face was rigidly controlled, but Ardagh could have
sworn the king was enjoying this verbal duel, letting the
prince, the nonbeliever outsider, spar with the bishop as
Aedh could not. Almost reluctantly the king finally

THE SHATTERED OATH          163

interrupted with, "Your pardon. Bishop Gervinus. I wouldn't
dream of correcting you. But you cannot know our ways,
coming from so far away as you do. Here we follow our
ancient Laws of Hospitality. A guest among us need not
answer personal questions if he does not wish it."

The bishop raised an eyebrow. "Surely tile question of
paganism is no matter to be kept secret. Particularly when
your own land does, indeed, harbor pagans."

Aedh's face hardened. "There may, even as you say, be
comers of Eriu where folk still follow older ways. But my
people, no matter what they may believe or not believe,
are my people."

"Oh, of course! I would not dream of trying to under-
mine your authority."

And the sky, Ardagh added silently, is made of blue enamel
If you're trying to win control over King Aedh, Bishop
Gervinus, you've made a mistake. And if you're trying to
control me, that mistake might well prove fatal.

But why. oh why. do you carry that hose of Darkness
about you? If you were a creature of true magic, I'd feel it
in a moment. I'd understand you Who are you. Bishop
Gervinus—and what?

Still mulling over the problem of the mysterious bishop,
Ardagh prowled restlessly through the quiet twilight, nod-
ding absently to this servant or that guard, not really see-
ing any of them. As the twilight deepened into night and
the chill of evening grew, the humans disappeared one by
one into their various houses, leaving only the prince, eas-
ily avoiding remaining patrols, to wander alone, wrapped
tightly in his woolen brat.

He wasn't quite alone at that. Jarred out of his reverie
by the sudden feel of another, Ardagh stalked silently for-
ward. Ah no, it wasn't someone spying on him. It was Breasal
mac Donnchadh, the sad, sickly youngster, quite unaware
of him. A practice sword lay in the dirt where he had
apparently let it fall, and the boy sat beside it, huddled in
misery.

For a moment, Ardagh stood where he was, not wanting

164 Josepha Shennan

to get involved in still another human matter, yet bemused
at the strength of the pull he felt to help even a child who
was nearly grown; knowing that the urge to aid any child
in need was a Sidhe instinct, a survival trait in a mostly
infertile race, didn't make it any easier to overcome.

Ah well. Yielding to what he was, Ardagh knelt at the
boy's side and said quietly, "There are other ways to fight."

Breasal turned with a gasp, hastily wiping at his face, not
quite before Ardagh's night-sighted eyes could catch the
trace of tears. "I... tried." Breasals voice was barely more
than a whisper. "I thought if I did the exercises slowly, I
could.. . but m-my heart ... I thought I was going to die
just now, and I-I. .. don't want to die, n-not yet"

"Who does?" Ardagh knelt quietly where he was, star-
ing out at the night, allowing die boy a chance to regain
control. "I take it that the life of a scholar didn't appeal to
you. No, no, don't try to argue. I'd forgotten what a des-
perately proud thing it Is to be a boy." It's been long and
long since I've been that young, after all. He extended his
senses, delicately probing. Yes. Breasal had recovered what-
ever strength was likely to be his. "It's too chilly to be sit-
ting here. Come, now, up. Up, Breasal."

"What. . ?"

"You can't be a warrior like the others," die prince said
blundy. That path is dosed to you. Face it. But mat doesn't
mean you can't learn other ways to defend yourself. Ways
that may even make the other boys envious of you." Ways
that won't put an undue strain on your heart. "So now, are
you interested?"

Warily, Breasal nodded.

Very slowly, Ardagh led the boy through the moves of
Tarien'taldal, one Sidhe form of unarmed combat, a graceful,
flowing thing that looked deceptively like a dance but could
deliver smooth, elegant, deadly blows to a foe. Breasal could
hardly mimic Sidhe grace, but he imitated Ardagh surpris-
ingly well, face fierce with concentration.

"It's not as easy as it looks," the boy admitted after a while.

"Few things are. No, no, your arm moves like this, slowly,
slowly—yes- You have it." But even this gentle form of

THE SHATTERED OATH          165

combat-dance could be tiring, so Ardagh added, "Enough
for now. Go to bed, Breasal. We'll by another lesson another
time. Oh, and no one else shall know of this meeting."

Relief flashed in the boy's eyes. Thank you. Prince
Ardagh. I—thank you." He bowed with the formal grace
of the prince he was, then added another, "thank you," and
hurried away. Ardagh watched him go, then shook his head.
Gende exercises like these could only help strengthen the
boy's weak heart, but there was a limit to what could be
done.

If only he was in a Sidhe Realm! The ewBess Power there
could heal him in a moment. Here—ae, no. I have no such
Power. And here I fear his life will be brief, indeed. Briefer
even than the human norm—Powers. Powers, he thought
in sudden pain, Z am among, mayflies, here and gone while
I—I will live on in this land alone.

The night was turning very chill. Shivering, Ardagh headed
back to his guest house.

Queen Eithne stood at the bedchamber window, staring
out into the nijAt, feeling painfully alone. Behind her, she
could hear Aedh's gende snoring, but there wasn't any other
sign of life. In the utter darkness of the moonless night, it
was very easy to start believing there wasn't any other life
anywhere else in the world.

Was Prince Ardagh out there somewhere? If so, she
couldn't see him, or sense him. But Just then she longed
to know mat he, too, was awake, the only one in all Fremainn
who would understand her fears- He would know whether
or not there was a reason to be afraid.

/ saw the way he looked at Bishop Cermnus and heard
the easy. fearless way he fenced with the man. He would
surely know if-—if the bishop was secretly of... Darkness.

Och, ridiculous! This was a bishop, a holy man. He
couldn't possibly be—

"Eithne?" Aedh muttered sleepily. "What're you doing
out in the cold?" He patted the bed beside him. "Come
back here where it's warm."

Overwhelmed with relief that she wasn't alone after all,

166 ]osepha Sherman

Eithne dimbed back into bed. Her husband raised an arm,
inviting her to cuddle up beside him, and she let her head
rest on his chest, hearing his steady heartbeat, feeling his
warmth.

"You're shivering," Aedh said, his voice more nearty awake
now, and held her close. "What were you doing, standing
there like that?"

"I ... couldn't sleep."

"Eithne? What's wrong?"

What could she say? / think Bishop Cervinus is a sor-
cerer. I think he's a servant of Darkness, "I—I don't think
I like Bishop Gervinus," she said at last, wincing at how
lame that sounded.

"Huh, is that all? I don't much like the man, either, Cold
creature, that, though for all we know the coldness is an
act to test our fidelity to the faith. But like him or not, he's
here, and we can hardly insult the Church by tossing him
out like a— Hey, now, tears? What's this about, Eithne?"

Choking back her sudden unexpected sobs, she could only
shake her head helplessly against his chest. Aedh held her
even closer, silent for a while, then said knowingly, "Aha.
The calendar."

For a moment Eithne wanted to hit him. Men were all
too willing to blame any show of a woman's emotion on her
monthly cycle. But then she added up the days in her mind
and felt a reluctant little smile forming on her lips. He might
be right, curse him for his smugness. Maybe all this wild
panic over a stranger who was probably nothing worse than
unfriendly was just a trick ofthe moon. Praying with all
her heart that Aedh really was right, Eithne twisted about
to suddenly throw her arms around as much of him as she      ^
could reach, and heard him chuckle.                        |T

"I love you, Aedh," she whispered fiercely. "I love you      ^
and our children and our whole kingdom."

And 1 wtH not, she added, but silently, let anything hap-
pen to you. This I swear by all the gods who ever were and
are.

OPCN1NG MANCUVePS
CHAPCeR14

Even die Sidhe sometimes slept as deeply as humans. That
night, Ardagh's mind wandered vaguely through veils of
dream landscapes, not quite focusing on memories of his
home, not quite sure ofthe here and now. Forest... he was
wandering through forest and quite at peace with ...

The attack came. Too deeply asleep to understand more
than peril, inner Sidhe defenses roused, sending the
sleeping mind deeper, sealing it beneath a smooth psy-
chic layer of no one here, nothing here, a layer of inno-
cent blandness that left nothing on which an enemy could

seize.

The attack slid past. As it faded, vanished, Ardagh moaned
in his sleep, then suddenly woke, heart racing, every sense
instantly alert to danger no longer present.

"What in the name of all the Powers . . . ?"

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. A dream? Had that been
only a dream? Maybe. Magioal beings did tend to dream
of magic.

And yet.. . could someone have just sent out some sor-
cerous probe to study him? Ardagh sat sharply up in bed,
questing with every psychic sense, for—for—

For nothing. Whatever that had been, not a trace of
anything arcane lingered. Surely it had been a dream.

And yet ...

No longer even slightly sleepy, Ardagh got to his feet,

167

168 Josepha Shemwn

slinging on the first clothes that came to hand, and stepped
out into the night to see what he might find.

The air was very cold, the sky clear and blazing with stars.
The bishop's guest house was as quiet as all the fortress of
Fremainn, full of the feel of sleeping humanity, but to the
prince's darkness-adjusted eyes the light of the one flick-
ering candle glinting from behind the house s one leather-
curtained window was bright as a beacon.

Now why, if all inside were asleep, did the bishop need
a light? There was always the possibility that someone had
forgotten to extinguish it or that one of the humans within
feared the dark; some humans, Ardagh had already learned,
did have such an odd terror. Something to do with their
poor night vision, no doubt.

Somehow I doubt this is the case.

Very delicately, he expanded his Sidhe senses, probing
gently, then just as gently drew back into himself. The bishop
was indeed still awake, but lost to the point of psychic invi-
sibility in study or prayer or whatever it was a human holy
man might be doing at such an hour. There was not the
slightest feel of magic to him, but that, unfortunately, was
not surprising.

Iforuy Gervinus bore innate Power, even such a tiny touch
as Eithne possesses! it would be so easy to trap him then!
Magic did, after all, call to magic; the bishop would never
be able to hide such Talent from him. But of course Gervinus
had no innate Power; he hadn't even been able to recog-
nize that the prince was of the Sidhe.

But isn't there supposed to be another way for humans
to manipulate Power? Less efficient, less clean, but still
possible?

Father Seadna had reluctantly admitted in one of his
discussions with the prince that such a thing existed. "Sor-
cery," the process was called, and it involved learning spells
from books and reciting them by rote. According to the
monk, sorcery was always an evil thing. Ardagh frowned in
distaste. Of course it would be! How could something as
unnatural as forcing Power where none belonged be any-
thing but evil?

THE SHATTERED OATH          169

Such an ugliness would surely account for the Darkness
Ifelt.

Ae, yes, but this didn't make sense. Gervinus, whatever
else he might be, was still a prelate of the humans' Church,
and as far as Ardagh could tell from Father Seadna's euphe-
mistic words on me subject, that Church condemned any
form of magic.

Or am I being nawe? Humans are so easy with falsehood.
after all. Maybe the bishop's seeming loyalty to his Church
is a lie, too.

The prince let out his breath in a silent sigh of frustration.
Maybe Gervinus really was doing nothing more suspicious
than studying his prayers. As long as that candle proved
someone was alert within, the prince couldn't very well slip
into the guest house to find out. And without definite proof,
with nothing stronger than a half-dream for evidence, he
couldn't even be sure anyone had been working sorcery!

Some other time, Gervinus, Ardagh promised, and
returned to his guest house, aching for the easy, mighty
Power of his former Sidhe life, the Power that would have
let him solve this ludicrous puzzle with one quick Word-
Instead, helpless to do anything constructive, the prince sat
awake and alert, hunting in vain for even the slightest trace
of sorcery till at last the night brightened into day and the
human world came awake.

Ae-yi, Ardagh thought, stretching wearily, if I cannot prow
sorcery, I can at least make every effort to keep the man
from working any harm.

I hope.

Gervinus sat hunched wearily over the grimoire set on
the table before him, staring down at it by the uncertain
light of the single candle as though the book had turned
into something foreign.

That should not have happened. He had used the proper
spell, the same one he had used a hundred times before
to learn secrets about rivals, the one that had let him spy
upon the Curtate when they'd decided his fate. He had
spoken each word correctly and properly performed every

170 ]o$epha Sherman

one of the dozen seemingly meaningless gestures that were
necessary to spark it into life. And yet—nothing! The mir-
ror had remained only a mirror—nothing!

Stifling a yawn, the bishop leaned bade, stretching stiff
neck and shoulder muscles Prince Ardagh hadn't warded
off the spell, anything so strong would, according to every-
thing he'd ever studied about sorcery, have set off psychic
waves of shock. Instead, it had felt as though his spell were
a stone that, rather than predictably sinking into the pool
into which it had been hurled, had skipped smoothly across
the surface, barely stirring a drop.

Fact. The speU could not have failed. Fact: It did. Fact:

The prince used no magic to ward it off. Gervinus closed
the grimoire with a snap. Three conflicting impossibilities-
turned-truth should add up to something useful. But what
that useful thing may be. 1 have not the vaguest idea.

The bishop fought back a second yawn. Every time he
used the grimoire these days and felt that wondrous surge
of Power, he also felt a strange, no longer to be denied puU,
a craving to cast yet more and greater spells, even when
sorcery wasn't truly required. Bizarre sensation, but it was
nothing he couldn't control. Particularly now, when he was
too weary to even think of further experiments. Tomorrow
night. Gervinus decided- Tomorrow night he would try again,
but aim his magic against King Aedh instead. The speU, he
told himself, cannot fail again.

As Ardagh left his guest house, he started violently as a
piercing little voice said, "I have a new toy."

He glanced down. "Ah, Princess Fainchel" Even after
his bizarre night and the feeling that he hadn't quite got-
ten enough-sleep, he had to smile. Even if she was, he was
beginning to think, worse than a Idtten for escaping where
she should be. "What are you doing here, little one?"

"I have a new toy," she insisted, holding it out for his
inspection.

"So you do." Ardagh obligingly crouched down to examine
the toy, amused and a tiny bit flattered that she should have
come all this way to show her new possession to him. It

THE SHATTERED OATH          171

was an intricate thing of willow twigs and ribbons that would
whirl out in colorful patterns when the toy was spun. It was
also, he saw. something else as well. "Very pretty. Your
mother is a clever woman to make such a toy."

Fainche nodded, not at all surprised that he would know
that her mother had made it. The thing could only have
come from Eithne's hand, Ardagh thought There were half
a dozen little protection spells woven into it.

"Very pretty, indeed. Princess Fainche. But aren't you
supposed to be somewhere else right now?"

"She is, indeed," said a woman's voice, and Ardagh glanced
up to see Queen Eithne. She knelt beside her daughter,
urging, "Go on, Fainche. Go with my women."

The child hesitated,glancing doubtfully at Ardagh, then,
at his nod, scuttled off.

"She seems quite smitten by you," Eithne said with a smile.

"I like the young lady, too." Ardagh paused- "But this time
she wasn't wandering on her own, was she? You encour-
aged her to come here, didn't you?"

Eithne didn't even try to deny it. Pretending to be totally
involved in showing the prince yet another beribboned
trinket, she murmured, "It was the only way I could see
for us to exchange a few words in private."

Untangling two of the ribbons—red, to ward off evil
spirits—Ardagh frowned. "Bishop Gervinus."

"You feel it, too."

"Ae, yes. I woke from sleep sure that someone had tried
to probe my mind by sorcery."

She stared as blankly as though he'd told her (he moon
had turned to milk. "Wait now, are you saying—sorcery—
are—are you accusing a bishop of—"

"Of nothing. Yet."

"I don't understand! You're one of the Sidhe; surety you
can tell whether or not someone is working spells."

"Not always. Not if the magic being used isn't natural
to the user."

"But. - ."

"Look you, I knew you bore Power as your birthright
almost from the moment I first saw you: Ifelt it. And you

172 Josephs Sherman

sensed mine as weD. But if the bishop is working spells simply
by reading the correct words and making the correct gestures,
without any inner magic being sparked to life, in that case
there isn't any laithaie'al, any... ae, I don't have the words
in your tongue. - - any magical aura, lefs call it, to be sensed."

"Then how do you know he's working any spells? Prince
Ardagh, the man's a bishop!"

"Something that doesn't matter to either of us." The blunt
honesty made the queen wince, but Ardagh continued as if
he hadn't seen, "As to what he's doing, I'm not sure. Gervinus
might well have been using some sorcerous scroll or book
of spells, but I couldn't manage to steal into his guest house
to take a look." He frowned at her frown. "Don't give me that
horrified look: /'m not bound by your Laws of Hospitality,
If I could have worked my way in there, I would have done
so, but..." The prince shrugged. "Right now I can't prove
what Gervinus is or is not doing."

"I—I see. Well, we can hardly challenge a bishop—yes,
yes, I know, but he's an important man to die Christian folk—
we can't challenge him on such a terrible charge without very
real proof."

"Indeed not." Ardagh turned his attention back to the
toy, gently straightening the ribbons. "Eithne, do you know
how to work a ..." He stopped, caught again by the bar-
rier of a nonmagical people's nonmagical language. 'There
isn't a human term for it- Call it a 'not here' spell, a small
charm that's just strong enough to let sorcerous intrusion
slide harmlessly oS without leaving any traces. Can you work
something like that?"

She considered the problem for a moment, brow fur-
rowed. "I think I know what you mean, yes- But what are
you saying? Prince Ardagh, please, are you telhng me my
husband's in danger?"

"Or possibly you. Or possibly no one at all." Ardagb shook
his head in sudden impatience. "I'm not used to being so
uncertain. I don't mean to frighten you, either, but I can't
give you anything that says, Tes. here is the danger,' and
*yes, here is what you can do about it." For all I know, we're
both overreacting to the fact that we've taken such a strong

THE SHATTERED OATH          173

dislike to the man. But... cast your spells tonight. Queen
Eithne, just in case."

Gervinus clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. It could
not have happened. The spell could not have failed him a
second time, and in exactly the same way, skipping over King
Aedh as smoothly as a stone over water. He pored over the
grimoire, ignoring his aching head, ignoring the ache of faded
magic that was echoing through all his being, hunting—even
though he knew he was being ridiculous—for even the slight-
est trace that there had been tampering. But of course there
was none. The intricate words and more intricate designs
were just as they'd always been, calling to him, telling him
to try again, work a spell, work sorcery. . . .

Nol He was the master of the grimoire, not it he!

Just then, the candle, which Gervinus had absently noticed
was nearly used up, gave one final flicker and burned out,
leaving him blinking and tense in the sudden darkness. He
could almost swear someone else had slipped into the room
with him.

"Annilf?"

No, you fool. Don't let whoever it is know exactly where
you are! Smoothly, Gervinus slipped to his feet and moved
to the window, then flung aside the leather curtain to let
moonlight flood into the room—

The quite empty room-

"Jesu Christos." He ran a hand over his eyes. He was being
almost as foolish as Arnulf, seeing specters where there were
none. It was the spell's double failure weighing on his nerves,
surely. But what could be causing that failure? What could—

Ah yes, of course. Foolish of him not to have realized it
earlier: The grimoire had been bound and inscribed in distant
Rome. Eriu itself, some foreignness of air or earth or aura
peculiar to this land, must be behind the sorcerous inter-
ference he was encountering. Gervinus swore a very secu-
lar oatfa under his breath. He would need to work some
experiments before he could work any sorcery at all, warily
so no one would suspect what he was about, and leam what
corrections must be made to the initial spells.

174 Josephs Sherman

But not tonight, he added silently to the grimoire, this
time not even trying to hide his yawn. Tonight he had done
enough. If he was to do anything at all useful come morn-
ing, he needed sleep. Leaving a fresh candle burning to let
prying eyes think someone was still awake, Gervinus sank
to his bed and surrendered to exhaustion.

"Good morning to you, Bishop Gervinus."

It was the prince, me foreigner, strolling casually up to
him as Gervinus left his guest house in the morning, fol-
lowed by his retinue. Prince Ardagh looked so disgustingly
cheerful that the bishop wanted to spit at him. Instead,
Gervinus moved his hand in an abstract blessing, not at all
surprised that the prince didn't kneel or even lower his head
to receive it "God give you a good morning. Prince Ardagh."

"It is a pleasant morning, isn't it? Not raining for once
and nicety warm, and with that lovely blue sky." The prince
stopped to study him, head to one side. "But what's this?
You look so very weary, almost as if you lacked for sleepi"

"I could say the same about you."

The prince grinned- "It was too charming a night to waste
in sleeping. I was up and about till fairly late. And you?"

His Rghthearted chirping was beginning to grate. "I was
up late as well," Gervinus snapped. "Studying the Holy Book.
You would not know of such things."

"It would seem that such studying was fruitless," (he prince
replied with a charming smile. "You look most terribly dis-
satisfied."

"Hardly with the Holy Word!"

"Eriu, then? Can it be that Eriu does not agree with you?"

"You misread me. Prince Ardagh. The only dissatisfac-
tion I feel concerns the number of pagans I have found in
this land."

The prince's smile never faltered. "Perhaps those pagans
are quite content with things the way they are. Perhaps they
don't want someone intruding on their hearts and minds."

He knows, the bishop realized with a little shock of alarm.
He knows very well what I was doing—no, no, he couldn't
know. he would have run straight to Aedh if that were so.

THE SHATTERED OATH          175

Unless, of course, he wants something from me? Is this to
be an attempt at blackmail? "This conversation is pointless,
Prince Ardagh. Unless you have anything specific you wish
to discuss?"

He stressed the word "specific." Prince Ardag^i was silent
just long enough to set Gervinus' nerves on edge "Just a
comment," the prince said at last. "Perhaps when you are
studying in the dark, quiet hours of the night, it may com-
fort you to know that someone is watching."

"Is that some warped form of threat?"

"Now, did I say one threatening word?" Prince Ardagh
gave him a new, dazzlingly bright smile. "Good day to you,
Bishop Gervinus."

Still smiling slightly. Ardagh stood watching the bishop
and his retinue until they had vanished around the bend
of a narrow street.

The smile faded. Had he Just moved a little too soon?
He had been using an old Sidhe technique: when uncer-
tain about a foe, attack without warning and transfer that
uncertainty to the foe's shoulders. A Sidhe technique—but
who knew how a human thought? Or how to predict a
human's actions? Or, for that matter, a lack of action? Last
night, Ardagh reflected, he had definitely felt something,
the faintest of psychic disturbances, but it had been too slight
an arcane trembling to prove anything. A failed Sidhe spell,
with all its natural Power, would have left enough psychic
residue to alert everyone in the area; one of these unnatu-
ral, book-learned sorcerous spells, it seemed, could only be
detected without error if the cursed thing actually worked.

Someone, probably one of die servant women, had begun
to sing at her work, one thin, clear thread of music, pure
as the call of a bird, and Ardagh paused, a little shiver of
delight racing through him, chasing away the anger. The
game wasn't won or Tost. And, lacking certainty, innuendo
could be a most useful tool. Ah yes, and what an interest-
ing reaction he'd roused from Gervinus!

Now, ffl were he, I would be puzzling out what 1 wanted.
And begin work on some means of destroying me. Well now,

176 Josephs Sherman

when it comes to matters magical, he's going to be as lim-
ited by this Realm as me. And if he actually does manage
to cast something as Powerful as a SpeU of Attack at me,
Ardagh thought with a fierce little grin, I not only have my
proof, I have his death.

The prince couldn't know anything, Gervinus decided,
striding along with a fierceness more suited to a warrior
than a cleric, his robes whipping about his legs. There wasn't
any way anyone here, not even that uncanny foreigner, could
know of his experiments in sorcery. Unless, of course. Prince
Ardagh was, himself, a—

Nonsense.

Gervinus stopped so suddenly his servants nearly crashed
into him. Absently waving away their stammered apologies,
he started forward again, more pensively this time. Now,
here was a useful thought: it didn't actually matter whether
or not the prince was a sorcerer. No, of course not. The
important thing was that the folk of Fremainn, most cer-
tainly King Aedh, come to believe he was.

Of course it was not going to be an easy thing to sway
the folk here against such a handsome creature; people
tended to believe that the beautiful must be good, never
once remembering that even Lucifer was known as the
Ughtbearer-

Innuendo, the bishop told himself with a secret smile.
Innuendo would be far more useful than outright attack, at
least until he could find some tangible proof of wrongdoing.

But not yet. He didn't dare start any move so drastic as
attacking Prince Ardagh, not until he had learned more about
these people and put them at their ease. Not until be had
found the way to control them and the way they thought.
Not until he had found the way to truly rule mis realm.
The fast-approaching winter would be an ideal time to settle
in. And after that. . .

Guard your back. Prince Ardagh, for what good it wiS
do you. Guard it weU.

SCRANGe POLITICS

CHAPCeR15

The hour was very late; the waning moon had set some
time back, and the air held that chill silence that came
between the human Realm's night and dawn. Ardagh, dark
cloak wrapped tightly about him as he kept his usual vigil
outside the bishop's guest house, mused mat now was the
time when humans were most likely to have their defenses
down. Even, he added, staring at the guest house, those of
a bishop.

Nearly a week had passed with not a sign of arcane or
mundane danger from Gervinus; the bishop would know
he was still too newly arrived in Enu for anything of the
latter, and judging from the man's increasingly tired face,
the lack of the former had merely been because he'd been
too weary from failed spells to try anything new.

He'd better try something new, and quickly, the prince
thought with a flash of humor, or I'm going to be too weary
from watching him instead of sleeping to do anything about
it!

But in the past week, instead of working anything even
remotely sorcerous, Gervinus had been doing his best to
learn by more ordinary means everything he could about
this fortress and the folks within it. He also, rather to Ardagh's
surprise, hadn't issued so much as an innuendo against the
prince.

Can a human possibly be as subtle as a Sidhe? And why,

177

178 Josepha Sherrwn

I wonder, would a man who is almost certainly going to be
called back to Rome want to know such detailed informa-
tion about Eriu? He does intend to be called back, doesn't
he?

Ha, look at this: the bishop's candle had just burned out.
Ardagh waited patiently till he was sure it wasn't going to
be rent, then delicately tested with Sidhe senses. Yes. The
bishop had just fallen asleep.

At last! The prince smiled and moved silently forward.
It was the easiest thing in the world to slip past the sleep-
ing, snoring humans who littered the antechamber, and not
much more difficult to enter the inner room, stepping
delicately over the slumbering Amulfwho lay flat on a pallet
just inside.

The prince paused, night-sighted eyes clearly picking out
the bed and me bishop, who had collapsed across it, still
fully clad, and was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of the
absurd. Ae, but this was ridiculous! Dear brother Eirithan
would laugh till the tears came at the sight of a prince turned
lowly thief.

I'm not a thief. Ardagh jibed at himself, I'm a spy. A big
difference, that.

Whatever he was, this was hardly the time to stand and
worry about it. Gervinus was genuinely asleep, but there
was no way to ensure he would stay that way, not in this
magic-poor Realm where sleep spells weren't guaranteed
to work. Ardagh let his senses expand, delicately hunting,
hunting . . .

Nothing. If a spellbook really was in this room, it gave
off no more aura of magic than did the bishop- Where might
it be, though . . . ? Anything so precious wouldn't be kept
where prying eyes might see it, but the sparsely furnished
room didn't allow many hiding places. The clothes chest,
the prince quickly realized, held nothing more alarming than
clothing, most of it clearly ecclesiastical (he warily refolded
everything so no one would know they'd been disturbed),
and there really didn't seem to be anywhere else that might—

Ah. The bed itself. Like that in his own guest house, it
was a large, thick feather bed, ideal for hiding any number

THE SHATTERED OATH          179

of small objects. Ardagh stole forward and looked warily
down at the sleeping bishop, wondering if Gervinus kept
the book under his pillow. Surely he wouldn't?

Surely he would. The comer of a plainly bound book
extended slightly from under the pillow,

So, now. This isn't going to be easy.

Holding his breath, Ardagh softly started to pull the book
out. He almost had it... a little more and . . .

Just then, Gervinus turned roughly over in bed. The prince
started, his hand slipped—and something sharp as white-
hot fire seared his fingers! Barely holding back a yell, Ardagh
dropped the book with a crash, and saw the bishop's eyes
flutter open. No time to do anything but dive for me door
before the groggy Gervinus could recognize him, leaping
over Arnulfeven as he heard the bishop's first shout. Before
Ae servants in the antechamber could stir, Ardagh was past
mem and out into the security of the night. Not quite night
anymore, he realized with alarm. It was now light enough

1           I   J                                                                   ~'

to be nearly dawn.

Keeping to what shadows remained, the prince hurried
on till he was sure there wasn't going to be any pursuit Then
he fell back against a wall, clutching his scorched hand
against his chest and gasping out oaths in the human tongue
since the Sidhe language wasn't rough enough to relieve
fais feelings. Warily he stole a look down at his hand, half-
expecting to find the fingertips charred.

No. There was no damage worse than bBstering, but it
certainly felt as though the flesh had been burned away.
Ardagh warily attempted a healing spell, a small thing that
surely wouldn't be restricted by me human Realm.

A small thing, unfortunately, that had never been intended
to work against iron-burns, and certainly had no Power
against them now.

Ae, damn it, damn it. how could he have been so stu-
pid? Snatching at the book like some little boy after candy,
never once thinking it might be guarded! Bah, he'd been
among an iron-wielding folk so long without suffering much
worse than an occasional bout of nausea that he'd let him-
self grow complacent. Maybe the lock binding the book had

180 Josepha Shernwa

been of purer iron than the alloys used in Eriu, maybe
foreign iron had more power, maybe there was some arcane
ecclesiastical aura clinging to it, but the thing had burned
him as surely as ever iron had scorched magical beings in
the old tales.

Damn and damn again. I can't even be sure what type
of book it was! For aS I know, it's nothing more than a copy
of the humans' Holy Book or one of those ornate prayerbooks
they seem to favor. Some of those books were said to be so
richly ornamented they were worth a regal ransom—rea-
son enough to keep one of them locked to protect the pre-
cious contents.

He wasn't alone. Ardagh whirled with a snarl, wounded
fingers hidden in the grip of his good hand, then relaxed
marginally- "Lady Sorcha." He bit me words off angrily. "You
are an early riser."

"Oh, I often—" She broke off with a frown. "You've hurt
your hand." Before he could wave her away, Sorcha had
caught it gently between her own, studying the scorching.
"Now, how did you manage this?"

"By being stupid."

"Huh. It looks like you tried to pick up a coal that wasn't
quite cool." She glanced up at him without expression.
"Accidents happen. That's why most of the women here keep
a good selection of salves. I have a nice one Queen Eithne
concocted that should take me pain away. Wait, and I'll fetch
it."

When she chose, she could move as swift as the Sidhe,
it seemed, gone and back so quickly Ardagh didn't quite
have time to reach his guest house. Blocking his path, Sorcha
snapped, "I told you to wait. Now don't be such a heroic
idiot and hold still."

The salve was cool and scorning, with a sharp, not unplea-
sant herbal scent, and removed the pain as quickly as the
woman had promised. As Sorcha busied herself with binding
his fingers with clean strips of cloth. Ardagh studied her,
puzzled by the concern he saw on her face, so much at odds
with her sharp tongue- The herbal scent surrounded her,
mingling with her own faint, clean scent, making her seem

THE SHATTERED OATH          181




at once very human yet part of something far older, far more
basic than humanity, and the prince tensed, not quite sure
in that confused moment whether he was feeling relief or
gratitude or something much warmer, not sure whether he
wanted to move towards her or away-

"That does it," Sorcha said suddenly, and Ardagh straight-
ened guiltily. If the woman had been aware of his confu-
sion, she didn't show any sign of it. "Here. There's enough
of the salve in this vial for you to apply it once a day. Keep
that hand cleanly bandaged and as dry as possible. If it
doesn't seem to be healing after a day, send for me, but I
doubt that you'll have any trouble; it's not such a bad bum.
Just don't repeat . . . whatever it was you were doing to
get if

"I won't," Ardagh assured her dryly. "Thank you."
She raised an eyebrow, as if faying to read something more
into the simple words, then muttered, "You're quite wel-
come." and hurried away.

Ardagh strode coolly up to the door of the High King's
council hall. Even if, in the week since his aborted attempt
at espionage, he hadn't been able to learn the contents of
the bishop's mysterious book, the days had been calm and
the nights totafly untroubled, for both himself and the royal
couple. His hand had healed quickly, leaving not even the
smallest scar. Bishop Gervinus had never even tried to accuse
him of attempted theft; the human had, after all, still been
half-asleep and must have decided that the whole thing had
been a dream sparked by the book's accidental fall.

Interesting. If Gervinus really had been trying any sor-
ceries this past week, the bishop must be feeling thoroughly
frustrated by now, because there hadn't been the slightest
sign that even the smallest of spells had worked.

Not so frustrated that he hasn't been teaming aQ, he can
about local politics He is almost certainly going to make
himself part of today's meeting of the royal council.

As am I.

"Stand aside," Ardagh told the guards, and they, nervous
about refusing a princely order, obeyed. The prince, aware

182 josepha Sherman

of the demands of drama, stood framed in the doorway just
long enough for every head in the crowded room to turn
in his direction.

Ah look, I was right: Bishop Gervinus has already in-
truded. And tsk, he looks so weary. Almost like a man who's
been up all night conjuring in vain

As the bishop gave him a decidedly hostile dare, Ardagh
smiled. Then his glance locked with Aedh's quizzical gaze.
The prince dipped his head in regal courtesy, receiving the
king's nod in return. "Have I your permission to join this
garnering?" Ardagh asked politely.

No matter how he might feel about having both Ardagh
and Bishop Gervinus in the same council meeting, Aedh
could hardly have refused. With a gracious wave of his hand,
he indicated a spot to his left. Ardagh moved smoothly to
the space, which put him next to Fothad, almost directly
opposite the bishop, and sat absolutely still, waiting as a
predator waits till the humans were no longer aware of him,
listening until he was sure of the direction of discussion.
He recognized every participant by now. from the somber,
scrupulously honest Beinion mac Cuan, thin and grey-haired,
to those idiots Diarmait mac Flann and ConnaUmac Lare,
alike in their red-gold hair and foolish faces, who'd once
had that quarrel over cattle.

The one I solved

For a time there was nothing of particular note,, just the
accumulation of details that went into the smooth running
of every land.

Ha, but what nonsense was starting up? Eriu was more
or less at peace, internal squabbles notwithstanding. Why
would these folks wish to stir up trouble where none existed?
Ardagh knew by now that these were a quick-tempered
people, swift to laugh or take offense, but even so, this
seemed a bit extreme. He sat watching and listening care-
fully, and with a little shock realized exactly what was hap-
pening.

Why, you sly. subtle creature! he told the bishop. You're
doing it, aren't you? Yes... every time the discussion seems
about to settle down, you stir it up again with a word or a

THE SHATTERED OATH          183

look. Beinion could hardly not react to a hint that his east-
coast estates just might be imperiled, even if there was no
proof behind the hint. And hot-blooded Diarmait, trying
to argue with the bishop, was hardly going to be calmed
by that gentle, pitying glance. And the others—oh, the bishop
bad been doing his research well. He knew exactly what
would best touch each man's pride.

A masterful job, Cervmus, truly devious. And you're doing
it so delicately that even Aedh doesn't see how he's being
led.

But what was the point of all this—ah, of course. What
better way to gain a foothold here than by causing dissention
and stepping into the breach?

Clever human. But I'm not going to let you keep that
foothold,

Ardagh cleared his throat suddenly, and had the satis-
faction of seeing several of the men, who by now had for-
gotten all about him, start. The prince glanced about the
crowded room, gaze passing lighuy from this counsellor to
the next. "Perhaps I'm not understanding this clearly." He
kept his voice empty of all but apparently innocent inter-
est, very much aware of Bishop Gervinus' suddenly alert
stare. "It's autumn, nearly winter. Everyone is restless as
so many sta^, and as full of pent-up energy. And so, to let
off that energy, you want to be at war."

"Of course we don't!" Fothad protested. "But we can't
let enemies attack us."

"Ah, but which enemies? It would seem to me that there's
only one active at the moment, though hardly likely to attack
till spring. Everyone has told me how the Lochlannach, as
I believe those sea-folk are named, have been raiding odd
corners of Eriu."

Several men nodded.

"But the Cymraen folk have not."

"No," Aedh said, the barest hint of dry humor in his voice,
as if he saw very clearly where Ardagh was going.

"So instead of attacking those who have attacked you,"
the prince continued delicately, looking around the room,
"you wish to attack those who have not."

184 Josephs Sherman

"We have to strike them before they strike us!" some-
one protested,

"Ah. Go to war against someone just in case he might
someday happen to think of going to war against you. I see."

That roused some insulted rumblings. "There have always
been attacks from Cymru!" a second man yelled, and another
voice added, "Our lands have never been at peace!"

"Yet you and they are related."

"Distant kin," Fothad agreed-

"And the Lochlannach are not. I see. A family squabble.
My, what fun." There were more disapproving growts at (hat,
but the prince ignored them. "And while your two lands
argue," he said, voice sharp, "the Lochlannach are free to
strike as they will, knowing your two lands are too involved
in squabbling to defend yourselves."

He sat back, face a cool mask, watching the excitement
he'd created, thinking it all looked rather like a disturbed
nest of ants,

Only Bishop Gervinus remained uninvolved. Eyes hard
as winter ice, he sat regarding Ardagh with chill specula-
tion. Ardagh stared right back, putting all his Sidhe will into
the stare, and smiled inwardly to see the human flinch and
look away.

"I find I must agree with the prince," Gervinus said
unexpectedly. "It would seem to me, though I admit to being
new to your situation, that attacking the people of Cymru
would be a sinful thing. After all. are they not Christians?
While these Lochlannach, these barbaric men of the North,
most assuredly are not."

Oh. smoothly done, Gervinus! A neat shift of position.
Now fetus see what you do with it.

"Hardly." Aedh agreed with the bishop, and Cervinus gave
him the thinnest of smiles.

"That is a fact of which you must be all too well aware,
King Aedh, But I wonder if you realize just how painful
the situation has become."

"Meaning?"

"I hesitate to mention this."

"Come, Bishop Gervinus, you may speak freely here."

THE SHATTERED OATH          185

- ;

; |
' i

"As the king wills. King Aedh, I fear it may be some of
your own people who aid the raiders."

The room erupted into outraged shouts, even quiet Father
Seadna adding his protests. As the storm raged, Ardagh sat
back, studying the bishop, wondering.

King Aedh held up a hand for silence. "Bishop Gervinus,"
he began, voice tinged with barely controlled anger, "you
are a man of the Church, not of the world, and so I can-
not believe you quite realize what you've just said. You cannot
possibly be accusing any of my people of the worst kind of
treason."

Gervinus lowered his head as if overcome by reluctance.
"Alas," he murmured, "I must. King Aedh, the Lochlannach
warriors are pagans—and pagans, as you cannot deny, linger
here in your own lands." He glanced pointedly up at
Ardagb, then down again. "Surely you know, you all know,
that they who have denied the Ught have no love at all
for those who have been shown the true path to salva-
tion."

"But that's not how it is here!" Father Seadna burst out.

The look the bishop gave him was that of a lord to some
insolent underling. "Indeed? In what way?"

"Och, I won't deny that I've seen the occasional offer-
ing: flowers left near a standing stone or ribbons tied over
a well said to belong to the old gods. But the folk who leave
such things are usually old, or women so desperate for
children they'll try any superstition- Misguided folk, surely,
but never evil."

Gervinus shook his head pityingly. That is exactly what
you, what we all, are meant to believe. What better way to
attack Christendom than by lulling our suspicions—then
striking at us through a godless alliance?"

"And yet," Ardagb cut in, "the Lochlannach, from all I've
heard, do not discriminate pagans from Christians when they
attack."

That earned him a grateful glance from the monk, and
a new glare from the bishop, who snapped, "Their primary
targets are monasteries!"

"Why, of course they are!" the prince said as though

186 Josephs Sherman

humoring a not-too-bright child. "It's a matter not of reli-
gion but of sheer practicality. If you were a sea-raider who'd
just made a perilous voyage, wouldn't you head straight for
poorly defended prey? Monasteries are often set on rocky,
isolated coasts and islands, am I not right? Sites that would
be the first land the sea warriors would reach."

"Quite true," Father Seadna said sadly. "And every mon-
astery has its treasury. It would be an easy thing for any
Lochlannach raiders to leam this fact. And they would hardly
care, followers of their dark gods that they are, that the gold
they found in such a treasury was shaped into holy objects."

"Exactly!" Ardagh leaned forward, staring at the bishop.
"Listen to the good monk. There isn't any need for any of
your convoluted theories of conspiracy. What we have in
the Lochlannach aren't the members of some diabolical plot,
but thieves, nothing more than gold-hunting, seafaring
thieves." He straightened to look around the entire room,
putting all his Sidhe will behind the stare. "And if you believe
anything else, you risk tearing your land apart!"

This time the murmurs were all approving. Ardagh sat
back again, watching the bishop glowering at him, and
smiled.

This game is mine, Ceminus.

DISCUDBANCeS AND
CONFCONCAC10NS

CtiAPCeR 16

As the royal council filed out of the hall, Ardagh worked
his way through the crowd until he was walking beside
Bishop Gervinus. It was not where the prince would have
chosen to be had things been different; this close to the
bishop, he was once again very much aware of the sense
of Darkness hovering over Gervinus.

Sorcerous Darkness? he thought with a burst of renewed
frustration at not being able to learn the answer. Or can I
merely be sensing coldhearted. ruthless human ambition?

Either way: "A word with you, if you would."

The bishop glanced at him, hostility in the cold eyes. "I
assume you mean a private word."

"I think that might be best- If you would follow me?"

He led Gervinus to a quiet little triangle formed where
the walls of two houses came together at an angle. "It is
unlikely anyone can overhear us now."

"Speak."

"Bishop Gervinus, let us be frank. Neither of us is native
to this land, so neither of us can claim anything more than
an outsider's interest. But you will—I assume—eventually
be returning to Rome, while I have chosen to make a home
for myself here." Even if the original choice was more or
less made for me.

187

188 Josephs Shennan

Cold dislike still radiated from the bishop, but his face
remained as emotionless as sharply cut stone. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Ardagh said smoothly, "that I have a defi-
nite interest in seeing that the life of this land remains
peaceful and happy."

"And I would not?"

"I'm not saying that." LiteraQy, if not figuratively. "But
since you are an outsider and so newly arrived you may not
quite understand the situation here in Eriu."

"And you do,"

"Up to a point, yes, and I must agree with Father Seadna."

"What, you?" There was a world of scorn in the simple
words.

"I am not blind. I've been here long enough to see that
these are an exuberant people, these folk of Eriu, quick to
hate or love or laugh. Some of them may be pagan, indeed;

I cannot speak for others' souls, nor am I worried about
others' befiefs. But I think that there is little genuine evil
in most of the folk, pagan or Christian."

Gervinus raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You are hardly in
the position to judge good and evil."

Ardagh grinned without humor. "Because I am not of your
faith? I assure you, 1 can still tell Light from Darkness. Not
all," he added pointedly, "can."

"What are you trying to say. Prince Ardagh?"

That I suspect you of sorcery—no. Not yet. Nothing more
on that subject, not till I can hold up the evidence in your
face. "Why, nothing more than a simple statement of fact."

He met Gervinus' stare. And once again, it was the human
who had to look away, "Do you seek tolecture me?" Gervinus
snarled.

"Oh no. Just to comment that there's no point in rous-
ing everyone about a danger that doesn't exist."

"The danger from Pagandom is very real!"

"Nonsense."

"Of course you would belittle it. If. indeed, that's all you're
doing," the bishop added darkly. "I wonder. Prince Ardagh,
just what role are you playing in all this?"

"I could ask the same thing about you. In fact, after this

THE SHATTERED OATH

189

council meeting, it seemed fairly obvious to me that you
were deliberately trying to stir up dissention."

"That's ridiculous- What would be the point?"

"What, indeed? I speak no Latin, Bishop Gervinus, and
I have never been to Rome. But Fothad mac Ailin is a
learned man. He taught me one ancient Roman maxim—
yes, from the pagan days—"Divide et impera.' That means,
'Divide and rule.* "

"I know what it means." The bishop's voice was very soft.
very deadly. "Choose your words carefully, Prince Ardagh.
Are you accusing me of harboring such ambition?"

"Should I?" the prince asked, the heart of innocence. "Is
that what you mean to do?"

"Of course not! I am a man of God. I cannot and will
not betray my vows."

"Whichever vows those might be."

To the Church! To God!"

"Of course."

"Prince Ardagh, I am a high-ranking official of the Church.
You, for all your beauty, are a pagan foreigner. If it comes
down to a confrontation, which of us do you think is more
likely to be believed?"

"Nicely put. But hardly conclusive."

"Enough clever words, Prince Ardagh. I will do as I will.
Is that understood? I will not brook interference. Is that
understood?"

"Why, Bishop Gervinus," Ardagh purred, "if you are truly
doing the work of Light, there is no need at all for anyone's
interference. And remember what I told you once before:

it is very possible that someone will be watching to be sure
that such remains the truth. Is that understood?"

If Bishop Gervinus had borne innate Power, Ardagh didn't
doubt the human would have blasted him on the Spot.
Instead, the bishop muttered a furious, "I have finer things
to do than banter words with an idler," and stalked away,

Ardagh stood watching. "Oh yes," the prince murmured
in his native tongue, "I think we do, indeed, understand
each other. And I shall, indeed, be watching."

•   •   •

190 josepha Sherman

This time, Cadwal thought with a bit of self-depieciat-
ing humor, he had actually managed to catch sight of the
prince approaching him before the man could startle him.
"Prince Ardagh. In mind of another duel?"

"With myself under better control, you mean?" Amuse-
ment glinted in the green eyes. "No, I'm not reading your
mind. Yes, the thought was clear on your face."

"Ah."

"Don't be embarrassed. Or alarmed, for that matter. I
will not lose control again. And no, I'm not looking for
swordwork right now. Instead, I would like a lesson in knife-
fighting."

Cadwal stared. "B-but that's not—it's not the sort of thing
noble folk leam!"

"Which fact almost got me killed; I'm sure you've heard
about my battle in the forest by now."

"You survived that nicely."

"Only because I was lucky enough to get in a telling blow,
and that merely by chance. I don't wish to repeat the experi-
ence. Granted, it's unlikely that I'll find myself in a similar
circumstance, but one never can tell what the future will
bring. And so, will you teach me?"

Do you expect me to refuse a prince? The mercenary
shrugged. "If that's what you want, why not? Besides, I...
owe you something for turning the council away from attack-
ing Cymru. No, I don't care why you did it, so don't give me
those uncomfortable looks. It would not have been a good
thing for me to have to choose between my people and the
king who supports me. Och, well, enough of this. We'll go get
ourselves a pair of wooden daggers—"

"Wood?"

"I am not," Cadwal told him, "going to risk myself to even
blunted metal in the hands of a novice."

He saw the faintest color rush into the fair face. "Of course
not. Let us, by all means, arm ourselves more suitably."

No need to rummage deeply in the armory. Cadwal
quickly dug out the wooden practice daggers from a box
near me door (noting once again how far hum the entrance
the prince stood) and tossed one to Prince Ardagh, satisfied

THE SHATTERED OATH          191

to see the easy grace with which the man caught it, and
caught it property by the hilt.

"All right, now, if we use this comer of the practice field,
away from most of the traffic, we shouldn't gather too big
an audience. Ready? Good. First lesson; Knifework's not
at all like handling a sword. You crouch like this, weight
on the balls of your feet—ha, yes, you've got it right off."

"I learned in a hurry back in the forest," the prince
reminded him.

"Mm. Right. Lucky you're a fast learner."

"Having someone trying to gut you is a wonderfiil incen-
tive."

"Can't argue with that." But then Cadwal frowned- "Before
we go any further, why aren't you protecting your arm?"

"Eh?"

"Your free arm! Didn't you wrap anything around it during
the fight?"

-Ah, no."

"lesu Crist\ You're lucky you didn't get it cut to ribbons."

"I'm lucky I didn't get me cut to ribbons!"

"Well, we're going to try reducing that risk. Wrap the end
of your brat around your arm like this. Right." Without
warning, he lunged and the startled prince jumped back.
CadwaT stopped short. "Is that what you're going to do?
Dance with a foe?"

The green eyes blazed. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Block me, like this. We'll go through it slowly- As I come
at you, right, block my knife arm with your free arm." He
thought he saw a flicker of distaste cross the elegant face
at the thought of such close, rough contact and grinned.
"Told you it's not the sort of thing nobles !eam. Up close
and dirty fighting. You still want to continue?" At the prince's
grim nod, Cadwal shrugged. "To work!"

Bishop Gervinus smiled a polite, politic smile, glancing
subtly about the small "conversation house" to be certain
he and the king really were alone. "It is very gracious of
you to take this time to speak with me, King Aedh." Even
if you plainly hate the idea.

