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


didn't show it. Papa was editor and publisher of the Adene 
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 together, 
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 shenanigans 
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 handkerchief. 


He got the cinder out of Tom's eye just as the conductor 
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 passenger 
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 temple. 
"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 laughing 
stock of everybody in this coach." 


"They won't be laughing very long," Tom said, confident 
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 getting 
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 photograph 
of a factory he had seen in a magazine. "I don't 
think it would," he said, "because the longer the smokestack 
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 vertical. 
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 locomotive 
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 himself. 
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 conductor. 
"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 introduced 
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 example, 
has a mail-and-baggage car, a freight car, and sometimes 
a car for livestock in addition to a smoking car and 
a coach car. And because the train is what you could call 


part of a freight train we have a caboose like they do on all 
freight trains. On the main-line passenger trains the conductor 
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 questions 
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, 


"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. Walters 
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 Rodriguez, 
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 visiting 
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 washrooms, 
mopping and waxing the floors, and things like 
that," Sweyn answered. 


"They've got to catch you first," Tom said confidently. 
"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 hungry. 
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 turning 
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 passengers 
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 


men playing poker on a suitcase at the other end of the 
car? They were complaining because I don't sell sandwiches 
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-andbutter 
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. Harrison 
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 before 
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 sheriff 
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. Uncle 
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 confidence 
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. 


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 diamonds 
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 diamonds 
on all four edges. Mr. Harrison could tell by looking 
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 gentlemen 
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 complaint." 


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 letter 
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 received 
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 fouryear-
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 


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 clothing. 


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 smuggle 
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 expelled." 


"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 inspection 
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 envious. 
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 academy?" 
Tom asked. 


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


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 sightseeing 
or to the museum or art gallery. And once in a 
while as a treat we get to go to the Salt Lake Theater. Buying 
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 seventh 
and eighth grades. Next year I'll be going to high 
school in Pennsylvania and living with some of Papa's relatives. 
And while I'm enjoying myself there I promise I'll 
think of you often, little brother, and of how you are suffering 
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. 


"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 student. 
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 confident 
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 working 
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 locomotive. 
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 


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 


that cord? The one on the left? It rings the bell to let passengers 
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 chasing 
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 released 
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 fourand-
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 Express 
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 traveling." 


"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 going 
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. 


"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 became 
railroad men." 


34 


Tom climbed down the iron rungs of the locomotive 
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 


been the color of our grass in the summertime. 


"I thought you were joking," he said, "until the conductor 
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 possible," 
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 traditional 
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 hanging 
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 locomotive," 
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 single 
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 remarkable. 
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 streetcars, 
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 


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 Virgin 
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'Malley 
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 covered 
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, married 
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 order 
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 Catholic 
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 missionaries 
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 


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 yourself?" 
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 rabbit 
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 arriving 
in this condition will be five days of peeling potatoes 


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 insolence 
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 American 
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 demerits," 
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 little 
religious instruction," Father Rodriguez said. "But neither 
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 trouble 
with you," he said, to Tom's astonishment. "I will 
now give you a fair warning, Thomas. If you want to remain 
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 rescue. 


"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 demerits 
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. 


"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 confessional. 
And the chapel was one place where there was carpeting 
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'Malley 
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 troubles 
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 desperate 
himself. He had only been in the academy about 
fifteen minutes and already had received ten demerits 


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 superiors. 


They left the chapel and after picking up their suitcases 
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 trouble. 


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 dormitory. 
Tom put his suitcase on his bunk and began to unpack. 
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. "Nobody 
calls T.D. Fitzgerald a liar and gets away with it," 


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 Rodriguez 
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 protested. 


"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 Rodriguez,'* 
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 removed 
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 couple 
of hours getting acquainted with his fellow seventh 
graders. He took a liking to three of them for three different 
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 


was set on a hollow base that had an opening in the back. 
Tom hid the candy there and then returned to the dormitory 
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 graders 
until the supper bell finally rang 


"At ease," Rory said. "You may go down to the dining 
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 students 
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 Before 
Meals. 


Tom couldn't honestly say the food was bad. He was 
used to Mamma's and Aunt Bertha's cooking and compared 
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 delicious. 


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 stairway. 


"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 suitcases 
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 Rodriguez," 
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 frightened 
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 


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 pretend 
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 anything," 
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 decided 
he had to know which priest was hearing his confession. 


"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 explain 
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 whipping 
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 penance 
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 doubting 
Thomas. You are aptly named." 


"I know that I have committed one great sin," Tom 
said. "I've broken the fourth commandment, which forbids 
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 authority. 
"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 moming 
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. Instead 
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 before 
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 finished 
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 breaking 
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 


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 problem. 
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 conversation 
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 containing 
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 returned 
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 potatoes. 
"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 


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 interfere. 
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 


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 conclusion. 
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 dormitory. 
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 morning. 
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 dining 
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 blackboard 
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 history, 
advanced arithmetic, English grammar, general science, 
and beginner's civics. You will also find a book entitled 
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 minutes 
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 graders. 
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. 


He got down on his hands and knees and began crawling 
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 dormitory 
and sat down on it. 


"We will now prove that all seventh graders are dummies," 
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, wondering 
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-


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 yourself?" 
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 superintendent 
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. 


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 morning 
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 superintendent 
inspect the fingers of each boy's right hand. The 
inspection ended just as Father O'Malley entered the classroom 
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 


Moran, Phillip Martin and Anthony Colacci." 


They followed the priest down to the superintendent'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 Rodriguez 
said, "but a person who participates in a conspiracy 
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, "beginning 
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 recover 
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 general," 
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 permission 
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 Rodriguez." 