192

Josephs Sherman

"Could I be less than courteous to a guest?" Though his
words were perfectly polite, not much warmth was in the
king's voice. "Particularly such a guest? What would you
discuss. Bishop Gervinus?"

"First, may I say what a charming land you rule?"

Aedh dipped his head politely. "I can hardly take credit
for its beauty, of course. All I can do is try to keep every-
one at peace. And though I do sponsor craftsmen and the
like, it's the monasteries who do the work of spreading learn-
ing."

"And, of course, the faith."

"Of course. They've been sending out missionaries to
Albion and other lands for centuries. But you'd know that.
And I don't doubt you'll be making your own tour of the
monasteries when you are done here."

"Indeed," Gervinus lied. And you can't wast to see me
out there and gone from Fremainn. You'Ujust have to be
patient, Aedh. The last thing he wanted to do was waste
time with provincial abbots who would not wish their rigid
little rule challenged.

"But this can hardly be what you wished to discuss," the
king continued. "If you have some uncomfortable secret
message from the Church, one you worried about sharing
with my ministers, please have no fear about delivering it."

"Oh, no. It's nothing tike that- King Aedh," Gervinus added
in his smoothest voice, "as I already mentioned, I have not
been sent to censure, but merely to observe, to see how
matters go in Eriu."

"Observe as you will, good bishop. I doubt that you'll find
anything outrageous."

"Oh, most aspects of life here do seem to be quite proper.
Unfortunately, though, I've noticed one matter that I fear
does need further investigation."

"Which is?"

Gervinus hesitated as though suddenly overcome by
awkwardness. "This is most embarrassing."

"Come, speak."

"I know that your people hold the concept of hospital-
ity as something sacred."

THE SHATTERED OATH

193

"We do." Aedh said flatly. "We have since the ancient
days. What are you trying to say?"

"Oh dear. This is awkward."

"My Lord Bishop, I am afraid that I am a very busy man,
and . . ."

"Of course. I will come to the point. King Aedh, what
do you know about Prince Ardagh?"

The king frowned slightly. That he is a prince, that he
comes from Cathay, that he is in exile from his brother's
reign to keep the peace of his land."

"Forgive me for doubting your word, but is there any
proof of any of that?"

"Why—I—what else can he be?"

"I see," the bishop murmured. "No true proof, then."

Aedh's frown deepened. "Bishop Gervinus, I am well
aware you dislike the idea of a non-Christian in our midst.
But Prince Ardagh has . . . never given me any reason to
regret his stay among us."

Gervinus heard that slightest of hesitations and pounced
on it. "Even if he has not always followed your ways."

"What would you expect of the man? He is a foreigner,
after all. Prince Ardagh has done a wondrous fine job of
adapting once the laws were explained to him."

"Ah, then he has transgressed in the past."

"What he has or has not done is not a matter for discus-
sion. The prince is not a criminal." Aedh's voice was now
unmistakably cold. "Understand this: I owe Prince Ardagh
my life. I would certainly have fallen to foes in an ambush
if it hadn't been for him."

"Why, how fortunate that he happened to be there. And
at just the right time, too."

"Very fortunate. Bishop Gervinus, I think we both know
that this conversation is going nowhere."

Ah. Too overt. Gervinus feigned a contrite smile. "In that
case, let us pretend that it never took place. My thanks again,
and my sincere apologies for wasting your time."

But no apologies at all/or allowing me the chance to plant
the first snwU seeds of doubt in your mind.

609

194 josepha Sherman

Prince Ardagh was proving to be almost an alarmingly
fast learner, quick to strike, quick to react, gracefiil even
in the most difficult of moves.

Isn't there anything he can't do? Cadwal wondered.
Remembering his long, harsh days of mercenary schooling—
the mud, the sweat, me aching muscles—he couldn't help
but feel a little stab of envy, and drove his pupil harder and
harder still.

And rather to his relief, Cadwal finally saw signs of wea-
riness begin to show on the prince's face; God knew he was
getting tired, but there was not a chance of him yielding
before a novice gave up. Satisfied, the mercenary stepped
back, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Enough."

He was panting, by God, and sweaty; so, he saw with a
little shock of surprise, was the prince, though why he should
be surprised that Prince Ardagh could get sweated up just
like any other man... Cadwal shrugged. "A good day's work."

The prince saluted him with the wooden dagger. "A good
teacher."

"Mmph. It helps to have an eager pupil. Don't go off
thinking you know it all, though, not after only the one
lesson."

"Of course not."

"You show promise, I'll tell you that. And with your skill
with a sword, you'd make an excellent mercenary." lesu, man,
why don't you just cut your own throat while you're at it?

But to bis relief, the prince only grinned. "I'll keep it in
mind."

All at once he went very still, tense as a predator. Cadwal,
turning to see what was alarming him, saw Bishop Gervinus
strolling with Father Seadna. "Huh. You really don't like
the man, do you?"

The prince never took his gaze from the bishop, but he
retorted, "No more than do you."

"Och, well, it's not really my place to like or dislike."

That did earn him a quick, wry glance. "How politic."

That's me. Politic. King Aedh pays the bills, and I'm
politic. Now, go and get into dry clothes before your muscles
start cramping up."

THE SHATTEHED OATH          195

e   •   e

Bishop Gervinus smiled urbanely, a man seemingly totally
at his ease, as he and Father Seadna walked together. That's
right. Prince ArdagA, watch me. Watch and worry. "You
need not look so alarmed, Father Seadna. I'm not about
to make any official proclamations or condemnations. After
all," he added, ever so delicately, "there are surely no rea-
sons for any condemnations. No, I merely wished a chance
to talk with you, away from the others."

"I see."

"I told you, there's no need for alarm. I merely wished
to find out from a fellow cleric what life is truly like here
and how you manage religious duties for your king."

The monk gave him an uneasy litde sideways glance. "You
understand mat I cannot discuss matters King Aedh has
told me in confidence."

"No, no, of course not! I would hardly expect you to violate
your priestly vows. But what is it like to be a Churchman
in this land?"

"What would you have me say? I doubt that religious life
here is different from that practiced in any other God-lov-
ing land."

"Indeed? It seems to me, in my admittedly brief stay so
far, that the people of Eriu are like no other."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you wish to know."

Gervinus hesitated, as though uncertain how to broach
an awkward subject, then shook his head. "I will be blunt.
You know that those in Rome have begun to wonder if the
folk of Eriu are genuinely still true to the faith."

"They are."

"What, no lost sheep? Not one straying member of the
flock?"

"No more than is the norm."

"The norm!" the bishop said in genuine surprise.

"We are only human," Father Seadna reminded him
gently. "We are all fallible at times, even you and I."

Could the monk possibly be as good a soul as he seemed?
Pretending to be looking straight ahead, Gervinus glanced
slyly sideways at Father Seadna, but instead of the naivete

196 ]osepha Sherman

he expected to surprise after hearing such a docile state-
ment, he saw a sharp intelligence in those quiet eyes. No
matter how gentle, how moral, this Father Seadna might
be, he, like his king, was not a fool.

Bah. how could he be a fool? He is the king's own priest.
after aQ. "You must be a remarkably patient man."

Father Seadna frowned slightly, as if not at all sure where
Gervinus was leading him. "With God's help, I try to be.
And of course I don't have an overwhelming burden. There
are other monks here in Fremainn to help minister to the
flock."

"Of course," Gervinus agreed. "What I meant is that you
show remarkable patience in dealing with those who have
not yet accepted the Light."

Father Seadna stopped short, stung. "Of whom are we
speaking? The folk of Eriu? Or can you mean Prince
Ardagh?"

Gervinus spread his hands expressively. "He is most bla-
tantly a pagan."

"I have spoken with him on religious matters on many
occasions. While I haven't yet managed to convince him
to convert, the pnnce has listened to me with interest and
courtesy each time. And in the meantime," Father Seadna
added, "he is as he is, a foreigner doing his best to make
sense of what, for him, is a totally alien world. And he is
doing a rather good job of that."

"No need to bristle! I have already assured you I am not
condemning you. Even if," Gervinus added, seemingly casual
but watching the monk for reaction, "you have not yet been
totally successful in your mission." There, now That should
nicely plant a seed or two of uncertainty with you, too. "And
as for Prince Ardagh adjusting to life here, so King Aedh
has affirmed. So now." he said with a smile, "shall we stroll
on?"

Still smiling slightly, Gervinus returned to his guest house.
Arnulfwas waiting, looking eagerly alert. Tie bishop glanced
quickly around the room, hunting for signs that the aco-
lyte had been searching for anything. Frustrating for Amulf

THE SHATTEHED OATH          197




if he had; the precious grimoire was tucked into a fold of
Gervinus' robes.

"Master?" Arnulf asked. "How did it go?"

"Well enough. An intriguing beginning." Neither King
Aedh nor Father Seadna were going to be easy men to con-
trol, no doubt about that—but the royal counsellors were
another matter. It had been almost ridiculously easy to have
those hot-blooded idiots at each other's throats during that
one meeting alone.

Or rather, he'd almost had them there. He would have,
if it hadn't been for that princely intruder. "Prince Ardagh
is likely to remain our biggest problem," the bishop said, as
much to himself as to Arnulf. "And so he must be our first
target. The man is just too clever, too quick, too alien—" and
just possibly too knowledgeable—"to be left untouched."

"But he's a prince!" Amulf protested. "How are we to
be rid of him?"

"An excellent question."

"Well, prince or no," the acolyte began, "he's still only a
man. Maybe a knife—"

"No, you idiot! The last thing we want to do is risk any
unseemfy involvement in violence. But the prince is a pagan,
remember. There should be something useful to be done
with that fact."

"Something, yes," Amulf snapped, "but what?"

Gervinus glanced at the acolyte in disapproval. "Patience,
boy. You must learn patience if ever you are to master the
Art."

"The Art doesn't seem to be serving you too well," Amulf
muttered, then froze when he realized the bishop had over-
heard him. "I didn't mean—"

"A lesson for you, Amulf. Sorcery is a tool. And like any
other tool, it can sometimes fail. The only thing of which
you can ever be truly sure is your will. Mine has never failed
me, and never shall. Can you swear the same? Well?"

"No."

"Then dont be so swift to criticize. Now, leave me alone
and—no, wait."

"Master?"

198 Josephs Shernum

"I have a task for you, Amulf. I wish you to wander about
Fremainn. You can speak with common folk as I cannot;

they are too waiy of my rank."

"While I am nobody."

Gervinus ignored the petulant note in that. "Exactly.
Listen. Learn. And if you hear anything against Prince
Ardagh, anything at all, I wish you to note it down and report
it to me exactly- Can you manage to do that, Arnulf?"

Gervinus saw resentment flash in the acolyte's eyes at
his contemptuous tone, but of course Arnulf dared not argue.
With a curt little nod that was just this side of being rude,
die youngster left.

Time passed, spent by Gervinus in various tests of sor-
cerous discipline- His cool words to Amulf notwithstand-
ing, the investigatory little spells with which he'd been
experimenting lately, carefully altered from those he had
Brst sent out to study Prince Ardagh and then King Aedh,
should not have failed. Even if there had been nothing
spectacular to learn, he should have learned something.

Patience. Even as he had lectured Arnulf, p&tience was
the thing. If a spell failed, it only meant there hadn't been
anything overt for it to seize upon. There was still time to
study, to experiment. He was doing well enough without
sorcery, and—

The sudden return of his acolyte brought Gervinus back
to the present with a start. "Well? What news?"

Amulf shook his head. "Nothing. In the space of these
few hours, I've been told that," he ticked the items off on
his fingers, "Prince Ardagh is cold or gentle, well humored
or arrogant, graceful as a dancer, exotically foreign, a won-
derfully fine musician and a good storyteller. He also seems
to like gathering stories from just about everyone as well."

"Stories."

Amulf shrugged. "Fairy-tale things. In particular, he seems
to be collecting tales of people opening gates into magical
realms, has been for some time. He doesn't seem to be very
happy with any of the ones he hears."

Gervinus waved that away. "What else? There must be
something more than that me man likes fairy tales."

THE SHATTERED OATH

199

"Not really. Maybe not everybody likes the man, maybe
he even makes some of them downright uneasy with those
foreign ways and looks of his—particularly those men with
pretty wives—but I couldn't find one person who had any-
thing actively bad to say about him."

So, now. Either the prince was going out of his way to
impress the common folk, or they were just too much in
awe of his strangeness and beauty to be less man wary about
discussing him. A pity. It was so much easier to start a flood
of bad feeling by starting with the underclasses. "You can't
have spoken to everyone. Go out there again, after dinner.
Nightfall makes people more fearful, and more willing to
mention their fears."

"But—"

"You will go," Gervinus told him, and turned his back
on the acolyte.

But when Amulf returned, late at night, it was with
troubled eyes, "What?" the bishop asked.

"I... uh... have someone with me. Waiting outside to
speak with you. A nobleman."

Gervinus refused to show even a hint of surprise. "About
what?"

Amulf shrugged. "He wouldn't say. He told me only that
he really did need to speak with you. His eyes," the aco-
lyte adaed Judiciously, "looked haunted."

Haunted. Gervinus's lips tightened at the melodrama.
This was probably nothing more than some idiot with sins
to confess. Let him go to goodly Father Seadna. But no,
he couldn't very weff refuse the Church's mercy to any-
one, believe in that mercy or no. "Very well. Send him
in."

The man rushed in, young and florid, ignoring the won-
dering servants in the outer room, brushing past Arnulf so
quickly the acolyte staggered, and fell to his knees before
me bishop in melodramatic panic. Gervinus noticed with
distaste the amulets that hung from about the man's neck
and glinted from his fingers. Superstitious jwl.

His terror was very real, though. "My lord, my lord, you
must protect me!"

200 Josephs Sherman

"Gently, my son," Gervinus purred, waving Amulf out
of the room. "First tell me who you are."

"Och, of course. I—I am Eimin mac Flainn, cousin to
the kings of Meath and courtier here at Fremainn."

"I see. And why have you come to me and not Father
Seadna? What have you done that's so terrible, Eimin mac
Flaumr"

A hint of guilt flickered in the young man's eyes for an
instant, but he insisted, "It's not what I've done, it—it's what's
being done to me."

"And that is . . ?"

"I—I don't know how to—"

"Come now, I can hardly help you unless you tell me what
troubles you. I promise you," Gervinus added with a great
deal of forced patience, "no harm shall come to you."

But still Eimin hesitated. Then, just before the bishop
was about to call to Arnulf to have this idiot removed, the
young man burst out, "It's the prince, Prince Ardagh."

Gervinus just barely kept from starting- "What of Prince
Ardagh?"

"I know it sounds fantastic, but—he's a sorcerer, my
lord, a foul, dark sorcerer, and he—he threatened to kin
me by his magic. He hasn't done anything lately but—
but look at me, as if he's playing with me. The way a cat
plays with a mouse before it—before— Please, my lord,
I don't dare go to Father Seadna; he's a good man, but
he would never have the—the power to deal with sor-
cery."

Not by the slightest twitch of muscle did Gervinus reveal
his thoughts. Now, were I a true relif^ous man, I would go
down on my knees in praise. Here is exactly what I've been
seeking. "I see. Go on, my son. Tell me more, and I will
do all that is within my power to help you. Tell me every-
thing."

After Eimin mac Flainn had gone on his way, wild with
relief that die power of the Church was going to shield him
from sorcery, Gervinus sat in thoughtful quiet He had swom
Eimin to silence about the entire issue, and the young idiot

THE SHATTERED OATH          201

was just superstitious enough to keep that silence until the
bishop chose for him to end it. But right now . . .

Amulf poked a wary head into the room. "Master? Was
that meeting helpful?"

The bishop snorted. "You tell me. You were almost cer-
tainly listening at the door." Ignoring Amulfs too-indignant
splutterings, Gervinus continued, "He is not the most use-
ful of tools, discredited among his people as he is."

He paused, thinking back to what he knew of the Lex
SaUca Karolina, the law code of his Framdsh ancestors that
had recently been modernized by Charlemagne. It hardly
applied to these uncivilized folk, but still... was a servant
here considered free or slave?

Bah, it hardly mattered; the woman was a nobody either
way. "Barbaric folk, these, to consider the rape of a com-
mon serving woman a crime at all, let alone one not solv-
able by simple payment of a fine, but there it is."

"But his story—"

Ah well, one did what one could with what one was given.
Tor what such a story from such a man is worth," the bishop
mused aloud, "it was most certainly helpful."

"You don't reoBy think the prince is a sorcerer, do you?"

Gervinus shook his head. "Just a very clever man. But what
we believe isn't the issue; it's what the others believe- Now
we must see that what is begun is nicely pushed on its way."

"But how—"

"By doing nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing for now- Boy, think before you try to interrupt.
How long have we been here?"

The acolyte frowned in confusion. "Less than a month
all told, but why—"

"Less than a month," Gervinus agreed. "Hardly long
enough to become at home in this barbaric place. Certainly
not long enough for people here to relax in my presence.
Whereas they have plaimy had more than sufficient time
to quite accept Prince Ardagh- Do you see my point, Amulf?"

"Well, yes. But we're from the Church! That has to count
for something."

202 Josephs Sherman

That we are of Mother Church matters not at all at the
moment. If we speak out against him now, we, the foreigners,
the outsiders, with nothing more than the evidence from
someone they consider a criminal, who here will believe
us?"

"But—"

"No, Amulf. For now we really can do nothing. Save wait.
And be polite." Gervinus smiled thinly. "And in the pro-
cess, most thoroughly ingratiate ourselves among these our
far-flung .. . brethren of the Church."

That intense knifepiay session he'd had with Cadwal earher
in the day had burned off some of the frustration Ardagh
had been feeling, but the basic fury remained. He was a
Prince of the Sidhe, not some foolish human! Were things
as they should be, he would not even need to notice such
a creature as Gervinus. Or, if it pleased him to be aware of
the bishop, he should have been able casually to humble
the man with no more than a Word, a Gesture—bah, no,
he would never have bothered sullying himself with such
a task. He would have let a servant do the chore!

The prince let out his breath in a long sigh, head thrown
back. Ae, this ranting was useless. Lovely though the image
of Gervinus on his knees to him might be, it wasn't likely
to happen, not in this Realm. And so—

He towered his head, suddenly aware of being watched.
"So now, Breasal."

The boy dipped his head politely. "I—I didn't mean to
break into your thoughts."

"No matter. They weren't leading me anywhere. I assume
you're interested in another lesson in Tarien'tafdal?"

Breasal grinned. "I still can't pronounce it, but yes, if—
if it pleases you."

Ardagh felt himself smile in spite of himself. At least this
youngster wasn't trying to play any games of control over
him! "Come, boy. Let's begin."

Breasa! had come a fair way from his first lesson, though
of course he never would be as graceful as a Sidhe child,
and he did seem to be developing more stamina with each

THE SHATTERED OATH          203

session, but Ardagh was still painfully aware of the boy's
fragility. The prince watched carefully, and when Breasal
seemed to be having difficulty breathing, called a halt.
Predictably, the boy gasped out a protesting, "I'm not tired."

"Indeed," Ardagh said noncommittally. "Go change into
warmer clothing before you take a chill."

But Breasal hesitated, hovering near him till the prince
asked impatiently, "What?"

"I ... uh ..." The boy was plainly trying to find some
way to thank him that wouldn't be insulting. "I know you
like tihe old tales," Breasal said at last. "I remembered one
you might not know, something my old nurse once told me."

Ardagh raised an eyebrow, hardly believing this boy could
tell him anything of use. Foolish, though, to turn his back
on even the faintest hope, so he told the boy, "Come in out
of the chill," and led Breasal into his guest house. There the
prince listened to yet another story of yet another human
passing into a magical worid. Nothing new, nothing useful—

Ardagh sat bolt upright in his chair. "Go back a bit Repeat
those words."

"What King Cormac said at the Hollow Hill? But those
are just nonsense words!"

"Humor me."

Frowning slightly, Breasal repeated them.

"You're sure," Ardagh pressed. "Those are the exact
words."

The boy eyed him uneasily. "Uh, yes. At least as exact
as I remember them. They stuck in my mind, you see, since
they rhyme so neatly." He shrugged. "Even if they don't
make sense."

"Mm." Few pieces of that incantation held any Power
at all. Most of them were, just as Breasal had said, pure
nonsense. But when the nonsense was discarded, what was
left just might be the remnant of a very real spell. If Ardagh
combined it with the other bits of storied magic he'd
gleaned and what little memory of Doorway spells was left
to him . . .

Powers, oh Powers, could it be? Could it be enougA to
force open a Doorway home?

204 Josepha Shennan

"Ah, Prince Ardagh?" Breasal asked nervously. "You did
like the tale, then?"

Ardagh roused himself and smiled. "Oh yes. Believe me,
Breasal mac Donnchadh, I liked it very much, indeed!"

cue SCASONS CUPN

CtiAPCett17

Ardagh stood alone by night, ignoring the cold, dank
winter and the sleeping fortress around him, his senses
turned away from reality, focusing only on his will, his Power.

"As'raiathal," he whispered. "Open. Lanta'ial na thanai.
I so call. Saniathat li nathiel. 1 say with all my will. In the
name of the Directions I call, in the name of the Winds I
call, in the name of Light and Dark I call. As'rwaithal.
as'raufthal. . .'*

He could see it, sense it Heart pounding fiercely, Ardagh
felt the shimmering form, fett the Doorway form, felt beyond
it the first faint whisper of home—

It was gone, so suddenly that for a moment he was so
stunned by grief he could not move. It was gone. Heed-
less of the dull rain beginning to fall, Ardagh feltto his knees,
drained and hopeless, head in hands. Ae, no, no, it was
useless. All his study, all his questioning of everyone in this
keep, all the gathering of every tale they knew of magical
Doorways—useless. The scrap of magic Breasal's tale had
granted him had almost been enough.

Why did I heed Breasal's tale? Why did I dare to hope?
There was magic, yes-—but not enough, not quite enough.
There's not enough Power in this whole forsaken Realm to
break the speU of exile. I am trapped here, trapped forever!

The damp cold rising from the wet earth was beginning
to seep into him, and at last Ardagh struggled back to his

205

206 Josepha Sherrmm

feet, swaying with exhaustion and shivering. This human
land didn't even have a proper winter! Instead of the ermine-
white snow and crystalline ice of the Sidhe realm, bright
and pure in the radiant air, there seemed to be nothing here
but this chill rain and eternally grey skies discouraging all
but the hardiest of souls.

Ah, and the memories this sony contrast of winters roused
. . . the glittering, elegant royal Sidhe processions clad in
flowing pale silks and paler mr, riding lightly through the
snow on slender steeds whiter still than the snow around
them, silver bells ringing sweetly from every ribbon woven
through the horses' flowing manes—

No, Powers no, he would not think of this, he would not
remember what was lost to him.

Not lost, curse it. Never lost. I will not despair.

Ob, easy to claim! Staggering with the weariness that could
only be the magical backlash from a failed spell, Ardagh
made his slow, painful way back to his guest house. He had
one dizzy glimpse of the bed seeming to surge up towards
him. And then he had fallen across it into deep, exhausted
sleep.

Gervinus turned and twisted, seeing nothing on aB, sides,
UteraUy nothing, literally endless Emptiness. Emptiness all
around him, puUing at him, teUing him that this was the
only truth, this endless nothingness into which he would
be lost forever, no hope. no help, no escape, he would faU
and faU forever and know befell. . .

"Master? Master!"

Gervinus woke with a gasp, staring up in horror at—

Arnulf. Only Amulf, and bright daylight behind him. "You
were dreaming," the acolyte said, his face unreadable. "I,
uh, thought I'd better wake you."

Idiot. And the idiot had seen him helpless and afraid.
Gervinus stared coldly up at Amulf. "I know I was dream-
ing. You did well to wake me. Now leave me."

"But—"

"Leave mel"

As Amulf shut the door behind him, grumbling about

THE SHATTERED OATH          207

not having even been properly thanked, Gervinus sat up,
rubbing his hands over his face. What a foul dream that
had been. What a foul, foul dream—and it was made all
the worse because he knew its cause. The urge to use sor-
cery without stop had been growing stronger with each day,
with every time he even thought ofcasting a spell. Yet when
he resisted the urge, refusing to be enslaved to anything,
even this, the lack of sorcery pulled at his nerves, troubling
his dreams. He had been resolutely denying himself the use
of the grimoire lately, telling himself, truthfully enough, that
there had been no real need for it. And so ...

eery'

wi

"Dreams," Gervinus muttered in self-contempt.

But then he realized his hand was creeping almost of its
own accord for the grimoire, caressing its leather-bound
surface- Gervinus angrily snatched his hand back, then
paused. Even though right now he didn't need spells to help
him insinuate himself into the High King's court, he didn't
dare cut himself totally off from sorcery. One didn't stop
practicing a weapon then expect to be proficient in its use.

So, now, Gervinus decided, he would experiment this day,
cast the smallest of test spells. Such study needed to be done
at any rate, particularly since those prior spells had failed,
to be sure Eriu would permit diem. And mild experiments
would surely be enough to soothe his minds craving. Surely.

Bah. of course they will.

The bishop got to his feet, this once refusing to call for
servants, dressing himself. It wasn't until he was perfectly
groomed and apparently absolutely calm that he called for
Amulf's return.

The acolyte entered warily. "Master?"

"I did appreciate your waking me from my dreams. But
waking me could not be the only reason you entered here."

"Uh. no. I thought you'd want to know that the Cathayan
prince has fallen ill."

Gervinus kept his face rigidly calm. "How so?"

"From what I've heard, his door was left half-open last
night, and that's not like him; he's so careful of his privacy
and all that he doesn't even have a body servant."

"I know that. Go on."

208 Josephs Sherman

"Well, when servants did creep in to be sure he was all
right, they found the prince so soundly asleep they couldn't
wake him."

"No signs of injury or disease? None at all?" How bizarre!

"It wasn't. . ."

"My doing?" That Amulf had seen him helpless still
rankled, and so Gervinus purred with sorcerous warning,
"Now what do you think?" and watched the acolyte's sud-
den shudder. "You have delivered your message, boy," the
bishop snapped. "Leave me."

After Arnulf had all but run out of the room, Gervinus
sat in thoughtful silence for a time. So now. Prince Ardagh
was ill. How very interesting. And surely there was some-
thing to be done to ensure that the prince never recover?

And here I thought I'd be working on nothing but mild
experiments today!

Unlocking the grimoire, Gervinus began to read. Con-
trary to what me superstitious commons believed, there were
few spells powerful enough to kill a man yet allow the sor-
cerer to go undetected. And all those lesser, nasty little
wasting-away charms only worked when the victim was made
aware of their presence. He had, in the interest of sorcer-
ous research, tried a few against the prince, but they had
been so mild they'd had no effect at all.

And I could hardly teU him, "I've bewitched you," or ask
him why he'd been unaffected!

He continued to browse. The herbal spells were all quite
intriguing, promising everything from madness to painful
death for a foe—but, alas, it was unlikely that any of the
suitable herbs would be available in the middle of win-
ter.

Gervinus read on. The idea of saying the Mass for the
Dead with Prince Ardaghs name inserted as the deceased
amused him—but since the prince was hardly a member
of the Church, such a spell would have absolutely no power
over him- There must be something else. . . .

Ah, yes. Here was a nicely unpleasant little spell, involving
trapping a strand of the victim's hair in a branch; since hair
and self were psychically linked, the victim's mind would

THE SHATTERED OATH          209

be dragged further and further from sanity as the tree grew
aroundthat hair.

Charming.

It really wasn't a very powerful spell for all its cunning,
but put it together with the fact that Prince Ardagh was
already ill, and it just might heighten the illness sufficiently.
But the thing did require a lock of the prince's hair.

"So be it," Gervinus said aloud. Prince Ardagh, whether
he wished it or not, was about to receive an ecclesiastical
visit.

As die bishop had expected, the prince's guest house was
crowded with royal physicians and servants, all of them
looking both bewildered and worried. Also as he'd expected,
they a& moved out of his way, letting him approach the
bedside.

He stood looking down for a moment, coldly admiring
the elegant lines of the prince's sleeping face. A shame to
destroy such beauty, but that's the way of things. The bishop
let his hand rest on Prince Ardagh's head as if in benedic-
tion, and in the process managed to snag a few long black
hairs in his fingers. With a quick, subtle jerk of his hand,
he pulled them free. You are mine. he told the prince, and
smued.

Ardagh woke at the tug on his hair, instantly aware of
ihejeel of Darkness that meant the bishop. It was Gervinus,
surely, who'd just taken that sample, and the prince had to
fight to keep from reacting. Judging from the number of
humans he sensed all around, they must surely have thought
he'd fallen mysteriously ill. The prince was not going to reveal
that he had come so suddenly awake and have Gervinus
claim a miracle! And he certainly couldn't tell everyone that
what had struck him hadn't been disease but magical back-
lash.

In fact, I can't do anything at all but wait till they leave.
Wait he did with cool Sidhe patience, until the bishop
was gone and a good many of the servants with him. At last
Ardagh dared open his eyes and was engulfed, as he'd

210 Josepha Sherman

expected, in a storm of excitement from those who'd
remained.

"I'm all right, truly," he tried to convince them. Truly!
Come, stand back. Give me room enough to at least sit up."
Ae, dizzy! "How long was I asleep?"

"Two days," a respectful servant told him.

So! He a been fortunate. Some backlashes killed outright-
Others were strong enough to keep the magician asleep for
a week or more—and in this Realm, with its lack of magi-
cal knowledge, so long a sleep would have meant death by
starvation.

Again, it's nothing I can teU these folk.

"Ah, Prince Ardagh?" It was one of the royal physicians.
"If we may?"

He sat politely still for a time while they checked pulse
and heartbeat, then said, "Enough. I'm quite healthy. In
fact," Ardagh added as his energy-starved body began com-
plaining, "mere's only one thing I truly need right now—
and that's food,"

Much to his relief, that sent most of the humans scurry-
ing out of his house. The rest hovered around him as ser-
vants returned with a quickly assembled meal, all set to watch
him eat until he waved mem all away. In the midst of enthu-
siastically devouring his food in the sudden wonderful soli-
tude, Ardagh paused, remembering:

Ah, Gervinus. It might have been an accident, that snatch-
ing of hair, me heavy rings the bishop wore might well have
snagged a strand or two. And then again .. .

Pushing aside what was left of his hasty meal, me prince
went in search of his ecclesiastical quarry. But before he'd
taken a dozen steps, a new wave of weariness overcame him,
not so much physical as psychic weakness. That heartbreak-
ing failure to find me way home had drained most of his
forest-won Power.

What of it? Ardagh scolded himself. You haven't been
turned into an invalid! You have just as much innate Power
as when you first entered this Beatm. tou'U survive. And
there wW-be time enough to return to the forest.

Not just yet, though. Ardagh glared up at the heavy grey

THE SHATTERED OATH          211

skies. Regardless of what the humans thought, he seemed
to be immune to their various illnesses—but mat didn't mean
he could survive a night exposed to the winter wilderness.

I'm not too happy at the thought of leaving myself help-
less in trance with Gervinus about, either

Ardagh started resolutely forward again, and found the
bishop standing in a niche between two houses where he
must have thought no one could see him, examining some-
thing small and dark, then busily stuffing it into his pouch.

My hair. Ardagh thought, stealing silently up behind him.
"It won't work," the pnnce murmured, and smiled to see
Gervinus start.

"Ah, Prince Ardagh." The bishop concealed his surprise
nicely. "Should you really be up and about so soon?"

"It won't work," Ardagh repeated.

"What are you saying?"

"I felt you tug some hair from my head. I'm sorry to dis-
appoint you, but you won't be able to do anything with it."

"Are you sure you're not feverish? Granted, I might have
caught some of your hair on my ring when I said a bene-
diction over you, but I assure you that was an accident."

"Fortunate. Because it is impossible to work spells over
my people's hair." The prince smiled. "But of course you
would have no reason to even think about such a matter.
And a benediction would have been a very kind thing. If
such had, indeed, been delivered. Good day. Bishop
Gervinus."

As he returned to his guest house, Ardagh felt eyes upon

him. Turning, he found young Prince Niall watching him

solemnly. "Well?" Ardagh asked.

"Fainche was scared." The boy made it sound like an

accusation.

The prince raised a surprised eyebrow. "What, for me?"
Niall nodded, then admitted gruffly, "I was, too, a little."
"I see." Ardagh bowed politely. "Thank you- But there

was no reason to be afraid."

"I thought—uh, Fainche thought you weren't going to

wake up."

212 Josepha Sherman

"Ae no, Niall, I was in no danger from that. I was tired,
that's all, very tired. Haven't you ever done anything that
made you so weary you simply had to sleep? And sleep for
a longer time than usual?"

Niall nodded warily. But he wasn't satisfied, that much
was clear from the way he wasn't meeting the prince's gaze.
"What is it?" Ardagh asked gently. "What truly worries you?"

"I saw Prince Breasal faint once," Niall said, barely audibly.
"I thought he wasn't going to wake up again, either. And I
heard the physicians taDdng to my mother once. They told
her someday he—he might not wake."

"I see," Ardagh repeated helplessly, wondering what he
could possibly say to set the boy's mind at ease. "Niall," he
said at last, "Breasal mac Donnchadh is a sickly young man,
you know that. I'm not sickly at all, nor in any danger ill
health might cause. I promise you this. And you know I
never lie."

That did it. Sudden relief flickered in the boy's eyes- "I'm
dad," Niall murmured.

All at once dearly embarrassed by his own concern, the boy
gave Ardagh a most formal bow, then hurried away, leaving
the Sidhe staring after Ae human in genuine bewilderment
How astonishing! How veiy astonishing that the child should
actually have been worrying about him! And did that mean
that otners cared about what happened to him, too?

7 never wiU understand these people, but for once there
was not the slightest trace of bitterness in the thought.

But days passed, and there was nothing for the bitterness
to do but return. Winter, Ardagh thought, must surety be the
slowest-paced of mortal seasons. And the most wearying. He
could not have been feeling this lassitude for longer than his
awakening from magic's backlash, but it felt as though he'd
been carrying about this—this darkness of mind and spirit
for all time. The brief, chill days, the leaden skies, the sodden
earth, and the weariness, the endless weariness ...

It wiU pass. Ardagh told himself, surely it wiU pass. All
I need do is wait, outlast the winter, return to the forest.

But what good would that do? A brief restoration of

THE SHATTERED OATH

213

strength, but he would still be trapped here, trapped in an
alien world, trapped—

No, curse it, no! He would not, could not, give in to the
season. He could not let himself begin to doubt.

Ah well, the humans weren't managing these dark, dull,
rain-swept days any better. King Aedh, left with little to do
but oversee courtiers' petty squabbles or the occasional hunt
for boar or wolf. fairly burned with the impatience of a clever
man with no target for his cleverness. Fothad spent most
of his time barricaded in his quarters, struggling with poem
after poem, and Cadwal and his men were out each day,
regardless of weather, practicing their skills with die des-
peration of highly trained men with nothing much to do.
And then there was—

"Prince Ardagh."

He turned. "Lady Sorcha." She was so bundled in the
folds of her heavy woolen brat that only the hint of a face
was visible, but there was no mistaking those sharp eyes.

That sharp voice. "I thought you'd fallen asleep on your
feet."

"Hardly. I was merely thinking."

"Chilly place for meditation." But a hint of understand-
ing glinted in her eyes, and a hint of softness tempered her
voice. "The winter gets to all of us. You aren't the first to
be weighed down by the shortness of daylight."

"I wasn't—" But Sidhe truthfulness stopped the lie before
it could be formed. "I was," he admitted.

Sorcha studied him warily. "You are recovered, areni you?
From that long, mysterious sleep?"

"Quite."

"And there's no other illness troubling you? No? Well
then," she snapped with sudden force, "(here's no reason
for you to be moping about like a lonely hound!"

He glared. "If I'm a hound, lady, then you, most certainty,
are a gadfly!"

That only provoked a quick grin. "Ha, he does still have
emotion! I was beginning to wonder."

Ardagh, about to snap back at her, stopped in midbreath,
frowning slightly. "Why are you doing this? Why help me?"

214 Josepha Sherman

"Ah God, why, indeed? Maybe because I've seen this
darkness claim others. Maybe," she added painfully, "because
I remember poor Meallan. Granted, in his case it was the
drink as Hire as not causing the depression, but... I've often
wondered if... if that night he wandered out to die ... if
it hadn't been the inner darkness driving him to—"

"Sorcha," Ardagh said very gently, "I am not Meallan.
Despair has been a close companion these days, I admit
it, but I have not surrendered to it. Nor shall I."

"Huh."

"I shall not. But why are you doing this? Why me? There
must be other folks suffering from the same malaise—"

"Other folks," she said shortly, "aren't in exile. They don't
have to bear that extra burden."

"Cadwal—"

"Has his men's well-being to concern him. He doesn't
have time to brood. Prince Ardagh," she added after an
awkward moment, "this may sound hopelessly saintly, and
a saint I most certainly am not, but... well -.. whenever
the darkness seems the heaviest, remember that you can
always talk to me. I can't promise you a soothing answer; 1
do tend to be, as you so gently put it, a gadfly. But I will
listen."

"Thank you. I—"

But with a curt dip of the head, Sorcha walked away,
leaving a very confused Ardagh behind her.

Now, what was that aU about? KeaUy about? Was she
simply being kind? Or was there something more?

Such as what? This isn't some soft, simpering little gtrf/
Besides, I—ae, what do I think of that gadfly-tumed-
human? 7 ... don't know, Ardagh realized in astonishment.
I reaUy don't know.

Nonsense. She was human, only that. This stupid, end-
less winter was affecting him, nothing more. Ardagh deter-
minedly turned his mind from thoughts of that sharp, clever
face (that most intriguing face—no, that all too human face)
and forced it instead to consider Gervinus.

Ah, yes, Gervinus! How stunned the bishop must have
felt when he'd opened his pouch and found it empty! But

THE SHATTERED OATH          215

then, what Ardagh had told him had been the literal truth.
Spens could not be worked on Sidhe hair—not when a spark
of Sidhe will had charred them to ash in a heartbeat.

But, disconcertingly, Gervinus had never showed the
slightest sign that he'd noticed anything odd. In fact, Ardagh
mused, in these days when everyone else was battling
despair or simple boredom, the bishop had been the only
one forever cheerful, without even the smallest hint of
menace.

And as the season slowly turned toward the winter sol-
stice—and, Ardagh learned, to one of these folk's most vital
religious days, the celebration of their deity's birth—Ger-
vinus continued to be disconcerting, to smile and be polite
to everyone. He officiated at Mass and all the other rituals
that were a part of human religion as though he truly were
a holy man, saying smooth words to noble and commoner
alike.

Clever man, clever man. Whether or not they like him,
Ardagh thought, they already want to trust him, by virtue
of his rank. Bah, he almost has me believing he's under-
gone some sudden reformation.

Almost.

As the season turned slowly to spring, Ardagh made sure
he was everywhere Cendnus turned, made sure he was
always urbane, always smiling. There was no reason for
Gervinus to complain—and yet Ardagh was careful never
to let the bishop go anywhere without his company, never
let the bishop do any but the most innocent acts- He could
feel the fury growing in Gervinus at this constant, gentle,
almost friendly surveillance—but what could the human do?
Complain that Ardagh was being too nicely polite? Protest
his unfailing good manners?

Am I frustrating you. Cervinus? Have I discouraged you?
I doubt that. Much more likely: have I turned you quite
completely and irrevocably into my enemy? 1 rather hope
so. It's so much more honest!

As he entered the council hall, Ardagh sensed King Aedh's
tension as strongly as if it were something tangible. The king

216 Josephs. Sherman.

waited in silence till all were seated, then glanced about
the room, his eyes fierce with pain. "1 won't keep you waiting,
Some of you might have seen the messenger arriving from
the monastery of Saint Beinean. He brought me sorry news."

Father Seadna stiffened in alarm. "Not another Loch-
lannach raid?"

"Unfortunately, yes. A small one: only one ship, a quick
attack and away. The monks were .. , relatively fortunate."
Aedh's voice was rigidly controlled. "Only five dead, and
only part of the treasury stolen."

Father Seadna instandy began murmuring prayers for the
slain, his pain a very real thing, his voice alf but drowned
out by the militant shouting of the other counsellors. It was
the shouting, Ardagh realized, of frustrated men. "There's
no way to foretell where these raiders will land?" he, asked
over me turmoil.

Aedh shot him a savage glance. "How? They come out
of the night like so many battiecrows, and are away again
before even the swiftest of messengers can reach us. I have
sent an emissary to the monastery, offering what aid I can.
But by now there's litde that can be done but help bury
the dead."

The prince fell silent, stunned anew at how defenseless
these folk could be: no magical barriers, no magical bea-
cons, dependent for information only on how swiftiy a horse
could run.

King Aedh glanced around the room again, his smile
bitterly ironic. "At least we now know one thing. The win-
ter ice has melted, even in the northern lands. Welcome
to springtime, everyone."

Gervinus had heard and disregarded the tale of the
Lochlannach raid. The deaths of a few unfortunate monks
were hardly important save to their fellows, nor was the theft
of a few treasures meaningful. Time enough, he thought,
returning to his guest house, to worry about actually stop-
ping those pagan raiders when he was in control of the
throne. Right now, they were more useful as they were, as
was anything that undermined Aedh's credentials.

THE SHATTERED OATH          217

Sorcery, whispered his mind without warning, sorcery
would speed the process and— No! He had managed all this
winter without once resorting to the grimoire.,. surely those
small experiments here and there hardly counted ... of
course not. He had resisted, and he would continue to resist!

But one special irritant remained in the way. "He's doing
ft on purpose," Gervinus muttered. "That cursed creature
is trying to drive me mad. Watching me, following me, always
there, always smiling so innocently—damn him!"

The watching Arnulf blinked in confusion. "Who, the
prince?"

"Of course the prince, you idiot!"

"I thought we were going to get rid of him."

"We are!"

"Uh, how? You already ruled out violence, and you said
that the testimony of someone like that whatever-his-name"
is can't be of much use to—"

"His name is Eirnin mac Flainn. Now, hush. Let me
think."

Ignoring the acolyte, Gervinus let his thoughts roam
further and further from the present, hunting this plan and
that. Sorcery, his mind whispered, sorcery. Just the small-
est, smallest of spells, just enough to steal control from one
who could not resist. .. "Yes," the bishop said so suddenly
that Arnulf started. "Oh yes. Two goals gained in one: the
saving of one royal life and the condemnation of another."
He broke off, frowning at Amulf. "Stop staring like that,
boy. It makes you look stupid." More stupid than you already
are. As the acolyte straightened guiltily and tried to look
properly conspiratorial, Gervinus told him, "Tomorrow I wish
you to go out among the folk yet again."

"But—"

"No, wait, hear me out. This time I don't want simple
gossip. This time you are to find me someone of noble birth,
someone who is weak of body or mind. Someone who would
never be suspected. Most certainly not," the bishop added
with a smile, "of treason most terrible."

me ASSASSIM

CHAPCeR18

" 'Find me someone of noble birth,' " Aroulf muttered
to himself, stalking out into the still chill spring air. " 'Find
me someone who is weak of body or mind,' " he added,     ^
and snorted. Easy enough for the Master to command. But
who was it who got stuck with the actual work? Not his High     ^
and Mightiness, that was sure!                             p

I've risked my hope of salvation, maybe my very soul—     fc
for what? He keeps promising to teach me true magic, but     ^
what have I learned so far? Nothing!                       ^

Well, almost nothing. Amulf admitted that he could light     ^
a candle with a muttered incantation (even if the process     t
left him with a headache and flint-and-steel was easier), work     ^
a few other minor spells, and sometimes almost see far-off     <?
events appear in the Master's little bronze mirror.             ^

Right. He gives me crumbs of magic, then sends me off     f
to do whatever pleases him, as if I was nothing but a—a
common errand boyf                                     &:

But those crumbs were magic, just enough to tantalize,     ^
just enough to keep him loyal, hoping, silent,                f

Amulf glanced about, wondering if anyone had seen him     ^
arguing with himself, and shuddered faintly. This was such     j-
a—a foreign place! Bad enough to have been trapped on
that miserable excuse of a ship on that endless journey (his
stomach lurched at the memory), but to end up here—Amutf

218

THE SHATTERED OATH

219

thought with longing of the tranquil marble halls and gilded
columns of Rome.

" 'Find me someone who is weak of body or mind.' "

How was he going to do that? Ail the folk here looked
healthy as horses, and as far as he was concerned, they were
aU weak of wit.

All save one. That foreign prince, now, there was an eerie
fellow, with his too-green eyes and his inhumanly beauti-
ful face, like an angeToffone of the churches back home—
no, no, there was nothing angelic about the man. He was
almost as uncanny as one of me Master's conjurings. Mm,
yes. Maybe he really was as sorcerous as that idiot Eman
or Eirnin, or whatever his name was, insisted. Maybe—

"Good day."

Amulf yelped, for a crazy moment sure the prince really
had been conjured up. "P-prince Ardagh."

"And you would be ... Amulf, is it not? The acolyte to
Bishop Gervinus?"

The green stare was so compelling that Amulf could only
nod and gasp out, "Yes."

"And of course you do your master's bidding."

"Y-yes."

To his horror, Amulf realized that he was on the verge
of volunteering something about that most forbidden of
subjects, sorcery. He could feel the word forcing its way
to his lips, no matter how hard he struggled. In another
moment he was going to blurt out all the truth—

"Prince Ardagh. A word with you, if you please."

At the sound of that new voice, the prince turned away
from Amulf with a small sound of anger. With the weight
of that green stare suddenly gone, the acolyte nearly
crumpled in relief. It was the Higp King, but all Amulf cared
about was the fact that for the moment neither King Aedh
nor Prince Ardagh were paying any attention to him. Before
they could remember him, he scurried off. Right now,
hunting up someone weak of body or mind seemed the most
desirable task in the world.

Ardagh waited for King Aedh as he, in courtesy, must,

220 josepha Sherman

aware of his prey scuttling out of his grasp, hiding his frus-
tration behind a mask of Sidhe calm,

Darkness take it. I almost had him. I almost had him
confessing to his master's sorceries. Now the chance won't
come again; the boy will almost certainly be warded when
I next see him.

No help for it now. He could only hope the acolyte was
off on some totally innocuous errand. "King Aedh. You would
speak with me?"

"Just a word or two. I thought you might tike to help me
judge a new mare I'm thinking of purchasing. We can best
watch her gaits from a distance."

"In other words," Ardagh said as the stocky dun mare
was led across the practice field at a brisk trot by a pant-
ing handler, the mare snorting and prancing in the chilly
air, "you wish us to exchange a few words in private."

Aedh chuckled. "You are learning our ways. And our ways
are what we need to discuss."

"Are they? Which?"

"Look you, I'll admit in confidence—and deny in pub-
lic I ever said it—that I don't like Bishop Gervinus any more
than you do. It may be his Prankish background, it may
be his own particular style, it may be just the way he's decided
to test us, but yes, he is an unfriendly lot even when he's
being at his most charming. But even if he was the cold-
est, harshest man in the world, you cannot continue to bait
him like this."

The mare was fighting her handler, tossing her shaggy
head, trying to break into a canter. Watching the struggle,
Ardagh asked mildly, "Is that what you think I was doing?"

"And stop playing games with words! Bishop Gervinus
is a man of me Church, and you cannot, you must not inter-
fere with Church business."

"I'm not. There now, look, the mare has calmed a bit.
She's a pretty thing, isn't she?"

"Och, man, listen to me! A bishop's business is Church
business."

"Is it? Then it's the Church that is doing its best to cause
dissention here."

THE SHATTERED OATH          221

"Don't be ridiculous."

Ardagh turned to study the king. "Surely I'm not the only
one who's seen what Gervinus has been attempting in the
council meetings."

Aedh met his steady gaze for a moment, then shook his
head. "I don't know what he's doing. Testing us, perhaps,
the way I said. Testing our wisdom or our faith."

"Testing your weaknesses."

"Oh, come! For what possible purpose?"

Ardagh shrugged slightly. "It seems uncomfortably
obvious to me."

"Conquest, you mean?" The king laughed sharply. "Prince
Ardagh, you don't understand our faith at all if you believe
that"

"Perhaps the bishop doesn't quite understand H, either."

"Enough." Aedh's voice was suddenly totally without
humor. "Do you have proof that he has stepped one step
beyond propriety?"

Proof of propriety? I wish I had proof of his sorcery f "No."

Then kindly drop the subject. What Bishop Gervinus
is or is not is not the issue: he is an officer of the Church.
I've already had my full share of fights with the monaster-
ies. I cannot afford a feud with Rome as well." Aedh paused,
daring. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I have troubles
enough as High King; I don't need you adding to them. And
I am already risking a great deal by giving sanctuary to a
non-Christian."

Very carefully, Ardagh asked, "Do you wish me gone from
here?"

To his relief, the king never hesitated. "No, of course not.
You've earned your place here from the day you saved my
life, and you continue to earn it. I hold my breath every
time I let you step in to solve court issues—I never will
figure out your convoluted Cathayan logic—but somehow
you do manage to solve them every time. And save me from
some awkward situations."

The prince bowed sarcastically, knowing that Aedh meant
he, the uninvolved foreigner, was free to act when the king
could not and say what the king could not, and Aedh grinned

222 Josepha Sherman

without humor. "I didn't think I'd have to explain that." The
king's voice softened slightly. "And I've seen the work you've
been doing with Breasal mac Donnchadh."

Ardagh frowned, embarrassed. "I haven't been doing that
for personal gain."

"I know that Which makes the kindness speak out in your
behalf all the more strongly. Besides," Aedh added with a
reluctant little grin, "the women of Fremainn, including my
little Fainche, would never forgive me if I threw you out."

A chuckle escaped Ardagh before he could stop it, and
Aedh's quick grin flashed anew. "Let's be blunt, shall we?
I don't really care what you do or don't believe. Prince
Ardagh. I haven't got time for religious fanaticism. There's
nothing of Evil about you, I could almost swear to that, and
that's me main thing." He paused, glance suddenly specu-
lative. "I ... ah ... don't suppose you could pretend to
convert? Just for as long as the bishop is here? No? Och,
well, that truthfulness of yours can be a nuisance at times.
But you will behave yourself, won't you?"

"Indeed," Ardagh agreed after a moment. "As long as it
does not interfere with honor or justice, I shall, as you put
it, behave myself."

Aedh threw up his hands in relief. That's all I can ask.
Now, what do you think of the mare?"

Gervinus, hand resting lightly on his grimoire, danced
up as Arnulf entered. "Well? Did you find the one I seek?"

"I ... think so. There's a boy here, one of the—the
royal hostages, I think. His name's Breasal mac Something-
or-Other, and there's nothing wrong with his mind; at least
I don't think there is. But he looks like he's sickly enough
to collapse at anything that's even the slightest bit too tax-
ing."

"Ah, Breasal mac Donnchadh! Of course. I've seen the
boy in the company of Prince Ardagh rather often." The
bishop paused, considering, absently caressing the book's
cover, then smiled. "How perfectly convenient. Come,
Arnulf, you must have seen him at closer range than did I.
How old would you say the boy is?"

THE SHATTERED OATH

223

Amulf shrugged. "Who can say how old any of these
barbarians arel^

Gervinus held up a hand in warning. "Open contempt
is as much a weakness as open fear or impatience. Do not
show it to me again. Is that understood?"

"Uh . . . yes."

"Very well. Now, once again, how old would you say the
boy is?"

Amulfs eyes dinted with fear and resentment, but the
acolyte answered strongly enough, "Anywhere from maybe
fifteen to eighteen. He's so scrawny it's difficult to tell."

"Perfect." The bishop got to his feet, slipping the grimoire
back into the folds of his robes. "I think this Breasal mac
Donnchadh is in dire need of spiritual counselling."

"Uh . . . Master? May I ask what this is about?"

Gervinus hesitated, studying Amulfs face for any trace
of potential treason. But nothing was to be read there now
but utter confusion, and the bishop smiled slightly and said
to himself, "Why not?"

Quickly he told the acolyte his plan, and saw dismay flash
in the youngster's eyes.

"B-but—your pardon. Master, but that's not going to work.
It can't!"

"Exactly. I don't want it to work,"

"And Breasal—he won't—he can't—the strain is going
to kul him!"

"Quite probably," Gervinus agreed without expression.
"If so, that would be all the more useful to us." He paused,
still studying the acolyte. "Well, Amulf? Do you disapprove?
Are you going to run screaming to the king about mis?"

"And be seized as a madman?" the acolyte retorted. "Or
maybe burned as a witch?"

Gervinus let the faintest of new smiles touch his lips. "So,
now. You see the perils as well as the rewards of unking
your fate with mine, don't you? Good. Come, Amulf. We
must see to young Breasal."

He followed Amulf out to where a slender young man
sat sadly by himself while other youngsters played some
manner of boisterous game. "Ah yes," Gervmus breathed,

224 Josepha Shemwn

taking in the too-pale sidn, the too-thin face, "perfect," and
moved in on his prey.

Fothad mac Ailin smiled ingenuously. "Ah, my Lord
Odran! Just the man I wished to see."

Odran mac Daire, son of the Ui Neill sept and distant
Ion to Kings Aedh and Donnchadh both, detenninedfy kept
his face to its usual cold lines. "Am I, now? About what,
might I ask?"

"So brusque, my lord, and on such a fine day! Why, such
a day makes a man long to be out and doing... oh, I don't
know. Something heroic. But for now, will you not take the
air with me, my lord?"

Odran frowned slightly. Fothad was quite capable of acting
the dreamy-eyed poet interested only in the next rhyme,
but only a fool forgot that he was also the High King's Chief
Minister. "Of course."

As they walked, apparently at random, Fothad suddenly
stopped short, pointing up to the sky- "Would you look at
that? A fine eagle, that one, flying so freely. They say the
eagle flies so high, its feathers are scorched by the sun and
Kves so long it is nearly immortal." Humor glinted in the
poet's eyes. "They say. But the eagle flies on regardless of
tales, not a thought in its head, surely, save where it shall
next hunt. Never a worry for any of the things that trouble
we poor humans. Such as a lust for power. For conspiracy."

That had been slipped into the man's chatter so smoothly
Odran almost missed it. He stopped short. "Am I being
accused? Of what?"

Fothad blinked innocently. "Why, of nothing! Surely we
are merely discussing the customs of birds. Unless, of course,
you'd wish to discuss something else. The receiving of mes-
sages from other, lesser kings, perhaps."

"I don't—"

"Of course you don't. For receiving such messages without
the High King's knowledge would be treason." Fothad
dropped a parchment into Odran's hands. "Good day to you,

Inylord"        •    •    •

THE SHATTERED OATH          225




Alone in his chambers, Odran mac Daire strolled casually
about, seemingly at his ease, checking comers and door-
ways, any place a spy might be hidden to watch or over-
hear. Only then did he unroll the parchment Fothad had
given him, noting without surprise diat the seal had al-
ready been broken; the Chief Minister had as good as
told him the message had been read. Inside. Odran found
an innocent enough message, friendly clan-greetings that
were just detailed enough not to look suspiciously innocu-
ous.

Derval ofClonach, he thought. It must he she. Donnchadh
would never be so cunning.

Cunning, indeed. There between the lines, for those who
knew the code, was a clear enough message. The man smiled
without humor, wondering if Donnchadh knew what his wife
was about—or that she had already been in secret com-
munication with Odran before this.

With me. and with who knows how many other discon-
tented Ui Neill folk? He had some men loyal to him even
now when he was an enforced guest of the High King, but
even if he had been free to caU them to him, there were
hardly enough of them to accomplish anything as final as
a dethronement. Each discontented lord could say the same.
What it all came down to if any of them were to succeed
was unity; strength of arms and unity. We are all after the
same thing, my sly Derval. and so you would try to unite
us. Well enough. But only one can sit the High King's throne.
And which of us that shall be—there we differ, dear Derval.
There we really do differ.

"... and so," King Aedh continued to his wife and Ardagh
as they strolled towards the dining hall in the fading red
light of late afternoon, "the ambassador turned about as red
as that cloak and said—

"Why now, Breasal, where are you headed?"
The boy was wandering towards them, face set in a grim
mask, eyes wide and staring. Almost, Ardagh thought
uneasily, as though he was fighting some silent battle with
himself—or just possibly with another. Sorcery?

226 Josephs Sherman

Even as the prince was about to voice his growing alarm,
Eithne asked, "Breasal, what are you—°

With a cry of anguish, the boy drew a knife and lunged
at Aedh. Ardagh sprang forward with Sidhe speed, catch-
ing Breasal's thin wrist in a grip firm enough to send the
knife clattering to the ground.

"No," Breasal gasped, fighting him weakly, "you can't—
I must—don't want to—must—1—no, no, I won't. . .'

The boy's eyes rolled up in his head, and he followed the
knife to the ground. Ardagh dropped to his knees at Breasal's
side, the feel of the boy's laboring heart pulling at him.
Blocking the shouting and commotion from his mind, the
prince concentrated only on willing a more regular rhythm
into Breasal's heart, on willing life to stay in the weakened
body.

Suddenly he sensed Darkness looming over him. Ardagh
glanced quickly up, to find himself facing Bishop Gervinus,
surprising a look of cold triumph in the bishop's eyes. Now,
what..?

But Ardagh didn't dare let himself be distracted from the
boy he was trying to save. Shutting the bishop from his
thoudits with Sidhe thoroughness, he turned afl his atten-
tion Back to Breasal, feehng the weakened heart gradually
slow to a bearable rhythm under the force of his will.

But wiU it stay this way? I'm not sure.

Still, he wasn't a healer; there wasn't anything more he
could do, even if he had the full use of Sidhe magic. He
could only hope that—

Surprisingly, Eithne was suddenly at his side, even more
surprisingly, she was .. . sniffing the boy'8 face, like some
hound seeking an elusive scent- Catching Ardagh's puzzled
glance, she shook her head slightly, then called out to uneasy
servants, "Take Breasal to his bed. Keep him quiet and warm.
Go!"

As Ardagh scrambled back to his feet, watching the boy
being carried away in wary arms, Eithne following closely,
he became aware for the first time of the storm of worry
surrounding the king. Ha, and listen to Gervinus, adding
to the noise as if he really cared what happened to the man.

THE SHATTERED OATH

227

And doesn't he? Ardagh wondered. Isn't it Aedh he seeks
to rule?

Tes, yes, I'm all right," Aedh was insisting, waving every-
one back. "The blade didn't even touch me. I'm all right, I
tell you! You don't have to say any prayers for me. Bishop
Gervinus. Save them for the .. ." His voice wavered. "For
the would-be assassin."

"The would-be assassin," Gervinus echoed, his voice ring-
ing out with sudden evangelical fervor, "was surely not that
poor boy."

"Oh come, we all saw—"

'Tour pardon. King Aedh, but you saw only what you were
intended to see." Gervinus glanced about as though sud-
denly overcome by caution. "I don't think the rest of what
I need to say is suitable for all ears. But speak I must."

Aedh hesitated a moment, then snapped out, "So be it.
Come." His sweep of the hand included Ardagh, Fothad
and several of the ministers. "We will discuss this in pri-
vate."

Ardagh watched King Aedh gaze sharply about the audi-
ence haU at those whom he had ordered here, wondering
at the man's complete self-possession. Save for the anger
below the surface, Aedh looked totally unruffled, as in control
of his emotions as any Sidhe.

"Be seated, all of you," the king ordered. "Now, Bishop
Gervinus, you may speak freely."

Gervinus' glance flicked to Ardagh, then away. "That does
not make what I must say any easier. King Aedh, you can-
not believe that poor boy plotted on his own to slay you.
He has neither a reason nor the strength of body to com-
mit such a crime."

"Who do you accuse?" Aedh's voice was ice.

"God forgive me for what I am about to say, but justice
must be done. And so I can accuse none other than that
man!"

His hand stabbed straight at Ardagh- Hit by a hot wave
of shock and fury, the prince only just fought down the
urge to lunge for the bishop's throat. Instead, raising his

228 Josepha Shemwn

voice over the sudden uproar, he said, "Now that is ridi-
culous!"

"Is it? King Aedh, I hereby state that this man who calls
himself Prince Ardagh, who claims to come from far-off
Cathay, who has eaten of your food and partaken of your
hospitality—I say this man is nothing but die worst, foulest
of traitors!"

"Words come cheaply." Using every bit of Sidhe self-
control, Ardagh managed to keep his voice cold and level
and deadly, his face from showing anything of the fury racing
through him. "Now let us hear some proof."

"Why, even as I've said, it is impossible to accept that
the boy could have willingly, sanely, attacked the king who
had, with atl Christian charity, given him a home."

"Agreed," Aedh growled." 'Sanely.' The boy who attacked
me was hardly that."

"No, he was not," Ardagh cut in, "because someone had
most foully overcome his will!"

Gervinus whirled. "You accuse yourself out of your own
mouth!" Turning hastily back to the king, he continued,
"Have we not altheard this man's smooth words? Have we
not all been charmed by them? Beguiled by them?"

"Your pardon, Bishop Gervinus," Fothad interrupted, "but
where is your point?"

"My point is simply this; If grown men cannot resist his
charm, how, then, could an innocent boy be expected to
resist?"

"What's this?" Ardagh asked incredulously. "Are you
accusing me of seducing him?" If the man claimed he had
abused a child, Gervinus was dead, bishop or no.

Something of that threat must have been clear in the
prince's voice and eyes. "Of seducing him to treason,"
Gervinus corrected smoothly. "Were not the two of you often
alone together?"

"I was teaching him ways of self-defense!"

"What, such a sickly lad? All here could swear that he
was unable to so much as wield a sword—"

"There are other ways than brute, force to fight. As
we both know quite weH. Go on. Bishop Gervinus. I am

THE SHATTERED OATH          229

waiting with fascination to hear what monstrous deeds
I've worked."

"Why, what can I say? While you two were alone, with
none to overhear—who knows what words might have passed
between you?"

"Oh, clever! 'Might have'—who can argue against some-
thing so vague?"

"Vague, indeed," Aedh said- "Bishop Gervinus, if you have
no better proof than this . . ."*

The bishop sighed. "Your pardon, King Aedh, but I never
would make such a charge without proof. I hated to bring
this into the discussion, since the man in question has been
discredited, but Eirnin mac Flainn came to me in ten-or
the other night. I break no confidences when I tell you the
reason for his terror: sorcery, worked by the man who sits
here before you."

"Eirnin!" Ardagh exploded, "Is that your prize witness?
What, did he claim I bewitched him? Worked dark magic
on him? Ha! You all saw the 'magic' I worked on him in
the court of law—mere trickery, nothing more."*

"It was not trickery that had him in such a panic," Gervinus
countered. "Nor was it trickery that so worked on a sickly
boy's mind he was turned to an assassin. What could have
done such a thing but sorcery?"

A new stonn otexcitement burst out. But a woman's peal
of scornful laughter cut through the shouting.

"Eithne!" Aedh exclaimed as she came striding into the
hau, chestnut hair and blue cloak streaming out behind her.
"This is not fit!"

"Forgive me, husband, I would never dream of intrud-
ing on men's affairs. But I could not stand aside and watch
harm be worked against a guest- Sorcery!^ Your pardon. My
Lord Bishop, but surely you cannot expect us to believe
such nonsense. It would make just as much sense to accuse
me of being a—a pagan witch!"

Oh, cleverly played, Eithnel Ardagh thought. The truth
makes a wonderful weapon.

Ardagh saw Gervinus' startled stare shoot from him to
Eithne to Aedh as the latter let out a humorless bark of a

230 Josepha Sherman

laugh. "This has gone far enough," the king said. "My Lord
Bishop, Eirnin mac Flainn can hardly be accepted as a
credible witness, not after Prince Ardagh helped us prove
him guilty of rape. And to accuse the prince of something
as outrageous as sorcery—as my wife says, as soon accuse
her of the same!"

"But—the boy!" Gervinus protested. "He had no con-
ceivable reason to attack, not without outside provocation."

"Which," Eithne said firmly, "he had. And there was
nothing of treason about it! My lords, Breasal mac Donn-
chadh often has need of strengthening potions- Some of
them contain such herbs as woffsbane or hellebore, herbs
powerful enough to warrant that doses be measured with
care. Think of yourselves as boys his age. Think of his pride,
his impatience with his body's flagging energy."

"He took too large a dose," Aedh breathed. "Of course."

Eithne nodded- "When he collapsed, the scent of wolfs-
bane was strong on his breath. A dose strong enough to
be scented would easily have been strong enough to dis-
tort his senses to the point where he might see enemies
where there were none," She held up her hands. "No
sorcery was involved, my lords, no dark plot. There was
nothing here more terrible than a boy's foolishness. Your
pardon, my lord bishop, but now you see why I could
not keep silent."

"Indeed!" Such horror was on the bishop's face that
Ardagh could almost believe it real. "I can only thank Our
Lord that you had the courage to speak out, good woman."
The gaze he turned to King Aedh was heavy with remorse.
"I know not how I can possibly make amends for such a
wrongful charge. The only excuse I can possibly offer in
my behalf is that my fear for your safety overcame all com-
mon sense. I let myself be swayed by the prince's foreign
looks and mysterious ways."

"It's not my pardon you should be asking."

"True, quite true." Gervinus turned to Ardagh, his face,
now that only the prince could see it, a mask, his eyes like
stone. His voice, though, was a model of humility. "I have
most gravely wronged you. Prince Ardagh. But Our Lord

THE SHATTERED OATH

231

did preach forgiveness for one's foes. Can you find it within
your heart to forgive me?"

Damn you. What can I possibly answer to that^ I will
not lie, most certainly not/in- your sake. Yet if I tell the truth
and refuse you, I become an enemy of your faith—and leave
the seeds of doubt still in everyone's minds.

"What is done, is done," Ardagh said at last, and let the
humans make of that what they would. But as they left the
audience hall, the prince murmured to Eithne, "There was
no scent of medicine on Breasal's breath "

"I know that," she whispered back. "I couldn't think of
anything else to say. It was sorcery?"

"Sorcery. Nothing provable." Even if Breasal recovered
fully, it was doubtful his mind would ever be clear on what
had happened to him. And obviously neither Ardagh nor
Eithne could accuse the bishop, not without admitting to
and proving the existence of their own Power.

And w, Ardagh added to himself, we are left in a worse
position than before. Glancing back over his shoulder, he
neariy choked. Ae, look at Gervinus! The man was virtu-
ally abasing himself before Aedh. Yes, and look at how Aedh
and the others were smiling and offering him sympathetic
words, almost as though he'd been the one falsely accused!

Humility, Ardagb thought. Proper Christian humility, as
Father Seadna would put it. And through apparent humil-
ity, Bishop Gervinus had just endeared himself to these
Christian folk. The prince remembered Gervinus' scorn-
ful warning: "I am a high-ranking official of the Church,
You are a pagan foreigner. If it comes to a confrontation,
which of us do you think is more likely to be believed?"

Which, indeed? Curse him. he's won this encounter Now
he's free to work whatever harm he wQl. And if I act against
him without proof even a lump of earth could see—he. the
good man of the Church—why, then I am the villain.

Powers, now we wiU never be rid of him.

CHALLCNGeS

AND Rescues

CHAPCett19

She was with him again, his Gwen. his sweet Gwenith,
laughing as she walked beside him. No fine lady, she, but
lithe and tanned and graceful, her hair bleached nearly w^
by the summer sun, her skin turned to rich dark gold, her
eyes in that strong, tanned face blue as the cloudless sky.
She was his and he was hers, and even if neither of them
were the stock figures out of the barddis tales, it never
mattered They were together, they were together, and noth-
ing more mattered in all the world. . .

Cadwal woke with a start, calling out "Gwenith," stunned
to find himself alone in the darkness. Alone ... ah dear
God, yes, alone here in a foreign land surrounded by for-
eigners, and Gwenith was gone, never more his. never more
in all this world his.

He swore under his breath. It was over ten years since
.. . since his exile, the old pain had no right to revive itself
after so long, sneaking up on him in his sleep like this,
reminding him—

Pw, his face was wet. Fortunate that his rank as leader
of the High King's mercenaries entitled him to these small
private chambers in the barracks and so no one had heard
his shout; ridiculous for his men to catch him weeping at

232

THE SHATTERED OATH          233

his age, mourning for what couldn't be like some fool of a
grieving boy.

But the echo of that grief clung with him no matter how
fiercely he mocked himself, and at last Cadwal surrendered
to the weight of it. Maybe a breath of clean nigfat air would
clear his mind and lighten his soul a touch. Dressing more
by touch than sight, not wanting to risk waking anyone by
lighting a candle, the mercenary stole out into the night.

Och, chill out here, and damp. The hour wasn't verytate;

the moon, when the shifting clouds let him see it, was still
almost directly overhead. Odd effect, those sudden cold rays
of silver light come beaming down without warning, like
something a magician might conjure.

Cadwal froze, for a wild moment sure he realty was seeing
a conjuration—no. The eerie figure suddenly revealed by
the blaze of moonlight was no one more alarming than Prince
Ardagh, practicing the moves of knife fighting by himself
with silent vehemence. Cadwal watched for a while, appre-
ciating the man's quick grace: if it came to a fight, he decided
with professional interest, the prince would probably be able
to make up in swiftness what he lacked in down-and-dirty
experience.

But there was a fierce edge to the way the prince was
practicing, as if this was a man brimnil of angry frustration,
and letting out that frustration in the only safe way he could.

Sooner or later, though, he was going to reahze he was
being watched. Rather than being caught spying, Cadwal
stepped boldly out of hiding. "Keep the knife a little lower
when you follow through."

The prince froze, his face gone suddenly very cold and
still, his eyes so chill and flat a green in the uncertain
moonlight that a little shiver raced through Cadwal. Inhu-
man • . .

But in the next moment, the frozen pose melted into life,
and Cadwal thought with a touch of rehef. Not inhuman.
Just a man who's embarrassed at having been caught off-

vrd like this—and one. I think, who's feeling a bit of
wir under the embarrassment. "We're both having a bad
it, aren't we?" the mercenary asked softly, and wasn't




234 Josephs Sherman

really surprised to see the prince nod slightly in agreement.
"Not a good night to be out, either," Cadwal continued,
making conversation, not sure how to end this. "Too damp
and chilly, A better time for being inside somewhere, maybe
sharing a bottle."

He'd only half meant it as an invitation, sure he would
be refused: a prince and a mercenary drink together? But
then he was struck utterly still with astonishment, for Prince
Ardagh said thoughtfully, "I think that might be a wise idea."

"Cm ... uh ... you sure?" Come on, man, you sound
like an idiot! "I mean, I have a couple of bottles all right,
but they're in my rooms. Not exactly a regal setting, you
understand. Royal kitchen or dining hall aren't going to be
open this time of night."

The prince shrugged. Tour rooms will do."

He's as lonely as me, Cadwal realized with a new shock,
as lonely—and as reluctant to admit *t.

Much to his relief, his chambers were dean. But of course
they were, Cadwal railed at himself, they always were. He
insisted his men—and he—keep their quarters as spotless
and well tended as their weapons. A mercenary had little
enough, after all, save his personal standards, and the minute
he started to let those standards slip, despair had a chance
to destroy him.

As it tried to get me this night.

"Don't have much in the way of furniture, you see. but
that's the most comfortable chair." There were only the two,
and the one plain table in this outer room. Cadwal, rum-
maging in a supply chest and pulling out two earthenware
bottles, glanced back over his shoulder to see the prince
carefully seating himself, looking incredibly elegant and
exotic against the simple setting. "You . . . sure you want
to do this?" the mercenary asked.

"Are you planning to poison me?"

"Hell no—uh, that is, I mean I—"

"I was joking," Prince Ardagh said gently.

"Sure! I knew that." Dammit, the man had him babbling
like an idiot- Yes, this was a prince, but he sweat just like
anyone else and got tired just like anyone else, and

THE SHATTERED OATH          235

presumably enjoyed a drink as much as the next man. And
stop dithering and give him that drinkf "Be careful with
this," Cadwal warned, filling an earthenware cup (trying to
be casual about the fact it wasn't fancier glass or metal) and
passing it over.

Prince Ardagh eyed the golden liquid warily. "Mead?"

"Sort of. Homebrew." He watched, holding his breath,
as the prince took a wary sip. One slanted brow shot up,
but all Prince Ardagh said after a moment was, "Interest-
ing-"

Cadwal chuckled. "Strong, too, a lot stronger than what
they serve at court, so like I say, be careful." He filled his
own cup and took a good swallow, feeling the hot gold
burning its welcome way down, taking away some ofthe
inner chill. "I don't usually drink by myself, if that's what
you're thinking. Drunken mercenaries don't last very long.
I keep this here for ... well, for emergencies."

"Such as this," the prince murmured, and sipped his mead;

he even, Cadwal noted, did that gracefully.

"Right. like this." Cadwal swallowed again, then hazarded,
"Heard about what happened today. Between you and the
bishop, I mean."

"Have you?"

"You surprised? I should think a prince would be used
to everyone at court knowing his business."

That's why I don't... why I didn't... live at court."

Cadwal saw the sudden pain shadowing the green gaze
and changed the subject hastily. "Look, man, I don't think
you're a sorcerer, and I don't blame you for being mad as
hell at the accusation. But..." He shrugged. "Can't blame
the bishop for being a bishop. Hunting out evil and all that"

"Is that what he's doing?"

Another dangerous subject. Cadwal frantically changed it
again. "You've got the basic knife-fighting moves down right.
Keep practicing them, of course, and we'ffgp over some more
advanced ones tomorrow." That sounded alarmingly like a
command, and he amended quickly, "If you'd like."

"Yes." The prince sipped again. "I still am not sure which
skills I might need in this land."

236 Josepha Sherman

"Ha! I've been here ten years now, and I'm still not sure."

Cadwal reached out to refill the prince's goblet, then
refilled his own as well. "Not easy adjusting, is it?"

"No" Prince Ardagh made a great deal of brushing his long
black hair back from his face with a hand, then added very
softly, "You never do quite stop longing for home, do you?"

Cadwal let out his breath in a slow sigh. "No," he admit-
ted, and took a new drink. "No, you don't. Ah hell, let's not
get maudlin! Too easy to let self-pity drag you down."

"I've noticed."

"Mm. You can't be used to this sort of thing, drinking
like a commoner, I mean."

"Hardly." A hint of amusement touched the prince's voice.

"Huh. Should take you to a tavern sometime. Show you
how to really—" He broke off, feeling his face redden. "Jesu.
I keep putting my foot in it, don't I?"

"Because I am a prince? Right now I am weary of wor-
rying about tides." Prinoe Ardagh leaned forward, face grave
but eyes amused, "Tell me, how does one drink properly
in a tavern?"

Cadwal chuckled in spite of himself. "Depends on what
you're looking for."

"Eh?"

"Mercenaries, no matter what folks say about us, don't go
hunting trouble: Our only source of livelihood's our fighting
skills, after all, and we can't afford to risk them unless we get
paid. That means we avoid taverns where the place is old but
the furniture's too new—means they have to keep replacing
it thanks to the customers—or where there are a lot of stu-
pid young hot-bloods just looking to start something,"

"Sensible. And once you've found your tavern?"

"Then the first tiling you do, you make sure the drink
doesn't have something more or less than you paid for, if
you get my meaning. The same goes for the ... ah ... the
women who serve it." Damn, he was reddening again!
Cadwal added, "Got to pace yourself. Relax."

"Easy to relax with this." The prince held up his cup in
wry admiration. "Most pleasantly soothing after (he initial
shock, isnt it?"

THE SHATTERED OATH          237

"Sure is."

"I think I would like to visit a hu—a tavern sometime."

Cadwal could almost have sworn the prince had been
about to say "a human tavern." Och, impossible; the mead
was starting to confuse his ears or Prince Ardagh's mouth.
"No, you wouldn't," the mercenary said. "They're dark,
smelly places. Not romantic as the bards make them out
to be, not at all."

"I see. This is much more tranquil. And," the prince
added, saluting Cadwal, "cleaner."

They went on making small talk, talk that grew increas-
ingly less wary as time went by and the level in the bottle
lowered. They finished that one, by mutual agreement went
on to the second. And somewhere along the way, Cadwal
realized they'd reached the point of the prince asking him
die forbidden question: how he'd become a mercenary. But
such genuine concern seemed to be in Ardagh's voice by
now that Cadwal found himself saying: "I loved. Loved a
woman named Gwenidi. Ahh, yes . . ."

Seeing her in his memory, the mercenary added softly,
"We were happy, like two youngsters in die first flush of
life, so happy ..." He started to shake his head, changed
his mind when his senses swam, and refilled his cup instead.
"Now I'm die one getting maudlin."

"If you would radier not—"

"Look you, what happened was a lord, a brynthi sewn
of a lord. I worked for him, I'd swom fealty to him. He
wanted my Gwenidi. She didn't want him." Cadwal shrugged.
"Goes against all our laws, man taking a woman who doesn't
want him. But he was a lord, as I say. Thought he could
do anydiing. He sent me away on some stupid errand, and
while I was away... She cut him, my Gwenidi, cut him in
self-defense. And... well... she got die bastart right where
a man least wants to get cut."

"Ah. Good for her."

"No! Not good! Not at all! You see, he lived- He had her
condemned as—as a witch. And he ... she ... I got diere
one hour too late, one litde, litde hour too late."

He could not go on. Cadwal drank deeply, fighting back

238 ]osepha Sherman

memory with all his might. IfArdagh said one word of pity,
he would shatter, he knew, shatter woe glass. But the prince
said nothing, only sat where he was, his very stillness some-
how more soothing than any easy words of comfort And after
a time Cadwal was able to finish, "I went after him, of course.
Killed him. Killed my liege lord. And that's why I'm here."

"What you did is not a crime, not to my people."

"Huh."

The slanted green eyes were very bright. "Listen to me.
He had already forfeited his right to your oath by his actions-
And what he did to an innocent woman—in my Realm such
a man would most legally have been condemned to death."

"Fine, but we're not in your Realm, are we?"

He saw Ardagh wince slightly. "No. We are not."

"Och, well," Cadwal blustered, sorry for himself, sony
for his drinking partner as well, "the past is just that. Look
you, Acre's little enough left in this bottle. What d'you say
we put the poor thing out of its misery? Give it an honor-
able funeral and bury our memories with it?"

The prince saluted him with his empty cup. "An excel-
lent idea, good Cadwal. An excellent idea, indeed."

There were times, Sorcha ni Fothad thought, -when it was
most annoying to be an early riser. Particularly now, when
the morning was so overcast it was difficult to tell whether
or not it was no longer night. Or at least not quite night

At any rate, like it or hate it, she was most disgustingly
and thoroughly wide awake, and likely to stay that way, and
there wasn't much else to do at this ridiculous hour but dress
and go for a quiet walk outside. Although propriety nagged
that she should really have a woman in attendance, it was
safe enough here for a noblewoman alone; no one would
so much as raise a finger against her, not within the walls
of Fremainn.

Clutching her cloak about her against the damp, Sorcha
stood leaning on the wooden balustrade rimming the ram-
parts, looking out over the earthen rings of the fortifica-
tion to where the forest loomed as a dark gray-green mass
in the dim tight.

THE SHATTERED OATH

239

"A gloomy view," said a voice beside her, and Sorcha
started, "but not unattractive in its solemn way."

"Prince Ardagh! I didn't hear you approach and—" She
stopped, studying him, then added warily, "This time, you
are drunk."

He considered that carefully, elegant brow furrowed.
"Why, yes," the prince said at last, deary surprised, "I believe
I am, a bit. How very bizarre."

He plainly wasn't at the stage of unpleasantness or stu-
pidity; Sorcha, all too well acquainted with her late husband's
ways, had long ago learned how to accurately judge the level
of a man's intoxication. Bemused at his surprise, she asked,
"Haven't you ever been this way before?"

"No. I have never dared lose even the smallest edge of
my control. Not with my brother as he is."

The prince turned sharply away, staring with fierce, blank
eyes out over the land. Stung by sudden pity, Sorcha asked
softly, "You miss your homeland, don't you?"

"How should I not?"

"I'm sorry. That was a foolish question."

But he, leaning on the balustrade, continued, so quietly
that she had to strain to hear, "It is so very beautiful, my
land. No garish sunlight as there is in this Realm, but ah. a
radiance shimmers in the very air, and the color of leaf or
bird or sly is so clear it seems newly bom. There are won-
ders in my land, Sorcha ni Fothad, wonders enough to make
you laugh or weep or sit wide-eyed as a child.

"And I," he added, in so matter-of-fact a voice it made
her heart ache, "shall never see it again."

"Surety you will!" she protested. "You aren't a criminal.
There must be some way to lift your exile!"

He turned to her, the faintest sad smile touching his lips.
"Fierce Sorcha, kinohearted Sorcha, I wish there were. But
.. . Still, I am learning that there are compensations in this
land." The prince paused, studying her, his eyes for once
quite readable, and bewildered. "Truly, there are."

"Prince Ardagh ..."

"Shh." He bent and, before she quite realized what he
meant to do. kissed her. And she—och, Meallan, for all his

240 josepha Sherman

faults, had been a gentle lover, but it had been long and long
since he had—since they had—The prince was strong and
gentle in one, fierce and tender, and if his breath was touched
with mead, Sorcha thought wildly, it only sweetened the kiss-
She tried for one proper moment to resist, then told herself,
Idiot! and threw herself wholeheartedly into returning that
kiss with all the pent-up passion within her-

And are you going to let him haw you? a dry inner voice
wanted to know. Right here on the ramparts?

God,yes—

No!

Gasping, shaken, Sorcha struggled her way free, won-
dering what she was going to do if the prince tried to grab
her again.

But he only stared, looking every bit as confused as she,
then asked sorUy, "Was that... was mat kiss of your will, too?"

It was the drink talking, nothing more. Astonished at the
disappointment she felt, Sorcha bit back the hot what the
heU do you think? that first came to mind and stammered,
"It—it was an accident. We both—"

But he held up a hand for silence, and if drink had been
confusing him just a moment ago, its influence seemed to
have vanished as abruptly as though he'd banished its effect
by magic. Eyes now their eerie, unreadable norm, die prince
stood alert as a hunter for an instant, then cried, "Breasall"
and raced off.

Breasal? Had something happened to tfae boy? How could
Ardagh possibly have known? Bewildered, Sorcha gathered
up her skirts and followed, almost managing to keep pace
with him by running full out. Ahead of her, the prince
stopped so sharply, dropping to his knees, that she nearly
felf over him.

"Breasal!"

Prince Ardagh was already gathering the fallen boy into
his arms, voice fierce with worry. "Where did you think you
were going?"

"Don't know . . ." The boy's voice was a strained whis-
per, his young face grey and twisted with pain. "Didn't want
.,. just didn't want... to die indoors ..."

THE SHATTERED OATH

241




Oh dear Cod. Sorcha fell to her knees beside the prince,
whispering, "I think we'd better call for Father Seadna."

Prince Ardagh glared at her. "No!"

"He's dyingf Do you want him to pass unshriven?"

"He is not to die-1 will not let Gervinus have his death."

"Wh-what—"

"He is not to die!" The green eyes were so terrifyingiy
sharp that for a moment Sorcha could almost believe he
realty was going to win out.

"No man can hold back death!" she protested. "I'm going
for Father—"

"No! He won't die, I tell you. Sorcha, I don't have time
to argue. Help me or stand aside!"

He struggled to his feet, the boy sagging against him, and
scanned the sly fiercely. "Still dark... dark enough, I hope.
Help me, Sorcha. I must get Breasal as far from human
dwellings as possible."

He's mad, Sorcha thought, he must be mad. but she found
herself saying, "We'll never get out of Fremainn; the guards
will stop us."

"I know. The larger practice field will have to serve. Help
me!"

Together, they half-earned, half-dragged the semicon-
scious Breasal to the open area, Ardagh gently settled the
boy to the grass, then glanced up at Sorcha, commanding,
"You are to ward off any guards who might come this way,"

"But how—"

"I don't care how! Do it!"

She might have retorted, might have complained or
argued or said something, but now the prince was on his
feet again, his eyes blazing, and the words he spoke were
,., alien- Incredibly fierce, incredibly beautiful, like no other
language she'd ever heard, they seemed to gleam in the air,
calling, summoning, pleading, over and over again. - . .

Finvarra? Sorcha picked that name out of me strange-
ness. King Finvarra? But—but he's myth! Isn't he?

She staggered back, tripping over her own feet, landing
with a thump on the ground, staring at the sudden shim-
mering in the air, at—at—

242 Josepfw Sherman

No. Oh no. I don't—he isn't—that can't he—

He was beautiful and terrible as an angel must be, this
new being who stood in the midst of the shimmering as
casualty as a man might stand in a doorway. His hair was a
shining mass of gold, his slanted eyes a clear, frightening
green—

Ardagh's eyes, dear God, Ardagh's elegant, fierce beauty!
They were of the same race, these two . . - beings, they
must be, even if Ardagh's hair was gleaming black, not gold,
and he was dressed like any other man of Fremainn, while
the golden-haired one wore shimmering robes that changed
color with every move, now green, now blue, now no shade
she could name, they were of the same race, even if that
race was most surely not human—

Aware that she was slipping over the edge of hysteria,
Sorcha bit down on her lower lip, hard, reminding herself
that she was the daughter of a scholar-poet, forcing her-
self to observe as keenly as he would. Finvarra... this was
Finvarra, the King of the Sidhe of Eriu, and Ardagh had
called him here.

The king wasn't happy about it. That much was clear from
his angry tone, even if she couldn't understand his words. But
then Ardagh stood aside and let him see Breasal, lying in a
miserable little heap, and Finvarra gave the softest cry of
dismav and stepped out of the shimmering onto mortal soiL

He saw her. The chill green gaze softened slightly, and
Sorcha reminded herself mat Finvarra, or so the stories said,
tended to be kindly disposed to humans. Particularly to
human women. When the whim struck him. She could
hardly do him a proper courtesy, not sitting on the ground
like this, but she bowed nearly double and received his polite
little dip of the head in return.

But the fang's attention had already turned back to
Breasal. Gently he and Ardagh coaxed the boy back to his
feet. As he sagged helplessly against Finvarra, barely breath-
ing, Sorcha saw the king's arm go about the boy in so tender
a curve that her heart skipped a beat for sudden sharp, irra-
tional hope. Together, Finvarra and Breasal moved through
the shimmering—and suddenly and undeniably were gone.

THE SHATTERED OATH          243

"Oh." It was all Sorcha could manage. "Oh."

Ardagh turned to her, and she shrank back in spite of
herself, because for all that he looked weary enough to sleep
where he stood. Otherness still blazed from his eyes. "Go
on," he said softly, the very faintest edge of warning in his
voice. "Say what you are burning to say."

"That was Finvarra. The Finvarra. The Sidhe King of
Eriu."

"It was."

"He—you—you two look alike. Of the same race, I mean.
But he—that means—you aren't human, are you?"

She saw something flicker in the eerie eyes: danger?
desperation? "No. I am not."

To her utter amazement, Sorcha heard herself laugh.
"Why, this is wonderful, this is amazing!"

It was hardly what he'd been expecting, either. Staring
at her as though she'd just gone mad, he asked warily,
"What?"

"All along I thought that the Sidhe were myth and that
magic had vanished from the world, and now I see I was
very, very mistaken and—och, I'm sony to babble, but this
is so very exciting—"

"Is it?"

This time diere was definite warning behind the words,
but with it, more than a hint of that same desperation.
He needs this sanctuary, Sorcha realized. He reaUy is in
exile, and if he thinks I might endanger his stay among
humans . . .

She dared not hesitate. Sorcha snapped, "Don't glare at
me like that! I'm not going to tell anyone."

The unvoiced menace remained unshaken. "Humans he."

"Yes, of course we do," she retorted, "but I don't, not
here, not now." He wasn't believing her. He must already
have seen too many examples of casual human falsehood,
and that chill hint of peril still shadowed him, alien, inhu-
man—God, yes, inhuman, and in God's name, how was she
going to convince him he was safe?

"Look you," Sorcha cried in sudden inspiration, "do you
know what it meant to be a bard in this land? It meant

244 Josepha Sherman

bearing the whole history of the clan in your head. It meant
learning and studying and never, ever changing the truth.
It meant giving one's word, knowing that word was sacred.
I'm the daughter of a poet, yes, but a poet is die modern
equivalent of a bard—and when I give my word, I keep
that word! You have sworn to do us no harm, and so I wul
keep your secret, / so swear!"

There was a moment of tense silence. Then, to her sur-
prise, the prince began to laugh, very softly and wearily.
"Nicely said, most nicely said. And I believe you, mostly
because I have no other choice."

Sorcha scrambled to her feet. "What about Breasal? King
Finvarra took him to—to the Sidhe Realm, didn't he? To
heal him?"

"Powers grant, yes. And give the boy a happy life. We
do not harm or cast away children, any children."

"I know that," she said gently. "You just proved it."*

"Eh?"

"You were willing to cast away your safe harbor without
a second thought, all to protect poor Breasal."

"I did what I must."

Without another word. Prince Ardagh started to walk
away, plainly embarrassed, but Sorcha hurried after him.
He glanced at her, glanced away, then added quietly, "I'm
sorry if I frightened you just now. As you guessed, I saw
my refuge crumbling under me."

Sorcha glanced about. Fortunate the hour was only now
turning to hill day; only Sidhe and human idiots would have
beea up this early, she jibed at herself. Not another soul
had seen what had happened out here. "Does no one else
know the truth about you?"

"One other. One I will not mention and who has rea-
sons for keeping silent. And now. Lady Sorcha, it has been
a very long night and morning, and I realty must rest."

"Och, of course. But... what happens when no one can
find Breasal?"

He shrugged. "Finvarra has left a log."

For a moment she stared blankly, then cried, "Ah. the
way the old stories have it!"

THE SHATTERED OATH          245

"Magicked to look like Breasal's body. yes. The illusion
will hold long enough for burial, or so Finvarra has assured
me." He paused at the doorway of his guest house and gave
her a deep, formal bow. Thank you for your assistance.
Forgive me for any . . . indiscretions I might have said or
done while the mead controlled my tongue and a fair por-
tion of my will. And now. Lady Sorcha, good night—or
rather," he added as an early ray of sunlight cut through
the clouds and caught him in the face, "good day."

DCACti OF A LOG
CHADCeP 20

Queen Derval of Clonach sat alone in her solitary bed,
absently braiding and rebraiding her long golden hair. The
queen had long ago insisted on separate sleeping chambers,
and if Donnchadh had agreed with an enthusiasm that meant
he had his light women on the side, it was worth the chance
to have an occasional respite from his company.

Particularly now, when she wished to be alone with her
thoughts. Derval had been uneasy for days after sending
that parchment message to Odran mac Daire in Fremainn,
knowing that of course it had been read by other eyes,
worrying that the code had been a touch too clever, too
obvious. But today had proven her worries false-
Tossing back her half-finished braids, Derval drew a small
clay charm out from under her pillow and studied it yet
again by the flickering light of her bedside candle. There
was nothing at all unusual about the charm; it was the type
meant as a general warding-off-of-evil trinket, borne byjust
about anyone who was at all superstitious.

But what the charm was intended to do was not by any
means as important as what it signified. It had come to her
from Odran mac Daire, there in Fremainn, as part of their
agreed-upon code. A small thing, this charm, easy to smuggle
out of a royal fortress with no one suspecting. That it had
come to her at all meant the man was interested in her plans.
Derval turned the charm over in her hand, counting once

246

THE SHATTERED OATH          247

again the tiny lines scratched as if by accident into the clay.
Five. That meant Odran was telling her he could gather
fifty warriors to him were he free of Fremainn.

"Not enough," she whispered. "Not nearly enough." But
Muirgheas mac Art, who was not in Fremainn, also had his
fifty, and Cronan mac Deaglan. who, like she, was willing
to sacrifice his firstborn, hostage, child if need be, had his
seventy, and there were yet others to be contacted, others
discontented with the current rule for no other reason than
ambition.

It was at least a start, Derval decided, and smiled. If only
she could arrange—

"Derval."

She started, hastily closing her hand about the little charm.
What was this? Her women had orders not to let anyone
enter without her permission, not even: "Donnchadh. What
is it, husband? Mad with lust for me?"

He didn't even try to react to the jibe. Wild-eyed, hair a
bright, tangled mass about his head, Donnchadh said
hoarsely, "Hie dream."

"The . . . dream."

Before she could do more than slip the charm safely back
under her pillow, he came rushing into the room, nearly
throwing himself on top of her, like a child in desperate
need of comfort. So Breasal had once thrown himself, ter-
rified of his nightmares, an unwanted flash of memory
reminded her, and you cast him aside, letting him that only
weaklings were afraid of bad dreams. The memory made
her say sharply, "What nonsense is this?"

Face hidden against her breast, Donnchadh merely shook
his head. DervaT caught a double handful of his hair and
pulled bis head back. "What is the matter with you?"

He pulled away, turning to sit on the side of the bed,
shivering. The dream. I've had it several nights running."

Derval tensed. Donnchadh had never shown any talent
at all for things oracular, but everyone knew there were such
things as prophetic dreams that could come to almost anyone.
Even to one such as he.

Tell me," she snapped. "Describe it."

248 Josephs Sherman

"I—I am at court, walking down the length of a huge
royal audience hall."

"Not the one here in Clonach?"

"I don't know. In the dream I can't tell if it's my own or
that at Fremainn. Beside me walks a man in a hooded cloak,
and even though I never do see his face, he—he gives off
such a feeling of evil that I want to run. But I don't, and
we walk on together to where Aedh stands smiling at me.
The man in the hooded cloak hands me a dagger and says,
'Strike'—and I do, I strike Aedh down!"

What, and is this what terrifies you? Derval thought in
disgust. Then we might as well stay at home Uke meek little
mice! But she fought back the urge to snap that out, forc-
ing herself to say soothingly instead, "Why, husband! This
is not so very terrible. After all, haven't we been plotting
just such a thing?"

"Not like this' Not cold-blooded murder!"

"That's just your sleeping mind's way of making tt all seem
wildly dramatic." She ran a hand through his tangled hair
in feigned affection. "Forget this dream, Donnchadh; it
means nothing more than ambition yet unfilled."

"You don't understand." He glanced back over his shoulder
at her, his eyes wide with horror. "If that were all to the
dream, I could ignore it. But when I bend over Aedh to
be sure he's dead—I see not his but our own son's face
instead! I wake knowing I've killed our son!"

Derval's caressing hand closed reflerively on Donnchadh's
hair. "Fearghal?" she asked, barely breathing. Oh God, the
ill omen of that—

"No." Donnchadh twisted free of her grasp, still shud-
dering. "Breasal. It is Breasal, it is my firstborn son. who
lies dead by my hand."

An unexpected lance of pain stabbed at her. Hiding it
as best she could, forcing a smile, Derval murmured, "This,
too, means nothing. We both know the boy is sickly, hus-
band; we both have lived with the fact that he is unlikely
to reach manhood. You have merely let it weigh too heavily
on your mind. Come, Donnchadh, mink. This dream of yours
is not an evil thing."

THE SHATTERED OATH

249

He turned to glare at her. "How not?"

"Why, you are still feeling guilt over having sent our son
as hostage. And so your sleeping mind cut him free."

"By killing him!"

Oh, you great fool! "It is the king you kill," Derval said
with forced patience. "That he wears Breasal's face is mere
dream-illusion, meaningless."

"What of the hooded man? What of him?"

Who knows what that means to your sleeping self? Who
cares? "He is the burden of guilt you have carried," Derval
quickly improvised. "But in the dream, your mind cast that
guilt from you, into a separate man whom you can ignore.
And that you kill the king means that even though the dream
has frightened you now, you will still triumph!" I should
have been a bard, she told herself sardonically. That was
as foolish a tale as ever a bard might sing.

But it served its purpose. "Yes!" Donnchadh cried eagerly,
and caught his wife in a tight embrace. "Och, my clever
wife, my clever, clever wife, you're right. I shall, indeed,
triumph!"

Yes, my husband. Derval corrected while she feigned
interest in his sudden burst of passion, there shaB, be a tri-
umph. But it is not you but we who shall enjoy ft.

Amulf paused in the middle of helping his master dress,
a thong dangling from his hand, a ray of early morning
sunlight crossing his slight body with bright gold. "I stiff
don't understand. We lost, but we won?"

Gervinus snatched the thong from the acolyte's hand and
finished tying it himself. "Most certainly. Oh yes, it would
have been most gratifying to see the foreign prince go up
in smoke and Same, or however it is that these barbarians
dispose of their pagan witches, but since we may not have
that pleasure—yet—let us bask instead in the reflected glory
die king has granted us."

"But. . ."

"Come now, Amulf. Think. By so tenderly abasing myself
before him, I have proven myself a most properly humble
Christian, a gentle soul under my crisp official shell. One

250 Josepha Sherman

who can work his way into places a colder man could not
and—" He broke off with a frown. "Now, what is that
clamor? Go out there and find out."

In only a few moments, Amulfcame hurrying back inside.
'There's been a death. The—the boy."

"What boy? Breasal? Yes? Ah, the poor sicldy lad! His
tra^c end is not at al! surprising. Of course," Gervinus added,
the note of false pity leaving his voice, "it would have been
more useful to us had it happened yesterday, but since it
has not. . . come, Amulf, we must prepare to mourn."

He most definitely had not, Ardagh thought blearily,

Jotten enough sleep. Not more than three of the humans'
ours could have passed before someone discovered
"Breasal's" log-body and raised such an outcry that there
wasn't a chance of sleeping any longer. Dunking his head
in a basin of cold water helped a tiny bit, but now he had
the problem of a headful of long, wet hair. Wringing the
heavy black mass out as best he could, Ardagh mused that
it really was getting too long. But the thought of having even
a trusted human so near his neck with an iron blade . . .
he should only be dad the Sidhe didn't grow any such ani-
mahstic beards as humans seemed to favor. . . .

Ae, this wasn't working. His mind was trying to slide back
into sleep. Ardagh splashed his face once more, and suc-
ceeded only in wetting his hair all over again. With a sigh,
the prince tried summoning a precious bit of magic to dry
it.

And failed. For a moment he sat in confusion, then bowed
his head resignedly. The small amount of useable Power
remaining after his aborted attempt to return home had
nearly been extinguished by that desperate call across Realms
to Finvarra. And right now he was Just too weary to make
use of what little innate magic was left. At least, the prince
thought wryly, I should be grateful I'm not . . what's that
elegant human term. . . ? 'hung over' as well.

Ae-ye. What this meant was that weather or not, he
couldn't wait much longer to return to the forest. But that
certainly couldn't happen until he was fully awake. Right

THE SHATTERED OATH          251

now, Ardagh decided vaguely, what he needed most was
clothing. Here was a cloth thick enough to pat some of the
dampness out of his hair, but he needed something to actu-
ally wear—ha. yes, there was a fresh tunic in the chest where
clean clothes were supposed to be, and he could easily shake
out the creases in his brat.

As he dressed, Ardagh could not figfat off a pang of nos-
talgia, remembering his own estate, where at a word from
him quiet servant-beings would lay out whatever clothing
he wished and a new outfit could be formed with a few easy
flashes of magic. Right now Breasal was probably enjoying
just such magical pleasures. Ironic that a human should be
so easily allowed to pass into the Sidhe Realms while he, a
prince of royal Sidhe blood was left standing locked out-
side.

Ae, no. Self-pity was far too easy right now, groggy as
he was, and after having survived the winter, he wasn't going
to let himself lapse into such foolishness. Think only of today,
Ardagh decided. That was more practical. Less perilous, too.
Servants, now. Someone usually crept in here when he was
out to tidy things up and leave him dean clothing, but maybe
he should surrender after all to the way a prince was sup-
posed to live in this Realm and actually keep a servant or
two, the way everyone kept insisting. But that would mean
sharing the only privacy he had, that within this small build-
ing, with a human, and he still wasn't ready to—

Someone was knocking shyly at his door. "Please, Prince
Ardagh."

Ardagh's sigh turned into a yawn. Combing his still damp
hair hastily into place with his fingers, fie called out,
"Enter."

A servant stood in the doorway, wringing his hands. "King
Aedh would see you."

Of course he would. "Lead on," Ardagh said in resigna-
tion, and followed the man to the royal conversation house.

"Prince Ardagh." Aedh's face was very solemn, his eyes
deeply shadowed. "I fear I have some sad news for you."
The king hesitated, plainly struggling for composure, and
Ardagh waited patiently, already sure of what he was going

252 Josephs Sherman

to hear. At last Aedh continued, "Sometime during the night,
Breasal mac Donnchadh . . . left this mortal world."

It wasn't quite the wording he'd expected. Ardagh almost
strangled trying not to give what would be the most awk-
ward laugh, hoping it would look as though he was strug-
gling with shock instead. Left this mortal worid, indeed!
Powers, Powers, what an accurate summation} "So I have
already learned,'* he managed to say with reasonable sobri-
ety.

"One thing I will ask you to share with no one else," Aedh
continued. "We both knew the boy was sickly, but ... I
am afraid he was more sickly than we dreamed. We must
hold the burial with unseemly haste, because the body is
showing some clear signs of... of disease."

What disease^ Ardagh's mind gibbered. Root rot? Ae,
Powers, no, be was not going to laugh! The lack of sleep
was making him giddy. It wasn't disease the humans had
seen, of course it wasn't disease, it was only Finvarra's log-
spell starting to dissolve under the weight of mortal sun-
light—though he couldn't tell the king that! Voice quavering
a little with the strain, the prince said, "I am sure there is
no contagion to harm your people." Except maybe for wood
lice—stop that!

"I pray you're right. But I still don't dare wait. Even though
a hasty burial is always going to give rise to rumors of dark
deeds, I can't risk—"

"Nonsense," Ardagh said hastily. "Everyone in Fremainn
knows how near to death the boy was every day."

"True, but—"

"Look you, if you Uce, I will handle the body myself, prove
to everyone there is no danger from it." Except from spUn-
ters—Nof

"I would not inflict such an ordeal on you, but thank you."
Aedh paused. "I have already sent word of their son's death
to King Donnchadh and his wife."

That cut short any urge to laugh. "I doubt it will matter
much to them," Ardagh said. "Any more than did his life."

His frankness plainly shocked the king, but Aedh didnt
try to disagree with him. "That is another reason why I have

THE SHATTERED OATH          253

decided the burial must take place within Fremainn, where
the poor boy can at least rest among those who cared for
him." The king paused again. "Which brings up another
point. I thought that since you were friendly with poor
Breasal, God rest him, you would wish to participate in the
funeral,"

The funeral of a fog—no, no. don't think of that! "I don't
know if I ... ah ... could manage that."

"Look you, I'm well aware that our faith is foreign to you,
but surely some matters reach across cultures."

"Indeed." Ardagh realized with sudden half-hysterical
certainty that Aedh was going to ask him to speak over
tfae grave. Speak over the grave of a log—ae, no, no, he
would never be able to get through that without laugh-
ing! Besides, how could he "possibly deliver any manner
of eulogy? He would not lie, yet he certainty oouldnt admit
die truth! Desperately evasive. Ardagh said, "I will do what
I may."

The day was suitably gloomy for a funeral, the sky totally
overcast now and a drizzle seeping down from tile sky. But
when Ardagh saw who was to perform the ceremony, he
nearly choked all over again.

Bishop Cervinus. A false holy man for a false funeral.
How very fitting. Particularly since it was he who almost
caused the boy's death. And what would you say, Gervinus,
if I told you that your victim has escaped you, and showed
you just what it is you bury^

The prince kept a determinedly stolid face throughout
the ritual, though it was almost more than even a Sidhe's
will could endure to hear Gervinus solemnly praise the
"dead" Breasal and call down the blessing of Heaven on a
log. Au around Ardagh, folk were weeping, save for Sorcha,
who was doing her best to hide her lack of tears with a shawl
pulled over almost her whole face Ardagh didn't dare look
at her; he was sure that it would be the final strain on his
self-control and he really would break out laughing. Aedh
and Father Seadna were eyeing him suspiciously enough
as it was.

254 josepfw Shennan

Oh Powers, he was being called forward. Ae-ye. the truth
is becoming a very difficult things indeed!

"I... knew Breasal mac Donnchadh for only a relatively
brief time," he began, improvising desperately. So far, so
true. "But in that time, I found him a brave, good-hearted
youngster." Stiff true. "I ... know he could not help but
resent the sickly body that kept him from ... ah ... from
doing what he wished. But he- bore up under his restric-
tions as courageously as any hero." Indeed. "I am sure he
will be missed." Powers, why was he thinking of that—that
log again? That beautifully decorated, sadly deteriorating
piece of wood being honored by everyone, including him-
self—ae, no, he would not laugh, he would not! Struggling
for composure, Ardagh hastily concluded, "B-but I am con-
vinced that however he may have struggled in this worid,
Breasal mac Donnchadh is now happy and healthy in—in
a far finer world than this."

He didn't dare attempt another word. With a curt bow,
Ardagh turned and walked away, keeping himself rigidly
under control, hoping the humans would think he was
battling with grief.

He made it as far as the back wall of the royal keep, a
blank, windowless expanse of wood, where no one could
see him. And there Ardagh finally collapsed into gusts of
helpless laughter.

Ae, no, someone was coming. The prince straightened,
struggling mightily for control, then relaxed again with a
sigh of relief. "Sorcha!"

She was hurrying along, shawl over her mouth, making
suspicious little noises that didn't exactly sound like weep-
ing. "You, too!" Ardagh exclaimed, and she turned to him,
giggles bursting from her, setting him to laughing anew.

"Th-this is ridiculous!" she gasped.

"Quite."

"We shouldn't—people are mourning, yet we're—"

"Mourning a-a log!"

"I know, but—but—I cant help it! It's wrong, but—but—
when you gave that eulogy, I c-couldn't even look at you.
And that line about a-a fairer, finer world—"

THE SHATTERED OATH          255

She burst into a new torrent of glee, and the two of them
laughed helplessly together till they were brought up short
by Tack of breath.

"Oh. Oh dear." Sorcha wiped her eyes dry with a comer
of her shawl. That really was ridiculous."

"It was." Ardagh took a deep, steadying breath. "I don't
usually have fits Uke that."

"Me, neither."

He could feel the idiotic laughter still quivering within
him, waiting to erupt anew, "I think," Ardagh said firmly,
"a stroll about Fremainn is needed."

"Calm us down," she agreed. "Clear our heads. And if
anyone sees us, they'll think we're mourning together."

"Mourning a log."

"Stop that'"

Not daring to look at each other, they walked on. "I..."
Sorcha began, then stopped.

"You have a question," Ardagh said. "What?"

"It's not exactly a question. It's just... I didn't know that
your people laughed."

He looked at her in indignation. "Do you think us made
of stone? Of course we laugh- Not necessarily at what you
humans might think funny."

"Except for logs."

"Except for logs." And when was the last time I laughed Uke
this? So freely and with such silly abandon? Not at my
brother's court, that's for certain. No, it was... however long
ago, when I was in my garden with small Ninet, and she was
doing that silly, happy little prance because it was a bright
day and she wasfeeangjuB. of joy Ae, Powers. Ninet. I hope
you're safe and happy ... Shaking off the past, Ardagh added,
"And thank you, by the way. The temptation to tell what you
knew to soothe everyone's grief must have been very strong."

"It was, a bit—but who would have believed me? Besides,"
the woman added sharply, "I did give my word, if you'll
recall."

"So you did. Thank you anyhow."

She glanced at him, eyes bright with sudden daring "You
can reward me, if you'd like."

256 Josepha Sherman

"Eh?"

"Not with treasure, I didn't mean anything like that. But
. . . may I ask you questions? About—about your home-
land?"

He looked at her eager face. thinking, a scholar-poet's
daughter, indeed. It occurred to him with a little start that
Queen Eithne, the only other human who knew his true
race, had never once asked a question about him or his
people. It wasn't, surely, that she lacked curiosity. No, Ardagh
reahzed, the woman was interested only in her family and
its safety; her life surrounded them. But Sorcha—study her
as he would, Ardagh could not find a scrap of anything but
honest, friendly curiosity in her eyes. And a wistful little
voice in his mind whispered. It would be so eery good to
be able to talk freely to someone, to have someone with whom
I didn't have to forever pretend. "You may ask," Ardagh said
at last. "Though of course there is always the possibility that
I may not choose to answer."

"Fair enough."

"And remember this: I do not give you permission to share
any information I might give with anyone else."

"Of course not," she agreed quickly. "I'm just curious
about your land for me."

He frowned slightly. "Why?"

"Why? Because—because I want something that is mine.
something that has a purpose for me."

"I don't understand. You are the daughter of the High
King's own Chief Minister. Surely you can—"

"Surely I can do nothing." Her quiet voice was so much
more believable than any melodramatic ranting. "Prince
Ardagh, I am a childless widow, which cuts me off from
my late husband's people. I am my father's only heir, which
means I am probably not going to be wed off again. There
is nothing for me to be here in Fremainn but Father's heir,
nothing for me to do save copy out his manuscripts. And
get into quarrels with visiting princes I mistake for drunk-
ards."

"Ae, just when 1 think I have finally begun to understand
this realm, these people, I realize I know nothing! You are

THE SHATTERED OATH          257

yourself, a separate, sentient being. You are not enslaved
to anyone, are you? No? Then why in the name of all the
Powers can't you do as you will?"

Sorcha sighed. "Because I was born female."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"Please. You saw what happened in the law court when
I tried to defend my poor serving woman. If you hadn't
stepped in to help, me case would have been thrown away
and I would have been whispered over as me foolish woman
who thought herself the equal of—" Sorcha cut herself off
in midsemence. "I hate whiners. Life is as it is, at least in
this human land." Staring up at him, she added, "Don't you
see? That's exactly why I was so delighted to realize who
and what you were! My physical wond may have narrow
boundaries, but that doesn't mean my mind needs to be
restricted, too-'

Blinking fiercely, Sorcha turned sharply away. "I'm sorry.
I must sound like a child."

"No. Or rather, yes." That made her start. As the woman
looked back over her shoulder, Ardagh added, teasing gentiy,
"You remind me of little Fainche fascinated by a new toy."

To his delight, she chuckled. "Unlike Fainche," Sorcha
retorted with a defiant little grin, "I can promise you this,
Prince Ardagh: you are one toy I will not break!"

She scurried off before he could retort.

IN MOUPN1NG
CHAPCett 21

Father Seadna sat in blissful solitude in the keep's herb
garden, the mix of sweet and sharp scents pleasant in his
nostrils, the buzz of bees the only sound as he studied his
prayers.

"Father Seadna. A word with you if I might."

The monk started, prayerbook Hying from his hand. A
tall, graceful form retrieved it before it could touch the
ground, returning it to Father Seadna's hand in one smooth
movement. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you. But
might I have that word with you?"

"Ah. Prince Ardagh." I'm not the first who's been startled
by him. and I'd swear he doesn't do it on purpose; God has
given the man the silent grace of a cat! "Of course, my son.
Come, sit beside me."

For all that grace, the prince looked very weary, like a man,
Father Seadna thought, who's used up most of his strength
in some great endeavor and hasn't yet had a chance to replen-
ish it. "How are you enduring?" the monk asked gentry.

That earned him a startled glance. 'Well enough. Ah, you
mean regarding Breasal."

"Of course. I saw how greatly you were affected during
the funeral."

Was that a stifled fauefi? Oh, surely not. More likely some
spasm of remembereagrief. "Father Seadna," the prince
said gently, "I'm aware that your concern is kindly meant-

258

THE SHATTERED OATH          259

But be assured I'm not running mad with sorrow. I know
as surely as you know the sun will rise that Breasal mac
Donnchadh is far happier where he is now than ever he
was before."

Father Seadna shook his head in amazement. "Your faith
is a wonder to see. Prince Ardagh. I only wish . , ."

That it was your faith?"

"That, too, of course; I'll not lie about it. But what I meant
was that I wished others might see that there are those who,
outside the Church though they are, are yet not totally lost
souls,"

"Otters," the prince echoed with a dry little laugh. "We
both know exactly which 'other' you mean. No, you need
not give me that look of alarm. I'm not asking you to name
names."

He fell into that sudden intense stillness that seemed quite
a natural part of him but always put the monk in mind of
some peaceful predator. Possibly one waiting to see what
prey might approach. Father Seadna mused, and asked, "Of
what did you wish to speak. Prince Ardagh?"

"I was wondering about a matter. Idle speculation, some
might call it, perhaps, or simple curiosity"

The monk chuckled. "There is nothing simple about your
curiosity, my son, we both know that by now."

He was rewarded with a quick, charmingly rueful smile.
"I admit it."

"Och, well, better a lively curiosity than a mind closed
to wonder. What is it you would ask?"

The prince hesitated. Plucking a sprig of early mint, be
twirled it idly between his fingers for a moment, men tossed
it aside. "I know the Church frowns on such things as this
'sorcery' of which you've spoken. I have good reason to
know," he added sardonically.

"Prince Ardagh, no one here ever truly believed you a
sorcerer, least of all me. Surely you realize that."

°I know you never did, and thank you for it. As for the
others, ae, who can say? But am I nght in guessing that by
extension the Church ban on sorcery falls upon all things
magical as well?"

260 josepfw Sherman

Father Seadna frowned slightly. There was never any
telling what was truly going on behind that elegant face.
"My son, I must ask you this, knowing that you will not lie
to me: are you planning to dabble in forbidden arts?"

"Do I look a fool?"

-Hardly. Do I?"

"Ae, no- Of course not. And you do deserve a complete
answer- No, Father Seadna, I am not planning to dabble
in any sort of forbidden arts. Now, may I have an answer
to my question as well?"

"Yes, Prince Ardagh, generally speaking, the Church does
frown on the use of magic, save in the hands of those such
as the saints, who were inspired by the Will of God."

"I see."

That was definitely the glint of a predator in those green
eyes. "This is hardly an idle question," Father Seadna said
in warning. "My son, if you have anything you feel you should
share, please remember that whatever you tell me will be
kept in strictest confidence."

"No," Ae prince said, getting smoothly to his feet. "Thank
you, but I am not ready to burden you with anything."

With the usual intricate little salute that meant that as
far as Prince Ardagh was concerned, his side of the discussion
was ended, he left-
Now what. Father Seadna wondered, was that about?
Sorcery, magic . . he can't be planning to work some
revenue on Bishop Gervinusfor that charge of sorcery, can
he? Arrange matters so the bishop, not he, looks like the
guilty party!1

Oh, most surely not. For by now the monk knew that
Prince Ardagh, even as he'd stated, never lied. And to fos-
ter so terrible a charge, all to gain some petty revenge—
that would be the most flagrant form of falsehood.

Queen Derval looked sharply up from her needlework,
staring out the window other grianan at Ae messenger on
a lathered horse who was riding into the courtyard below.
Letting her needlework fall, hardly noting Ae maidservant
who scrambled to her knees to catch it before it could touch

THE SHATTERED OATH

261

Ae floor, Derval went down to see what news might have
arrived.

The horse, trembling wiA exhaustion and breathing so
hard it seemed about to fall. had just been led away. The
messenger, looking nearly as weary as his mount, was try-
ing to brush off his travel-stained cloAing when he caught
sight of Derval and went down on one knee. "Queen
Derval-"

"I see that you clutch a scroll. What news have you
brought?"

"It ... uh ... it is for Ae king's eyes, my queen."

"the king is out riding his lands. Come, give it to me."
When Ae messenger hesitated, she added, a touch more
sternly, "I am his authority in his absence. Would you chal-
lenge that auAority?"

Head bowed, Ae messenger handed over the scroll. A
sudden pang of alarm shot Arough Derval as she saw Aat
it was fastened wiA Ae royal seal. Breaking Ae seal wiA
not quite steady hands, Ae queen read Ae message twice
Arough to be sure, amazed at Ae genuine pain she felt.
But there was stronger Aan pain as well; Aere was triumph,
cold, bitter triumph.

Throwing back her head wiA Aeatrical grandeur, Derval,
Queen of Clonach, be^n to keen wiA gnef.

She was still keening, now within her chambers, voice
hoarser but still thick with anguish, when Donnchadh
returned. Practically hurling himself from his horse, he raced
to her side. "Derval! What is it? I could hear you from Ae
courtyard. What's happened?"

"My son! He's killed my son!"

"Fearghal." Donnchadh breaAed. "Dear God, has any-
Aing happened to—"

"Not Fearghal, husband, Breasal! Our firstborn son is
dead, dead, dead!"

Abashed at Ae surge of relief he felt, Donnchadh said
in as conciliatory a tone as he could manage, "Now, Derval,
you knew Ais day might come."

"Not like this! Never like this!"

262 Josepha Sherman

"Hush, now. The boy was sickly from the day he first drew
breath." Her constant shrilling was setting his nerves on
edge—particularly since he suspected that it was almost
totally an act. "Derval, please!"

She glared at him. "You dare speak, you who never suckled
a child at your breast!"

"Bah, neither did you. You were all too eager to give our
children over to a wetnurse. Derval, Derval! Breasat was
my son, too."

Derval's wailing stopped suddenly as though he'd slapped
her. Then avenge him."

Donnchadh stared. "Avenge him? Against whom?" He
straightened slowly. "Oh no. You can't believe that Aedh
killed him."

"No? Then why was our son so quickly, so shamefully
buried?"

"Sickness—"

"Poison! Husband, our son, our firstborn son, your heir,
was murdered!"

Ambition. Derval's regal ambition, just waiting for her
child to die so she could use him . . . Feeling Hire a wild
thing being forced into a snare, Donnchadh said, "No. Och,
no. Even if that was true, what would I possibly do about
it? I do not have enough men to take on the High King in
combat and survive."

"Not alone, no."

"Now what does that mean? Derval, what have you been
doing? What plots have you been working behind my back?"

"What have I been doing?" she snapped. "What you
should have been doing all along. Look' Here are prom-
ises from Odran mac Daire, from Cronan mac Deaglan, from
Muirgheas mac Art—"

"Derval—"

"—promises of aid," she continued, unheeding, "pledges
of warriors to back your cause. They will—"

"Derval!"

"What? What brave words are you about to say, husband?"

"I—you—how dare you?"

"How dare I what? How dare I take a step forward

THE SHATTERED OATH

263

when you stood rooted in place? How dare I try to act
when you want to huddle in fear? How dare 1 wish to
avenge my son?"

"You don't understand," Donnchadh countered. "You're
a woman, you can't understand—this isn'tfidchel, Derval, this
isn't some game from which you can walk away with no harm
taken!" Seeing the fury blazing up in her eyes, Donnchadh
hurried on before she could attack, "One can't risk moving
too quickly, making one wrong decision. Every move has to
be considered before any action is taken...."

c^very move has to be considered before any action is
taken...."

Fearghal mac Donnchadh, now only son and heir to
the throne of Clonach, stood with his ear pressed up against
the door, listening with all his might, and nearly spat in
disgust at what he heard. How could his father, his own
father, be so weak? " 'Every move has to be considered,'
" the boy mimicked in a savage whisper. "And so, no action
is taken'"

No action by Donnchadh, maybe. But damned if he was
going to sit around and—and mope! The crown of Clonach
was all well and good, but Clonach was such a tiny, boring
little place. Maybe Father wants to grow old and die here
and never even try for anything more, but I was meant for
better things, I know it!

With any luck at all and the courage his father seemed
to lack, who knew how far he could rise? Fearghal's hand
closed about the hilt of an imaginary sword, lunging at an
imaginary foe, seeing that foe fall. Ha, yes, who knew? He
could rise all the way to the throne of all Eriu!

Yes, right, but how was he to do it? Donnchadh clearly
wasn't going to be of any help. But what if he, himself, took
a hand? Got into Fremainn somehow , . .

And then what?

Fearghal glossed over that little inconvenience. He'd
figure out a plan once he was inside the royal fortress. And
getting inside, he realized with a grin, he could do. He really
could do it—and it would be so easy! The messenger would

264 Josepha Sherman

be returning to his royal master soon enough, and with
sufficient coins he would surely agree to take an eager young
serving boy with him to see the fine sights. Yes, oh yes, it
would work! Where Donnchadh had failed, Fearghal mac
Donnchadh would succeed!

Gervinus walked alone amid the buildings of Fremainn,
seemingly lost in prayer but actually deep in secular thought.
He had ingratiated himself with King Aedh as thoroughly
as seemed plausible; he was not, the bishop told himself,
going to act the fawning fool. But ingratiation could only
gp so far, particularly since he'd had to overcome that sly
interference from Prince Ardagh.




No. He would not think about the prince now. That,
Gervinus told himself with cold honesty, had been his mistake
from the first. He had surely been on the right trail with
that pseudo-assassin, that much was clear after the fact But
he never should have let personal prejudice, persona! dis-
like for Prince Ardagh, stand in his way. He should never
have let the lure of sorcery, no matter how tempting, affect
his judgement. Difficult, dangerous though the prince might
be, his obliteration was not the main goal.

And yet, Gervinus mused, there really was something
useful about the idea of a pseudo-assassin... one who was
not really expected to succeed yet could produce a credible
attack. An attack that would look quite thoroughly convincing,
not like the weak attempt made by the late Breasal.

It would be risky. Controlling Breasal's mind had been
fairly easy; although that mind had been quick and supple,
the boy had lacked the strength of body to resist. But any
new "assassin" would have to be normal both in mind and
body if he or she was to be believable.

Ah yes, believable. Gervinus pursed his lips thoughtfully.
He would have only the one chance at this, and the plan
certainly wasn't going to work if he picked the wrong tool.
A good many people in Fremainn probably held grudges
against the king. But whichever one he finally chose must
have a good and convincing reason to take such a final,
perilous step as regicide.

THE SHATTERED OATH

265

a»

t

:    '•/

And who could that possibly be? Who at court could be har-
boring such intense hatred he'd be believable as an assassin?

A bizarre problem, Gervinus mused. But one that defi-
nitely needed to be solved.

Donnchadh hurried to where Derva! was waiting, her face
impassive but her hands fiercely clenched. She wasn't doing
all that much better than he, the king thought, in hiding
^her panic- Panic that his news wasn't going to soothe. "They
haven't seen him, either. None of my servants or guards
or anyone has seen Fearghal."

"That's impossible. He's not a—a spy, able to fade into
his surroundings, he's a boy, only a boy. Someone has to
have seen where he's gone."

Donnchadh held up a helpless hand. "His horse is still
in the stables, but that doesn't mean he couldn't have taken
some other mount. So many people are always coming and
going—it's impossible to tell. Damn the boy for a fool, for
all I know the Lochlannach have him!"

"No. We'd both know it were those heathen on our
shores. But a horse, now . . ." Derval mused. "A horse
and hounds . . ."

"What—"

"Ah, husband, wait, I think I have it. Didn't you give
Fearghal a new hunting hound not a day ago? And wasn't
he eager to test out the beast?"

"Hunting." Donnchadh spat out the word. "Of course.
Fearghal has gone hunting. By himself—I'll have the hide
from him for that stupidity!"

"By himself," Derval echoed softly. "Would he be quite
that foolish?"

"Bah, of course. Boys are impulsive, you must know that
by now." He stopped at her sharply indrawn breath. "What
is it?"

"Impulsive, yes. Just how impulsive?"

"Derval, please, no word games. What are you—°

Face pale, Derval asked, "What if he was impulsive
enough to try what you haven't dared do? What if Fearghal
was impulsive enough to go all the way to Fremainn?"

266 Josepha Shemwn

"By himself? But that's ridiculous! He would never . . .
dear God. He would."

The little idiot!" Derval hissed. "He could upset every-
thing!" She caught at Donnchadh's arm. "We've got to get
him hack. You have to send men—"

"No, no, there isn't any need for that," Donnchadh cut
in. "Send a spy instead. Don't give me that wonderstruck
glance; I know you have them. Send one of your spies to
make sure that's where Fearghal really has gone. And don't
look so terrified, either. We both know Aedh is soft where
youngsters are concerned. Look at the good care he took
of Breasal. Saints rest the boy," Donnchadh added in belated
piousness.

The good care! He killed our son! We can't let him take
another!"

"Derval, hush. Hush! What good is it to go rushing off
and attack a king who's better armed, better fortified—and
trap our son in his fortress in the process? No. Send your
spies out first."

He caught the oddest glint in her eyes. Almost, Donn-
chadh thought uncomfortably, as though that was exactly
what she'd wanted him to say. Almost as though all this was
merely part of some strange, ambitious game she was playing.

"He could upset everything." Now, what does that mean?

Well, whatever game it might be, Donnchadh added to
himself, it was one he meant to win.

I will not stare, Fearghal mac Donnchadh scolded him-
self as he trudged into Fremainn behind the messenger. /
wiV. not.

He hadn't expected the messenger to take him so liter-
ally But die man had insisted that Feargbal dismount some
distance away from the royal keep and come into the for-
tress on foot like the nobody he was pretending to be.

Rig/ir, Fearghal thought. You just wanted the chance to
sell my horse.

He had been grumbling about it for some time, mutter-
ing to himself that he'd never had to walk a day in his life,
that a proper prince rode everywhere. But Fearghal had

THE SHATTERED OATH

267

to admit that by now he was dusty and weary and bedraggled
enough to really look the shabby part.

And if he was a nobody, the boy told himself defiantly,
there wasn't any good reason he couldn't gawk. Besides,
there was so much worth gawking at! Fremainn was just
so big. so crowded with people and buildings Fearghal had
always thought of Clonach as a grand place, but now he
realized with a shock that was his world rearranging itself
that Clonach had been nothing more than a shabby little
nowhere.

How could Father ever have been content to rule over
nothing more than that?

Well, he wasn't content, not now, not after seeing all this.
Maybe the sheer size and bustle of Fremainn was a little
alarming, but it was also exciting enough to make his heart
pound wildly. And this was all, Fearghal vowed as he trudged
along in Ae messenger's wake, this was all going to some-
day be his!

Ardagh sat in the royal conversation house with King
Aedh, Fothad and Father Seadna, and struggled to look
properly alert and aware of what the others were dis-
cussing.

It wasn't easy. The warm, close air wasn't helping him
at all. This is ridiculous. I feel even more—more languid
than I did before 1 took Power from the forest.

Focus. He must focus on what Aedh was saying.

"... but so far there hasn't been so much as a word out
of Clonach."

Clonach? Ah, yes. The home of Breasal's cold-blooded
parents. The prince roused himself enough to note, "It seems
a bit odd."

"Now there's an understatement!" Father Seadna snapped,
then half-raised a hand in apology, "It was their son who
died, may he rest in peace. No matter how King Donnchadh
and his queen ignored the poor boy during his life, they
can hardly be ignoring his death as well."

Fothad shrugged. "Who can say?"

Tlie king shook his head ruefully. "Who, indeed, with that

268 Josepha Sherman

pair? Lucky we are that Donnchadh is such an indecisive
fellow—the last thing I want is rebellion on the part of
Clonach."

"A bad time for rebellion," Ardagh remarked. "Is Clonach
not a seacoast kingdom? Yes? Then it must be difficult
enough to raise crops on rocky, salt-washed land without
taking away farming folk from spring planting to be sol-
diers."

"Och, yes," Fothad agreed. "Besides, Donnchadh certainty
can't rebel, not with his land lying under threat from the
Lochlannach."

Aedh laughed shortly. "Never thought to be grateful to
those Godless heathens for anything—your pardon. Prince
Ardagh. But while we're discussing Clonach, let us not forget
Queen Derval! That cold-blooded creature is as ruthless
and ambitious as anyone, and twice the thinker of her
husband. Who knows what acts she may be able to pres-
sure Donnchadh to commit?"

"I doubt she can make him overcome his wony about
the Lochlannach or—" Fothad broke off, frowning. "Prince
Ardagh, what's wrong? Are you ill?"

It would have been pleasant just to let himself drift
off into a doze, but Ardagh forced himself back to aware-
ness yet again. "Not at all. I'm quite well." Only feeline
the lack of Power, not that I can admit such a thine to
you. "But I will take some fresh air, if you will excuse
me."

Aedh nodded, and Ardagh thankfully stepped outside.
The air out here was still damp and chilly, but at least it
was refreshing enough to keep him awake. More or less.
Sinking to a low wall, the prince leaned back against the
side of the conversation house and closed his eyes.

"Prince Ardagh?"

He opened them again with a start. "Ah, Lady Sorcha."

"Never mind-the formalities. We've spoken together often
enough by now to forgo them. Are you ill?"

Ardagh sighed. "No. I am not ill, merely weary." Remem-
bering how much she knew by now of who and what he
was, he added honestly, "Weary from the lack of Power in

THE SHATTERED OATH          269

this Realm. Ae, don't look so worried! I'm not about to die
for lack of magic. At least," the prince continued with dark
Sidhe humor, "I don't think I am."

That's not very funny."

The nre in her eyes sparked an unexpected little twinge
of guilt within him. "Granted," Ardagh muttered.

Sorcha sat down beside him, still staring. "You never would
< admit this to me, but that's why you couapsed early in the
winter, isn't it?"

"Eh?"

"The time when no one could wake you—that had some-
thing to do with the lack of—of magic, didn't it?"

"Something. I had tried to open a Doorway that night.
And failed."

"A Doorway?" Sorcha echoed, then froze. "A Doorway
home, you mean. Och, Ardagh . . . I'm so sorry."

"So," he said, "am I."

"B-but isn't there anything you can do? Our Realm can't
be totally without magic!"

Ardagh turned to say something, but instantly forgot
whatever it had been. Ah, the warmth in her eyes, me
concern ... lovely eyes, even if they lacked the Sidhe slant
... why hadn't he ever stopped to truly notice that before?
And they were set in such an intriguing face. . . .

A human face, the prince reminded himself sharply. A
mortal face. One that would age when his would not. And,
ae. the unexpected pain of that thought! Trying for cold Sidhe
objectivity, Ardagh told himself he'd clearly been away from
his own kind for far too long if he was beginning to even
consider—

"Ardagh?"

"No," the prince said sharply, "your Realm is not with-
out some magic. What I need to do is spend some time
out in the forest; there's a good deal of Power to be gained
from that wild life-force."

"Then why aren't you—"

"Doing what? Camping out in the wilderness? The pro-
cess isn't exactly a holiday: I need to spend a fair amount
of that time in contact with the earth itself. And I can hardly

270 Josepha Sherman

do anything like that till the weather stabilizes." At Sorcha's
startled glance, he added, "What?"

"Och, I dont know. Worrying about the weather just seems
so mundane!"

Ardagh snorted. "Mundane subject or not, I am not
invulnerable to cold and damp."

Then the weather doesn't get like this in—in your land?"

The prince glanced at her in sudden amusement. "We
never have discussed that, have we? And what, pray tell,
do you think the weather is like in the Sidhe Realms?"

"Why, ah, I don't know. Soft as springtime, the stories
all say, but without the dampness. Never the cold or sleet,
either or, for that matter, the heat of summer. Och, and the
stories say that in the Sidhe lands it is always twilight."

Ardagh laughed. "Hardly that. Hardly any of that! It's true
that we have no sun—you have no idea how astonished my
first sight of this one was!—but our very air holds its own
dear light. Our days are bright enough! And yes, we do have
both day and night, just as does the mortal Realm, but our
night ... ah, our night ... so very different . . ."

For a moment, remembering with painful intensity, he
quite forgot he sat in very mortal Eriu, staring blankly into
space. For a moment he saw only the Sidhe night, dimly
hearing himself murmur, "It has a sly full of stars, brighter,
more wondrously colorful than any you know here; it has
a moon glowing by its own clear light, a dear, bright, sil-
ver moon without a stain."

Sorcha made a wordless little sound that could have meant
either longing or human pity. Startled from memory, Ardagh
turned to her, seeing her face so gentle, her lips slightly
parted and . . - and what if he repeated that kiss now that
his mind was clear of drink? Tentatively, wondering, Ardagh
leaned forward.

But Sorcha quickly turned away. "And seasons?" she asked,
a little too earnestly. "What of those?"

Who cares about the cursed seasons?

But she was human, he snapped at himself once more,
she was mortal, there could never be anything between folk
of two such different worlds. "We have our seasons, too,"

THE SHATTERED OATH          271

he said with forced calm. "And don't look so surprised! How
else, even in our magical Realm, would farmers be able to
grow food? We do need to eat and drink, truly we do! And
we have rain as well, though nothing hke this steady, chilly
drizzle, and snow, pure as silver, we have fruit and flower
sometimes on the same tree—yes, I've heard that song, too—
and oh, it is all more beautiful than any of my words can
^possibly tell."

"I wish I could see it," Sorcha murmured. "More to the
point," she added more sharply, "I wish you could see it."

Ardagh sagged back against the wall. "So do I, lady. So
do I."

"You are ill!"

"No. Just weary, as I told you. Very weary." No matter
the weather, he realized he dared wait no longer to return
to the forest. "I will ask this favor of you if I may."

"I won't know what to answer," she retorted with some-
thing of her normal fire, "till you tell me what you want."

"I ... there is one in Fremainn I do not wish to know
what I am doing, where I am going. I can't tell you any
more than that, and I will not name that one. But... I am
going into the forest tomorrow. If I am not back by the
following morning, I would greatly appreciate your send-
ing someone into the forest in search of me."

Her eyes widened. But she could not have missed the
urgency behind the words. And all Sorcha said was a quiet,
"It shall be done."

cue SCORM

CHAPCett 22

King Aedh glared at his Chief Minister. "Go ahead. I
brought us into the conversation house so we could have
privacy. Speak."

Fothad glanced down at the parchments in his hand- "Hie
news isn't as bad as all that."

"But it's not very good, either, I take it. What is it, yet
another of those cursed Lochlannacb raids?"

"No. And the restoration work is well begun at Saint
Beinian."

"Just as it is at Hi-Coluim-Cille and all the other sites
those brigands have attacked. That doesn't give me any more
help in stopping them. Fothad, I frankly don't know what
to do next'You know as well as I that I simply don't have
the men to ring round all of Eriu; no king could. And even
if I kept a troop on constant readiness, I couldn't possibly
get them there in time to stop one of those lightning-quick
raids."

"No one's blaming you."

"I'm blaming me! This is my land, my people, and I can't
do anything to help them! And maybe nobody is out-and-
out blaming me," Aedh continued dourly, "but these raids
certainly aren't helping my prestige. More, they're giving
a lovely excuse to certain rulers to consider rebellion."

"Certain rulers including Finsneachta of Leinster."

"Oh yes, Leinster. That is what you wanted to discuss, I

272

THE SHATTERED OATH

273

take it? Yes? I'm going to have to march against Finsneachta
sooner or later—ha, no, sooner rather than later—before
that sony excuse for a king can muster enough support
against me. Now that spring is here," Aedh added thought-
fully, "and the roads are passable—"

"Now? Are you sure the time is right?"

"Is the time ever right? Lochlannach on one front,
Leinster on the other—what would you have me do. Fothad?
If I strike against one of the hounds, the other bites. But
if I don't strike against either, they both bite." He grinned
without humor. "At least I know where to find Finsneachta!
Those Lochlannach—you're a poet, Fothad. Go into a poetic
trance like the bards of old and see if you can't conjure me
up a vision of when and where those sea thieves will strike
next."

"You ... are joking, aren't you?"

°0ch, man, what do you think? If anyone was going to
summon up visions, I'd expect it to be our uncanny Prince
Ardagh, with those uncanny eyes and those mystic trips off
into the forest."

Fothad's eyes widened. "He's gone again?"

"Going, at any rate." Aedh shrugged. "Who can say what
that one's about? I had someone foUow him once, find out
what he's doing out there. Not that I think our guest is up
to anything dangerous, you understand," he continued with
a grin. "I admit to merely being curious. But he lost my
man quickly enough."

"Not surprising, the way he moves."

Aedh shook his head- "A prince of Cathay who practices
mysterious rites. A bishop from Rome watching everything
we do. Leinster on one hand and Lochlannach on the other.
Life certainly can be interesting, can't it?"

"Most," Fothad agreed dryly.

"Where are you going?"

Ardagh turned, barely biting back a sigh. At any other
time he would have enjoyed talking with little Princess
Fainche—but not now, not when he had finally coaxed
permission to ride down into the forest from King Aedh

274 Josepha Shenrum

and was eager to be gone Of course, the prince added
honesdy to himself, this time it hadn't been too difficult a
struggle; Aedh had put up nothing more than a token pro-
test over his guest's departure.

Hardly surprising: the king has too many other issues on
his mind to worry about me.

Besides, Ardagh acknowledged with a faint smile, by this
time Aedh wasn't about to be surprised by any new eccen-
tricities on the part of his guest,

"Where are you going?" Fainche insisted.

"Hush, child. It's not polite to shout."

"But where—"

"Into the forest, little one- To ... think." Among other
things.

"You can think here."

"No, I can't. Not deeply. There are too many distract-
ing people in Fremainn- Too many people asking me what
I'm doing or where," he tapped her lightly on the nose with
a forefinger, "I'm going."

"I don't want you to go."

"Whyever not?"

She only shrugged, kicking at a pebble.

"Ae, Fainche," Ardagh saidhelplessly, not at all sure how
one calmed such a young child's fears. "I'll come back, I
promise." Barring the unforeseen. "Is that what frightens
you, that I'll just—run away? The way a certain princess
was going to do when her brother teased her?"

That roused a reluctant little giggle. Ardagh smiled. "I
will come back," he repeated. "But now, my dear young lady,
if I am ever to return, I really must leave."

Odran mac Daire, courtier and noble, Odran of the Ui
Neil sept—Odran, he thought with a touch of dour humor,
the secret ally of Derval, Queen of Clonach—stood watching
Prince Ardagh and little Princess Fainche talking together.
A charming picture, the two of them, the tall, exotic prince
and the tiny, pretty child. Like a bright-feathered bird, that
little one, always flitting about. A good target for a plot—

No. She was a girt, just that, which gave her limited value

THE SHATTERED OATH          275

on Ae political scene no matter how much her father seemed
to prize her. How much more effective a bargaining counter
would be the little one's brother, royal heir Prince Niall
himself! Oh yes, Odran thought If only there was a way
to steal that one . . .

Ha. Far better to puzzle out a way to steal himself out
of here! His hands were tightening into fists, and with an
effort, Odran forced them to relax. "Courtier." A polite word
for "hostage." He was held here as surely as one of the
underkings' children. Yes, and how wonderfully satisfying
it would be to hold a royal hostage of his own!

As soon dream of holding the moon. But thoughts of
young Prince Niall were bringing to mind another royal heir
Fearghal mac Donnchadh, Derval's son. Or rather, Odran
corrected silently, Derval's lost son. All messages that came
to him here were watched, Chief Minister Fothad had made
that quite clear, but even so there were still ways informa-
tion could be conveyed; a quick word, a swift gesture, a scrap
of parchment with secret, seemingly innocuous markings
on it. Derval's spy had been here this very day, telling Odran
of her son's disappearance, and probable destination.

As if I remember what the brat looked like. I only saw
him the once, and that, several years ago As if I care what
happens to a boy who can only be an obstacle to me.

Still, there was this: if he could pick out Fearghal from
all the others who swarmed through the fortress, what a
nice tool the boy could prove. Almost as useful a hostage
as Prince Niall mac Aedh himself.

Interesting idea. Odran mused, and smiled slightly. Most
interesting.

Fearghal, normally heir to the kingdom of Clonach but
right now a ragged nobody, crouched in shadow, staring in
amazement at the tall, elegant man with the long black hair
and the slanted green eyes. He had never seen anyone hke
that! How many more strangenesses could this fortress
contain? How could he ever manage to survive here? And
why oh why had he ever been stupid enough to think he
could do anything to win a throne all by himself?

276 Josephs Sherman

No, no, wait. Maybe he could still get close to King Aedh,
close enough to—

To what? Assassinate the king? Where was the honor in
that? Besides, Fearghal thought, glancing down at himself
with a flash of honesty, who was ever going to permit such
a ragged, filthy creature anywhere near a king?

"You, boy!" a haughty voice snapped, and Fearghal
jumped. "Stop skulking about like an idiot! There's work
to be done."

Wonderful, just wonderrul. His servant's disguise was so
good that now he was going to have to act like a servant!

I'U get out of this. Somehow. And do what? Return to
Clonach? Return in disgrace? No! I wiS not slink home Uke
a—a guilty little boy! Fearghal vowed. I won't go back at
aQ tull can return as a hero!

Though how he was going to accomplish that, he hadn't
the vaguest idea. For now there wasn't anything else to do
but pretend to be as much a nobody as he looked. Grit-
ting his teeth, Fearghal mac Donnchadh, heir to the throne
of Clonach, dutifully followed the other servants and hoisted
a bundle that felt heavy enough to contain rocks onto his
back. Sharp-edged rocks, he amended, staggering along
under the weight. Sharp as his frustration. Or, though he
hated to admit it, his fear.

Amulf frowned. He had been following die boy for some
time, puzzled. There was nothing to separate this servant
from all the others in the line of burden-bearers, and yet
. . . what little magic Gervinus had granted him was tick-
ling his mind, telling him, Look. Study. Leam.

Learn what? ArnuIPs frown deepened with frustration.
Maybe Gervinus would know at a glance why this servant
boy should be worthy of study, but he hadn't deigned to
share that much of his abilities with his acolyte.

Ha, but what was this? No magic needed to see (hat the
servant was ever so subtly slowing down, dropping back place
after place till he was last in line. Amulf grinned as he saw
the boy glance warily about, then throw down his burden
and scuttle off.

THE SHATTERED OATH          277

Now where can you be going? Let's see. shall we?

He followed, staying just far enough back to keep the
boy from seeing him. At last his quarry stopped, hiding
against a wall, back to Amulf. The acolyte came up behind
him and murmured, "Rough life, isn't it?"

Instead of the gasp of fright, the surge of guilt he'd
expected, what Amulf got was a startled but clearly aristo-
cratic glare and a fumbling for a weapon—a sword?—that
wasn't there. A sword? the acolyte wondered. Just who is he?

No servant, that was for sure. In the next moment, the
boy had managed a credibly coarse, "Yeah. Rough." But it
was so blatantly an act that Amulf, testing, said, "Everyone's
always after you, 'Do this, do that!' "

They are!" It was said with heartfelt enthusiasm—and
without noticing that he'd let the rough accent slip. "You,
too?"

"Me, too." Pretending gruff friendliness, Amulf shook die
other's hand before the boy could pull away. Soft! Soft as
the hand of a noble! "I've only got the one master order-
ing me around," the acolyte continued warily. Then, real-
izing with a sudden shock that the boy had no idea who
he meant, Amulf added, "One master, but he's worse than
a dozen of them. I go here, there, do this, that, whatever
he wants, with never a word of thanks from him."

That's right. They never do thank you, do they? Not the
way it was when I—when I was in me other place."

Aha- "And that was . . . ?"

The boy shrugged, eyes gone wary. "Doesn't matter. I'm
here now."

"Right. Here. Where they work you like a slave. They
do, you know. Work you till you drop. And don't even try
to think of escaping," Amutf added, watching the boy closely.
"They'll hunt you down for that, yes, and maybe brand you."

They wouldn't dare!"

"Why not? You're nothing but a servant, right? They can
do whatever they want: brand you, flog you, maybe even
kill you—"

That's barbaric!" the boy snapped- "In Clonach my father
would never allow—"

278 josepha Sherman

He clamped his mouth shut. Amulf, pretending he hadn't
heard a thing, told him, "Well, do your work and you won't
get hurt. Good talking to you, but I have my own job to
do."

With a wave of his hand, the acolyte left, his thoughts
racing. Clonach? "My father would never allow"? This boy
was no common soul, not at all! And his hands were far
too soft to ever be mistaken for those of a servant.

"My father," eh? Amulf wondered. Could it be? Oh no,
that was too improbable!

And yet, Gervinus had proved to him over and over again
that the strangest things, die most improbable things, could
prove possible. Could the father of this soft-handed, well-
spoken boy actually be none other than the King of Clo-
nach?

A prince hiding out as a servant. Arnulf shook his head
in disgust. Sounds like something out of an old tale, a tale
that's been told almost to death. If it hadn't been for the
evidence of that voice, those hands, yes, and those not-quite-
covered-up sups of the tongue—the evidence was mere,
the acolyte realized with reluctant acceptance. The boy really
was a runaway prince.

I'd better go teU Ceroinus. Never can teS what he'Ufind
useful.

But then Amulf slowed to a stop, considering. He really
should tell Gervinus—

No. With a little thrill of alarm, Amulf realized that he
wasn't going to do it. Frightening, this sudden decision to
keep information from the Master, and totally illogical. And
yet, here it was. He was not going to tell Gervinus about
the boy. This once he was going to have a secret Gervinus
did not know. This once, petty though it might be, he was
going to hold on to at least a shred of power!

As Ardagh rode down from the fortress of Fremainn, he
fought the urge to glance back over his shoulder. Gervinus
was watching, he was as sure of it as if the bishop had called
his name-
Loot aU you wiH. You cannot stop me.

THE SHATTERED OATH          279

That wasn't the real issue. It was what might happen once
he'd entered trance.

You aren't that Powerful, Cervinus. At least I hope you
are not.

Ah well, he'd taken what small precautions this Realm
permitted. Before he had left, Ardagh had taken Cadwal
aside and murmured, as he had to Sorcha, "If I am not back
by morning, kindly send someone into the forest in search
of me."

A puzzled Cadwal had nodded warily. Faint security,
Ardagh knew, but better than none. And it was hardly likely
the bishop or any of his retinue would follow.

It's not human followers that concern me. the prince
thought with dark humor, not that I can do anything about
it now, and rode on into the forest.

Ah, and what a lovely change! Though the trees and
bushes were still mostly bare, each twig was tipped with a
bud waiting to burst into new green leaves, and me wakening
hfe-force of the woodland was so strong it neariy staggered
him as he dismounted. Tying his horse, Ardagh wandered
on into the rapidly darkening twilight, smiling, the dim light
no barrier to his Sidhe vision, glorying in his soBtude.

And then, with a suddenness that saw him springing back
with a gasp, the air shimmered with the opening of a Door-
way. Fincarra? Can it be— "Breasal!" Ardagh cried.

The boy stood framed by the magical shimmering, clad
in a Sidhe tunic of grass-green spidersilk, his hair held back
by a thin copper band. And oh, what a wonderful change
in him! No longer wan or sickly, he stood straight as a slender
young tree, his skin pale from the sunless Sidhe sky but
radiant with health. "Prince Ardagh, I—"

"No! Don't step out of the Doorway! Setting foot on
mortal soil will undo all that's been done for you."*

Breasal froze as though turned to stone. But then, being
still the boy he was, he had to explode into words: "Och,
but I have to thank you! You saved my life—you brought
me here, to this wonderful place, and—and I can do any-
thing I want now without pain or worrying that I'm going
to—to— And the king's so land to me, everyone's so kind,

280 josepha Sherman

he's given me a place at his court. I'm one of his squires
now, King Finvarra's, and he's given me tutors in so many
exciting things, even magic!"

By now he had to stop for breath. Before he could start
up again, Ardagh, smiling, told him, "I'm glad for you, boy,
truly glad."

A shadow passed over the boy's happy face. "But it's not
right," he said plaintively. "I mean, I'm in the Sidhe Realm
but you're not."

"Believe me, Breasal, if I could do anything to alter that
fact, I would. Ae, don't wony, boy. I'm delighted to see you
healthy and happy. I'll find a way home someday. And men
you and I can visit together like the royal folk we are- The
Doorways not going to stay open much longsr. Give Finvarra
my regards if you would."

The Doorway was, indeed, closing. With a final wave of
his hand, Breasal vanished, leaving the forest lonelier for
his going. With a grimace, Ardagh settled back into his search
for the site in which he could regain what little Power was
in this mortal place.

Ah, but now he had once more gone beyond the touch
of humanity. Here, Ardagh thought, and cast himself to the
ground. Ignoring the chill, the prince cast open his mind,
his senses, his very essence, and drank in me wondrous,
wondrous Power of the forest's life.

It was, Gervinus thought with a cold little inner smile,
turning out to be quite a useful day. First that fool of a
woman had come to him, begging him to bless her sickly
baby. Yes, she'd been nothing but a commoner, but the fact
remained that she had come to him, not Father Seadna or
any other local prelate- Even if relations with King Aedh
or Chief Minister Fothad remained as cool as ever, this
blessing was the first indication of acceptance by the folk.
And when the commons insisted, wise royalty acquiesced.

Ah, and if that had not been fine enough, there went
Prince Ardagh, riding out of the safety of Fremainn with-
out the slightest bit of caution—riding out into the wil-
derness.

THE SHATTERED OATH          281

Gervinus shook his head in disbelief. Who knew what
pagan rites the prince planned to perform? Who, to be quite
honest, cared? With any luck at all, bandits or beasts or
simple bad weather would get the man and that would be
that!

And yet ... and yet ... why risk his return? a voice
deep in his mind whispered. Why not be sure it never hap-
pens? You'fl never have a better chance.

Through sorcery? No! That would be too perilous.

There will never be a better chance to be rid of Prince
Ardagh, his mind insisted. Assassins and the Uhe are so risky.
the chance of failure so higfi. But sorcery . . . ah. sorcery
wSl leave no awkward traces. "No," Gervinus snapped. But
his mind continued, unbidden, Sorcery tvill rid you of the
prince and yet leave you looking utterly, utterly innocent.

He had returned to his bedchamber without realizing it.
Gervinus drew out his grimoire from his robes with hands
that were not quite steady, and stood for a long, silent while,
staring down at the book almost in terror.

Nonsense! He was master of the sorcery, not it, him! And
it did make sense to use that sorcery in one quick, untrace-
able attack.

He would do mis, Gervinus decided. All he need hope
was that the prince not return too soon. Or rather, he cor-
rected himself wryly, all he need hope was that me prince
never return.

Flinging open the door, the bishop told his servants coldly,
"I wish to be left undisturbed. Undisturbed, is that clear?"

He watched them bow in submission, men turned back
into me chamber. Let the idiots think he wished to spend
some time alone in prayer!

Even so, Gervinus warily barred the door to his bed-
chamber behind him. "Trust no one, fear no one." He filled
a basin with water, then stood for a moment in silence,
gradually clearing his mind of extraneous thought and firming
his resolve-
Yes. Now.

He cast open his grimoire with a little gasp of joy and
began to read aloud, even as he had mat day aboard the

282 Josepha Shennan

ship to Eriu, adding to his summons the restriction that the
demon arrive quietly, quietly. The last thing he wanted was
for Arridu to alarm everyone in Fremainn1

And Arridu, much to the bishop's relief, obeyed, appearing
as a shimmering Something, hanging like a veil of dark water
in the air. But this time Gervinus felt an eerie amusement
radiating from the demon. And he suspected uneasily that
this polite compliance was being performed merely because
it amused Arridu to comply.

For the moment.

"What would you. human?" The chill voice sounded
equally amused.

Refusing to let himself be cowed, Gervinus forced him-
self to reply as calmly as if he was merely discussing the
weather (oh, apt choice of words, that, the bishop thought,
considering Arridu's power), "A small task. One that may
even entertain you."

"Ah, I see. You have tired of living, and wish me to assist
you out of life."

Demonic humor. "Hear me out," Gervinus commanded.
"And, by the ring I wear, the ring that bears your name,
do notinterrupt me again." He waited a tense second, then,
when Arridu said nothing, continued, "In the nearby for-
est there is a man—tall, fair of skin, his hair long and black,
his eyes slanted green."

"And what would you have me do with such a one?"

Gervinus smiled. "Why, kill him. That is all I ask. Kill
him in whatever way most pleases you, then depart this
Realm in peace, taking no other life. Is that agreed?"

"One life? Only one? It barely seems worth the effort. But
... agreed," hissed the demonic voice. And this time me sense
of amusement was very strong, indeed. With a rush of chill
air, Arridu was gone, leaving Gervinus breathless and shaken.

The bishop roused himself with an effort. The grimoire
still lay open as though begging him to read it. Gervinus
picked it up, but by chance found he was looking at a page
dealing with ensorcelled daggers. Interesting, but he was
hardly going to go hunting for black cats to sacrifice or dig
up various organs from human corpses-

THE SHATTERED OATH            283

He straightened in sudden inspiration. The blade itself
didn't need to be ensorceUed. Poisoned weapons were
common enough in Rome—but what if the salve smeared
on the knife wasn't a poison, not exactly?

Fufl of suddenly renewed energy, Gervinus sank to a chair,
leafing eagerly through the grimoire for the section deal-
ing with potions- Yes... ah, yes... he had wolfsbane already,
and the other ingredients should be easy enough to find.
No one would think to question his raiding of Fremainn's
herb gardens. He would gather the ingredients now, mix
the potion, say the binding spells over it while sorcery still
raced through his mind; sweet, so sweet.

Ah yes, yes, this was a most useful day, indeed!

Ardagb awoke with a shock, mind torn between the
wondrous surge of Power returned and the sudden sharp
awareness that he was in peril. He struggled to his feet, dizzy
from the abrupt return to reality, wondering what—

Something attacked. Ardagh staggered back, nearly trip-
ping over a protruding root, frantically trying to ward off
whatever it was and gather his dazed senses at the same
time. The Something lunged, a great dark mass swirling
through a hundred shapes at once. No time for defense:

the prince threw himself aside, feeling branches lash at him
and thorns catch at his clothes. He landed with Sidhe light-
ness, rolling, scrambling up again, never taking his gaze from
the Other, realizing in that moment demon and desperately
hunting through his mind for a combat spell. Nothing! There
was nothing mat would work in this Realm that was strong
enough!

"Ae!" The demon's sudden swipe with suddenly grown
talons just barely missed slashing him open. The talons ashed
out again, and Ardagh abandoned bravado and ran, twist-
ing, wriggling, struggling his way through the tangled for-
est. He burst out into a clearing, gasping—only to find the
demon facing him as if it had been mere all along, radiat-
ing such sadistic joy it sickened him. No combat magic, no
sword . . .

What can 1 do? Ardagh thought wildly. Throw rocks at it?

284 Josephs Sherman

Despairing, he drew his dagger. As the demon came
plunging down over him, he lunged up at it with all his might,
feeling the blade cut into something that felt nothing like
flesh.

And the demon screamed. To Ardagh's astonishment, it
screamed as though he'd mortally wounded it.

Faerie metal! he thought wildly. The magic innate in
Faerie metal must be alien to a demon!

Very probably. For before Ardagh could take a new breath,
the demon swirled up like some great storm cloud impos-
sibly soaring back up into me sky, and in the next instant
was gone. The prince stood gasping and shaken in its wake,
hardly believing what had just happened, hardly believing
the danger was over.

Was it? A tickling on one forearm made him glance down.
For a moment Ardagh stared blankly at the slight trickle
of blood, thinking that a twig or thom must have—

No- No pain at all, a slash neat as one from a physician's
blade, the edges of t^e small slash white and lifeless -. i it
could only mean one thing: a demon-wound. The—quite
literally—damned creature must have caught his arm with
a talon before it had fled. That was the way of such seem-
ingly trivial wounds: the lack of pain lulled the victim into
not noticing the injury until it was too late, until demon
essence had seeped into every vein from even that slight
cut with deadly venom.

Powers . . .

There was a cure, Ardagh's memory insisted. He dared
not wait, dared not wonder if the cure would work in this
Power-weak Realm, or if he could find the correct herb.
Instead, Ardagh hunted fiercely till he'd found—ah, thank
you, Powers, yesi—a stalk of homey garlic. Close enough
to what he'd have found in Sidbe Realms, dose enough in
physical healing strength.

Pulling the plant from the earth, the prince crushed the
bulb against the wound, wincing at the sting, and rushed
out the Words of Healing, Words of Exorcism that added
magical strength to physical. To his relief. Power rose and
swiiied about him, but it wasn't as strong as it should be,

THE SHATTERED OATH          285

not nearly as strong. No hope, though, but to continue,
praying it would be enough.

As the last Word locked into place, Ardagh fell in sud-
den total exhaustion, dragging himself into die shelter of a
bush. His last waking thought was that either this had
worked, and he would awaken, or it hadn't, and he wouldn't
Either way, there was nothing more that could be done,
except surrender to sleep.

Gervinus looked down at the dagger in his hand with
weary satisfaction. Mixing the potion had been simple
enough, but imbuing it with sufficient sorcerous Power had
been another matter, and joining potion and blade so that
not a hint of stain marred the metal had been almost more
than he could manage. But it was done. The weapon was
ready. All he needed now was the hand to wield it.

And sleep. Deus. yes, Gervinus thought, sinking gladly
to his bed, sleep . . .

But just as he drifted gently off into oblivion, the world
seemed to explode into horrifying noise and white-hot flashes
of light. The very walls of his house shaking around him,
i  Gervinus sat bolt upright, gasping, knowing instantly. No
normal storm—Arridu! Arridu enraged and recoiling in
demonic fury as such beings did when their purpose was
blocked back on the summonef—

"No!" Gervinus shouted in panic, scrambling to his feet,
his voice drowned out by the roar of thunder all around
him. The walls were cracking, the roof shaking—in another
moment die whole thing was going to come crashing down
on his head! He threw up both arms in desperate command,
shouting, "I hold your ring. I hold your name!"

No response.

"You cannot attack me!" Gervinus roared, now as much
furious as afraid. "Demon, hear me! Obey me! You must
obey!"

"You cheated me!" The demonic voice was barely discem-
able from the turmoil of the storm.

"I? I sent you out to kill; you accepted with glee. Have
you failed me?"

286 Josepha Shemwn

"Sou have/ailed me!"

"No!"

"Yes/ You sent me after one who bore metal neoerforged
in mortal lands!"

"I never—"

"You let me be touched, be cut, be hurt by Shachshakax
metal!"

For one instant, Cervinus lost his concentration com-
pletely, startled by the ugly, demonic word, thinking in
confusion, What metal can that possibly be? And for that
instant he lost his hold on the demon, and staggered under
the renewed lash of the storm, hearing the house begin to
crumble about him, the stench of ozone sharp in his nostrils.

But then Gervinus gathered every bit of his will, forc-
ing himself back under control, shutting out the danger about
him. Clenching the ring savagely in his hand, he shouted,
"Come what may, you will obey me, Arridu! Yen must! I
hold your name, Arridu, and if you do not obey, you shall
be tortured by eternal flame! I hold your name, I hold your
will, and I command you now—begonel"

Would he be obeyed? Would he? His heart was racing
so fiercely it seemed about to tear free from him, his ears
rang with die surging of blood, and in another moment his
will was going to shatter. If Arridu refused to obey him, there
would be nothing he could do but die.

But with a suddenness that left Gervinus gasping, the
demon was gone, and only an abruptly tranquil night
remained.

A TTONCe eNSORCeLLCD

CHAPCeR 23

Someone was touching him, shaking ham. Someone was
calling his name. Ardagh forced himself up through lay-
ers of sleep, thinking with groggy Sidhe humor. It would
seem that the magic worked after all. But who was this
trying to wake him? The prince bunked, vision focusing
slowly.

"Lady Sorcha." His voice sounded rusty. "What are you
doing here?"

"It's morning!" she said sharply. As Ardagh pushed him-
self up on one elbow, looking up at the sunlight filtering
down through the leaves, Sorcha added, a touch more gently,
"You said that if you weren't back by now, I should send
someone after you. And so I did." Her gesture took in die
two soldiers, mercenaries from Cadwal's band, who stood
on either side of her.

The worry behind the sharpness touched him. "You came.
too- That, I did not expect."

She shrugged with blatantly feigned unconcern. "I thought
you might need help. Particularly after the storm."

"Storm?" Ardagh got carefully to his feet, swaying a bit,
and glanced down at his forearm; a thin, clean line crossed
it, the mark of an old, well-healed wound. But the demon
has a token sample of my blood Hopefully, not enough to
let it work any harm, "What storm9"

"You . . , didn't notice it?"

287

288 Josepha Sherman

"Obviously not. Presumably," he added, glancing about
at the undamaged forest, "it missed striking here at all."

"Och, well, it did sweep down on Fremainn seemingly
from nowhere." Sorcha shook her head. "And a more sav-
age storm I can't remember. It didn't do as much damage
as it might. God be praised, but it tore right through the
outer palisade, ripped apart some of the less secure roofs,
and—and completely smashed the guest hut of Bishop
Gervinus."

"Did it, now?" Ardagh murmured, beginning to suspect
what had happened. A demon left with an unfulfilled mis-
sion was as dangerous as the recoiling backlash of an unsuc-
cessful spell. As dangerous, that was, to the one who had
summoned that demon. "And," he asked delicately, "was
the bishop harmed?"

His tone hadn't been quite innocuous enough. Sorcha's
glance was suspicious, though she answered without com-
ment, "No- Several members of his retinue suffered inju-
ries, though, and a few of them died. God rest their souk."

"I see."

The bishop was badly shaken, anyone could see that.
But he did what he could for the injured and the dead."

"I'm sure he did." Even though Gervinus had been the
one responsible for their harming, he could hardly break
the image of caring holy man he'd been so carefully culti-
vating. "There is nothing more for me to do here," Ardagh
said. "Come, let us return to Fremainn."

Gervinus knelt by the side of one of his fallen aides; the
man would probably recover, but a collapsing wall had caught
him a stunning blow, and now, half-awake, he had clutched
at the hem of the bishop's robe in entreaty.

My work, Gervinus thought sardonically. Helping these
idiots cope. As if I could actually make injuries vanish
through prayer. My work, yes. Comforting them aU. Were
he not still at heart the Prankish noble trained to a harsh
school, he might almost be begging someone to comfort
him.

Bah, what nonsense! The demon had, after all. obeyed.

THE SHATTERED OATH

289

It was far from here, in whatever hellish place it called home
and he would never need to put himself in its path again
because he simply would never call on it again. And—

Gervinus nearly started as a shadow fell across his face.
Before he could move. Prince Ardagh had dropped to his
knees beside him as if joining him in prayer, long-fmeered
hand almost touching his own.

"You know and I know," the prince murmured almost
conversationally, "that the storm was no storm."

"What are you—"

"You know and I know that it was, instead, a demon sent
to slay me. You know and I know who it was sent it, and
upon whom it recoiled in fury."

Gervinus stared at him in feigned outrage, mind racing,
and saw the green eyes go so completely cold, so completely,
inhumanly cruel that he was left wordless. "And you know
and I know," the prince continued softly, his voice all the
more chilling for never losing its conversational tone, "what
will happen to the one who dares try sending it against me
again."

Prince Ardagh was back on his feet in one smooth motion,
face totally without expression. "See to your men," he said.
"Such a master must surely be touched by their plight."

He was gone before Gervinus could utter a word.

Damn him. Damn him! There isn't a thing I can say,
nothing that won't make me look either an idiot or a mon-
ster. And those eyes . .. I could almost believe the man as
demonic as Arridu.

Oh, what foolishness! Just because someone could let his
eyes go so very cold, that didn't make him other than human.
Besides, cold eyes or no, if the prince had possessed any
genuine proof of clerical sorcery, he wouldn't have been
wasting time on threats. No, no, he would already have gone
rushing off with that proof to King Aedh.

And isn't it odd. Gervinus mused, that he was able to
recognize a demon for what it was—and was able to repel
it?

What had Arridu claimed he bore? Some bizarre demonic
blade? Had Gervinus, ironically, been correct all along with

290 Josepha Sherman

his accusations, and was Prince Ardagh genuinely a rival
sorcerer?

Jesu Christusl If that was so, Gervinus thought, he'd need
to gain control over Aedh as quickly as possible.

The assassin, I must find my assassin-tool. But how?
Where? Who is he. dammit? Who is he?

The servant groaned under Gervinus' hand. With an
unvoiced oath, the bishop turned his mind back to pretended
piety. At least Aedh was seeing to it that his house would
be swiftly repaired. Glancing up, Gervinus noted that already
there were laborers enough to have—

He stared. Odd ... Acre was something about that boy,
Ae one with the sullen, fine-featured face, the one who
looked far too finely made for such rough work. .. .

"Amulf," he called over his shoulder.

"Master?"

"Amulf, who is that boy?"

Was that the barest hesitation? "A servant Nothing more."

"Only a servant?" Gervinus turned in sudden sharp sus-
picion, surprising a hint of uneasiness on Ae acolyte's face.
"Who is he, Amulf? Tell me."

"I...uh ..."

-Tell me!"

.Reluctantly, head down. Amulf muttered, '"I was going
to tell you, really- But Ae storm and all—"

"I am reaching the edge of patience, Amult, Who is Ae
boy?"

"I'm not sure. I Aink he's royalty." As Aough Ae words
were being torn from him, the acolyte continued reluctantly,
"Hands are too soft for a servant. Words are too educated.
And Ae way he talked ... I think he's Ae son of the King
of Clonach."

"What!" Gervinus' mind raced. But he's—no. this would
be the second son. Now Aat Ae truA had been pointed
out to him, it seemed impossible Aat he ever could have
missed seeing Ae telltale elegance beneaA Ae dirt. This
is the second son of Clonach come to avenge his poor,
murdered brother. How stupidly heroic!

And how very useful. Gervinus snaked out a hand,

THE SHATTERED OATH          291

snagging Amulf by Ae arm and dragging the boy back into
what was left of his private chamber. "How long have you
known?" Ae bishop growled.

Tlie acolyte squirmed, laying to pull free, then hung limply
in Gervinus' grip. "I... uh ..."

Gervinus shook him. "How long have you known and not
thought to tell me?"

"I was going to tell you, honest! Just didn't get Ae chance,
Ae storm and all Aat, and—"

"Uar." The bishop threw Amulf from him, watching coldly
as Ae acolyte landed flat on his back Aen scrabbled fran-
tically away, ending up cornered against a wall.

"I w-would have told you," Amim whimpered, "I swear
it!"

"And are you adding perjury to your oAer sins?"

As he stared at Ae helpless, sniveling creature, Gervinus
all at once lost control of his pent-up fury and fear and'sheer
frustration. Even knowing he was blaming Amulf for every-
thing that had gone wrong, it still felt wonderfully satisfy-
ing to send blow after sorcerous blow raining down on
Amulf, enjoying Ae acolyte's cries, blow after blow till at
last, drained and gasping, the bishop straightened. If he didn't
stop now. he was going to kill Arnulf.

No great loss. But it would be difficult to explain such a
deaA. "Get up," Gervinus snapped- "Get out." He stood
coldly, ignoring Ae bitter, hating glances Ae still snivelling
acolyte cast his way. "Send Ae prince of Clonach to me,"
Ae bishop added. "I wish to speak wiA him, alone."

The boy who entered almost had the proper servile
manner. Almost.

"You sent for me, my lord, ah, bishop?"

And his voice certainly wasn't Aat of a servant, eiAer.
Gervinus smiled. "I wished to welcome you to Fremainn,
prince of Clonach."

He sat back in dark amusement to watch Ae boy's storm
of confusion, fear, alarm. And Aen, still smiling, Ae bishop
moved in to take possession of his prize. "I know of your
sad loss," he purred. "And, if you will allow me, I mean to
help you assuage your sorrow. Come. child," Ae bishop

292 Josepha Sherman

added, reaching out one arm, "let me touch you. Let me
give you my blessing."

Aedh glanced at Fothad and Father Seadna, who had just
entered the conversation house. "Come, sit. Fothad, I am
not thrilled with what's being done to repair the outer pali-
sade."

Fothad frowned slightly. The men are working as quickly
as they can."

"Not quickly enough."

"It's not as if we were left without any protection," die
poet said, almost defensively. The storm didn't do any
damage to the earthenwork defenses."

"I know that," Aedh snapped. "But I don't like the idea
of Fremainn having to go without that palisade. Particu-
larly now. I have some information that I'm sure is just what
you both wanted to hear." He made no attempt to hide his
sarcasm. The reason we haven't heard anything out of
Clonach is that they've been too busy hunting for the heir
to the throne."

Father Seadna frowned. The boy's disappeared? Why
should we need to—" He stopped short. "Och. Don't teU
me."

Aedh nodded. "So it seems. Fearghal mac Donnchadh,
as far as any spies could tell me, is now somewhere within
Fremainn."

"But why—how—"

The 'how' is easy enough," Fothad murmured. "Fremainn
is full of all manner of servants. All the boy would need to
do was dress the part- Who'd notice him?"

The 'why' is easy enough, as well," Aedh added. "He's
just at the rig^t age to be property heroic and stupid. Prob-
ably has some wild idea that he's going to avenge his brother."
The king snorted. "Don't give me those stares, you two. Do
you reaDy think I'm in any danger from an untried boy?"

"Accidents," Fothad said, "happen."

Aedh shrugged that off. "More pressing than any threat
from him is that we find Fearghal as soon as possible. If
we've figured out he's here, so has Donnchadh. I've Leinster

THE SHATTEBED OATH          293

on one flank and the Lochlannach on another and a for-
tress with damaged walls and roofs, I don't need Clonach
nagging me as well. Find me someone who can recognize
Fearghal," he ordered Fothad, "and recognize him under
whatever the boy's disguise may be. Catch me our royal
runaway so we can ship him right back to his father."

Our royal idiot, Aedh added to himself. But then, most
boys were idiots at that age. Indeed And I can hardly wait
tiUmy Niall reaches it Amazing the human race survives.
"Come. Let us go seehow the rebuilding's proceeding. Maybe
the sight of their king watching will goad the workers abit."

"Indeed," Fothad said without the slightest trace of irony
in his voice. "Oh, indeed."

It felt wonderful to finally be doing something, Fearghal
thought, touching the dagger hidden in his sleeve for maybe
die hundredth time. He wasn't sure exactly what that some-
thing was going to be, or who had suggested it to him; he
couldn't quite seem to remember much of anything. Except
for this one thing, this one certainty: he knew without a
doubt that if only he kept going, hunting for King Aedh,
everything would work out most splendidly. He would, at
last, be a true hero.

"You came back."

Ardagh paused on his way to his guest house, glancing
down at solemn little Fainche with a smile. "I told you I
would."

"You didn't get wet. Why not?"

There wasn't any rain in the forest. I trust," he added
with amused courtesy, "that you didn't get wet, either?"

She shook her head. "I was inside. Everyone was scared
of the storm. Except me," she added proudly- "I wasn't scared
at all."

"Good for you. I—" Ardagh froze, all at owefeelins, the
faintest prickle of warning, wondering, Now. what. . ?
"Excuse me, little one," he said, trying to keep the sudden
alarm out of his voice. There is something I must investi-
gate."

294 fosepfw Sherman

•         •         «

Queen Eithne sat in her grianan, studying die intricate
embroidery knotwork she'd nearly completed. Nicety done,
if she did say so herself, and the combination of blue, green
and red on the interlacing was working out much more
harmoniously than she'd expected.

"You see, Sorcha?"

The young woman glanced up from her own work with
a bored nod. "Pretty. Not like my own tangle." Sorcfaa shook
her head. "I'm better with a quill than a needle."

Eithne smiled. "My poor, impatient Sorcha. There are,
no matter what you might think, pleasures to be taken in
the slow, careful art of needlework, and I only wish you
could—"

She started to her feet, embroidery sliding from her lap,
all at once alert and terrified.

"Queen Eithne?" Sorcha asked uneasily. "What—"

"Aedh," the queen whispered and, heedless of Sorcha's
stare and her bewildered ladies' cries, hurried from the
grianan.

Gervinus, bent over his grimoire in a sardonic and very
conscious parody of a man lost in prayer, watched Fearghal's
progress in his mind's eye. It had been so ridiculously easy to
overcome the boy's will: Fearghal had already been fairly
burning with his childish, single-minded ambition. It had
been a tittle more difficult to surround the boy with an avoid-
ance spell, a tiny, fragile thing that should be just enough to
let an apparent servant near me royal presence without chal-
lenge, but he'd succeeded. It grated on the nerves to once
more have to depend on a boy to do his work, but there it was.

And now. ah now, if only Fearghal did his job, and did
it right!

Colm mac Colm—which wasn't his true name, though
good enough for an ordinary-looking, easily forgettable spy—
was thoroughly sick of hunting for the missing Prince
Fearghal, and rather wishing he could sit down somewhere
(maybe, he thought dryly, with the royal counterparts) with

THE SHATTERED OATH

295

a pleasant drink. But of course he couldn't give up a mis-
sion midway, not if he meant to go on living. And he cer-
tainly didn't intend to go back to Queen Derval and say,
"Sorry. Just couldn't find him." No, the cursed boy had to
be somewhere here in Fremainn. And sooner or later he
would do something to reveal himself, and then—

Colm stopped short, blinking in sheer astonishment. Och,
it couldn't be so easy. That dirty, bedraggled creature couldn't
possibly be Prince Fearghal. But it most surely was, even
in that unlikely garb; Conn had seen the boy at close range
often enough to be sure of it. But, dammit, there were too
many people here. He couldn't just go up to the prince and
cany him off!

All he could do was what a spy did best: follow, wait and
watch.

"... and if there aren't any Lochlannach raids within
the next month," Aedh glanced from the half-rebuilt pali-
sade to his Chief Minister as he spoke and continued in
the same tone, "I vote we fly to die moon."

Father Seadna, standing on the king's other side, nearfy
choked on a startled laugh. Fothad blinked, reddened and
said, "I beg your pardon?"

Aedh grinned. "Welcome back, Fothad. I trust it was an
entertaining mental voyage."

He hadn't thought it was possible for the poet to red-
den any further, but so Fothad did. "I am sorry," he said
contritely. "I didn't mean to wander—I just—"

"What is it, man? What's bothering you?"

"Och, nothing to worry the land." Fothad's voice was just
a touch too light "Personal matters."

"Sorcha," Father Seadna murmured.

"Well, yes," the poet admitted with a wry smile. "I con-
fess it: discussing the wandering Fearghal mac Donnchadh
brought out the parent in me."

Aedh chuckled- "You can hardly be comparing your
daughter to a hotheaded fool of a boy! You've raised quite
a sensible young woman, you know."

Fothad groaned. "But mat's just it. She is a woman."

296 Josephs Sherman

Aedh stared blankly, then suddenly grinned. "Ah, I think
I understand. Sorcha has been spending a fair amount of
time with our Cathayan prince, hasn't she?" He added teas-
ingly, "Why, Fothad, what's the matter? He's a fine catch,
royal blood and all."

"He's a cu glas," the poet snapped. "I will not have my
daughter involved with an exile."

Father Seadna held up a hand in protest. "You're mak-
ing too much of it. Whatever else Prince Ardagh may be,
he is a man of honor. If he has sworn to do no harm to
you or yours, he will keep that vow. Besides, we both know
there hasn't been a bit of scandal about their meetings. All
he's been doing is telling her about his homeland."

And she, of course, isn't at aU interested in his handsome
face, oh no, Aedh thought with an inner laugh. "Fothad, I
don't think there's much you can do about it. She's a grown
woman, a widow, not some green girl."

"Well, yes, but. . ."

"Sooner or later, you're going to have to think about letting
her wed again," Father Seadna said.

"Not to a cu glasF

Aedh shook his head. "Glad am I my Fainche's only five!
I have some little time yet before I need worry about her
betrothal or—" He turned with a frown. "Hey now, boy,
you're not supposed to be here."

Fothad had gone alert as a hunting hound. "How did you
get past the guards? Who are you?"

Aedh, studying the boy, said, "Oh, I think we can puzzle
that out. You're Fearghal mac Donnchadh, aren't you?"

Eithne could have screamed her frustration. Every lady
in her service seemed determined to ask her questions, block
her path, delay her. "I can't stop now!" she repeated fran-
tically. "We'll discuss it later. Please, I haven't the time right
now!"

Aedh, och, Aedh .., the sense of danger was burning at
her, more fiercely with every second.

"Get out of my way!" Queen Eithne screamed, and raced
on. She would never reach Aedh in time, never!

THE SHATTERED OATH          297

%        ^        %

Ardagh bit back a shout of pure fury. The feel of sorcery
was growing stronger with every step he took, but there were
just too many humans in his path, servants, guards, every
one of them seemingly determined to get in his way, slow
him down, keep him from the king. Abandoning courtesy,
the prince fiercely pushed and shoved his way along. He
was never going to reach Aedh in time, never!

"He has a knife!" Fothad hissed., "The guards, where
are—"

Aedh waved him to silence, his attention all on the wide-
eyed, white-faced boy. The last thing he wanted was for some
overzealous guard to injure the crown prince of Clonach.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Fearghal," the king crooned,
stalking forward as slowly and carefully as though he was
trying to catch a wild creature. "And you don't want to hurt
me, either. We both know that. I didn't kill your brother,
Fearghal. The poor boy died of illness. It was God's will,
Fearghal, and you're not going to challenge that, are you?
No. You're going to let that knife drop, and neither of us
will need to mention it again."

He made one incautiously quick step. With a cry, the boy
lunged. Aedh lunged, too, catching the wiry young body
in his arms. Someone had done a fine job of teaching the
prince warrior tactics, because the boy, kicking and twist-
ing fiercely, almost managed to escape- He tore his knife
hand free before Aedh could grab it. The blade glinted in
the light, and a woman screamed. Aedh realized Eithne,
and in that half-second's inattention nearly lost his hold
altogether. He gasped, more in surprise than pain, as the
knife nicked his arm.

But Fearghal hadn't a chance of escaping the strength
of a grown man, and Aedh slowly, trying not to break the
boy's wrist, twisted the knife from his grip and held him.
helpless as a baby in its mother's arms, till at last the king
felt all resistance ebb. He shook the boy, just hard enough
to make the point / have your life in my hands, then asked,
"Can I release you? Will you act like an honorable warrior?"

298 Josepha Sherman

Of course the boy couldn't argue with that. As Aedh warily
released him, he stood sullenly still.

No. Not sullen. Frightened, certainly—he'd be an inhu-
man youngster if he wasn't—and... confused? How could
he possibly be confused? A moment ago Fearghal had
definitely acted as though he'd known what he was doing,
and . . . and . . .

Aedh frowned. Odd ... his mind didn't seem to be func-
tioning as clearly as it should ... it didn't seem to be func-
tioning . . . very well at all... and his legs weren't doing
their job of holding him up, ...

As Aedh sagged, he felt strong arms catch him—Fothad
on one Side and, rather to his surprise, a somewhat breath-
less Prince Ardagh on the other. "Poison," he got out. "Knife
. . . little bastard . . . poisoned me ..."

It was the last clear thought, other than a despairing,
Eithne, be was able to frame.

CHAPCeR 24

Aedh found himself helplessly looking back over the years,
caught in this strange hau-dreaming state that insisted he
see himself, see his life till now. . . .

And how very exhausting it seemed. Since he'd taken the
throne, his life had been one continuous juggting act, playing
this king against that, supporting this noble over that, fight-
ing—

Ha, yes, fighting- Always that, whether he wished it or
not. He had just managed that tenuous peace in Meath by
splitting the land between the princely brothers, though it
was just a matter of time before one of them massacred
the other (and then he would probably have to battle the
winner; such was life). And next he would most surely be
taking arms against Leinster to put down that potential threat
before it grew into something too large to be easily con-
trolled.

Bah, we don't need the Lochlannach, he thought with wry,
weary humor. We do enough fighting among ourselves!

"And do you want this?" a voice suddenly murmured,
soothing and warm. "Are you not weary a/warfare, weary
of the endless, encQess struggles on the battlefield and in the
council chamber?"

Och, yes, Aedh thought. There were times when he was
weary, indeed. But who was questioning him? He tried to
ask, "Who are you? How do you know what I—"

299

300 Josepha Sherman

No words would come. It didn't seem to matter. His
thoughts weren't clear enough to let him worry about such
things. Far easier just to listen to the voice whisper, "Do
you not long for rest? Imagine Imagine peace, quiet, a
chance to sit with your wife and watch your children grow."

Yes. It would be pleasant. Pleasant to relax and just be
a man with a wife and a family—

No! Aedh struggled against the soft thoughts wrapping
his mind round like some warm, suffocating blanket. What
nonsense was this? He was no weak little man, he was High
King of Eriu! He was fully aware and accepting of all the
strain that title meant; the throne was his by right and
strength of arm.

And 1 will hold that throne for as long as Cod wills it.

But even that small defiance seemed more wearying than
anything he could endure. "And does your arm never grow
tired?" the warm voice coaxed, "Think, ah yes. Think.
Wouldn't it be so wonderful, so very wonderful, to give over
fighting? To let someone else help you. ease your way, make
the difficult, difficult decisions over which you agonize?"

Yes. It would be so wonderful to let someone else help
him, to make his decisions—

No, dammit! He would not. He must not. He was fang,
and while any ruler must delegate, he must never, ever, deal
away his power, and . . . and . . .

He couldn't think clearly. The voice wouldn't let him think.
gently prodding and prodding at him, urging him softly,
surrender, surrender tiD he couldn't think at all or resist or—

'Wo," said a new voice, cold and clear as the edge of a
blade, cutting sharply through the haze of confusion. "You
must not surrender."

He didn't want to yield, he certainly didn't, but he just
couldn't... he couldn't. . .

"A drug holds your mind," the cold voice snapped, as
sharply as a palm slapping his face. "You must not let it win."

But he was so weary, and the first voice continued to coax
softly, "Don't try to fight. You don't want to fight. Rest.
Surrender. Surrender to me. ..."

"You must not! You must fight back!"

THE SHATTERED OATH          301

He should recognize this cold, fierce voice, surely. He
should recognize me soothing voice as well. But his mind
couldn't seem to hold on to memory and . . .

. . . and suddenly his mind was Hooded with new, cold
strength, with the cold, clear will telling him, "You are not
alone. I will help you. King of Eriu. Fight! The drug must
not winf"

Tes," Aedh said, "I will not let it win."

With that other's strength behind him, he could tear free
of the smothering softness and—

—just as suddenly find himself standing on a barren red-
dish plain beneath a barren reddish sky: reddish earth, red-
dish sky and nothing to break the emptiness, nothing to give
him any hint of distance. This wasn't any real place: his mind
had clearly been insisting on putting him somewhere, and
without any outside clues, had compromised with this.

Boring of it, he thought. Fothadwould probably haoe
landscaped the place as splendidly as some magical Sidhe
Realm,

AS I get is—emptiness.

Emptiness, and hot still air. Feverish air. He knew fever
dreams; he'd suffered enough of them due to wounds, nearly
died in one once when a wound had gone bad. . . .

Ah, no. That soft, so-tempting voice just on the edge of
perception had begun crooning to him once more, sooth-
him, telling him, surrender, surrender ... it was the

in;

softest, most soothing sound in all the world ... so very
soothing. .. telling him surrender self, surrender will, sur-
render ... it would be so easy to let go, surrender thought,
mind, will . . .

No! He had never yet surrendered to anyone. Never
would. A king who surrendered, who lost his batde, lost his
crown as weu, lost his very life. Aedh fought back with all
his mind and will, swearing silendy, I wtU not surrender.
damn you! But it wasn't quite enough; the poison, the drug,
whatever had been on that cursed dagger was still weak-
ening him, and that damnable croon was continuing, sur-
render. surrender . .. and it was growing more and more
difficult to resist. .. .

302 Josepha Sherman

Then Aedh felt his nonmaterial hand clasped in a firm,
cool, steady grip that seemed veiy real. "He sought to lose
me in the labyrinth of thought," we cold voice said. "I wiU
not be so easily lost." And Aedh felt that cold, clear mind
against his own once more, willing new strength into him,
telling him, resist, resist! If he turned his head and stared
with all his might, he could almost see . . .

Dream reality shifted. Without warning, he could see who
stood beside him: Prince Ardagh. And in this Otheriy place
his beauty seemed strange and alien, fiercely sharp as the
edge of a knife, almost alarmingly inhuman. The prince's
long black hair snapped out behind him like a war banner
though there was no wind, and his eyes blazed a wild, glowing
green as they stared at the enemy. Suddenly Aedh could
see him, too, this figure shrouded in a dark cloak, this fig-
ure clutching a leather-bound book that reminded him very
much of the odd prayerbook Bishop Gervinus was never
without.

Bishop Gervinus? The dark cloak parted, revealing hints
of ecclesiastical splendor. "No," Aedh said. "No. That's
impossible."

And, "Yes,'' Prince Ardagh said. "It is possible. It is true."

His, Aedh realized, and wondered that he hadn't recog-
nized it before, was die cold voice that had helped him pull
free from the entrapping softness, the voice that was sharp
and clear and utterly without pity or sentiment.

Utterly without deceit.

The pnnce had never yet Bed; be could not, Aedh knew
without thought, be lying now.

"You cannot believe this man," the bishop began, "this
foul, pagan sorcerer."

But Aedh hardly heard the words. He had, he suspected,
never been meant to see or hear so truly. No, of course he
hadn't! The drug had been intended to confuse as well as
weaken him till he had become a willing slave. If it hadn't
been for Prince Ardagh, he would probably already have
sunk into quiet, helpless submission.

But the prince had saved him, cleared his thoughts. And
now, no matter what accusations the bishop made, no matter

THE SHATTERED OATH          303

how he tried to cloak himself in piety or kindness m this
fevensh otherness, the way he did m reality, here there could
be no such earthly deception. No matter what he said, he
could not hide his voice, his inner voice that had wrapped
Aedh in softness, nearly lulled him into surrendering power,
life—

"I do believe Prince Ardagh!" Aedh snapped, cutting
through the bishop's words. "I believe him and I defy yout
Bishop or whatever you really are, I am king, I will remain
king, and I wiS not surrender!"

He awoke as suddenly as that, still blazing with righteous
anger—and found himself in his own bed, Eithne, nearly
sobbing with relief, at his side.

"You're alive, you're healed!" she gasped, and threw herself
into his arms, burying her head against his chest, her hair
and clothes sweet with the residue of what he guessed had
been one of her healing potions.

But the dregs of the enemy drug, whatever it had been,
were still in him, just enough to make him feel as though
he'd drunk far, far too much mead the night before. "Genny,
love," he said, "Och, gently. I'm all right, truly." Aside from
a head that ached and a stomach that was not at all happy.
"Eithne! You've seen me ride off into battle often enough
and never acted like this, yes, and seen me come home hurt
as well."

"And agonized over it every time!" she retorted, pulling
back so that she could stare at him. "But that's the way thin^
are when one is wife to a king, and I live with them as best
I can. This, this was different! This was sorcery, husband,
the blackest of sorcery used against you. It was meant to
break and—and enslave your mind."

"You learned all that from one drug-smeared knife?"

Eithne gave an inarticulate little sound of impatience.
"What was on that knife, as far as I could tell, was a weird
mix of herbs, each one intended to confuse the senses. Put
together, they would have been enough to thoroughly over-
throw your will, making you the puppet of whomever had
the skill to snare you."

That was enough to chill the heart. "At least," Aedh said,

304 Josephs Shemwn

st^lgSung f01" Ae bright side of it, "it was a drug and not
out-and-out poison. You could do something to counter it."
He felt her flinch. "It was your doing?"

"I could counter the drug's effect, yes. But not. . . not
... the mind behind its use." Her quick, tear-slicked glance
was full of... what? Jealousy? Jealousy that another could
help where she could not? "Prince Ardagh," the king said
suddenly.

Eithne pointed. Carefully, Aedh turned to see the prince
tying crumpled at the side of his bed (graceful, an irrever-
ent part of his mind noted, even in that ungainly pose). Aedh
sat up in alarm, then groaned, forgetting Prince Ardagh for
the moment in the struggle not to be iD. Eithne hurriedly
slipped from the bed and returned with a goblet of some-
thing that smelled minty.

"Here. This should help."

Aedh's stomach lurched in defiance, but he managed to
drink the whole thing down without stopping. He waited,
eyes shut, testing, and at last opened them again and said,
"Yes," in relief. "It does. Och, but Prince Ardagh—"

"I ... think he's asleep."

As though the words had been a cue, the prince started
and came suddenly awake, staring up at Aedh, die fine-
boned, elegant face dazed as though he'd come from an
exhausting trial. Seeing him so weary, Aedh breathed, "It
really happened, didn't it? You really were there—wher-
ever there was—with me."

"In a manner of speaking." It was little more than a
whisper.

"But—how?" Aedh pressed, knowing that right now the
prince was still too dazed to evade the truth. "How did you
do it? Who—what—are you?" And then, hardly sure he
wanted to hear the answer, "Are you a sorcerer?"

That struck a spark. Life flashed back into the green eyes
and the prince sat bolt upright. "Not that." His voice was
contemptuous. "Never that." He was back on his feet in
one sudden, fluid movement, and if his face was still pale,
his glance was disconcertingly steady. "Ask that of Bishop
Gervinus. See what answer you get of him."

THE SHATTERED OATH          305

"Yes," Aedh snapped. He wanted nothing so much as to
stay in bed and sleep the last traces of the drug out of his
system, but of course he couldn't indulge himself like that.
His people had to be shown that he was still alive and well.
The king struggled to his feet, very well aware of how clumsy
he seemed compared to the infernally graceful prince. The
touch of envy he couldn't quite repress made him say, "And
we both know you didn't save me out of altruism. Och, no,
you didn't want to see your sanctuary vanish."

For an instant he thought the prince was going to turn
on him in anger, for an instant he wondered. What if he
does? What, then? But to Aedh's amazement, Prince Ardagh
instead treated him to one of those charmingly open smiles
of his. "Precisely. Now, ask your question of Bishop Ger-

vmus.

Gervinus, indeed. But first, his people's reassurance. The
mystery of exactly how Prince Ardagh had saved him would
have to wait as well—presuming that he ever could get the
whole truth out of that slippery fellow. Still, at least the prince
was very clearly on his side. Far better to have a friendly
mystery than a mysterious enemy!

No one, the king realized, had wasted precious time
undressing him before getting him to bed. Good. No need
to waste precious time now, either- He shouted for servants
to give him a hurried grooming, then stepped, mostly steadily,
out into the open, Eithne on one side. Prince Ardagh on
the other.

Mm, look at this. All along he'd thought that compari-
son of a confused scene to a disturbed anthill had been badly
overused by poets. But a disturbed anthill was exactly what
Fremainn resembled: a wild, panicky roiling of people who
weren't exactly sure where they were going or what they
were doing. He must have been trapped by the drug for
quite a while; judging from the early afternoon slant of the
sun, he'd lost about a day. No wonder everyone was in such
a panic!

"I am alive!" he shouted into the turmoil, in the regal
voice trained to carry over the noisiest of crowds. "I am
unhurt!"

306 Josepha Sherman

He saw startled faces turn to him (like so many flowers
turning towards the sun, that irreverent bit of his mind jibed),
saw eyes widen and smiles appear. There were gasps, mur-
murs, and at last a ragged roar of cheers. Gratifying, the
enthusiasm there, even if most of it was out of plain relief
that there was still someone in charge rather than personal
concern.

Ha, here was Cadwal, his weather-beaten face impassive
as always, but his eyes showing an agony of frustration and
alarm over having been unaUe to protect the man who'd
hired him. Not your fault. Aedh thought, not if sorcery reaSy
was involved.

But he wasn't going to let Cadwal off so easily. "Bring
Bishop Gervinus to me. now!" Aedh commanded. "And bring
me that boy . . . Fearghal. Bring them both to me!"

Cadwal, clearly glad to be doing something, snapped out
orders to his men, who hurried off into the still-milling
crowd. One of the men returned almost at once, dragging
a desperately proud, definitely frightened Feargha] with him.
The others took longer to return, and returned empty-
handed, their faces grim.

"Where is he?" Aedh demanded. "Where is Bishop
Gervinus?"

Before they could answer. Prince Ardagh cut in, "Gone.
of course." As Aedh turned to him with a frown, the prince
continued calmly, his eyes cool, "No, I'm not using that
sorcery of which he accused me, only logic. If you were
he, and your treasonous plan had gone so veiy wrong, would
you linger for punishment?"

"Prince Ardagh is right," one of die guards said hesitantly.
"The bishop is gone as though he'd never been here."

Damn. And it wouldn't have taken sorcery to escape amid
all that turmoil, either. Knew we weren't getting that pali-
sade repaired ouicfdy enough. "What about his retinue?"

The/re all still here, looking confused as lost sheep. And
we found his acolyte hiding In a comer of the guest house."

"So. Bring him to me. And you, Fearghal, the time has
come for answers. Why did you attack me?"

Silence.

THE SHATTERED OATH          307

"Well? You must have had a reason! Come, boy, speak up."

The young prince stiffened. "I would if I had something
to answer!"

"How nice to see the pup has fangs," Aedh drawled. "But
that is not a. satisfactory reply. Why did you attack?"

He knew, and suspected Prince Ardagh knew (since the
man had made it plain often enough that he would not
tolerate the harming of a child) that he wasn't going to do
anything to Fearghal. But Fearghal didn't know it. White-
faced and proud as a king going to execution, he told Aedh,
"One thing's true, I did come to Fremainn of my own free
will."

"To try your hand at assassination?"

"No! I mean, I-I-didnt know what I was going to do when
I got here. I didn't know Fremainn was so... big. But then
the bishop spoke to me. He wanted to ... I think he said
he wanted to bless me. He put a hand on my head, I-I think
he did, anyhow. But I don't remember anything else, not a
thing."

"Do you expect us to believe that nonsense?"

Sheer terror flashed in the boy's eyes—the look, Aedh
thought, of a prisoner under torment who has told all he
knows and is terrified that it's not enough. "You must!"
Fearghal pleaded. "You have to! I-I can't tell you anything
else, I don't know anything else!"

"Indeed."

"It's true! I swear it! I swear it on—on my father's crown!"

Aedh glanced once more at Prince Ardagh. The green
eyes said, clear as words, you see? Right. And what, Aedh
returned silently, am I supposed to do about tt without an
ecclesiastical prisoner as proof?

Smooth over the whole thing as best he could, that was
what. It would be easier to keep peace with the monaster-
ies that way, too; they wouldn't have taken kindly to him
holding even a Roman cleric captive. "Och, well," the king
said with false relief, raising his voice so all could hear him,
"it's plain we were all deceived- That was no true bishop.
no matter how it seemed, but a cunning villain in a most
cunningly wrought disguise." Never such a thing as too much

308 Josephs Shennan

melodrama when speaking to a crowd. "What vile plots he
was concocting, we may never know, but he's gone now.
And we are well rid of him."

"We are not nd of him." It was the softest of growls from
the prince.

"For now we are," the king muttered to him, "and that's
enough. Ah, and here's our fine young acolyte, what's his
name, Arnulf."

Amulf, shivering, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, had
just gotten fully into a snivelling, sorry tale of abuse and
betrayal, swearing on all the saints that ever were that
he'd known nothing of Gervinus' true nature or of his
treachery, when Aedh saw Prince Ardagh go sharply alert,
staring at a sudden upheaval in the crowd.

God, now what?

A woman was pushing her frantic way through: "Sorcha!"
Aedh exclaimed. "What's happened to you?"

Her dress was torn, her hair disheveled, and a bruise was
purpling one side of her face. Eithne cried out and raced
to her side. putting an arm about her, but Sorcha pulled
free, staring at Aedh. "Never mind me, I-I'm just bruised
a bit. It's Odran mac Daire—I—he—" She stopped short,
eyes wild, glancing from Aedh to Eithne, then took a deep
breath and began again- "He's taken advantage of the con-
fusion to commit a terrible act of treason. King Aedh.

"Odran mac Daire has stolen away your son'"

ACCACKS AND
COUN CeRACCACKS

CHAPCeT? 25

Ardagh heard Eithne give one little, heartrending cry,
then fall silent, but he couldn't take his gaze from Sorcha,
seeing die dazed eyes, seeing the bruised face, feeling a
new, hot anger against the one who'd hurt her, realizing,
almost in despair, I did not want this. A human woman—
ae, I did not want this. knowing it was too late to resist.

"Go on," Aedh murmured to Sorcha, but she was swaying
on her feet. Ardagh raced to her side, catching her in his
arms, sure she was about to faint, but she painfully con-
tinued, "It happened . . . happened during the confusion
. . . after you had collapsed and . . . and none of us knew
if you stifl lived. Found myself shoved over to the edge
of the palisade . . . you know, the ... the spaces where it
is still under construction." Her voice strengthened slightly.
"And I saw Odran mac Daire seize Prince Niall." Ardagh
felt a shudder run through her. "I Should have screamed,"
she said, "but I didn't think . . . instead, I tried . . . tried
to stop him- That's when I got this." She touched her
bruised cheek gingerly- "Don't know . . . don't know what
happened next. Head hurts so much . . . don't know how
long I was . . . out . . - but Odran's gone. Prince NiaII's
gone. ..."

This time she did go limp in Ardagh's arms. He looked

309

310 Josephs Sherman

in panic at Eithne, but she, for all that she radiated terror
over her missing son, shook her head slightly, telling him
clearly, This, my magic can heal.

As she vanished into the royal keep with her servants and
the half-conscious Sorcha, Ardagh reluctantly turned his
attention back to Aedh. "You can't send soldiers."

"I know that!" the king snapped. "If the traitor sees an
army coming after him, he might panic." And kiU his hos-
tage. The unspoken words hung heavily in the air. "Cadwall
Put together a small group of your best. Odran can't have
gotten very far."

"I will be one of the hunters," Ardagh cut in. "Ae, don't
look at me in such surprise! Do you think I'd let a child
come to harm, least of all a child who's befriended me as
the little prince has?" Besides, I—I cannot bear staying here
to worry about Sorcha and What Might Be.

He received no argument from Aedh. "Go out there,"
he said. "Go out there, and bring my son back to me."

He'd nearly killed three horses getting here, and now that
he'd finally made it back to Clonach, Colm mac Colm,
sometimes merchant and sometimes spy, had to wonder if
it had been worth the rush and risk. "It's true." he insisted,
keeping just out of King Donnchadh's not inconsiderable
reach where the king sat brooding beside his cold-eyed
queen. "Your son. Prince Fearghal, really is in Fremainn.
I saw him there. There can be no mistake."

Donnchadh sprang up, towering menacingly over the
much shorter Colm. The spy renised to let himself reveal
alarm in either glance or movement—you never attracted
a predator's attention to you—but continued as levelly as
he could, "Wait. There is more yet to tell. Remember," he
added warily, glancing from King Donnchadh to Queen
Derval, who, though she had never moved, seemed far more
perilous than her easily angered husband, and back again,
"that I am but the bringer of news, not its cause."

"Yes, yes," Donnchadh snapped, "you're safe. But only
if you stop this hesitating!"

"Go on, murmured Derval. "What more is there to tell?"

THE SHATTERED OATH          311

There was still no expression on her lovely face, but
Colm found himself fighting back the urge to lick sud-
denly dry lips. "Simply this: Prince Fearghal tried to kill
the Ard Ri."

"W?»a(/" that was close to a shriek from Donnchadh.

Tried to stab him, yes. He failed," of course he faded,
fhatfbol of a boy couldn't stab a rabbit correctly, "but there
must have been something odd on the blade, because when
I left. King Aedh had collapsed, and I have no idea if he
will ever recover."

°And my son?" Derval asked, still quietly. "What of my
son?"

"Och, the Ard Bi's men have him—remember your vow,"
the spy added in alarm to Donnchadh as the kin^s arm shot
up, suddenly drawn knife glinting in his hand. For one
endless moment, Colm was sure he was a dead man.

But then Derval said quietly, "Donnchadh."

As though suddenly realizing where he was, the king
lowered his arm again, slamming the knife back into its
sheath, his eyes wud with unspent fnry. "I must get him
out of Fremainn. Derval, I can't wait any longer. They'll
kill my boy. I don't care the cost: I have to get him out!"

One of Cadwal's men laughed as they rode through the
darkening forest. "Look at dial. Bastard left us a track a
child could follow."

Ardagh exchanged a quick glance with Cadwal. "You
thinking the same as me?" the mercenary asked.

"That it's Just too blatant a trail? Exactly. He's in a hurry,
but he can't be a complete fool. Send most of your men
after it, yes?"

He received a nod and a sharp grin in response. As die
majority of the mercenaries crashed on down the too-deariy-
marked trail, Ardag^i, Cadwal and me remaining men slipped
from their horses and began tracking on foot.

"Got to hurry before it gets too dark to see." Cadwal
muttered.

Ardagh wisely said nothing, though his thoughts were
tinged with contempt at human night-blindness. But then,

312 Josepha Sherman

if Cadwal couldn't see where he was going, neither could
Odran. "There." The prince pointed out a freshly broken
branch. "And there."

Cadwal nodded. "Prince Niall's leaving us a nice clear
trail. Clever boy."

"Or Odran's making it look that way."

The mercenary's eyes glinted in the darkness. "Suspicious,
aren't you?"

"Just wary.'' Ardagh dropped his voice even more. "Go
on, keep following the trail. I'm going to cut off to one side
and try to cut off Odran's retreat"

"You can't get through that underbrush without sound-
ing like a herd of cattle!"

Ardagh grinned. "No? Watch."

He melted into the forest, very much aware of Cadwal's
amazement. These humans were fair trackers, but they
moved so maddeningly slowly! Besides, now that he was
away from them, he could use his full abilities and not have
to explain anything to anyone. He moved with Sidhe ease
and silence through the underbrush and the ever-deepen-
ing gloom, hunting with more than the physical senses,
feeling the unmistakable sense of human, trying to narrow
it into the feel of the specific ones he sought—

Yes. Ae, yes.

If he had been silent before, Ardagh was twice as silent
now, prowling with slow care through the bushes, stepping
with delicate wariness so no twig or dry leaves would betray
him.

Ahh, yes, indeed. There in the dim light sat Prince Niall,
tousled but apparently unharmed, radiating a mixture of
quite understandable fear and a regal rage that rather
delighted Ardagh; the boy was very much his father's son.
Niali was bound hand and foot with makeshift strips of
cloth—Odran, then, hadn't actually planned to steaf him
when he did, hadn't brought rope or presumably anything
else of use, but was merely taking advantage of the moment.
The man must have some plan, though; nobody fled into
wilderness at random. He must be plotting to meet up with
others, probably his own men.

THE SHATTERED OATH          313

Or could he mean to meet with just one other? Gervinus,
perhaps?

But where is Odran? Too near, surely, for me to be able
to just carry Niall away. The man can't have gone far: he
wouldn't dare leave his prize unattended or—ah, yes. Here
he ts. Gone was the coldly elegant courtier. Odran's brat was
smeared with dirt, showing where he'd fallen several times
in the darkness, and his fine linen shirt was ripped and
rumpled. Gold still glinted incongruously from about his neck
and from the clasp holding his brat. aU the more incongruous
since he was holding an awkward armload of branches. Tsk,
look at the fool. building afire as though he hadn't a care.
But then. a nobleman could hardly be expected to have any
woodcraft at all; used to the bustle of the court, he would
be unnerved by the forest darkness and want the comfort
of light even if it might betray his position- Yes, now he had
managed to get a fire burning, dazzling Ardagh's night-vision.
And it's surely going to bring Cadwal running.

And endanger Niall in the process. Ardagh smiled a thin
little humorless Sidhe smile. Here he was, surrounded by
forest Power; let him use it against this child-stealer. Deli-
cately, enjoying himself, the prince spoke soft, magical
Words, sent out waves of Strangeness to Odran, chill whis-
pers of danger aU around you, danger-without-a-name,
Darkness prowling after you, stalking you. Darkness about
to enfiulfyou, Darkness just behind you.

Ha. yes, look at Odran glancing nervously around! No
sign of the sophisticated courtier now at all. Good! Let him
feel something of the fear he'd caused the boy. A little more
persuasion, Ardagh felt, and the man would break into open
panic. A little more again, and he would flee or simply
collapse. Either way—

"What's the matter?" Niall said suddenly. "Scared?"

No/ Ardagh thought. Be auiet, Niall, let me work.

And, "Be quiet," Odran hissed.

"Scared the forest's going to get you?"

"Be quiet, boy!"

Stop it, NiaU! I can't concentrate on magic and you. You're
shattering my spelll

314 Josepha Shemwn

But of course the boy couldn't hear him. "Better hope
the forest does get you," NiaII taunted his captor, "because
whatever it can do is going to be nicer than what my father
does when he catches you—"

"I said, be quiet!"

The shout was punctuated by the sound of a slap and
Niall's sharp little cry of pain. Wild fury blazed up in Aidagh
at that cry. Abandoning his broken spell, he sprang at Odran.
He and the man went crashing to the forest floor, rolling,
grappling, struggling to free weapons. Odran was even less
used to brawling than the prince, but that didn't stop him
from trying to bite and kick and gouge.

Quick learner, curse him. But I can stSl—

Something white-hot seared his arm. The prince gasped
in startled pain, lost his grip on Odran, and felt the man
wriggle free. Both of them scrambled towards Niall: Aidagh
got there Brst, finally managing to draw his dagger, and
whirled with a snarl to face Odran,

Who has his sword drawn. Wonderful. This isn't a throw-
ing knife. How do I—

With superb timing, Cadwal and his men chose that
moment to come roaring through the underbrush. Odran
turned and fled. Ardagh made one desperate lunge to stop
him, only to hit his already scorched arm against a tree and
recoil in helpless pain. When the mercenaries would have
started after Odran, Cadwal shouted, "No! Our first job's
to get the prince back safely."

Ardagh, gasping for breath, slashed Niall's bonds. "Are
... are you all right?" he asked die boy, and the wide-eyed
Niall nodded.

"I knew someone would come for me," he said bravely,
then stopped. "Och, but your arm! Are you all right?"

"Good question," Cadwal said. "Here, let me see." His
hands on Ardagh's arm were surprisingly gentfe. "Mm. Nasty
scorch. Doesn't look dangerous, though. What did you do,
land on the fire?"

Ardagh touched the scorched spot gingerly. "It feels that
way." But it's most surely an iron-bum. Just like the one I
received from Gervinus' not-prayerbook. Not a bad one,

THE SHATTERED OATH          315

as Cadwal had noted, though it certainly hurt as fiercely
as had that first bum. And does that mean Odran is carry-
ing some token given to him by the bishop? Is he actively
in atUance with Gervinus?

There was no way he could tell die humans his suspi-
cions. Ardagh glanced at Cadwal and frowned. "What?"

Cadwal was very plainly holding back amusement. "Noth-
ing. Just that you let Odran get away and got hurt in the
process."

"I hardly see the amusement in that!"

"Och, man—ah, Prince Ardagh, that is, I'm not laugh-
ing at you. Wouldn't be that rude- Or stupid. It's just," he
added with a sly sideways glance at the prince, "marvel-
ously comforting to see that even you aren't perfect!"

"I never claimed to be perfect. Come, back to Fremamn."

Panting, stumbling over rocks and roots, snagging his
clothing on branches and thorns, tripping over his sword
and his own tired feet, Odran staggered desperately through
the forest. Damn, ah, damn, who would have thought things
would fall apart so quickly? His snatching of the boy had
been an impulse, a stupid thing. Had he really expected
to get far enough away to escape?

Yes, of course I did. I thought I could get all the way back
to my own holdings. And now here 1 am in the middle of
nowhere, no horse, no hostage, no—

"At last. I was wondering where you were."

Odran stopped so sharply he nearly fell- There in an open
glade stood a dark-robed figure, holding two horses, one of
which he recognized as his own runaway. "Who... ah." The
figure had pushed back the hood of his robe. "Bishop Ger-
vinus. What are you doing out here, my lord bishop?"

The same as you, my lord Odran. Fleeing Fremainn."

"But—why?"

"Why? You experienced something of that 'why,' I think.
You felt something of the Darkness surrounding the High
King."

"I don't . . ." But Odran remembered the strangeness
that had seized his mind just before, the terrifying sense

316 Josephs Sherman

•that something was coming for him, something was stalk-
ing him. He stiffened. Such fancies belonged to a fool of a
poet, not him! And yet... the terror had felt very real indeed.
"Sorcery . . . ?" he asked doubtfully.

"Oh yes, sorcery. Sorcery in so dark and tangled a web
that even King Aedh himself is snared. Think of it, my lord.
I know you have no love for him, but think: have there not
been signs all along? Suspicions on his part, actions that
seemed too swift, hatreds mat seemed too sharp to be true?"

A small, sane part of Odran knew such occasional lapses
or bits of illogic were true of any man, without any sorcery
being involved, but he couldn't seem to find the words to
say mat. And the bishop continued, turning fact into fan-
tasy, fantasy into fact, citing strange example after example
till they no longer seemed strange.

"I am but one man, bishop though I be. I could no longer
bear to stay in that foulness." Gervinus' smile^inted in me
darkness. "Neither, it would seem, can you. What are you
planning, my lord Odran? Where are you going?"

It was so soft and soothing a croon Odran couldn't seem
to find anything to say. All he could do was listen helplessly
as Gervinus continued, feeling the smooth words wash over
him, stealing into his mind, his heart.

"Where are you going, my lord Odran? Back to your
holdings? Back to raise your men against the king who has
betrayed your trust. Back to join others who feel the same
way. Back to those who will raise arms against the wrong-
ness. Those who will rid Eriu of evil, cleanse it, replace the
corruption with a true king, a king worthy in the sight of
God and man. Is that your goal, my lord Odran? Is it? Is
that your goal, my lord?"

Odran, drowning beneath the tide of words, seeing only
a bright, bright future, and himself with a crown set on his
brow, gasped out, "Yes! I am your man!"

"Of course you are," the bishop said, and smiled anew.
"Now come, mere is much to be done."

"Anwif. AmulfJ''
The acolyte sat bolt upright, staring wildly into the

THE SHATTERED OATH

317

darkness. Had he actually heard that—that voice tickling
at his mind? Here he was, still alive and unhurt, the High
King seemed to be believing his story of innocence betrayed
and total ignorance of any wrong done by Gervinus, so far,
anyhow. And it was so good, for the moment, not to have
to worry about anything. But . . . but ... he wasn't sure
what he wanted. Even while half of him longed to be no
more than ordinary, half of him still longed for sorcery. And
now;

"Amulf! I know you can hear me."

The acolyte looked -nervously about "Master... ? Is that
. . .you?"

"Of course it is! And no, I am not anywhere near you,
so stop that ridiculous staring about and listen."

God, the bishop was scrying him as well as using mind-
speech! That meant, Arnulf thought, that he was still impor-
tant to Gervinus, he was still somebody. Terrified and elated
at the thought, Amulf sat perfectly still and said, "Uh . . .
yes. I'm listening."

"I'm sure you've been feeling sorry for yourself, aban-
doned like that. But you haven't been abandoned, Amulf.
I left you therefor a reason. Can you guess what it is?"

Amulf chewed his lower lip. To be your spy?"

"Ah, the boy does have wits! Yes, Amulf. Yours wul be a
very risky position. You must be my eyes and ears in
Fremainn. Can you do this for me? Can you. Amulf?"

Could he? "Y-yes," Arnulf said, and then, more strongly,
"yes. Of course I can."

There might have been a hint of doubt in Gervinus' mind-
voice, but what he said was simply. "Good. You are to teU
me whatever new thing happens."

"But how can I—what shall I—"

"Come now, I've taught you something of scrying! And
even you should have enough skill with magic by now to
know what to do!"

"But—"

"Don't argue with me. If you see something important,
you are to do what you must. Is that understood? You are
to do what you must!

318 josepha Sherman

"I understand."

"Very good. I wiU speak with you again. For now, my
loyal apprentice, good nig/it."

With that, the contact was broken, leaving Aroulf shak-
ing and confused and elated. He had not been abandoned.
Ton will know what to do," he said softly. Oh yes, oh yes,
he did.

Breathless, Arnulf sat staring at a new, exciting future.
Come what may, he would survive. Come what may, sor-
cery would still be his. And if the occasion arose, he would
use that sorcery and show Gervinus just how Powerful this
small, despised apprentice could be!

Ardagh stood to one side just outside the royal keep,
watching as Aedh and Eithne, hair turned to flame by
the torchlight, faces brighter than the flame with joy,
enfolded their son in their joint embrace. In that moment,
he thought, they were no more than parents welcoming
back a child they'd feared lost forever. To the prince's eyes,
Eithne looked very weary, wear/ with more than a mother's
worry, and he wondered with a little pang of alarm about
Sorcha.

As NiaII, now sagging with exhaustion, was hurried off
to bed, Aedh glanced about at Ardagh, Cadwal, the gath-
ered mercenaries. "What can I say that won't sound trite?
I do thank you, both as a father and your king, I thank you
with all the gratitude that can be in one man's heart."

"And I," Eithne added, "I add my blessings on all of you."

Aedh turned to enter the keep. Eithne started with him,
but Ardagh said softly to her, "I burned my arm in the
struggle. It is but a slight scorch but very uncomfortable."
True enough. "Would you have some salve for it?"

"Of course. Come with me." But as she applied the salve,
which, from the herbal scent of it, was the same that Sorcha
had once used on his hand, Eithne murmured, "You're being
a bit transparent. Prince Ardagh."

-I don't—"

"The injury to her head was not severe. I cast a healing
spell over Sorcha, and she will be fine."

THE SHATTERED OATH

319

Before he could thank her, or say anything at all, Eithne
had hurried away. Ardagh stood looking after her, part of
him wanting to follow, to go to Sorcha, part of him shout-
ing, Fool! She is but human!

Powers. Too much was happening too quickly—the dis-
appearance of Gervinus, the escape of Odran and the near-
stealing of Prince Niall. The spefl he'd thrown over Odran
hadn't been fully cast; he was feeling the shadow of back-
lash from that as well. And the air hung heavy with the
promise of more trials to come. Did the humans feel it too,
this ever-growing tension?

All at once too worn for further thought, Ardagh returned
to his guest house. What would happen, would, he told
himself pragmatically, and collapsed into deep, dreamless
sleep-

CHAPCeR 26

The morning was early enough to still be chill and grey,
and a faint mist filled the air. Ardagh shivered and drew
the folds of his brat more tightly about himself. Every now
and again this Realm reminded him just how alien it was.
How alien its people were . . .

I cannot let myself love her. I cannot let her low me. It
would only lead to pain.

Easy to think! More difficult to accept. Ardagh shivered
again. This Realm . . . yes, this Realm was changing him,
softening him. It must be, or such thoughts as love for a
human woman would never even have occurred to him.

And yet, there was something so intriguing about this one
woman, this Sorcha ni Fothad, human or no, something so
intriguing about her fierce spirit and delight in learning,
something about her quick, clever mind and—

No! He would hurt her by never aging, she would hurt
him by aging far, far too swiftly, leaving him alone. Pow-
ers, so they all would, down to cheerful little Fainche, they
would all, with their so-brief mortal lives, age and die and
leave him so painfully alone—

With a great effort, Ardagh turned his mind from the ach-
ing fear trying to overwhelm him to safer memories of his
homeland, of the magic gleaming in air and earth, fire and
water, of Us tranquil, lovely estate filled with flowers, and little
Ninet softly picking out a melody on her harp....

320

THE SHATTERED OATH          321

Enough of this, too. And surely it was only mist making
his face damp. Ardagh roughly rubbed it dry and swore a
harsh human oath under his breath. Wouldn't he make a
fine sight, all soft-eyed and miserable, for this early morn-
ing council King Aedh had called?

"Prince Ardagh-"

The prince turned sharply, forcing his face back into its
usual mask of cool self-control. "Ah, my lord Fothad."
Keeping his voice as casual as possible, he asked, "How does
your daughter?"

"My daughter, praise God and Queen Eithne's healing
skills, does well. 'Hie queen insists she stay in bed one day
more, but assures her that she'll be perfectly fine after a
little rest."

"I am truly glad to hear it." Now, there's a fine under-
statement. "But you obviously want to talk with me alone."

"Yes." Fothad's gaze was suddenly uncertain, like that of
a man about to broach a subject he didn't really want to
discuss. "And it's a good thing you've brought up the sub-
ject of my daughter, because it's of my daughter we must
speak."

"Must we."

"Prince Ardagh, please. I thought now, before the meeting.
as good a time as any,"

"For what?" the prince asked in sudden impatience.
"Come, man, what are you trying to say?"

This isn't easy. But. . . Prince Ardagh, I have no com-
plaints as to your rank; the good Lord knows it's more noble
than mine."

"How kind of you to notice,"

"Please. I—well now, if you were anyone else but who
you are—"

Ah. "What I am, you mean. Cu glas."

Fothad winced. "You put it blundy. But since you do: yes,
that's exactly the problem. You are a foreign exile. One with
no true legal standing in Eriu- I don't know how you truly
feel about my daughter... ."

Ae, Powers, neither do I. But Ardagh remained firmly
silent, and after an awkward moment, Fothad repeated, "I

322 Josepha Sherman

don't know how you feel about her, but as a man of honor,
surety you see that—that—och, I'm saying this badly, and
I a poet—that there can never be anything of honor between
you."

Misery was rapidly giving way to anger. Voice cold with
the force of his barely supressed emotion, Ardagh said, "And
there will never be anything dishonorable between us, either,
if that's your fear. I've already given you my vow about that,
if you recall."

"Of course. I didn't mean—"

"I am quite well aware of my precarious standing in this
land. Andbelieve me, I have no intention of involving myself
in anything that cannot be satisfactorily settled." A master-
piece of vagueness, that. the prince jibed at himself, but
Fothad, after studying him fiercely as if to puzzle out what
he truly meant, held up a hand in resignation.

"I will accept that. For now."

Ardagh raised an eyebrow. " 'For now*? Why. my lord!
Are you threatening me?"

There's no need for that, is there?" But then Fothad's
fierce gaze fell. "Look you, I confess it: I've been suffer-
ing guut all along over wedding Sorcha off to a drunkard.
My only excuse is that Meallan cast a good image in pub-
he; none of us guessed the truth about him. I don't want
to see my daughter hurt again."

"Do you think I do?" But then Ardagh sighed. "You do
love your daughter."

That got him a surprised glance. "Of course I do!"

"You don't understand. In my brother's realm, true love,
love without some sly ulterior motive, some purpose of
politics or alliance, is far too rare. I'm ... not sure I've ever
dared feel it." Most certainly not now.

Fothad blinked. "Och, well," he said carefully, "I've heard
it's like that in some royal courts. All the more reason, then,
for you to appreciate my wanting to protect Sorcha."

"I ..." Ardagh shook his head. "I will not stand for a
lecture. Not even from you, my sometime teacher. And no
man," he added in quiet warning, "may tell me what I can
and cannot do. I have swom to do your daughter no harm.

THE SHATTERED OATH          323

More than that—" He glanced up, very glad for the inter-
ruption. "Come, man, we are being summoned to council,"

Aedh looked about the council chamber. '* . . . and so
we have a bishop who is not a bishop somewhere out there,
Odran mac Daire also loose and presumably making for his
homelands, and a whole rednue of very bewilderedchurch
servants on our hands. We also have one equally bewildered
Prince of Clonach who may or may not have been ensor-
celled and who made an attempt, on my life- We won't
mention Leinster, Meath, or the Lochlannach right now,
but I think that sums up the situation to date. Any sugges-
tions?"

"We cannot," Ardagh said, "allow Gervinus to go free."

Father Seadna frowned slightly, "What harm can the man
possibly work now? Alone in a strange land with no one to
aid or befriend him—I think we may safely leave it to Our
Lord to punish him."

"Alone, yes," Ardagh argued, "but hardly without defenses.
You know something of what I mean," he added with a sharp
glance at Aedh.

Who evaded it neatly. "I'm sorry, Prince Ardagh, but I
must side with Father Seadna. Yes, the man definitely
intended harm to me—"

"Ha!"

"—but what happened could just as easily have been
explained away as an effect of the drug as anything else."

"No! I—" Ardagh resolutely cut himself off in mid-
sentence. Keep arguing like this, and you're going to have
them believing you're a sorcerer as weU. "So be it, I yield
to Father Seadna." For now.

"As for the retinue," the monk said, "I can only suggest
that they be returned to Rome. There is no place for mem
here."

Ah weU, one more try. "What of Amulf? Does anyone
here truly believe him innocent?"

Father Seadna frowned at him. "Is there any reason to
believe him to be otherwise?"

"He was the personal servant of Gervinus. Granted, he

324 josepha Sherman

doesn't seem to be the keenest of wits, but he would have
to have been incredibly stupid not to have known at least
something of the man's plans."

"Precisely," Aedh said. "And that's exactly why he's not
going anywhere. Yes, we'll send the others back to Rome
or wherever else they wish to go. But Amulf, I think, stays
here where we can keep an eye on him."*

"Yes," the prince began, "but what if—"

But the rest of what he wanted to say was drowned out
in die sudden blare of horns.         '

"Well now, a messenger's arriving." Aedh sat back in his
chair, fingers steepled. "Wish to wager with me, anyone,
that his message concerns Donnchadh of Clonach?"

"No takers," Fothad said.

The panting messenger was ushered in. Struggling to catch
his breath after what had plainly been a frantic ride, he told
the king that Donnchadh of Clonach was already on the
march and nearly halfway to Fremainn.

"So now." Aedh's smile was sly. "It would be rude to make
him come all the way here." He got to his feet, and the
others hastily followed suit. "We must make preparations
to meet him. While we can yet pick the ground."

"Wait, now." Fothad blocked his path, "You can't be
meaning to battle him."

"Him. Not his men. No need for that Come now, Fothad,
as a poet you surely have heard offirfer."

"Hie challenge of single combat? Of course I have. but—"

"Well, then."

Ardagh frowned, trying to puzzle out Aedh's strategy. "If
I'm not mistaken, a duel counts as true combat in the law.
If you duel him and lose, that law says you lose your crown
as well."

"I have no intention of losing. I've seen how Donnchadh
handles a sword: all passion and force but little finesse,"

"Passion can crush finesse," Fothad began, but Aedh cut
in, "Nothing's without some risk."

"But if Donnchadh loses," Ardagh said, "then it's his crown
that's forfeit. You don't really want him deposed, do you?"

Aedh grinned. "Clever Prince Ardagh! No, indeed. Far

THE SHATTERED OATH          325

better the nuisance I know, with the Lochlannach threat
to keep him mostly in check, than some stranger on the
throne of Clonach."

Ardagh gave a sudden sharp laugh. "Clever King Aedh,
rather! I see the point of your little game. But it's going to
be a tricky one to win and lose."

"Och, yes," Aedh agreed. "But where's the fun in a game
that has no challenge at all?"

Queen Derval of Clonach, thinking herself securely alone
in her grianan, looked up in shock from her scroll at the
stranger who so suddenly stood before her, wrapped in a
dark, concealing cloak.

Not quite concealing. She could have sworn she caught
glimpses of what could only be ecclesiastical garb under-
neath it: sadly bedraggled and stained with mud, perhaps,
but ecclesiastical nevertheless. Astonished curiosity kept her
from shouting for guards. Instead, Derval asked, "Who are
you? How did you get in here?"

"You need have no fear of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," Derval retorted with contempt.
"One shout is all I need to be rid of you. I just wish to know
how you got past the guards."

She thought she heard the softest of chuckles." 'All things
are lawful for me—' "

" '—but not all things are expedient.' I can quote Scrip-
ture, too. I repeat, who are you?"

He bowed ever so slightly, then pushed back the hood
of his cloak to reveal a lean, strong-featured face, cold,
intelligent eyes holding a hint of—of what? Madness? Or
power beyond anything she'd yet seen? "Bishop Gervinus,"
he told her smoothly, "late of Rome."

Derval's eyes narrowed. "My husband's spies are failing
him, it seems. I was told that you were in Fremainn."

"So I was- Till I could remain there no longer."

"Ah? The High King is hardly one to wantonly banish a
Churchman."

"Oh, I assure you, I left voluntarily."

"If in haste?"

326 Josepha Shennan

He smiled. "Queen Derval, I think I'm not mistaken if
I say that you and I are both realists. Leave the softer
thoughts of'honor,' 'loyalty,' 'it has always been so,' to others-
You and I know that 'honor' and 'loyalty' are very relative
concepts, indeed. And that there is nothing set for those
with sufficient dear sight, nothing that cannot be changed
by those with sufficient daring. And something must very
much be changed in Eriu. May I sit?"

She gestured brusquely at a chair. As he seated himself,
Derval said, "Your Grace, those are very pretty words. Quite
stirring, in fact. "What are you implying with them, I won-
der? Treason, perhaps?"

Treason," he murmured, "can only be committed against
a worthy lord. Queen Derval, please. I know exactly what
you've been doing, the alliances you've been making."

Her heart gave a great, terrified leap. "You could not,"
Derval began, then cut off the words in fury, realizing (hat
she'd just been tricked into a confession. "How did you
know?"

°I knew."

"Bishop Gervinus, I am not a child to be satisfied with
easy words! And here is another quote for you; 'Beware of
false prophets.' "

He smiled at that and held out his arms. "A hit, a true
hit. But I am not a prophet; I make no claims to know the
future. Unless, of course, you and I might form an alliance
of our own. Then I might foretell quite an intriguing future
for us both."

Derval frowned. There was nothing of normal human lust
in those icy eyes, nothing but that cold, impersonal, politi-
cal interest. "What do you want of us. Your Grace? My
husband on the throne? And yourself, perhaps, behind him?"

"Ah, I applaud you. Queen Derval! It's so rare in this land
to meet someone to whom everything need not be explained
a hundred times over."

"Answer me. Your Grace- Why should my husband and
I ally ourselves with you? Why should we exchange one
overlord for another?"

"Because, Queen Derval, I don't think you have much

THE SHATTEBED OATH          327

of a choice." He stood, seeming suddenly to loom over her
like a great mass of darkness. "I suspected you might resist,
though I admit I never expected so marvelously cold and
controlled an intellect."

"What are you—"

"A pity you are quite so clever. I wish that alliance. Queen
Derval, I wish the names of your fellow conspirators. And
I shall have them."                       ^

Such melodramatic words. But Derval couldn't mock
them. His eyes . . . there was nothing in them, nothing at
all but endless, endless emptiness. Held helpless, Derval
fought to move, to scream, to fight back, but there was
nothing . . . nothing.

Nothing.

Ardagh stood peacefully under a tree at the edge of the
open meadow Aedh had chosen, waiting with cool Sidhe
patience, amusing himself by watching the humans wait-
ing. Cadwal and his mercenaries showed litde outward strain,
save for the occasional clenching of a fist on a sword hilt;

they had been through this type of thing who knew how
many times before. Aedh's own men looked less steady.
There's the danger. Ardagh mused, their hot blood. If they
broke ranks or gave in to tension, Aedh might well have a
full-fledged battle on his hands.

The king knew it. "A lovely day for a duel, isn't it?" he
commented to no one in particular. "And a duel, one to one,
is all it is to be, regardless of outcome. Is that understood?"

There were reluctant grunts and nods.

"Good. Because disobedience of a royal command is as
treasonous as— Ah, here they come now."

So this is Donnchadh ofClonach, Ardagh thought, eying
the tall, mail-clad figure at the procession's head. He looks
splendid as a hero out of one ofFothad's poems—and about
as foolish as his son, riding openly in the lead like that. with
no one guarding his flank. If Aedh were a shade less hon-
orable—or less clever—he could have cut Donncbadh down
with one cast of a spear.

But Aedh only stood waiting, looking deceptively lazy

328 fosepha Sherman

despite his own mail-clad self as he leaned on his sword.
"Welcome, Donnchadh ofCIonach." His voice was decep-
tively lazy, too. "And what brings you here all the way from
your own lands? And with armed men, too."

"You know why," Donnchadh said without ceremony-
"Give me back my son."

"I'm afraid I can't do that No, don't give me that alarmed
stare; the boy's not hurt. But you see, there's the litde matter
of his having tried to kill me."

Ardagh saw Donnchadh's ever-so-slight wince, and smiled.
Point one to Aedh.

"He is but a boy!" Donnchadh protested. "Boys are impul-


sive.

Aedh feigned surprise very nicely. "I'd call attempted
assassination a bit more than impulsive."

"I have come," Donnchadh said, biting off the words, "for
my son. I do not intend to leave without him."

''Well, then," Aedh retorted, smiling, "there's only one thing
to be done about it." He raised his sword with a quick, easy
grace that pleased Ardagh's Sidhe sensibilities. "Since I am
me injured party, and since you are, after all, me boy's father,
I say we keep this a personal matter, one to one. I propose that
we duel, just you and I, and the winner keeps me boy."

Donnchadh could only have known what defeat would
mean to him under the law, but with the rashness Ardagh
had expected from him, he cried, "So be it!"

Sword drawn, he leaped from his horse and sprang to
the attack, blade smashing against Aedh's quickly lifted
sword. No ordinary duel, this! The king of Clonach meant
to kill his opponent, and Ardagh wondered suddenly if Aedh
knew what he was doing. Although me High King seemed
in excellent physical condition, he wasn't exactly a young
man, not by human standards.

But men, Donnchadh was no boy, either. He was taller
than the solidly muscled Aedh by about a head, but their
reach seemed about equal. And Aedh had been right, Ardarfi
noted after me first few moments of the duel: Donnchadh's
swordplay really did lack finesse.

But tt certainly makes up for that lack in sheer ferocity!

THE SHATTEHED OATH

329

And what, me prince wondered in sudden uneasiness,
happened if ferocity won out over skill? What if the High
King was injured to the point of losing the fight or was
outright slain? Of course, a human as unsubtle as Donn-
chadh would be incredibly easy for anyone stronger of
will to control; it would not be difficult to win an-mflu-
ential place at his court. But rather to his surprise, Ardagh
realized that he didn't want that. Aside from the utter
chaos into which Eriu would be thrown—a chaos that
would affect him. as well—he had, the prince admitted
to himself, become too fond of these folk to see them
hurt, human though they were, fond of Aedh and his
Eithne, of Fothad and Cadwal—

And Sorcha. Ardagh's mind flinched away from that last
name.

Aedh didn't seem at all perturbed by Donnchadh's fury.
If anything he seemed to be feeding it, almost as though
he was amused by the whole thing, calmly countering this
slash, neatly dodging that, his powerful frame moving with
steady, easy grace. The prince found himself smiling slightly
despite his uneasiness, pleased by the artistry of the per-
formance, aware that Aedh was deliberately never inflict-
ing more than scratches on Donnchadh, never letting
Donnchadh inflict more than scratches on him.

A pretty dance. But Aedh seems to be keeping only to
the defensive. A dangerous tactic, that! When is he going
to take the offensive? Or maybe, the prince realized sud-
denly, he doesn't mean to take it.

Cadwal didn't see the point. "What does he think he's
doing?" the mercenary muttered. "What the heU does he
think he's doing? Look at that!" he snapped at Ardagh.
"Look! King Aedh had a clear opening at Donnchadh's
neck, right above the line of that mail shirt, but he didn't
even try to take it. Ha, and he could have gotten Donn-
cbadh right across the swordarm, but he didn't even try
that, either!"

Ardagh glanced at the mercenary with a sharp grin. "Don't
you see? What he's doing is tiring Donnchadh out. That's
what all this is about. He's tiring Donnchadh to the point

330 Josephs Sherman

where Aedh can safety call their battle a draw with no winner
or loser, and be believed."

That tactic wasn't helping Donnchadh's temper. While
he didn't make any wild demands that the coolly dodging
and parrying Aedh stand still and fight, ever-increasing anger
and frustration blazed in his eyes.

"Careful," Cadwal murmured as though Aedh could hear
him, "careful. Can't tell what a man driven mad by rage
will do."

Without warning, Aedh staggered slightly, stumbled back
a step, his grace suddenly gone. Cadwal and Ardagh
gasped—but for different reasons.

Sorcery! Ardagh knew. Ineptly cast, but sorcery cast at
Aedh! Not Gervinus; nothing that one did would ever be
so awkward. Then who?

No time to worry about it, or any elegant response. Ardagh
cast ^i wall of raw will about Aedh to block me spell. And
in the next instant wondered, could he hold it? It should
be so easy, one of the most basic, near-mindless forms of
defense. Instead, the impact of spell against spell shivered
along every nerve, forcing him to gasp for air, struggling
like the newest of novices to hold the wall in place. This
cursedly magic-weak Realm!

But if that thrice-cursed amateur sorcerer could cast a
spell (though doubtfessly with the concrete aid of magical
tools), a prince of the Sidhe could counter it! The strain
sent Ardagh to his knees—let the humans make of that what
they would—but he was winning, he was winning—

Yes! The spell broke so suddenly he nearly fell forward.
Brushing wet strands of hair back from his eyes, the prince
realized, Amulf, that's who it was. It could only have been
he. Breaking the spell had probably knocked Amulf senseless
if it hadn't killed him outright. Ardagh gave a mental shrug;

the acolyte wasn't quite young enough to spark Sidhe
instincts of child-protection. He shouldn't have meddled.
Magic's not a game for beginners.

Aedh might or might not have realized what had nearly
happened to him. His fatigue might or might not have been
real—Ardagh, struggling to catch his own breath, rather

THE SHATTERED OATH

331

thought not—but there was no doubt at all that Donnchadh
of Clonach was at the point of staggering. Aedh could have
taken him easily—if that had been Aedh's intention.

Instead, the High King drew back and laughed, the shaky
laugh of a truly weary man, and lowered his sword.      ^

"I think we may have a problem here, Donnchadh. I don't
really want to go another dance-round; do you?"

Donnchadh, clearly trying not to pant, managed only a
snari.

"I'll take that for a no." Aedh shook his head. "No win-
ner, no loser. Tell you what, Donnchadh. Neither one of
us can afford winding up dangerously weakened. Rather
than we continue and risk that, let us declare our match a
draw. Since you didn't lose to me, take back your son and
welcome to him."

Donnchadh could only have been aware of the subter-
fuge Aedh had just worked, but with his son's life at stake,
he was in no position to argue. Ail he could do was brusquely
order, "Get on your horse," to the very subdued Fearghal,
hurl himself onto his own horse, and just as brusquely ride
away, his men trailing after.

As soon as it was clear there was not going to be any
further threat from Clonach, the High King's own men
relaxed, hands leaving sword hilts or spear shafts. They
rushed in, ringing Aedh round, congratulating him, loud
in their relief. But Ardagh, caught in the crush, heard Cadwal
note to the king, "You've made an enemy there."

Wiping his sweaty face with a scrap of cloth, Aedh only
shrugged. Seen up this close, his fatigue was evident, though
he was clearly nowhere as weary as Donnchadh had been;

small streaks of blood here and there showed that he hadn't
been totally untouched by Donnchadh's sword, though there
didn't seem to be any injuries worse than scratches. "Made
an enemy?" he said with a sardonic grin. "You think
Donnchadh of Clonach's ever been a friend? Never could
prove it wasn't he that set that ambush for me, back when
we first met up with you, Prince Ardagh—hey now, what's
the matter, man? You look as drained as I feel."

Ardagh shook his head impatiently. If Aedh hadn't been

332 Josepha Shernwn

aware of the sorcery, the prince wasn't going to waste time
enlightening him. "We must return to Fremainn, and quickiy.
There is someone there who must be questioned."

The prince didn't stop for the others' baffled remarks, but
threw himself onto his horse and rode headlong for Fre-
mainn. Let them follow or not as they would. Tired or not,
he must reach Amuif—and reach him before Gervinus did.

But returning to Fremainn meant returning to a new
swarm of chaos, excited folk running in from all sides, eager
to greet their returning, victorious king. Ardagh fought his
way through the throng, glad that their excitement over Aedh
was keeping their attention from him (seeing Eithne flinging
herself into Aedh's arms, seeing Sorcha standing to one side,
grimly refusing to let either distract him), and hurried to
what had been the bishop's guest house. Guards stood
watch—a useless watch where sorcery was involved—but
they stepped hastily aside at Ardagh's brusque wave of a
hand. The prince rushed into what had been Gervinus'
bedchamber, then stopped short.

There Amulflay, stifl breathing but limp as a tossed-aside
doll. Beside him, a bowl of clear water and various bits and
pieces of odd substances screamed sorcery at the prince's
senses. But it wasn't going to be proof enough for the
humans. Ardagh bent to the acolyte's side and set about
returning him to consciousness.

At last Arnulf groaned and stirred. His eyelids fluttered
open, his eyes focused, and he froze, staring up at Ardagh
in horror.

That's right," the prince said, "fear me. You have every
reason to fear me, you would-be assassin."

"I d-didn't—I'm not—"

"Don't even attempt falsehood. We both know exactly
what you tried to do. And failed. It will be far, far easier
for you, Amulf, if you confess here and now."

"I didn't—"

"Confess, Arnulf." The prince fixed him with as cold a
Sidhe glare as he could summon. "Confess." He had him
now; Arnulfs never very strong nerve was about to shat-
ter. "Confess."

THE SHATTERED OATH          333

But suddenly the acolyte was squirming away, staring up
in new horror at nothing. Nothing tangible, that was, Ardagh
thought, feeling the softest prickle of new magics.

"I didn't do anything wrongi" Amulf whined. "You told
me I was to do what I must. No, no, I didn't know it, I didn't
mean to misunderstand!"

He's talking to Cervinus! Ardagh realized with a shock,
It's no trick, no hallucination Gervinus is scrying him, 1
can feel it—and there isn't a thing I can do about it, not
without a channel back to wherever the man's scrying from.

Aware that others had begun crowding into the room
behind him, the prince caught Arnulf by the shoulders.
"Now's your chance to be free of him," he hissed. "Hurry,
confess what you've done, then tell me where to find—°

But in a sudden fierce spasm of pain, the acolyte tore
free. His voice shrilled up into an anguished scream, "You
never said I wasn't to use sorcery?' he shrieked, then
screamed even more fiercely, this time clearly past die point
of words. Hands shooting to his chest, Amulf gave one last,
terrible cry—then fell lifeless to the floor.

VISIONS
CtiAPCett 27

Ardagh glared about at the humans in ever-lowing frus-
tration. He had to search this room, find something, any-
thing, a hair, a scrap of cloth that had belonged to Gervinus.
He had to scry for the bishop while Gervinus was still too
drained from the long-range murder of his acolyte to Shield
himself—and Shield himself anyone who could have man-
aged that murder would surely know how to do—but these
well-meaning idiots wouldn't let him! Instead, since he'd
been the one who had actually seen Arnulf die, they all
insisted on going over that death again and again, trying
to make it fit neatly into some mundane category. Trying,
too, to ffve him comfort he neither needed nor wanted.

just leave me alone, that's aO, 1 ask! "No," the prince
snapped for what seemed the hundredth time, "it wasn't
his heart that gave out—ae, yes, it was, but, not from any
natural causes'Arnulf was working sorcery!"

"Of course he was," Father Seadna said sadly. The evi-
dence is all about the room. Poor, foolish, misguided young
man. We'll never know what took him away from the Light
and down the dark path that killed him, but—"

"We do know—" Ardagh began, then cut himself off
sharply before he revealed information a magickless man
couldn't possibly have. Tiying a slightly safer path, the prince
told them all, "It's Gervinus we want. Don't you see?
Gervinus had to have known what his acolyte was doing!"

334

THE SHATTERED OATH          335

Father Seadna gave him an infuriatingly patronizing smile.
"Prince Ardagh, I know the death of this poor young man
virtually in your arms must have been a terrible shock for
you. And we all know how strongly you dislike the—ah—
bishop. But you're seeing perils where they don't exist."

"I—"

"Be assured King Aedh did send out men to find Bishop
Gervinus. They failed."

Ardagh Just barely held back a shout of sheer impatience.
"I know that." He could hear his voice starting to shake with
anger, and with a great effort forced himselfback to Sidhe
calm. "But we cannot let it go at that. Arnulf was nothing
more than an inept apprentice. He had to have had a mentor.
And who else could (hat mentor have been? Gervinus is
an ambitious man wielding who knows what Power. He
represents a very real threat. And we must find him!"

"We will," Father Seadna soothed. "Prince Ardagh, please.
Even if what you claim is true, even if Bishop Gervinus is
practicing some manner of—of the Dark Arts—you have
just seen for yourself the wages of such studies."

What I've seen was murder! But Ardagh couldn't tell the
humans that. He couldn't tell them much of anything and
keep his true self a secret. Cursing the need for that secrecy.
cursing this entire all but magickless Realm, he gave up on
courtesy and patience. There were ways to scry out a per-
son without any tangible clues as aids, not as effective,
perhaps, but those methods would have to serve, because
if he waited till this house was safely empty, it would be
far, far too late to do anything. With a curt bow, Ardagh
pushed his way through the throng, not much caring what
they thought of him, and left the humans to do with the
late Amuff as they would.

Out in the clean air. the prince stood for a frantic sec-
ond glancing sharply about, trying to focus his thoughts.
What bothered him most was: how was it that Gervinus had
been able to successfully work such a spell as had slain
Amulf, and at such a distance?

Ae, of course. Maddening to think that in this Realm a
human, one born without a scrap of Power, might still have

336

Josepha Shennan

more sorcery at his command than a prince of the Sidhe—
all because of that cursed speilbook lending him artificial
aid, the speilbook with its charms that, unlike Sidhe magic,
were attuned to this human Realm.

Too much time already wasted; even with the book to
strengthen him, Gervinus would still be weary after his spell-
casting, but was almost certainly already in the process of
Shielding himself from magical spying. Without any tan-
gible clues to help him, not the smallest scrap of cloth or
lock of bishopic hair, Ardagh knew he must have a human
to ground the search—use a human to find a human, be
thought wildly. And that could only mean Queen Eithae.

But Eithne was closeted with her husband. That left only
one other who knew what he was and could be trusted not
to reveal what she knew:

"Sorcha." It came out as a startled squawk as they nearly
collided with each other. "Look you, lady, I don't have time
to explain, but I need your aid. You know what I am; you're
the only one I dare trust. I must work a scrying spell, now."

Tm glad to see you, too!" she exclaimed as he virtually
dragged her into his guest house. But as he released her
and began frantically hunting what he would need—water,
curse it, dean water, wasn't there any .. . yes here, but he
didn't have a ritual blade—ah, never mind, his dagger would
do, murder reflected in a lolling blade, yes—Sorcha, clearly
struck by his urgency, asked only, "What do you want me
to do?"

"Stand there, just like that. Don't move or speak unless
I ask it. And don't fear: nothing will harm you."

She shivered when he lit the three carefully placed candles
(they should properly have been of wax specially wrought
at the ftill of the Faerie moon, but these Earthly things would
have to serve), shivered again when he placed the bowl of
water (dean water but not, alas, that from a pure spring
sited true north) precisely in the center of the triangle formed
by the candles. But Sorcha wasn't totally afraid; out of the
corner of his eye, Ardagh noted her scholar's intent inter-
est, particularly when he began to whisper the initial Words
of Scrying over the water.

THE SHATTERED OATH          337

Now. Ardagh caught Sorcha's hand in his own, refusing to
let himself note how soft and humanlywann it was. He drew
his dagger with his free hand, touched the blade's point first
to her arm, not quite drawing blood, symbolically grounding
his search for a human with human essence, then touched the
point to the water, the scrying mirror, sending his search
outward, chanting, chanting.. .feeling Power growing, ever
so frustratingly slowly... growing -.. growing ,. .

The water was shimmering now, glittering, turning smooth
and sleek as silver. Sorcha gasped softly in wonder, but
Ardagh refused to hear her, refused to see her, refused to
see anything but the water, the mirror, the image he must
see, the image he would see, Cervinus. Cervinus ... he
could see the man, almost see the man and—and—

Ae, Powers, he couldn't hold it! He couldn't hold the
magic, and—

Pain slashed through his mind like white-hot flame. Before
he could so much as scream, Ardagh was hurled away into
darkness.

Something was tickling his face. Vaguely aware, Ardagh
woke slowly, only gradually realizing he was lying on me
floor. Yes, and his head was pillowed on a woman's soft lap,
and it was the ends of her long braids that were tickling
him. Opening his eyes, he found that the lap belonged to
Sorcha, bending over him. And for a long moment he could
do nothing but look up into her eyes, their depths for once
gentle and worried. And just then, Ardagh realized, he
wouldn't have minded if Time itself had ended so that he
could go on lying there Hire this.

Sorcha had started when his eyes opened, but for a long,
long moment after that, she didn't move. Then she asked
warily, "Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Good!" She stood up so suddenly Ardagh nearly cracked
his head on the floor. "Don't you ever dare do something
like that to me again! Telling me this wasn't anything dan-
gerous, then collapsing like that—dammit, I thought you
were d-dead!"

338 Josepha Sherman

He blinked up at her, astonished but too dizzy to speak,
and Sorcha cried contritely, °0ch, I'm sony," and knelt by
his side again. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Quite." He managed to raise himself up on one elbow,
staring. "But next time kindly warn me before dropping me
like that."

"But what happened? One moment you were casting your
spell, in the next, you just—fell over. I... realty did think
you were dead."

"That would have mattered so much to you?* he said,
and regretted the banality even as he said it.

That brought her back to her usual sharp self. "What do
you think? I take it that the spell failed?"

"It failed. What you saw was a magical backlash, unspent
Power recoiling, fortunately not seriously, 6n me."

"Ah, like the one that struck you down a few months back!
When you slept for two days."

"Indeed- This Realm is wonderful for such mishaps." He
sat all the way up, then winced as a new surge of dizziness
swept through him, and rested head in hands. He felt
Sorcha's hand rest lightly on his shoulder for a moment.

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Yes." Carefully, Ardagh straightened. For a moment his
face and hers were almost touching, so dose he could feel
the warmth of her breath on his cheek. But then Sorcha
scrambled hastily back to her feet. Ardagh tried to smile
up at her, felt it turn into a grimace instead,

"It's my fault the thing tailed. I was in too great a hurry;

I didn't want to accept that such a specific scrying spell
couldn't quite work in this Realm."

"And Arnulf?" Sorcha asked suddenly. "Was it a magical
backlash that killed him?"

"No. That," Ardagh said, "was most certainly murder."

"Murder!"

"Gervinus killed him from afar to keep him from con-
fessing." The prince got slowly to his feet. "I don't hear you
arguing."

"I can't."

"Then you alone of all the humans here are unique." He

THE SHATTERED OATH

339

stopped short, studying her, not sure if what he was feel-
ing was joy or anguish, then added softly, "You are unique,
aren't you?"

He saw the color rush into her face. °0ch, I ..."

"Sorcha, I can't lie, even to myself. This is a foolish time
and place for it, but—we can't deny that there's something
happening between us."

For a moment he was sure she was going to deny it. But
then Sorcha murmured, "No. I suppose we can't. Ridicu-
lous!"

He stiffened, stung. "Ridiculous?"

"Who and what we are, I mean. You, a prince of the Sidhe,
so handsome it stops my breath in my throat—"

"Is that all you see?" Ardagh cut in indignantly. "Beauty?"

"Of course not," she returned just as indignantly. "Do
you think I'm that shallow? I also know that I'm not a beauty,
and most definitely not of the Sidhe. No," Sorcha said more
softly. "No. It would never work between us."

"I . . ." But he couldn't finish, knowing that there was
no way to avoid the painful truth: no, indeed.

"How old are you?" Sorcha asked without warning,

Ardagh blinked in surprise. "I don't really know," he
admitted after a moment. "Younger than my brother, cer-
tainly, but as to more specific years . . . my people don't
really need to keep track of such things."

"Exacdy." Her voice was just a little too controlled. "Time
doesn't matter to the Sidhe, does it? You'll stay just as you
are, youthful, beautiful, no matter how many years pass,
but I—I'm only human. I would quickly age and grow ugly
in your eyes, and—and then I would—" She waved a wild
hand, "Besides, if—when you find your way back home, off
'ou'll whisk—not that I btame you for that—and here I'd
>e, left discarded."

"Sorcha ..." he began, then tried again, more resolutely,
"I agree with you. Ae, not about the discarding; I could never
be so cruel to you. But there would be too many problems
if we let emotion come between us. We cannot let this
continue."

"Certainly not."

340 Josephs Sherman

"I would never want to cause you pain.''

"And I—" With a strangled little cry, Sorcha threw her-
self into his arms. She gave him a quick kiss so fiery it left
Ardagh breathless, then tore herself free, running hastily
away. And his keen Sidhe ears heard the sound of soft,
despairing sobs. Struggling to catch his breath, aching to
run after her, he forced himself to stay where he was,
although it took every scrap of Sidhe will to keep mind and
body both under control.

I'm sorry. Powers, Sorcha. I am sorry.

He was still too worn from the effects of the backlash
and die events of the day to think about it further. Sud-
denly too weary even to go on standing, Ardagh walked
slowly back into his house and sank to the bed, sitting lost
in hopeless, hopeless thought.

Ardagh woke suddenly, finding himself sagging sideways
oo the bed, astonished to leam he actually had supped from
musings into sleep- It hadn't been a deep or very fong one,
and he had no idea what had awakened him. The prince
straightened slowly, stretching to work the stifmess out of
his muscles, then went to take care of a nagging body's needs.
It took only a few moments more to straighten clothing and
smooth down hair, then he stepped back out-into the fad-
ing day.

Nothing odd out here, just the usual quiet that came over
a human dwelling place as the night came on. He must have
completely missed dinner, but he wasn't particularly hun-
gry. Instead, Ardagh headed towards the ruin that had been
Gervinus' guest house. There probably wasn't much point
in going here now, so long after the murder, and yet ...
he shrugged.

No one was within; no need to guard an empty build-
ing- Arnulfs body had, of course, been removed, and
Gervinus' retinue were elsewhere, maybe even started on
the long journey back to Rome. Ardagh moved silently
through what had been the bishop's bedchamber, looking
for something useable, something Gervinus had handled.

No. The man had known enough to snatch away anything

THE SHATTERED OATH          341

that might be linked to him. Disappointing. But, Ardagh
mused, since Gervinus had occupied the room for a fair
amount of time, his aura couldn't yet have quite faded. He
shrugged again. Worth a try. The prince sat quietly in the
center of the room, eyes closed, letting his mind relax . . .
relax ... he could almost see Gervinus now, yes, almost
feel the man's thoughts . . . feel the coldness, the ambi-
tion, the anger . . . anger, yes . . . hatred . . .

Ardagh opened bis eyes with a sigh. There was nothing
more than this: Cervinus bore him a sharp personal hatred—
mutual, the prince thought and hardly a surprise—a hatred
sharp enough for the echoes to stil! linger in this room, and
had been furious at him and everyone else in Fremainn about
having to flee like a thief. But there had also been an under-
tone of plotting, of alliances to be made. . . .

Ae, useless. All this told him was what he had already
guessed. Gervinus was indeed out there searching out the
malcontents, trying to weld them into one strong army
against Aedh-

And how am / supposed to prove it?

Ardagh scrambled to his feet and went out into the night
again, not sure exactly what he was hunting. All he needed
now to make things perfect was to run into Fothad accus-
ing him of dishonoring his daughter—

Ae, curse it all to the Lowest Pits of Darkness! He did
not want to be involved in all these human plots. He did
not want to have to worry about any of them. And he most
surely, most thoroughly, heartily, definitely, did not want to
think, act, or even live like a human! He should up and flee
Fremainn himself, set out on his own, free and—and unen-
cumbered!

Of course. Free to go where? Do what? What else was
there for him in this Realm?

Wonderful. See me feel sorry for myself. Just like a
human.

And wouldn't dear brother Eirithan enjoy this sight?

That for you, Eirithan," Ardagh said with a very rude
hand gesture he'd seen Cadwal make, and laughed in spite
of himself. There were some useful things to be learned

342 fosepha Sherman

from humans! Spirits unexpectedly restored, he started back
to his guest house.

And this time he did run into Fothad. The poet was
wandering slowly in the darkness, very plainly a man lost
in thought, but he stopped short when he saw Ardagh. the
prince hesitated at the sight of die man's troubled eyes and
asked, "We're not going to feud, are we?"

"Is there need?" Fothad returned. But then he added
more softly, "Forgive me. I don't mean to attack you."

"And I certainly don't want to attack you."

"Prince Ardagh, I... will you walk with me?"

"If you wish."

They went on together in silence for a time. Then Fothad
murmured, "I can see why you like to stroll about at night
It's so wonderfully peaceful out here with no one but the
occasional guard about. Of course," he added with a side-
ways glance at Ardagh, "it must be particularly easy for you
to get about."

"Eh?"

"I would guess that you have incredibly keen night vision.
Your eyes fairly glow in the dark."

"A trait of my people," Ardagh said without expression,
and was glad when Fothad left it at that. "My lord, you didn't
join me to comment on my vision. What would you?"

Fothad was silent for a time, then burst out, "She's an
old man's child, my Sorcha. That's part of it. I have no other
chick; I tend to forget this one's a woman grown."

Ardagh glanced at him, glanced away, uncomfortable. "You
don't have to say this."

"I do. I all but accused you of dishonorable deeds ear-
lier this day. It wasn't just. I know you're an honest man.
Incredibly honest" Fothad's eyes glinted in the darkness,
as human eyes did when damp- "I also had no right hurt-
ing you about your exile."

"It is as it is."

"No. I see the pain of it in those eerie eyes of yours even
now, even in the darkness."

Ardagh rather doubted that; there were limits to human
vision, and this was, after all, a poet used to hyperbole. But

THE SHATTERED OATH

343

the kindness behind the exaggerated words kept him from
commenting. Fothad continued, "Prince Ardagh, I know
you've come to love my daughter—don't flinch; you know
it's true. I suspect she loves you. too. And I truly wish I
could give you both my blessing! But. . . you are as you
are. and the law is as it is."

Do you think it's your siUy human laws that worry me?
"Look you," Ardagh said, "I know anything between your
daughter and myself is impossible. It's more impossible than
you could ever believe. And I would just as soon not dis-
cuss the matter any longer."

"As you wish." But Fotnad was watching him closely.
"What are you?" the poet wondered. "A prince of Cathay?
Or can you be someone else? Maybe even . . . something
.. . else?"

Trust a poet to see below the surface. Even if it had taken
him this long for that insight. "I am a prince of my people,"
Ardagh said evasively. "And I—" He froze, thinking, Ae. no.
Not here. Not now.

Too late. A Doorway was forming, he could feel it. A
Doorway had opened, shimmering clearly against the dark-
ness, and young Breasal, dressed in silken Sidhe robes, stood
within it.

"No..." Fothad breathed in awe. "I don't believe it... ."*

He thinks it's a heavenly vision, Ardagh realized. Of course.
Bring of these people and their beliefs, what else can he
think?

Breasal realized it, too. He gave Ardagfa one quick glance
of pure panic, then hastily straightened into what he pre-
sumably hoped looked like an angelic pose. And he pro-
claimed in a voice that sounded a little too melodramatically
pure and sweet to Ardagh, "I come from—from the one
who has given me shelter. I come in return for the kind-
ness shown me."

That meant, Ardagh translated silently, that Finvana was
letting the boy return this one last time with a message in
thanks for sending Breasal to his kingdom. Nice to know
the boy was being so well received. But what message could
be so important that—

344 josepha Sherman

"I come with a warning!" Breasal exclaimed, and all at
once he wasn't being theatrical at all. The Lochlannach—
they are sailing even now and will be making landfall within
the week."

Ardagh heard Fothad's sharply indrawn breath. "Where?"
the poet asked. "Breasal, if ever we treated you with kind-
ness in life, tell us now: where are they to tend?"

The embarrassed color came into the bo/s facp at that
"in life," but he answered without hesitation, "Ktlfenora.
Two ships will land near to the monastery of Kilfenora."
Now the color was definitely sharp in Breasal's face: that
monastery lay not too far from his father's lands. But with
good presence of mind, the boy managed to add, in a beau-
tifully Otherworldly tone he could only have learned from
Finvarra, "Seek them there, oh you who stand here. Seek
them there and stop them!"

With a sweep of his arms so melodramatic that Ardagh
nearly choked on unexpected laughter—the boy really was
learning from the flamboyant Finvarra!—Beasal stepped
back into Faerie and was gone as the Doorway vanished.

Fothad turned to Ardagh, face alight with reverence. "You
saw it too."

"Yes." Still snritten by Breasal's imitation of Finvarra, the
prince didn't dare say more; the last thing he wanted to do
was burst into misplaced laughter.

Fothad must have taken his struggle not to laugh for dazed
wonder. "We have been granted a heavenly vision, Prince
Ardagh. I never dreamedsuch a thing might come to pass,
not to me; I am no holy man." I'm certainly not! Aroagh
thought, but didn't dare say. "And yet," the poet contin-
ued, "we fwoe been granted a vision."

But then Fothad's awestruck face hardened. "And we must
make sure that heaven's warning isn't in vain," His trained
voice was suddenly cold and clear as a war trumpet. "Aedh
will be most glad to hear this news. This once, och, this
once we shall stop those sea thieves before they strike!"

LOCHLANNACH
AND OCH CDS

CHAPCCR 28

There was emptiness all around him, terrible, endless
emptiness, and he was falling into it, endlessly aware, end-
lessly falling, endlessly . . ,

Gervinus woke with a gasp, drenched in perspiration, for
one horrifying moment, surrounded by darkness as he was,
sure that it hadn't been a dream at all or, even more ter-
rible, that the dream had followed him into reality.

Impossible. Grimly he willed his pulse to slow, his heart
to cease its wild pounding. It had been only a dream, only
that. And even if he had been having more and more of
the dark kind lately, more than ever he'd endured as a child,
that still gave the things no real power over him.

And yet, and yet... almost before he realized it, Gervinus
found his hand reaching for the grimoire, found himself
clutching it to him as another man might clutch a holy charm.
Only its sorceries seemed to give him true comfort in these
troubled days; only when casting the spells held within it
did he feel any true relief from me inner chill tormenting
him.

Nonsense. Nonsense, indeed. There was no reason to
be feeling this foolish darkness, not now when things were
going so well, so suddenly, wondrously well, after that disas-
trous last day in Fremainn. Oh, true, it was unfortunate

345

346 Josepha Shemwn

that he had needed to Idll Arnulf. But then, who would
have expected that the little idiot would ever have be-
come adept enough to try working true sorcery on his
own? Up until that last inconvenient moment the aco-
lyte, for all his flaws, had been of some use. But betrayal
could not be permitted. /And, those inept attempts at sorcery
or no, betrayal it would have been the moment that Anum
had been questioned. As questioned he would, without a
doubt, have been.

Besides, Amulfs death by sorcery, Gervinus thought with
a touch of dour humor, and sorcery cast from afar at that.
had definitely impressed these new allies. Never mind that
the strain of it had nearly killed him. No, no, they were
perfectly willing to believe what they wanted to see: that
Gervinus had struck Arnulf down with the aid of Divine
intervention. Therefore, they were also blatantly going to
be willing to believe that any other magics he ought need
to display were not sorcery but the gift of Heaven.

Of course they believed. What else could be expected
of these uneducated fools? Gervinus glanced about his
decidedly rural surroundings at the sleeping warriors tying
all around, and shrugged. Sleeping on bare ground and eating
definitely inferior rations for a few days wouldn't hurt him;

they reminded him of the discipline every Prankish noble's
son endured. The enforced company of so many unedu-
cated minds was another matter. A pity that he could not
have partaken of the hospitality of Queen Derval of Clonach
instead.

Ah yes, Derval... now, there was a fascinating woman,
coldhearted and ruthless as any man, with a love of the de-
vious that was equal nearly to his own. What an amazing
network of conspirators she had managed to assemble, aff
on her own!

But she was, unfortunately, what she was, wife to King
Donnchadh. And Donnchadh, equally unfortunately, was
Fearghal's father. Even if Gervinus had managed to suc-
cessfully banish from Derval's mind the memory of the
information he'd forced from her, there was always the
danger that when Donnchadh came riding home with his

THE SHATTERED OATH          347

son in tow, that son would recognize the one who had
ensorcelled him.

Ah well. It had been no easy thing to convince Derval
to give up her precious list, not even with the grimoire's
aid; in fact, it had taken every bit of sorcerous persuasion
he could summon to overwhelm that bitter, stubborn will,
But in die end, it had been worth the trouble. Each of these
hastily assembled allies believed—or acted as though they
believed, which amounted to the same thing—that Gervinus
was on a holy mission. What that mission might be, other
than to rid them of King Aedh, no one seemed to care. Oh
no, they were far too ambitious for such fribbles, seeing
any excuse as good enough, each man thinking that fce would
be the one to end up sitting the High Kings throne. It hardly
mattered which one won out. God knew they bickered so
much among themselves already it was amazing no one had
been slain! There was such a thing as being too indepen-
dent; these volatile folk would never agree long enough to
make one united land.

Ah well. Dens vokmt. Not one of these braggarts was the
equal in cunning and strength of will of King Aedh, and
whichever one of them fina0y managed to kilfoff the oth-
ers and take the throne—why then, Gervinus would most
easily rule the ruler.

But first, he thought, we must be rid of King Aedh.

There hadn't been any time for a grand farewell, Ardagh
thought, just a hasty gathering of men and weapons, and
some frantic scunyings-aboutby women trying not to look
worried.

One of those women was Queen Eithne. Arda^i watched,
surprised by a pang almost of envy as she ran to her hus-
band for one last fierce embrace. What, be wondered uncer-
tainly, must it be like to have someone so very worried about
you?

Some Sidhe sense made him turn sharply to find Sorcha
staring at him. For an instant he wondered if she meant to
imitate Eithne. But no, the prince realized, she and he had
already just barely skirted impropriety by being alone

348 Josepha Sherman

together in his guest house, no matter why, she could hardly
risk rashness now.

Couldn't she? Catching him by two strong fistfuls of hair,
she pulled his head down and gave him a kiss Berce enough
to almost be a declaration of war. As he straightened,
stunned, she glared at him.

"Bring yourself back. Prince Ardagh." It was an order.
"We are not leaving this matter unsettled."

He bowed. "As you will it, my commander."

That forced a reluctant half-smile from her. It vanished
just as quickly. "Bring yourself back," she repeated, and
marched off into the crowd. Ardagh, very much aware of
Fothad's stare on him, watched her go, hearing Cadwal's
chuckle in Us ear.

"Should send that one after the Lochlannach," the mer-
cenary murmured. "She'd have them back in their frozen
homeland with one flash of those sharp eyes. You have
yourself a fine, strong lady there. Prince Ardagh."

"She's not my—"

But Aedh had already given the signal for them to ride
out, and there was nothing to do but follow.

After the strains of their rapid ride, Ardagh thought, they
should have been rewarded with some dramatic vista, some-
thing worthy of the struggle. Instead, the monastery of
Kilfenora looked more like an assemblage of toy buildings
set down near the rocky seashore than any place where
people might actually live or be in any sort of peril: neat
stone walls, neat thatched roofs, neat patches of garden with
not a leaf misplaced. The monks probably thought such
perfection tranquil. Undistracting.

Boring.

It was also nearly as defenseless as a toy. No earthenwork
rings, no palisade, only the one pretty stone wall that looked
solid enough—and the less than sturdy wooden gate that
any truly determined raider could cave in. But then, the
prince thought with only the slightest touch of irony, the
monks, trusting in their isolation, would have believed them-
selves perfectly safe.

THE SHATTERED OATH          349

Which they had been, till now. But they would still be
defended, assuming that this lean old eagle of an Abbot
Cuana would ever believe what King Aedh was telling him.
The abbot listened without a flicker of reaction to the tale
of Breasal's miraculous appearance and the warning of
approaching peril, studying Ardagh all the while as though
he expected to see horns and cloven hoofs.

"Do you, then," the abbot said directly to Ardagh, "claim
to be a holy man to receive such a vision?"

"Hardly that. But the boy and I. were friendly while he
was still... in this world. And," the prince continued blandly,
"I have no reason to doubt anything he says to me now."

The sarcasm not quite hidden behind the innocent words
made Abbot Cuana stare in disapproval, but Aedh cut in
impatiently, "The vision was seen by my Chief Minister as
well. I have no reason to doubt him. Yes, the whole thing
sounds bizarre. But this will be the first chance anyone has
had of stopping the Lochlannach in their tracks, and I don't
intend to waste it. Like it or not, my lord abbot, we are
staying."

Ardagh glanced down at Kilfenora from the headland on
which he. King Aedh and Cadwal sat their horses in the
near-darkness of early morning. Or what, he guessed, was
near-darkness to the humans; he could see quite clearly.
The constant rush of waves drifted up to him, cut again and
again by the shrill shrieks of waking seabirds, and the clean,
sharp scent of the ocean filled his nostrils, rousing bits of
memory of the seas in his own Realm, of one long summer's
night spent idly sailing a silver boat under a moon-silver
sky. ...

But, Ardagh told himself resolutely, this sea had its beauty,
too, smashing itself into wild white froth against the rocks or
swirling in endless patterns against the narrow beach. The
prince realized with a sudden sharp stab of curiosity that he
had never yet had a chance to see much more of Erin than
the heavily forested lands around Fremainn. Yet traders' tales
spoke of odder regions, of barren, rocly places like die Giants'
Causeway, said to nave been built by supernatural forces (that,

350 Josephs Sfiennan

he doubted!) or long, rolling stretches of mountains like so
many great Hollow Hills. Maybe when all this excitement
with Lochlannach and stray bishops was settled, he would go
see these things far himself and—

Ardagh cut off that thought. It was the thinking of some-
one who had decided that this land was his home.

And Eriu can never be that. Never.

From here, the monastery looked even more like a col-
lection of toy buildings, with no clues at all to the men liv-
ing within the confines of that neat wall.

"I don't understand them," he said softly, and saw Aedh's
eyes glint as the king glanced his way.

The monks, you mean?"

Ardagh nodded, then remembered mat die human prob-
ably couldn't see that and added, "Yes. Even after these past
two days of waiting, with nothing much to do but cfean
weapons and talk to the monks, I still have no idea what
drives a man to such isolation."

Aedh shrugged. "God, they say. Who knows? They seem
to be content enough."

Some were, Ardagh thought, as tranquil as their setting,
but others were quarrelsome as courtiers or restless as
warriors. And not a woman to be found anywhere. In short,
the prince decided dryly, Kilfenora was, with all its con-
tradictions, a very human place.

An imperiled one. Ardagh straightened, staring out to sea.
"Look."

The morning was already promising to be unexpectedly
fair. Perfect weather for a fight, as no doubt the humans
would say. The two approaching Lochlannach ships, still far
off but sailing the tides lightly into land, were graceful as
a pair of seabirds against the staric, midnight blue of the
ocean and the slowly brightening sky, their square sails
brilliant red. So beautifully made were those ships from the
sweep of carven prows (were those stylized beasts meant
to be dragons?) to the equally perfectly curved sterns that
the sight of them nearly left him breathless. How could
anyone as barbaric as the Lochlannach were said to be have
built such ships? Surely these weren't—

THE SHATTERED OATH

351

"I see them." King Aedh sat leaning his arms comfort-
ably on his saddle's pommel, looking as tranquil as a man
watching the waves: the raiders were still too far away to
be accurately counted.

"At last," Cadwal muttered. "Abbot Guana's thoroughly
sick of us after these two days of nothing much. Particu-
larly since we've been eating our way through his monastery's
supplies."

Ardagh grinned at that and Aedh laughed outri^it. "He'd
be more sickened by those visitors out there," the king said,
"and so would his whole monastery. Looks like it reaUy was
a heavenly vision you and Fothad were granted," he added.
glancing quickly at Ardagh. "An accurate one, at any rate."

"Did you doubt that?"

Aedh shrugged- "I gambled my honor on it, didn't I?"
He turned back to the ocean, peering out at the distant
raiders. "Two ships, maybe . - . can't really tell in this dim
light. What do you make it, Cadwal?"

Two ships, definitely, no more than that. Must have been
planning a quick raid and away. How many men are those
ships carrying, though . . . fifty, maybe?"

"Sixty," Ardagh said without thinking, and both humans
stared at him.

"Fothad's right," Aedh exclaimed, "you do have extraor-
dinary night vision. Sixty men, then."

"Gives us a bit of a numerical edge," Cadwal muttered.
"Plus, of course, the element of surprise, particularly if we
hit them hard from the start. They'll be expecting nothing
more than defenseless monks. Certainly won't be expect-
ing anyone able to fight back."

"Indeed they won't," the king agreed and grinned. "Hey-
ho, my children, back to Kilfenora. We have a welcome to
prepare."

Ardagh glanced about. King Aedh had hidden his men
behind Kilfenora's wall, aligning diem in a wedge pointed
towards the relatively fragile wooden gate, opened a crack
so the raiders could be tracked. As Cadwal and Ardagh
waited, thrown together by chance, Cadwal looked at the

352 Josephs Shemum

prince and shook his head. "Still wish you weren't so fussy
about not wearing maiL Getting spitted by one of those louts
would be a stupid way to go."

I'm not delighted by the idea, either. But the thought of
being closely encircled by iron is eoen more unpleasant. "Mail
would slow me down," Ardagh said, truthfully enough, glanc-
ing down at his old Sidhe hunting leathers. "These will serve.
And I don't intend to let those louts spit me."

Cadwal's shrug said volumes- "Got some good blades on
them, if rumor's true."

King Aedh heard that. His grin was a predator's silent
snarl. "We'll see how many of those blades we can claim,
eh? Nice for our smiths to study. Och, but it would be rude
of us not to greet our guests, nor give them proper hospi-
tality." His sword whipped free of its scabbard with a high
skree of metal. "Wait, now. Wait. We want them all off those
ships and caught between two lines of swords." He waited
as calmly as though turned to rock. "There, now," Aedh said
at last. That's the last of them. And here they come. Shall
we?"

The Lochlannach came charging in like so many howl-
ing wolves, tall, fair-haired, weather-beaten men smelling
of too many days at sea, bearing swords and small shields
and clad in mail (Good, Ardagh thought about that last, that
wtQ slow them down, then amended that to bad, it doesn't
seem to be slowing them down at aU).

No time to ponder it. With sudden savage roars of their
own, Aedb and his men came sweeping out through the
gate at the Lochlannach, the wedge splitting open to encircle
mem, and Ardagh, without much choice in me matter, was
swept along with them.

For a few fiery moments, the men of Eriu had the easy
advantage of surprise, trapping the raiders between their
two wings, cutting down those who were too startled to react
in time—but the advantage lasted only for those few
moments. Caught off-guard though they were, me Loch-
lannach were damnably quick to recover and savagely hungry
for a fight. Ardagh saw a tall, broad-shouldered warrior who
was clearly their leader, heard him shouting what was

THE SHATTERED OATH

3S3

certainly a command that they break off the attack on
Kilfenora and concentrate on fighting their way free of the
trap. And Cadwal had been right: those were splendid blades
the raiders wielded.

Splendid inm blades, Ardagh corrected silently. Iron mail.
Iron helmets—Powers curse him for an idiot, what was he
doing here? Trying to prove himself a thrice-cursed hero?
His body was protesting the nearness of all that perilous
metal, threatening to weaken him, sicken him, but caught
in the middle of things as he was, any weakness would Hall
him! Battle frenzy, now, if only he could open himself up
to battle frenzy, let it seize him the way it had on that long-
ago day when he'd first seen King Aedh . . . but it wasn't
working; his mind was remaining stubbornly clear. Dodg-
ing a dying man—of Eriu or Lochlannach, he didn't have
time to see—Ardagh caught a blade against his own, stag-
gering back under the impact; the raider was his height but
far wider in the shoulders.

Like an ox. The prince heard himself grunt as the raider's
sword came down on his again. A powerful one. Rather than
let himself be driven helplessly, Ardagh leaped back like a
cat to give himself some room to maneuver, then lunged.
Ha, yes! The Lochlannach blades were finely wrought but,
like the blades of Eriu, meant only for cutting; they lacked
true points.

His did not. As me Lochlannach drove his sword whistling
down at Ardagh's head, Ardagh lunged, deliberately high. His
sword skreed against the upper edge of the shield and took
the startled raider in the throat, efficiently and messily.

The prince just barely managed to pull his blade free from
his choking, crumpling foe before another man closed with
him. He ducked right under the raider's upraised swordarm,
whirled, got in a backhanded slash across the man's legs,
felling him, whirled again to face a new attacker, stabbed,
dodged, thrust, sometimes hitting mail, sometimes shield,
sometimes flesh. This was the only way he was going to
escape unhurt, by sheer speed of reflex: a Sidhe could react
far faster than any human, even a Sidhe half-sick from the
presence of too much iron-

354 Josephs Sherman

All around him, men continued to fight, to fall, to die.
The air was sharp with shouts and screams and the clash
of blade on blade, sharper with the stench of blood and
worse. The abbot is not going to be pleased with having His
sanctuary so desecrated. Not that there's a choice about it.

Ardagh caught a glimpse of King Aedh, neatly flanked
by his mercenaries, a savage grin on his face: it must have
felt wonderfuDy satisfying to finally be doing something about
Erin's tormentors. The prince caught a quicker glimpse of
Cadwal, efficient as some machine. No sign of enjoyment
on the mercenary's face; this was pure business to him.
Ardagh hthely dodged a blow from an ax (his mind all the
time gibbering, a weapon Aedh's men don't use: I'U wager
that changes after today) that would have split him, lunged
again, slashing someone's arm, twisting aside just in time
as someone else's blade scored his hunting leathers and very
nearly him—

And found himself staring at a boy in armor, a boy who
couldn't possibly be all that much older than Prince Niall.

Powers! What idiot takes a child into battle? But then,
there wasn't supposed to be a battle, just a raid. Just enough
to train a boy in the raiders' way.

What happened next happened far too swiftly. Ardagh
saw the javeun fly, heard himself shout uselessly, "No!" He
dove forward, hoping without hope to pull the boy aside,
but even Sidhe reflexes were not quite that swift. The jav-
elin pierced the boy, and Ardagh fell to his knees, catch-
ing the crumpling child in his arms, seeing bewildered shock
and pain in the young eyes, knowing, aching with horror,
that tfaere was nothing he could do to help, nothing but
take away that pain as best he could, sending his will into
the boy's mind, soothing, soothing. . . ,

He heard the softest of reBeved sighs, then felt the child
g0 limp and lifeless in his arms. Gasping and drained, Ardagh
stared wildly up and found himself locking stares with a
Lochlannach warrior—no, a chieftain, the leader of the raid,
the tall, broad-shouldered, rough-faced man with the aura
of command—

And grief. This was the boy's father, Ardagh knew it in a

THE SHATTERED OATH

355

flash of insight. For what seemed a long, long while the
prince knelt, frozen, the dead boy in his arms, his gaze still
locked with that of the Lochlannach chieftain.

The chieftain blinked. Ardagh sensed rather than saw a
sword come whirring down from behind. No chance to
move—

But the blade was stopped with a clang of iron by a sec-
ond sword. Ardagh let the boy's body fall and scrambled
back to his feet, the sheer will to live fueling a desperate
new surge of energy. "Cadwal!"

Before he could thank the man for the rescue, the mer-
cenary glared at him, muttering something under his breath
about "Damn fools who don't watch their backs," and
returned to the fight.

Which was rapidly changing to a rout. The Lochlannach
leader snatched up his son's body, shouting at what was left
of his men, clearly ordering them back to the ships.     :

"Let them go!" Aedh's roar rose over the shouting. "Let^
them go, I say! I want them to go home and warn the oth-
ers. Let them tell everyone in their cursed cold northern
lands what they've learned this day: they will find no easy
victims here!"

Unless, Ardagh thought, almost too weary with shock and
battle and iron-sickness to stand, unless the next time that
they come, they come in greater numbers.

It was not over. They had bought themselves some time
this day. But it was far from over. And Ardagh suspected
that Aedh, beneath the wiidness of his battle-glory, knew
it, too.

CHAPCett 29

The men of Eriu watched, some standing alone, some
leaning weakly on others, cheering wearily as the Loch-
lannach ships caught the wind and sailed away.

"Hardly enough left on board to sail them!" someone
yelled, and roused a new round of cheers.

"Bet the first storm they hit sinks them!"

"Bet the first big wave sinks them!"

But despite the banter, there was a fierce alertness to
Aedh and Cadwal and many of die warriors; Ardagh guessed
why, and murmured. They won't be back. At least not this
time."

The king glanced his way. "How can you be so sure?"

All at once the words wouldn't come easily. "His son,"
Ardaeh managed. "That was his son who - - ."

"The boy who was killed?" Cadwal asked sharply. "The
one who almost got you killed? That was the chieftain's son?"
At Ardagh's nod, the mercenary spat out, "Damn! If I'd
known, we could have held the boy for ransom- Too late

now,

"Is that all the child meant to you?" Ardagh asked, almost
in wonder. "A prize to be won?"

"Hell, man—Prince Ardagh, that is—I'm no more glad
about a boy getting killed than you are, even a son of one
of those sea thieves, but that's the way things go. Father
had no business putting a youngster like that into danger

356

THE SHATTERED OATH          357

anyhow. And let's save our worrying for our own living and
wounded, yes?"

Stunned anew at die casual way humans could threw away
their young, Ardagh turned sharply from Cadwal before he
could say anything he'd regret, then stopped short, staring,
realizing only now that the battle was over how costly the
victory had been. What had been a peaceful, grassy shore
was now a tom-up, bloodied field, and a good many of the
bodies lying there were those of Eriu.

Aedh had already begun moving through the ranks of the
fallen, counting the dead, giving what comfort he could to
the wounded, such sincere concern on his face that a pang
ofalmost-regret shot through Ardagh. This was what a ruler
should be, not merely a warrior or politician, but someone
who truly cared for land and people.

You should see this, my brother, Ardagh thought, then
wondered at himself. The prince of the Sidhe Realm he'd
been had never much worried about others, either. A shud-
der raced through him, and suddenly he couldn't seem to
stop shivering.

Cadwal shot him a quick glance. "You hurt?" When he
shook his head, the mercenary shrugged and muttered,
"Damned lucky," and went searching forms own dead. After
a time, Ardagh gained enough control over himself to fol-
low. There wasn't much he could do. no great spells he could
work, certainly not in this Realm, but he could at least try
to ease pain.

And that thought astonished him as well.

It had, indeed, been an expensive victory: although some
thirty of the Lochlannach had been slain, a full twenty men
of Eriu had died as well, and another ten had been too badly
injured to be moved. Ardagh, riding through forest with
King Aedh and his party, headed back towards Fremainn,
remembered the look of mingled horror and grief that had
filled Abbot Guana's face at the sight of the battlefield. The
abbot had vowed that the injured would receive the best
of care, and the prince, seeing the compassion in Cuana's
eyes, had believed him. As, of course, had the men of Eriu.

358 Josepha Sherman

The Lochlannach wounded, on the other hand, had been
summarily dispatched—no false sentimentality there, Ardagh
-thought with Sidhe approval—and the dead disposed of in
a mass pyre. Sanitary. A nice insurance, too, whether the
humans knew it or not, against any Lochlannach spirits
walking. Assuming human spirits really do walk.

He glanced at Cadwal as they rode. Five of the dead had
been me mercenary's own men, but not a sign of emotion
showed on the leathery face. Ardagh wondered how many
times Cadwal had gone through this? How many times had
he lost men he'd eaten with, drunk with? Men who'd grown
close as brothers?

No, Ardagh thought. Poor choice of words, that "broth-
ers." Unlikely that either he or Eirithan would ever feel the
smallest twinge of grief at the other's death. And why should
that honest fact fill him with such bitterness? Such.. .regret?
He shuddered anew.

Powers, let me leave this Realm. I don't know who I am
anymore. I'm not even sure what I am. Powers, Powers, let
me go home.

Ae, ridiculous. He was weary, that was all, and still suf-
fering the shock of having been surrounded by too much
iron. If only they could have spent one night more at
Kilfenora he would have had a chance to recover, if he could
only have had one more stretch of sleep, sleep this time
unbroken by dreams of a child dying innis arms—

Stop that. What happened is done, and no changing it.

But of course King Aedh had been too eager to return
to Fremainn to tarry, understandably uneasy about being
too long away from his court.

And from Eithne, too, Ardagh thought with a smile,

Sorcha.

Ae yes, Sorcha, She waited as well. "What's that struc-
ture?" Ardagh asked to take his mind from sudden uneasy
thoughts. That plain stone tower?"

Aedh straightened in the saddle to peer through the forest
"Part of a ruined hill fort. One of those dating from the
bad old days of Pagandom—your pardon, Prince Ardagh.
That one would be ... och, I can't place a name to it. I

THE SHATTERED OATH

359

imagine Donnchadh ofClonarch could; we're nearly on his
land. Not quite ruined at that," he added in a more specu-
lative tone- "The wait looks pretty much still defensible. Lax
of Donnchadh to let it stand."

"In case some petty lordling might try making himself
at home in there?"

"Exactly. Well, if Donnchadh won't do Ae work..."' Aedh
shrugged. "A pity to tear die thing down after it's stood so
long.but that's what I'll have to set someone to do. We can't
have—"

"Gervinus!" Ardagh exclaimed, too startled by the sud-
den feel of peril to get the words out right. "A trap—
beware—treason!"

The attack came crashing down on them, grim warriors
chargng in on all sides. "Odran mac Dairei" Aedh shouted
in sudden recognition. "And Muirgheas mac Art, as well—
how many more of you traitors are there? How many have
come to be killed?"

Brave words. But the king's battle-weary, decimated force
was in no shape for another fight, not so soon. "To the fortt"
Aedh commanded, and began cutting his way through, his
men hastily flanking him. Seized by the same desperate
ferocity as Aedh—and by the sheer panic of a Sidhe sur-
rounded by yet more iron—Ardagh slashed and slashed and
slashed, one small, sane part of his mind noting. Well now.
here's the battle frenzy you wanted. A bit late, but stOl useful.

Suddenly he was through the enemy, suddenly they were
all through and riding like madmen for the safety of the
hill fort. They thundered up through the narrow path formed
by a double ring of earthen ramparts overgrown by grass
and weeds to the thick stone waU that stood above, curv-
ing along the rim of the hill.

"Gate's still intact," Cadwal noted breathlessly. "Good old
oak, lasts forever."

"Let's hope the bolt's lasted as well!" Aedh shot back. "Och,
and the hinges! Ha, yes, they have," he added as a team of
frantic warriors managed to pry the gite open. "Now if only
the bolt's still inside . . ."

They raced through into a small forest of weeds, out of

360 Josepha Shemwn

which the tower rose like a rock from a tangled green sea.
Ardagh noticed piles of broken stone lying everywhere, and
wondered wildly if that meant the whole wall was about to
crumble. There was a desperate scurrying of men leaping
from their horses to slam the gate shut again. The bolt—"
There—" "Get the damned thing back in its socket—yes,
yes, it's holding, slam it shut—there!"

"Good enough," Aedh said breathlessly. "For the moment
Isnt going to hold anyone off for long, but at least they can
only come after us a few at a time thanks to the ramparts.
You, you, and you," his finger stabbed at warriors, "go look
along me walls. Make sure there aren't any other weak points.
You and you, go see what condition that tower's in; see if
we can use it as a final refuge if need be. Spy out how many
men are out there, too. The rest of you—ha, here they come-
Let's see what we can do about holding them off."

Ardagh heard the enemy pounding at the gate and, sud-
denly inspired, said, "As you say, they can only come up
through me ramparts a few at a time."

Cadwal grinned, cleariy catching his idea. True enough.
They want in? Let's give them their wish."

The enemy must have believed their pounding had finally
caused the gate to fly open of its own accord. They came
rushing in—and met the swords of the waiting defenders.
The first to enter died quickly, the next to follow tried too
late to pull back and failed, trapped between the fallen dead
before them and the living warriors coming up behind. After
a mad time of skirmishing, the would-be attackers franti-
cally managed to withdraw back down the narrow way
between the ramparts, and Aedh's men shoved the dead
back outside, then slammed the gate shut and bolted it once
more.

That little dance will keep them back for now." Aedh
began, "but—Prince Ardagh? Are you hurt?"

Ardagh had staggered back, letting himself sag to the
ground, back against the tower. Head down, he managed
a shaky, "No." If he said anything more, the prince knew
he was going to be ignominiously sick; he certainly couldn't
explain that too much iron had sickened him.

THE SHATTERED OATH          361

To Ardagh's relief, the king turned away. "Ah, here are
my searchers. The wall?"

"Wall's secure enough," one of the men answered, ges-
turing, "shaped like a horseshoe. Curves around on both
sides of us without a break, then ends where the land drops
sharply away. No one's coming up that way," he added, "not
without wings."

Aedh nodded. "Whoever built this fort must have seen
Dun Aengus. Same configuration. And the tower?"

"Sound enough. Probably could hold off an army, sure
enough."

"And is that what we're going to have to do?"

The warriors shifted uneasily, glancing at each other. "Can't
say for sure," one began, "because of me way the ramparts
curve, and all the forest behind them. Don't really know
how many men are out there. But there's another problem,
a big one. There are a few pools of rainwater within the
walls that look clean enough, good for maybe a day or so
if we ration it. But there's no steady source of water any-
where in the fort. Well's gone dry."

"Now we know why the place was abandoned." The king
smiled without humor. "One way or another, I think this is
going to be a short siege." He glanced about at his grim,
worn, battle-weary men. "Make the wounded as comfort-
able as you can. The rest of you, rest while we've got the
respite."

Ardagh, body finally back under control, struggled to his
feet- Aedh frowned. "And where are you gpingr^

To the tower top. I wish to see for myself how many
foes are out there."

Cadwal muttered something about "Now he can see
through forest and earth as welTas night," but he followed
Ardagh up the narrow, crumbling stone stairway to the top.
Catchinghis breath, the prince looked up. There must have
originally been a roof to mis tower, but it had long ago fallen
apart. Leaning warily on a windowsill, Cadwal complained,
"Not much room up here. Not very secure, either."

"Watch where you step," Ardagh said absently. The floor's
almost as rotten as the roof." He hadn't reafiy wanted to

362 Josepha Sherman

be followed; the senses he was using had little to do with
physical sight.

"I count forty," Cadwal said after a moment. "But I have
a feeling I'm not seeing all of them."

"You're not." Fifty... sixty-five ... seventy-five men ...
ae, no. There are at least a full eighty warriors lurking out
there."

"You're sure? Yes?" The mercenary shook his head.
"Don't know how you do it, but . . . damn- That's twice
the number of Aedh's force, and not weakened by battle,
either."

"Or trapped in a fort without food or water. Not a good
situation," Ardagh added dryly. And what, oh what am I
doing caught in the middle of it?

He straightened, staring. That was Odran down there,
Ardagh realized with a sudden jolt of angry strength, Odran
the child-stealer, sitting his horse just outside the curve of
the wall. fancying himself quite safe. Aching with Ae memory
of another child who hadn't been rescued, a child who had
died in his arms, the prince snatched up a rock, netting it
experimentally. He was already almost as weary as me
humans and still sickened from the aftereffects of iron. It
was foolish to waste any of his scanty store of Power. And
yet. . . ae, what a tempting target!

Too tempting. He let fly, putting more than a bit of magical
persuasion on the throw. The rock hit Odran neatly on the
side of the head, tumbling him from his horse-

"Och, good shot!" Cadwal crowed. "Spectacular shot—
here, now, what—"

Ardagh felt the mercenary's strong arms steady him as
he staggered, breathless with the sudden loss of magical
strength, then quickly let go, as if Cadwal had abruptly
remembered this was a prince—or was all at once uneasy.
Ardagh chitched at the windowsill, cursing himself for a fool,
struggling to catch his breath and hide the struggle from
Cadwal.

Who was staring at him. That was quite an amazing
throw," the mercenary said warily. "Almost too amazing."

Still winded, Ardagh only shrugged. "Worth it," he

THE SHATTERED OATH          363

managed at last, trying to sound like a mundane warrior
who'ddone some stupidly spectacular feat of strength. "Put
some fear into them. They're withdrawing out ofrange."

It was just the right matter-of-fact tone. Cadwal might
still be wondering, but he only grunted. "Of course they
are. They don't have to do anything risky, mat wait. With
almost no food or water in here ..." He shook his head.
"Come on. Let's go tell King Aedh the bad news and get it
over with."

Aedh, to give him credit, showed no apparent sign of
despair. But he took Ardagh and Cadwal aside, as casually
as though merely discussing the weather. "We're lucky the
worst ofthe wounded are back at Kilfenora," he murmured.
"None of the men we have here are badly hurt; they can
still fight. What's bothering me the most about this." the
king added, "aside from the obvious problems at hand, is
that it takes time to set up such an ambush. It can hardly
have been mounted on a sudden whim. And yet the trai-
tors couldn't have known we were going to meet the
Lochlannach where and when we did."

"Except," Ardagh said, "by sorcery."

"Och. that again!" Aedh glared at him. "I heard you shout
Bishop Gervinus' name- But you don't see him out there,
do you?"

"He would hardly put himself into danger needlessly. That
doesn't mean he isn't—"

"You can't possibly believe he was behind all this." The
king quickly held up a hand before Ardagh could reply. "And
even if you do, never mind that now. We have more impor-
tant matters to discuss. Cadwal, we've been through some
rough times together over the years."

"We have that," the mercenary agreed warily.

"And in all those times you've always been a loyal fol-
lower to me- More loyal, as it turns out, than certain of my
own people."

Cadwal frowned. "What are you saying?"

"That I release you from our contract, you and your men-
The quarrel those traitors have with me doesn't include you.

364 Josepha Sherman

If you ride down from here with a flag of truce, you can
surely—"

"Do what?" the mercenary snapped. "Abandon you?
Now?"

"Cadwal—"

"No! Look you, I am not going all softly self-sacrificing.
Never have been that type of fool, and that's one reason
I've survived. But in all the years I've been a mercenary,
you've been the only man to treat me as though I and my
men were still worthy of honor. No way I'm going to up
and run now,"

Ardagh, too weary to be more than bemused at human
codes of honor, knew only that he didn't want to fight and
face more iron. Mm, yes ... "We may not need to fight,"
the prince said, considering. "Or die, for that matter."

Aedh's glance was wry. "We haven't got many choices.
Three, to be precise. One; we risk all in a charge down the
hill—"

"Suicide," Cadwal cut in, "pure suicide."

"Probably. The second choice: wait them out. Which, of
course, is a joke, and not a very funny one. We have three,
maybe four days of rations, if we parcel them out carefully.
After that—och, well, we can always slaughter the horses
if it comes to that, but with weary, wounded men and not
much water we're not fioing to be holding out very long.

"The third and final choice isn't much better: send some-
one out to get help. Which is impossible. Anyone who thinks
he could get safety past all those folks sitting out there just
waiting to cut him down is welcoming his own death."

Cadwal snorted. "With open arms- Besides, I figure that
even if we're lucky enough to get a good supply of rainwa-
ter to eke things out, we've still got omy about six days, seven
if we kill the horses. What help could he find in that short
a time? Donnchadh of Clonach?"

Ardagh straightened. "Why not? His land is nearest, is
it not? And he's one of the High King's vassals."

"So," die mercenary reminded him with a jerk of a hand,
"are those."

"Did you see him out there?"

THE SHATTERED OATH          365

"No, but—"

"No," Aedh agreed. "That's not his way. Donnchadh's a
hesitating sort when his flesh and blood aren't involved; we
all know that. He'd wait to see who was winning before
committing himself."

The man tried to kill you!" Cadwal protested. "Or have
you forgotten that bungled ambush? The one where we
found our foreign friend here?"

"I haven't forgotten," the king said serenely. "And nei-
ther have I nor Donnchadh forgotten that his son, too, tried
to loll me. And was spared. And was returned, nice and safe,
to Papa after that pretty; honor-protecting duel. Donnchadh
won't be comfortable with the thought oT being in my debt.
And he just might be persuaded to help—if he thought it
was in his best interest. But getting to turn's the tric£"

"I could do it." Ardagh frowned at the humans' startled
stares. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not being stupidly
heroic, and I assure you I'm in no mood for suicide. But,"
he added with a sharp little smile, "you must surely have
learned by now that I can pass where others cannot. My
night vision, as you both keep noting, is sharp. And I don't
wish to die trapped any more than do you."

There is that," Aedh mused. "Your odd abilities, I mean.
There isn't a one of us you haven't startled with those cat-
like stalks and sudden appearances. You certainly can see
like a cat, too. And if anyone can sway Donnchadh with
smooth words . . . yes. If you're willing to accept the risk,
so be it. As soon as it's fully night."

"Agreed," the prince said, and headed off to try to snatch
some rest till then.

Ardagh stole silently down through the maze of earthen
ramparts, pleased that the moon had chosen to hide itself
behind a thick layer of clouds. Easy to slip past humans at
night, when their day-oriented senses were muffled; much
simpler, though, to do it without any troublesome moon-
light to betray him.

The prince paused once or twice, avoiding tfae occasional
wakeful guard, to catch his breath- He was still weary even

Josepha Sherman

after that sadly abbreviated rest, more weary than he would
ever have admitted. Once you reach the forest, you con take
some strength from it. You simply have to reach it.

Most of me humans were asleep. What, Ardagh wondered
suddenly, if he tried his own magical attack on them? A surge
of Power, perhaps, to frighten their horses or ...

A surge of Power, when he was already weary. Clever,
very clever. Besides, Ardagh snarled at himself, he had
already squandered too much Power by felling Odran. And
with so much interference from all the iron the humans
bore, any spell he tried would probably hit him with a fatal
backiash-

Ah well. Ardagh battled a sudden seductive inner voice
whispering. None of this is necessary, now of it. AS you
need to do is slip into the forest. Disappear. Leave these
humans to fend for themselves. It was tempting. Powers yes,
very tempting. But if he abandoned them, that would surely
mean the death of Aedh and everyone else in the fort, leave
Eriu open to chaos—and turn Ardagh this time into a genu-
ine oathbreaker.

No.

Donnchadh it was, then. The prince paused again, get-
ting his bearings, knowing from what Aedh had told him
that he wasn't very far from the boundaries ofClonach, then
smiled, sensing faintly the aura of Donnchadh himself. Not
far to go, indeed, especially if he could manage to "bor-
row" anorse along the way. From the enemy, perhaps?

Unfortunately, no. The traitor army's security seemed to
be agreeably lax out here away out of range of those trapped
in the fort—lax except where the horses were concerned.
After prowling silently about the lines several times, Ardagh
accepted that there wasn't a chance of stealing a horse
without one of those very alert guards raising an alarm.

So be it. With a mental shrug, the prince dove into the
forest as smoothly as a fish into a green-black sea and sigfaed
in relief as its strength stole through him, calling to him,
telling him stay, recover, replenish Power.

No. He had only a very short span of mortal time in which
to reach Donnchadh and get the man to return with him.

THE SHATTERED OATH

367

This must wait. It took all his will to pull free from the forest's
Powerful embrace, but the prince forced himself on through
the night and the tangle of underbrush towards Clonach.
Soon enough he would be—

Ardagh sprang back with a startled hiss, mind racing in
wild, confused disbelief. Eirithan! It was impossible and yet
he could not be mistaken, no, no, all at once he felt his
brother's presence as strongly as though Eirithan was there
before him!

And, with a sudden strong blaze of Power, Eirithan was
there, standing proud and wary in the newly opened Por-
tal. Ardagh staggered with the surge of hot anger, envy,
jealousy flooding him. Ae, look at the man, look at him, so
perfectly elegant, so perfectly Sidhe elegant, almost beyond
bearing, not a hair of his golden head nor a line of his silken
green robes out of place! The prince saw dismay flash in
his brother's eyes and knew what Eirithan must be seeing
in turn; a wild-haired, wild-eyed, rough-skinned barbarian
in filthy hunting leathers. And that added new fuel to his
anguished rage.

"What did you expect to see?" Ardagh snarled in their
native tongue. "You knew full well into what you were send-
ing me! And does the sight amuse you, brother? Am I
entertaining enough for you like this? Ae, yes, and while
we're on the subject, brother, what in the name of the Outer
Dark are you doing here? Have you come to see for your-
self if I'm still alive? How far into savagery I've fallen?"

He saw his brother flinch slightly, so small a movement
a human would never have noticed it. "Not that," Eirithan
murmured. "Never that. Whatever else you are, you are still
my closest kin."

"By chance of Fate alone. Come, come. brother, no
feigned softness, not here, not now. If it's not morbid curi-
osity that's drawn you here, what?" He heard his voice
shaking, and fought in vain to control it. "Curse you, Eirithan,
answer me! Why are you here?"

"For this one thing," his brother said quietly. "Ardagh, I
have come to bring you home."

CH01CCS
CHAPCCD 30

"I have come to bring you home."

It was die last thing in all the Realms that Ardagh had
expected to hear. Numb with the sudden sheer weight of
shock, he could do nothing but stare and stare at Eirithan
and finally gasp out. "Why?"

No emotion showed on the fine-boned face. "You are,
as I've said, my closest kin."

"That didn't stop you from casting me into exile!"

"I did what seemed right and just at the time." Eirithan
paused for the merest hairbreadth of tune. "There is always
the possibility I might have been wrong or acted in haste."

"Ae, yes, and there is always the possibility that swine,
as the humans say, may turn to birds, but I don't see any
roosting in the trees right now!"

Eiriman shuddered delicately at the indelicate human
phrasing. "Ardagh, come. Time enough to discuss justice
when you are back in our proper Realm."

He caught Ardagh by the hand before the startled prince
could back away and pulled, just hard enough to force him
to take a step forward towards Eirithan—and out of the
human Realm. The prince angrily yanked his hand free,
about to ask his brother what games he played. But before
he could speak, the fall magkaiftdory that was his own native
land washed over him, and Aroagh stood transfixed, head
thrown back, so shaken with longing and wonder and joy

368

THE SHATTERED OATH

369

in that instant that had Eirithan chosen to slay him, the
prince knew he wouldn't have been able to raise a hand in
his defense. Powers, Powers, how I missed this. missed this
so very terribly much, my own land, my own—

Wait.

Suddenly sane again, Ardagh lowered his head, refusing
to see the clear, bright wonder all around them, staring only
at his brother. "You still haven't answered me, Eirithan. Why
are you doing this?"

Eirithan's face was unreadable even to another Sidhe. "I
wished it. That should be enough."

"That is not enough. Why do this?" Ardagh felt his own
face harden into simiiariy cold lines. "Unless -,, you're having
trouble, aren't you? Political trouble, perhaps, with those
treacherous nobles. Something strong enough for you to
seek help. Even from an exile."

"There is something of a disturbance in the Realm, yes."
Eirithan admitted with cold, delicately vague honesty. "I
wish you back, brother, to stand at my court as an honored
aide."

" 'Honored aide,' " Ardagh echoed. "Not 'prince.' What
of the sentence of exile, brother? Is that not to be lifted?"

"Of course it is. After you prove yourself fully worthy,
the ban will be raised and—"

"In other words," the prince cut in bitterly, "no. It is not
to be lifted. But then, you never meant for that to happen,
did you?"

"Come now, brother, you are beginning to rant."

"Why should I not? You mean to use me as a tool, don't
you? The only question is; how?"

"Not a tool." Eirithan said it with the tone of one patiently
explaining things to a not-quite-bright child. "As I told you,
you would be my honored aide. Ardagh, brother, enough
of this foolishness. You've been among the human-kind too
long; it's turned you wary as a wild thing. Come home with
me, Ardagh. Your estate has been kept as it was. Your gar-
dens are beautiful right now. so very bright with blossom,
sweet with fragrance. See them, Ardagh, see their beauty.
Stroll along their peaceful paths. Hear the sweet songs your

370 josepha Sherman

odd little Ninet plays. It can be yours again, Ardagh. Yours.
Only come with me."

Ae, Powers, he had been away too long; he'd forgotten
just how persuasive Sidhe charm-words could be. Teeth
clenched, Ardagh fought to ignore the longing the words
sent raging through him.

*Tou want your gardens' peace, Ardagh, I see it on your
face. You want it so very much. And it can be yours. If you
only come with me. One small thing to do, brother, one
small, small thing. All you need to do is come with me."

Ardagh's mind felt sluggish and slow as Eirithan contin-
ued his gentle croon, but the prince managed to wonder,
Why does Eirithan need me? This "honored aide" pretense
is so shaQow it's transparent. What does he want? And why
won't he teU me—

He had it All the glamour of Eirithan s words fell away
from him as Ardagh cut bluntly into the croon with, "A&
that nonsense about 'my closest blood Ion' means only one
thing. You're worried, aren't you? Ha, yes, you must be
worried nearly to death if you're willing to risk keeping me
at your side!"

"My poor brother. The humans really have warped your
thoughts, so very suspicious you've become."

"Have I, now? I don't think so. I don't think it's any mere
'disturbance' bothering you, either. No, you're terrified that
one of those treacherous nobles you once pampered is going
to manage a spell sly enough to get past your defenses."

"You exaggerate the peril. These are... somewhat uncer-
tain times, surely, but tranquility will return. And there is
always danger, of course, even in the most peaceful of
Realms. Every ruler faces it. But you—'

"Me, indeed. As far as magic's concerned, we're very
closely related, half-kin or no. Ties of blood and all that.
With me forever at court, it would be simple enough for
you to confuse any magics aimed at you so mat they would
strike me instead!"

"1 repeat, you exaggerate- Granted, the post would not
be without its risks, but the rewards would be quite splen-
did. And, since you seem to have become so prickly on the

THE SHATTERED OATH          371

subject of honor, let me assure you that it would be a highly
honorable post."

"A highly honorable grave!"

"Brother, please. If you've survived living among the
humans so long, you are far too clever to fail now."
^ "And swine, as I say, can fly. All right, then. Pretend I'm
that supematurally clever. Pretend that I do your work and
survive. And peace returns- What then? When is my exile
to be lifted?"

"I told you, once you have proven yourself worthy—"

"Like hell!" Ardagh snapped in the human tongue. "What
happens to your 'honored aide' when he's no longer needed?
Enslavement? Or am I merely to be once more accused
of treason and discarded?"

"I never said that. I never said any of that."

"No," Ardagh agreed, suddenly achingly weary of the
whole conversation. "Of course you didn't. Only humans
lie. Our kind merely circumvents the truth. All right, brother:

a pact. I don't want to see our land torn by war, either. If
you truly wish my aid, swear that you will first help me help
the humans to whom I've given my word."

Eirithan frowned in distaste. "You gave your word to
those? What vows you might have sworn to those animals
hardly concerns me."

Ardagh sighed. "And so you prove yourself- And so you
show how little you think of my honor. One more attempt;

swear to me. brother. Swear mat you will, indeed, lift me
sentence of exile within a fixed, definite time, that you will,
indeed, return me to my full estate."

"What nonsense is this? I have already offered you—"*

"Swear it!"

"I have already said it! Once you have proved yourself—"

"No! Swear it now: a fixed, definite time!"

"I will not be pushed."

"And I will not be used! Curse you. Eirithan," Ardagh
hissed, "for offering me false hope. Curse you for betray-
ing me. Curse you to the endless Outer Dark for what harm
you've done me and our land both—and may it be the trai-
tors' hands that send you there!"

372 Josepfw Sherrrum

No point in attacking his brother or in trying to push
past him into the Sidhe Realm; guards were almost cer-
tainly hovering just out of sight. Instead, turning sharply
away before Eirithan could see his tears, Ardagh threw
himself back into the human Realm and felt the Portal
shut behind him. Staggering with the renewed pain of loss,
the prince fell to his knees, then threw back his bead with
a howl that had in it all the rage and grief and loneliness
within him.

The last echoes died away. The forest grew still, and then
the normal little night noises, the chirps and whirrs and
rusdings started up again. Ardagh shuddered, wrapping his
arms about himself, then shuddered again and, with a sharp
burst of frantic energy, scrambled back to his feet. Insane
to scream like that, to let everyone within who knew how
far a range hear him. If he was lucky, the prince thought
with bitter humor, they would take it for the cry of a wild
beast. Or a demon.

Ae, Powers. Ardagh determinedly wiped his face dry. He
never should have let himself believe Eirithan, not even
for the smallest of moments. But ... he had wanted to
believe so badly. With the glory of his own land wrapped
about him, he had wanted to believe all could yet be well.

What had made him suddenly remember his vow to the
humans?

Ironic that something like that should have saved him;

if it hadn't been for the memory of that oath, he probably
would have been so overwhelmed with longing for home
despite all his doubts that Eirithan would have snared him.

What was, was. There would be, the prince told himself,
trying to believe he hadn't sunk so low he could lie to himself,
there would be another, truer chanca to go home. Some-
how. Somewhere.

But for now, Ardagh knew he could only do one dung:

fulfill his vow and bring aid to the humans. With a savage
oath, he set out for Donnchadh's realm,

Gervinus woke with a shout, staring blindly into (he night,
the grimoire a hard, reassuring presence chitched to his

THE SHATTERED OATH

373

heart. There had been a cry, a wild, terrible cry, somewhere
out there—out where? Where was he? What was he doing
in the middle of—of forest, empty forest, all alone and—

The bishop gave a soft, shaken sigh- Now be remembered-
Or thought he did; memory wasn't quite the dependable
tool it should be these days. He was alone because he had
insisted on it.

But why? That's what I can't remember. I said something
about.. . about a spell. . . yes. a speU that could only be
worked away from the others. For safety's sake.

But what speU? There's no need for sorcery now! They
have Aedh penned. It's just a short wait before they have
him dead.

Why would 1 want to be working sorcery now?

Gervinus looked down at the grimoire in dawning hor-
ror. He hadn't been in control at that point. The sorcery
had. It had wanted to be used, no, it had insisted on being
used. and he—he hadn't been able to resist-

With a ay of disgust, the bishop hurled die grimoire from
him, hearing it crash into the bushes, then sat huddled in
the darkness. This had been happening too often lately, these
eerie lapses. But not again, never. He would be in control.
He would be in control of himself, his mind, his body, his
will. He would be in control.

And yet... and yet... it was foolish to throw away one's
only weapon before Ae battle. One could never tell when
such a weapon might be needed, particularly since things
were likely to become chaotic after Aedh's death. He wouTd
need strength if he was to remain in charge. Strength beyond
the merely human.

Strength he had just tossed aside. Gasping in sudden
panic, Gervinus went in search of the grimoire. stabbing
his hands on thorns, tearing his clothing, bruising his feet.

Where is it? Jesu-in-whom-1-don't'helieve, where is it?

Just when he was sure it had melted into nothingness.
one bloody hand closed upon a cold, hard something. With
a sob of relief, Gervinus snatched up the grimoire and
clutched it to him.

He would be calm. He would be in control. Sitting

374

Josepha Shenrmn

huddled and alone in the night, the bishop vowed it. Come
what may, he would remain in control.

"Will you please stop that pacing?"

Donnchadh froze at that, glaring back at Derval where
she sat with her inevitable sewing. She stared right back
at him, cold-eyed as anything out of a tale of the Sidhe.
She should haw been born a Sidhe, he thought, heartless
and soulless as the stories say. No, or born in & olden days
when she could have been a warrior queen. Ha, and then
he would probably have found himself battling her for the

crown. Maybe even losing—no, dammit! "What would you
have me do?"

"Act! Attack! Your men are armed and waiting for the

signal, yet here you wait. The others are out Acre doing
your work for you."

"That's exactly the point. Look you, wife, my men and I
are ready to march at a word, as you say. But what point is
there in risking all for naught?" Donnchadh found he had
started pacing nervously once more, and forced himself to
stand stock-still, staring out the window at nothing, any-
thing but Derval. "No, no, far better to wait, see who is
stronger, who is weaker. If you make alliance with some-
one stronger than you, he controls you. If he's weaker, why
bother with the alliance at all?"

*Tou babble. Aedh is besieged. This is your best chance
to be rid of him forever,"

"Yes, but what of the others? They all wish the crown as

well as I. If I join them now, I will only have to face them
later if I'm to seize the crown."

Derval gave a small, sharp cry of impatience. "You will
need to face them eventually, husband!"

"Yes, but better, far better, as I say, to watt. Wait till after
they're all weakened by battle—and I am not."
"Coward."

He whirled in sudden hot rage at that. ready to strike.
But the sight ofDervaI's chill face froze his anger as it always
did. And as he always did. he thought that she would most
likely welcome him striking her, yes. and then probably see

,'                THE SHATTEBED OATH          375

\ to it someone stabbed him in his sleep or poisoned his drink.
If she didn't do the deed herself.

Letting his hand fall limply to his side, Donnchadh turned

away, muttering, "Cautious, rather. There is no cowardice
in being prudent."

f  "There is nothing prudent in—" Derval broke off with
an impatient hiss, "Now what is that?"

Donnchadh glanced down to the courtyard. "A messen-
ger. Riding alone. He could be bringing us news of how
me siege goes."

"WeB then, don't just stand there!" Derval snapped. "Have
him brought to us so we can hear what news he brings."

"Wfe," Donnchadh thought. "Us." But he issued the sum-
mons.

The man who entered was tall and slender, graceful as
a wild thing and, despite the stains of battle and travel on
him, beautiful, so strikingly handsome with those fine, high
cheekbones and sleek black hair that Donnchadh heard
Derval draw her breath in sharply in appreciation, and felt
a keen little flame of jealousy at the sound. The jealous fire
brightened when he saw the stranger's slanted green gaze
go straight to Derval- But the look wasn't so much in admir-
ation, Donnchadh realized with a touch of surprise, as in
appraisal.

And to his utter astonishment, he heard the man mur-
mur, "Poor lady. Bom in the wrong time and place. No outlet
for your strength here but in plots and bitterness."

Derval stiffened as though he'd slapped her, "What non-
sense is this? Who are you?"

Donnchadh held up a hand. "I know you, don't I?" he
asked sharply, and the stranger smiled, so charmingly that

the astonished king felt it quite melt the stirrings of anger
he'd been feeling.

"You may have seen me a time or two. Not you, lady,
alas," the stranger added with a smooth, courteous uttle bow.
"I was part of the entourage of High King Aedh when he
set free your son. I am Prince Ardagh Lithanial, whom some
have catted Prince of Cathay, and I have come in the High
King's name."

376 Josepha Sherman

"Why?" Derval snapped.

The prince's green gaze turned again to her, and Donn-
chadh was amazed to see her shrink back in her chair.
"Because, as you both know well, your liege lord is being
held under siege by traitors. Surely I am not to number
you among those traitors."

Donnchadh stiffened. "What do you mean?"

That earned him a second charming smile, but one with
a hint of ice beneath the warmth. "Why, my lord king, I
have seen your men all armed and waiting to ride. Please,
let us not play silly games with words. Which is it to be,
King Donnchadh? Which side shall you choose?"

"It is not for you," Donnchadh blustered, "prince though
you claim to be, to lecture me."

"No lecture. King Donnchadh. Just a thought: who was it
held your son captive? Who was it had every legal right to slay
him as a would-be regicide? Particularly since mat son's father
had almost certainly once set a would-be fatal ambush?"

"I never—"

"Ah, but we are not here to debate past Might Have
Beens. Hear but this and consider: who was it held your
son and your son's life in his hands, yet spared him? You
are no raw, untrained boy. King Donnchadh. You know as
well as I and he that your duel with King Aedh was delib-
erately devised to end with no honor lost to either side. Will
you lose honor now?"

The suddenness of that final statement caught Donnchadh
off balance.

Not so Derval. "You have no right to say such things!"
she exploded.

"Have I not?" the prince asked mildly. "Which one of
tfae two of you was it had secret dealings with the High King's
foes? Ae, yes, I know of that. Which one of you was it made
quiet, treacherous pacts?"

Donnchadh turned in shock to his wife. "You did this?
You plotted behind my back and never said a word to me?"

"Don't be a fool, husband. It was for you I did it."

"But you went behind my back! Why?" The long-
suppressed words came pouring out before he could stop

THE SHATTERED OATH          377

diem. Nor, Donnchadh realized, did he really want to stop
them. "Look you, I've always given you your own way
because I hate a battlefield in the home. If you wanted
to insult me when we were alone, I kept my peace. Maybe
that was stupid of me, maybe that's why you hold me in
such contempt—no! Don't interrupt! You do hold me in
contempt, you make that clear with every look, every word-
You see me as weak—well, devil take you, I should have
long ago beaten that thought out of your head, mother
of my sons though you are' Why did you do it? Did you
think me so feebleminded I couldn't be included in your
plots?"

She must have been shocked by his words, she had to
be shocked by them, but to Donnchadh's growing rage not
a trace of concern marred her lovely face. "Hush, now,
husband," she crooned. "I never thought you weak. And I
meant no harm. As king you have so much weighing you
down. I merely wished to take some of the burden from
you and—"

"Take some of the burden from me! Don't you see what
you've done? It's one thing to call me a fool when we're
alone together. But by plotting without my consent—without
even my knowledge, damn your lying soul—you've made
me look like a fool in the eyes of others, a—a spineless fool
who can't even act on his own but has to hide behind his
wife's skirts! And I cannot allow that to happen!"

For the first time he saw some genuine alarm flicker in
her eyes. And it was glorious. That's right. Derval," he
roared. "Fear me. At a word from me you're cast aside, thrust
into some isolated nunnery, and I'm free to find me a gen-
tier, sweeter mate!"

"You would never dare—"

"Wouldn't I? Try me, Derval, try me! How long were you
planning to keep me ignorant? Ha, yes, and what other plots
might you be weaving even now?"

"N-no others," she began desperately, but Donnchadh
turned his back on her- The Prince of Cathay, or what-
ever he styled himself, was waiting in apparent tranquil-
ity, as if totally undisturbed by what he heard. The sight

378 Josepha Sherman

of that elegantly calm figure only increased Donnchadh's
rage.

"Away -from herel" he snapped at the prince. "I have
chosen. I will ride with you. Now. And," Donnchadh added
over his shoulder, "may the devil tear anyone who tries to
stop me!"

CHe FINAL SCORM
CHAPCeDSI

As they rode out from King Donnchadh's fortress, fol-
lowed by a fiery, noisy troop of mounted warriors, Ardagh
glanced back once over his shoulder to see Derval stand-
ing silently against a column, her eyes those of a woman
whose plans have all fallen to ruin. It had been a wild guess
he'd made about her working plots behind her husband's
back, but once he'd said it, Ardagh had hardly been sur-
prised to learn he'd guessed right.

She should have been bom in a different time and place,
a place that would hove let her use her intellect freely. not
coop it within some restrictive role that could only lead to
the terrible coldness, the uf^ly self-hatred I saw.

Would Sorcha grow like that? The sudden, unexpected
thought made him shudder and think. Powers prevent! And
yet, Sidhe honesty made him continue, what else was there
for Sorcha in this world, this society, but the same caging-
in of her talents, the same turning at last to bitterness?

No, not that, not for her.

What, then?

This is ridiculous! Ardagh snapped at himself. Ridicu-
lous to wony about such things—ridiculous to have any soft
thoughts at all when riding back into battle.

Ae, yes. Another battle. An utterly weary side of him
shrank at the thought. Too much had been happening lately,
from combat-by-sword to combat-of-wfts with Eirithan, too

379

380

Josepha Sherman

much even for a Sidhe to endure. He wanted nothing so
much as to curl up someplace soft and safe and (to absolutely
nothing. But ahead lay the ancient fort, and ahead were the
besiegers. And ahead was the inevitable confrontation.

So be it, Ardagh thought with determined bravado. I've
escaped iron-damage twice so far within the last few days;

let's see if I can manage it one more time.

He shot a sly sideways glance at Donnchadh. The man
had been almost absurdly easy to control and influence, all
fear and bluster. He would fight, though, Ardagh had no
doubt of that. Donnchadhs warriors had the hard-edged,
almost too eager look of men who had been waiting to do
something to me point of frustration. They would figpt, too,
and fight well, if for no other reason than to let off all that
pent-up energy.

Good. At least someone wiU be energetic.

The distance seemed far shorter when one was riding
all the way, and riding the open road rather than weaving
one's way through the underbrush. There it is," Ardagh
said, pointing out the tower's top rising above the trees.

"I know," Donnchadh said shortly, and without any pre-
amble gave the signal for a ftill-out charge. It was a charge
on foot, of course—Ardagh had already learned it was
impossible to mount a successful cavalry charge when stir-
rupless saddles were the norm—but no less swift and fierce
for that. Ardagh, swept along in the sudden surge of war-
riors, all shouting and clashing weapons, had no choice but
to whip out his sword as the wave came crashing down on
the startled besiegers.

Ha, yes, they were caught totally by surprise! Look at
them scurrying about like so many insects, shouting in alarm,
snatching up weapons, struggling to fight back—and there
came Aedh and his men down from the fortress, yelling with
fierce joy as they trapped the traitors just as he'd planned.

The traitors, yes! Ardagh felt his blade cut flesh again
and yet again and heard himself laugh in sudden battle rage.
Even if these weren't those who had betrayed him, it was
still wonderful, fiercely wonderful, to cut them down, to
slay them, to utterly, utterly destroy them—

THE SHATTEHED OATH          381

Powers.

The prince fought his way back, literally and figuratively,
out of me main crush of battle, gasping and stunned at his
own ferocity and so sickened from the accumulated effect
of too much iron in too short a time that he could barely
stay on his feet. He staggered aside into welcome under-
brush. where he could sink to his knees, huddling in mis-
ery and trying not to out-and-out faint, without anyone
spying him. This was not his battle, these were not his
people, he'd done enough for them BS it was, and they—
he—they—

Gradually me worst of the sickness passed. Head no longer
aching so foully, senses no longer swimming with nausea,
Ardagh dared straighten slowly, still on his knees, and take
in steadying lungfuls of air.

He froze. "No, ae, no ..."

With a great effort, the prince scrambled back to his feet,
listening with senses far beyond the physical, and groaned.
Not Gervinus, not now.

Yes. Now. There must be a new battle. And this time,
he knew with Sidhe fatalism, it most certainly was going
to be his.

Gervinus, staring intently into a tiny forest pool, cried
out in angry protest at what he saw. No, no, and no! The
siege could not be so easily broken, help could not be arriving
so easily!

But there it was; me suddenly attacking army was catching
the besiegers totally off-guard, tearing into their ranks,
smashing them down before they could even try to defend
themselves. And here came that accursed Aedh down from
his sanctuary to finish the job, trapping the besiegers between
two forces, crushing them into the earth.

Gervinus gasped. In among the attackers was Prince
Ardagh! Yes, yes, although the image was wavery and
unsure, there was no mistaking that mane of black hair.
Prince Ardagh, indeed, always Prince Ardagh, always there
to block every plan—

"Damn him. Damn him!" All this work, all these careful

382 Josepha Sherman

alliances and persuasions, all this soothing and pretending—
all this for nothing!                        .

No, the grimoire whispered to him, not for nothing, not
while there is stiU another force to be met.

Sorcery. Gervinus stared at the grimoire, wondering. If
he used sorcery now, would it not be an obvious thing to
all? He didn't want to be the cause of a new union—a united
force out to slay the sorcerer!

Do you want to be left with nothing? If you strike now,
strike swiftly, powerfully, none will suspect. Destroy the
enemy now and you can still win.

Arridu.

Yes, yes, that was it: make it look like a natural disaster,
or even a demonic one, yes, even better, make it look as
though the demon had been attracted to the battle and only
he, Gervinus, Bishop Gervinus, holy Bishop Gervinus, had
repulsed it, had saved humanity—yes, oh yes, it would work!

Water. He needed dear, stui water. Gervinus scrambled
to his feet, looking wildly about for a moment before he
realized that the very pool he'd been using for scrying would
serve. Why hadn't he realized something so very obvious?
Where was his vaunted self-control? What was happening.
tohim?                                          "

No matter. No matter. He was still the master of the
grimoire, not it, he. He was still the master of Arridu- He
would summon the demon and all would be well. Time
enough for the luxury of worry when he had the throne.
Thrusting his ringed hand into the water, Gervinus began
the Words of summoning. Even though his head was begin-
ning to pound so fiercely he could barely hear his own words,
he continued the chant, summoning, "Arridu, Arridu,
Arridu."

The air had turned chill around him, chill and damp. A
dank wind stirred his robes. "J am here," a voice said sofuy.
"What would you?"

He must be careful. The demon would detect even the
shghtest weakness, die smallest inconsistency. But Gervinus
couldn't seem to 6nd any words but, "Blood for you, Arridu,
lives for you."

THE SHATTERED OATH          383

"Your life, little human? Is it to be your life I take^"

"No!" Sweet Jesu, he must be more wary! "My life is not
yours for the taking, Arridu, by your name and the ring I
bear, my life is not yours."

* It might have been the stirring of the slowly rising storm
winds, it might have been a demon's humorless laugh. "As
you wul it, human. Who, then, shaB, be my prey? Hurry; I
am bored with this Realm."

The storm clouds loomed up over him, the storm winds
swirled savagely about him, nearly sweeping him from his
'feet—no, not merely wind but Power, raw Power swirling
about him in all its terrible might till he couldn't think, he
couldn't act, he couldn't do anything but gasp out, "All of
them! All but me! And Ardagh, Prince Ardagh—be sure
he dies as well!"

"This one command I am most glad to fulfill." the demon
purred, but whatever else Arridu might have added was lost
in the sudden crash of thunder. Staggered by wind, blinded
by hghtmng, Gervinus stood lost in terrible, terrified joy
as all about him endless, boundless demonic Power raged.

As he hurried through the forest, Ardagh felt the first
stirrings of a chill, alien Power—demonic Power. With a
little thrill of alarm, he recognized it as emanating from the
being that had attacked him once before and nearly slain
him with a scratch: the demon that had a token of his blood.

But not enough to work me any harm, he assured him-
self, or I'd already be dead. But what is the thing doing
here and why—

A sudden wild gust of wind buffeted him, hitting so sharply
it nearly knocked him from his feet, whipping his hair pain-
fully across his face. The prince clawed his vision free of
the stinging black strands, glancing up in new alarm. The
sly was bouing up with heavy black storm clouds, too swiftly,
too fiercely, far darker than any earthly clouds could ever
be. The bright day vanished under the weight of them,
leaving behind only the faintest ugly grey-green glow.

Lightning split the darkness so suddenly that Ardagh
jumped. It slashed down again and yet again, like so many

384 Josephs Sherman

blue-white, sorcerous Swords of Fire, and savage cracks told
him of trees being struck down all around. The winds came
screaming down on him in full fury, so fierce they nearly
tore the air from his lungs. Thunder roared and boomed
as if the very Realm was being torn apart.

This is no -mere summoning! Ardagp realized in horror.
No, no, there's too much Power here. wild Power—Gervmus
has lost control of the demon!

Did the man know? Did the man care? Half-dazed by
noise and blinding light, stumbling under the nearly solid
curtains of rain, Ardagh staggered forward, head down
against die press of wind. He must reach Gerviaus. Whether
or not the bishop knew what he did, or was even still sane,
he was the only one who could hope to check this storm—
quite literally—of hell.

the prince slipped on rain-slick rocks suddenly and went
to his knees with jarring force. Looking breathlessly up,
neady blinded by rain plastering his hair to his face, Ardagh
saw Gervinus standing alone, out of the forest, on the crest
of a hill. Lightning blazed all about him, but he showed
not the slightest sign he was aware of peril, and a chill stole
through the prince at the sight.

Mad. He is quite mad. Sorcery has broken his mind.

Not quite. Gervinus turned as though somehow, over the
roar of wind and earth-splitting crash of thunder, he had
heard Ardagh approach. As he pointed at the prince, a
sudden flash offightning glinted off his eyes and his ring.

That ring/ Ardagh knew with Sidhe certainty. That ring
is the source of his power over the demon!

But Gervinus was shrieking, "He is here! Destroy him!"

Ardagh could have sworn he heard the hiss of a chill,
bating voice beneath the storms roar: "Most gladly." The
prince scrambled hastily to his feet, but before he could
begin so much as a word of a Shielding Spell, the storm's
rage struck. He was hurled off his feet as easily as if he was
a child's toy, thrown to the ground with bruising force.
Breathless, he struggled to rise. The demonic storm almost
let him make it toms feet, then casually threw him aside,
slamming him back to the ground. Ardagh heard himself

THE SHATTERED OATH

385

cry out with pain, and that hurt all the more, because even
trying to draw a breath made his chest seem to burn.

Demon intends to play .. .till it kills me . .

Not, he vowed, without a fight. Biting back a groan as
' muscles protested the movement, Ardagh rolled over onto
his side, hoping his body was hiding from the demon the
fact that he was fumbling for the nilt of his sword with
maddeningly unresponsive hands.

He had it. With an effort that forced a new cry from him,
Ardagh dragged the blade free and lunged blindly up- This
time it was die demon who screamed. He felt its panic blaze
along his nerves, but his wild slash met with nothing but
air. A blast of wind sent him staggering helplessly backwards,
ending up against something reassuringly hard and firm—
an upthrust rock. Ardagh went into as convincing a fight-
ing stance as he could manage, trying not to gasp with effort,
trying to hold his sword steady, feeling his hair slap at his
face as the wind whirled about him. Frantically guessing
where the demon would be in the next second, Ardagh
lunged again, and felt the blade brush something that felt
almost like flesh.

But this time there was no scream, no panic. This time
the demon , .. laughed.

"No. little thing. I have tasted your blood—"

Somewhere within him Ardagh found the strength to
shout back, "Not enough to give you power over me!"

"Enough to keep you from harming me again with
Shachshakax metal!"

Savage wind slammed into Ardagh's arm, tearing the blade
from his hand.

Powers, no!

"You see. We thing? You are defenseless. Now enjoy the
slowness of your death."

The wind's pressure increased and increased again, press-
ing him ever more fiercely against the rock. He was being
slowly crushed! Pinned helplessly, nearly sobbing with the
effort, Ardagh took the omy course open and threw him-
self sideways and down, falling ftill-iengm, clenching his teeth
against the impact. Twisting about, glancing up,tiair half-

386 josepha Sherman

blinding him, he caught a glimpse of Gervmu& standing on
the hilltop, the only movement visible to him die dark cloak
whipping in die wind- Lost in trance? No, no, right now
Geivinus was one with the demon, Gervinus was the demon,
and it was that cursed ring that joined them.

What good was it to know that? Ardagh had no strength
left, none. His body was ablaze, he could barely draw a
breath without pain, and there was nothing to do but wait
to be slain.

To be slain, yes, and to know as he died that the demon's
rage would continue to blaze out across Eriu, lolling all he
knew, Sorcha and Eithne, Fothad, little Fainche, all who
lived.. . .

No, he would not, could not let so much harm come from
this! A weapon ... he must have a weapon ... With the
smallest stab of defiance, Ardagh remembered that he still
had his dagger.

Yes, but what good was it? The demon had already shown
it could no longer be harmed by Faerie metal—

Cadwal. Why should he be thinking of Cadwal now, and
how tfie mercenary had taught him knifeplay, that "down
and dirty" knifeplay.... Hardly realizing what he was doing,
Ardagh crawled painfully forward, knowing the demon would
be delighted by what must look like a futile attempt to
escape, hoping the thing would be amused enough not to
stop him, crawled painfully forward. . . .

"Gervinus." It came out as a rasping croak, barely
audible.

But Gervinus heard. The bishop turned sharply—

And Ardagh lunged up with the knife with all that was
left of his strength, in that moment seeing only Cadwal,
bearing Cadwal's words: "Up under the ribs. up to the heart,
that's the way to do it. Hit as many times as you have to
after that, but if you get that first thrust right, he won't be
felting away." Ironic, that it should all come down to this,
no higp and proud Sidhe magics in die end, only something
so very rough, so very human. But Cadwal would be proud
of him because the angle was right, the knife was right, and
even if Ardagh would be sickened at the thought of what

THE SHATTERED OATH

387

he was doing if he was thinking clearly at all, the priest's
lifeblood was spilling out hot over his hand.

Gervinus stared, only that, wide-eyed not so much with
fear or pain as with sheer astonishment. "No," he said as
indignantly as if Ardagh were some peasant who'd affronted
him. "No."

Blood came with the words. As suddenly as if a rope
holding him upright had been cut, Gervinus curled over
the knife and fell lifeless. Ardagh fell beside the body, tearing
the dagger free, stabbing blindly at the ring on the bishop's
hand, again and again—

The ring shattered. And with it, the link from the human
to the hellish Realm shattered as well. Quite undramaticaUy,
tile demon was no longer there. Quite undramaticaDy, the
storm no longer existed. Clouds sped by overhead, parting
to let sunlight glint down. Somewhere, a bird began to chizp
tentatively, then sing, the sound thin and sweet and some-
how hopeful.

"How very trite," Ardagh heard himself say.

And then he fell forward into night.

ApcepMAm

CHADCeR 32

Ardagh hadn't expected to wake at all, let alone wake in
a bed, his own bed in his own guest house, aching in every
bit of him and so worn he could not have raised his head
from the pillow, but undeniably alive.

And being watched. He raised eyelids that seemed to have
picked up their own unexpected weight, and found him-
self looking up at King Aedh, seated at his bedside. The
king's face wore an odd mix of worry and bemusement and
his eyes were completely unreadable. Ardagh tried and failed
to speak, and Aedh waved to an obsequious servant, who
brought water for the grateful prince, men retreated from
the bedside and then the entire guest house at an impera-
tive gesture from Aedh. Ardagh waited warily, but atl the
king said to him was a flat: "Cathay."

A sudden sharp stab of panic shot through the prince.
If Aedh chose to attack him, even to have him slain, there
wasn't anything Ardagh was going to be able to do to stop
him. "I never claimed to come from there."

Aedh paused, considering, then shook his head. "No. I
don't think you ever did, at that. You merely let us go on
thinking it. Why?"

"It seemed wisest."

"Did it? Where are you from, then? And, while we're
on the subject, exactly who and what are you?"

Heart pounding, Ardagfa fought to keep his face in its

388

THE SHATTERED OATH

38fl

proper calm Sidhe mask, suspecting he wasn't succeeding
too well in his current weakness. "You saw, then."

"Some. The end of it. The . .. whatever that evil thing
was. And how it vanished when you slew Gervinus. Gervinus
,was the one who caused that storm, wasn't he?"

Ardagh nodded slightly.

"Damnut, man," Aedh added reluctantly, "you were right
about him all along. He really had turned from God to evil."

The prince tried to shrug, then decided against that when
tightly wrapped but still sore ribs protested. Seeing his in-
voluntary wince, the king assured him lightly, "Nothing's
broken. A few bones are cracked a bit, as you might have
gathered from those wrappings, a few muscles the worse
for wear, and there's some most spectacular bruising. Noth-
ing, Eithne and my physicians assure me, that won't heal."

Easy to make li^ht of injuries you aren't feeling!

But for all his casual tone of voice, Aedh's eyes held no
warmth. "I repeat: Who are you? And what?"

Powers help him, how was he going to get out of this
trap? Ardagh fought with his tired mind in vain; he was
simply too sore and weary to think subtly enough. "I really
am Ardagh Uthanial," the prince said in surrender. "I really
am a prince. Of," Ardagh added, watching Aedb warily, "the
Sidhe."

That didn't get the explosion he'd expected. The only sign
of Aedh's shock was his sharply indrawn breath; there was,
Ardagh thought, a great deal to be said for royal training.
"Well, the king said after a moment, and "well," again.

"You suspected it, didn't you?"

"Yes. No. Och, man, I don't know what I suspected! It
is asking much of me to accept! But," he added with just
the barest hint of humor before the prince could think of
anything to say, "it would also explain a good deal, wouldn't
it? That fantastic night vision of yours, for one thing." Aedh
began ticking items off on his fingers. "Your gift for mov-
ing so impossibly silently and getting into wherever you wish
to be. Your refusal to let a chud come to harm. Those eerie,
too-green eyes of yours and that almost inhuman—no, no,
definitely inhuman—beauty. Your everlasting, unshakable

390 josepha Sherman

truthfulness. A whole catalogue of what humans claim are
Sidhe traits. You . . . really can't lie, can you?" Aedb asked
suddenly. "Not even if you wished it?"

Ardagh sighed. "Believe me, King Aedh, my life here
would have been much simpler if I could."

"I'm sure. A prince of the Sidhe . . ." Aedh shook his
head. "I've heard all the old stories, of course; who hasn't?
But I never thought they—you—those people existed!"

"You do believe me."

"I don't seem to have much of an alternative, do I? The
worlds a great deal stranger than I ever expected, it seems."
Aedh paused. "So now, prince of the Sidhe, you can't lie.
I'll accept that; there's been too much evidence of your
truthfulness." He leaned forward slightly, face all at once
grim. "Then you'll be telling me the truth when I ask you
what I asked when we first met."

"I don't—"

"Back then, I didn't really worry about the possibility of
your brother or his agents coming after you, not all the way
from Cathay. But now things are very different. If the tales
are true, any of the Sidhe can step from Realm to Realm
as easily as a man passes through a doorway."

"Not quite that easily. And," Ardagh added bitterly, "not
every Sidhe."

"I'm not interested in the techniques of it. Is my land in
any danger from your brother?"

Ardagh flinched—catching his breath at the painful
twinges that cost him—at the thought of that last, agoniz-
ing meeting with Eirithan. "No," he said, meeting Aedh's
gaze steadily. "He will not cross into this Realm or have
any dealings here. Eirithan's loathing for it is far too great."

"You're sure."

"I give you my word." / am, after all, of far more use to
him as a living tool— No. He wasn't about to tell Aedh that.
Instead, Ardagh continued. "There was far more danger to
Eriu from the storm than from out of the Sidhe Realm."

"Och, yes, the storm," Aedh murmured. "I dread to leam
just how much damage the cursed, hellish thing did across
the land. How many it may have slain. Prince Ardagh, your

THE SHATTERED OATH          391

people are said to be innate magicians. Just how much magic
do you wield?"

Ardagh just barely kept from flinching again. How could
he possibly answer... yes. He saw what Aedh meant. "Not
as much as I'd like, not in this Realm," the prince admit-
ted. "Not so much that I could ever be used as a weapon
by or against you."

Was that sigh of relief or regret? "And how many here
know the truth about you?"

Tour warriors, surely—"

"No. The way the storm was raging, $ think I was the
only one who got any clear glimpses of your battle. But who
else in Fremainn knows about you?"

Ardagh hesitated again, considering how he might shield
Queen Eithne. "Aside from you," he said slowly, "there is
the Lady Sorcha. Cadwal . . . I'm sure that he suspects,
particularly now that he has some free time in which to
ponder, but I doubt he'll admit anything lest his men think
he's gone soft in the head, as he'd put it- What about you?

Will you—"

"Tell everyone something this fantastic?" Aedh snorted.
"Do you want all of Fremainn to think I've gone soft in the

head?"

Ardagh lay in silence for a moment, once more all too

well aware of his helplessness and how easy it would be
just now for the king to be rid of him. "What happens now?"
he asked at last.

"To you, you mean? That is the question, isn't it? I won't
deny I'd be more easy in my mind if you were—ah—some-
one other than what you are."

"If I were human, you mean? I'm afraid I can't oblige

you there."

Aedh laughed shortly. "Och, no, I would think not. You
are as you are. And as you are," he added more seriously,
"you've never once offered any threat to me or mine. I owe
you my life. Prince Ardagh, and the life of my son, and very
possibly the lives of all here." The king got suddenly to his
feet. "Your secret is my secret—mostly because I don't want
hysteria about you spreading throughout Fremainn, I don't

392 josepha Sherman

doubt the truth will slip out, bit by bit, no matter what we
do, but that's not in our hands."

"Then you are saying—"

"Yes. You are still my guest. Now get some sleep before
I have Eithne down on my head for endangering your
health."

Ardagh smiled at that. Easy enough to obey, he thought,
and slid back into a drowse.

He woke. Once more someone was at his bedside, and
Ardagh forced open his eyelids to see: "Sorcha!"

"Hush." She reached out a hand to gently brush black
strands back from his face. Her fingers stroked his hair
for a moment. "I thought it would feel that silly," she
said in a satisfied tone, drawing back her hand.

"You shouldn't be here. Not alone with me."

"Probably not. Even though," Sorcha added critically, "you
don't look as though you could so much as lift your head
off the pillow, let alone damage my honor. Don't worry,"
she continued blandly, "I have no intention of compromising
your honor, either."

He started to chuckle, stopped with a gasp. "Don't make
me laugh. I'm too sore for that."

"Och, I'm sorry. Ardagh, you're a hero, you know."

"Not intentionally. Things simply happened as they
would."

"You're a hero," she repeated, "And don't be so self-
deprecating. We arent your people; you owed us nothing.
You could merely have run off and left everyone to their
fate."

"I considered it."

"Stop that! You didn't, and thaft the thing." Sorcha paused,
biting tier lip. "When they carried you home, all torn and
battered, I thought my heart would stop. Ardagh, I love
you. Ha," she added triumphantly, "you don't have the
strength to turn away, do you? You have to listen."

"Sorcha . . ."

"I know, I know, we've been over all die problems already.
Yes, we're of two different races. Maybe you won't find a

THE SHATTERED OATH          393

WOT home, maybe you will. Maybe you'll go alone. Maybe,"
she added, voice quavering a bit, "I'll go with you."

He drew his breath in sharply at that, stunned with delight,
but before he could speak, Sorcha waved a hasty hand. "What
will be will be, and neither one of us are, thank the dear,
sweet, loving Lord, prophets. But right now we don't have
to make any final decisions. And until the time comes when
we do, there will be, the Lord willing, a stretch of nice, happy,
ordinary days. I don't know about you, Ardagh Lithanial,
but I have no intention of wasting any of them."

She bent to brush her lips against his. It hurt, it hurt so
much it brought the tears to his eyes, but Ardagh managed
to bring his aching arms up to draw her down to him and
hold her fast against his chest, "I love you." he murmured
into the mass of her red hair, rejoicing in his sudden joy.
"I have never loved before, but I do love you, Sorcha ni
Fothad, I do love you."

He was never going to lose the longing to end his exile.
Ardagh knew that. But whatever happened in this strange,
foreign human Realm, whatever was yet to come, for now
he had a place, a home, a love.

For now, he was truly content.

This book is, of course, not to be taken for true history.
However, a fair amount of it is, indeed, based on fact, or
at least extrapolated from what -little was written down in
the 8th century A.D. There really was a High King Aedh,
son of the saintly Niall, who came to die throne somewhere
between 795 and 797 (when he was formally ordained by
the Irish Church); the exact date of his crowning is uncer-
tain. Like many an Irish ruler before and after him, he
seems to have spent much of his twenty-five-year reign in
battle, keeping this king and that at least partially in line.
Many of the exploits mentioned in this book actually occur-
red, including his splitting of Meath between the princely
claimants, though his attack on the Viking raiders is pure
fiction.

The name ofAedh's wife is unknown to us, but the Annals
of the Kingdom of Ireland do state that he had a son, Niall,
who came to the throne after his death. They also men-
tion the name of Fothad mac Ailin, who was first Aedh's
tutor and then his chief poet and minister. Whether or not
Fothad had any children is open to conjecture. I have chosen
to give him a daughter.

Eriu is an ancient name for Ireland, which in the time
of King Aedh was still densely forested; lengthy human
occupation and the need of timber for houses and ships led
to significant deforestation up to the present time both in
Ireland and Great Britain.

Lochlannach is, of course, the Gaelic name for the Vikings.
Viking raids were just beginning during Aedh's reign, though
they amounted to little more than isolated attacks for the

394

THE SHATTERED OATH          395

first twenty years or so; it wasn't until the 830s that they
became an organized menace.

One of the main natural events recorded during Aedh's
reign was a savage thunderstorm in about 799 A.D. It was
so severe and deadly a storm that it was considered super-
natural. In this book, of course, it is!

The land of Ireland has always been associated with
various fairy legends, including those of the Sidhe, who are
often described as living in the Hollow Hills, or using those
hills, or sometimes wefis, as portals from the human world
into Faerie. There are numerous legends about the Folk
in general and King Finvarra in specific; many of them deal
with his more or less friendly relations with humans.

While a complete list of all the references consulted
would be tediously long, some of die main sources are listed
below:

Best, Michael R. and Frank H. Brightman. The Book of
Secrets ofASyertus Magnus. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1973.

Byrne, Francis John. Irish Kings and High-Kings. London:

B. T. Batsford Ltd., 1973.

Dames. Michael. Mythic Ireland. London: Thames and
Hudson, 1992.

De Paor, Laim. The Peoples of Ireland From Prehistory to
Modem Times. Indiana: Notre Dame Press, 1986.

Donovan, John 0., trans. Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland,
7 volumes. New York: AMS Press, 1966.

Drew, Kathenne Fischer. The Laws of the Salian Franks.
Philadelphia; University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991.

Gerald of Wales, translated by John J. O'Meara. The His-
tory and Topography of Ireland. New York and London:

Penguin Books, 1982. First published in 1195.

Kelly, Fergus. A Guide to Early Irish Law. Dublin: Dublin
Institute for Advanced Studies, 1988.

Newark. Tim- Celtic Warriors: 400 BC-AD 1600. Poole;

Blandford Press, 1986.

O'CarroII, Niall. The Forests of Ireland: History. Distribu-
tion and Silviculture. Dublin: Turoe Press. 1984.

396                Josepha Sherman

O'FarreII, Padraic. Before the Devil Knows You're Dead:

Irish Blessings, Toasts 6- Curses Dublin: The Mercier

Press, 1993.
0 hOgain, Dr. Daitbi. Myth, Legend 6- Romance: An

Encyclopedia of the Irish Folk Tradition New York:

Prentice Hall Press, 1991.
Ross, Anne. The Pagan Celts Totowa: Barnes & Noble

Books, 1986. Previously published as Everyday Life of

the Pagan Celts
Scott, Michael, ed. An Irish Herbal. Dublin: Anna Livia

Press, 1991.
Streit, Jakob. Sun and Cross. From Megabit/lie Culture to

Early Christianity in Ireland. Edinburgh: Floris Books,

1977.

Weir, Hugh W. L,, ed. Ireland—A Thousand Kings. White-
gate: Ballinakella Press, n.d.
White, Carolyn. A History of Irish Fairies. Dublin; The

Mercier Press, 1976.
Wilde, Lady. Irish Cures, Mystic Charms 6- Superstitions.

New York: Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., 1891.