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 demerits 
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 written 
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 fouryear-
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 passing 
grades. Between doing the heavy penance Father 
O'Malley kept giving him and having to clean the washroom, 
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 subject 
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 washroom 
until school let out in the spring. Boy, oh, boy, what 


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 problem 
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 treatment 
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 Rodriguez, 
Tom parting with fifty cents was like a bird parting 
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 sidewalk. 
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." 


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 mournfully. 


"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. 


"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 stockholders 
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 happen." 


"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 expelled 
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. 


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


Tom was right. Phil and Tony held a whispered conversation 
and then returned. 


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


"And your friends," Tony said. "I like you two better 
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 entered 
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 during 
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 Aden93 


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 academy. 
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 exclaimed, 
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 until 
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 anticipated 
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. 


"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 stairway 
and act as lookout. If you see any of the priests coming 
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. 


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 brotherly 
letter saying how much he missed me and the family. 
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 peppermint 
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 himself 
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 expecting 
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 


entire month without getting a single demerit. I congratulate 
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. Losing 
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 hallway 
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 somebody." 



"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 duplicate 
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 suggesting 
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 


the ceiling. And in one corner of it he saw a trapdoor leading 
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 going 
back to the third floor and hiding the bar of soap under 
the statue of Saint Francis. Jerry got Phil from the dormitory 
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 immediately. 
Instead a minute passed, and then another minute, 
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 until 
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 approached. 
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 decided 
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 himself 
and each of his three friends. And that night he got 
his first good night's sleep since losing his job in the washroom. 
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 


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 sandwich," 
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. 


"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 singing 
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 Rodriguez 
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 afternoon. 
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." 


"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 Thursday 
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 supper, 
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 Rodriguez," 
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 Rodriguez 
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 happened," 
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, concerts, 
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 gambler 
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." 


"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 Marvel 
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


/ 


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 articles 
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." 


"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 fellows 
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 catechism. 


"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 Marvel?" 
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." 


"A pocketknife," Jerry answered. 


Tom returned the pocketknife. "That ends the demonstration," 
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 demonstration 
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 explained 
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 theater," 
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 nobody 
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 correspondence 
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 breakdown 
and apoplexy all at once after reading the report on 
Tom. The report informed us that Tom had received fifteen 
demerits for the month, just five short of being expelled. 
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 adjust. 
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 nervous 
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 whoever 
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 breakfast. 
Then, after saying Grace Before Meals, Father Rodriguez 
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 anything 
he could do but report to the superintendent's office. 
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 advanced 
arithmetic textbook. He was sent to the superintendent's 
office and received another five demerits. Kenneth 
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 after 
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 textbook 
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 Saturday. 
He had to take the entire seventh grade into his confidence 
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, 


Jerry, and make it the shortest confession on record. Then 
you go. Tony, and make it the longest confession on record. 
If I'm not back by the time you come out of the confessional 
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 mattress 
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 confessional. 


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 library 
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 mattress. 
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 window!" 


"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 


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 mattress? 
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 convincing 
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 


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 lowdown 
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 mattress?" 


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 inspection 
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 beside 
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 mattress 
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." 


"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. 


"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 followed 
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 important 
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 certainly 
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 Spalding'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 nightgown. 


"We!!, J.D.," he said as proud as if he had given me 
a catcher's mitt, "what do you think of it?" 


"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 backboard. 


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 playing 
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 after 
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 complete 
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, handling 
it as if it were a precious document. 


"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 impossible 
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 confidential," 
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 unpacked 
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. "Meanwhile, 
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 always 
led the exercises dressed in a sweat shirt and gym 


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 Society 
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 backboards, 
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 program, 
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 superintendent 
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 permission 
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 leaving 
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 notebook. 


"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 history 
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 permission 
from His Holiness Pope Leo XIII to introduce an 
athletic program in this school. I find this difficult to believe. 
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 different 
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." 
"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." 
"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 forgive 
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 dormitory 
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 superintendent 
said. "And bless you for that, Tom." 


If Tom was surprised before, he was now doubly surprised. 
"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'Malley 
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 toward 
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. 


"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 academy. 
I know now I was wrong about that. If Father Rodriguez 
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 honestly 
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 writing 
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 dollars 
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 birthdays. 
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 summer 
vacation. It had taken me a long time but my little 
brain had finally figured out what made Tom tick. A fellow 
with a great brain and a normal heart becomes a scientist 
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. 


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 Adventures 
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 Titusville, 
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. Arkansas, 
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 somewhere 
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 brothers, 
some times of sharing jests and tales. Eirithan wasn't 


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 endless 
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 warning. 
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 inconsequential 
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 overwhelmed 
by impatience, Ardagh snapped, "Does that please 
you, my lord?" 


"I beg your—" 


"Look you, I know you and my royal brother have quarreled 
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 


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 possible 
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-magicwasting 
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 


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 aristocratic 
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 innocent. 
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, whispered 
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, beautiful, 
slender and graceful as a hunting hound, her long, 
moon-pale hair caught in a hundred intricate, jewel-studded 
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 arriving 
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 anything 
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, hostile, 
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 carefully 
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 crystalline 
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, overblown 
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 


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 shimmering 
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 beautiful 
as ever, the cold silver frosting of face, hair and costume 
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 seduction 
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 gracefully 
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 confronted 
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 mischief. 


"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 undertone 
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 


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 attention 
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 staggered, 
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 fervor 
of long-lived folk too familiar with boredom. They were 
laughing and calling to each other with all the glee of children, 
the air about them sparkling with Power as they altered 
elegant robes to more practical riding gear, had their shining 
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 delicately 
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 submission. 
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 scavengers, 
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 racing, 
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 fomenting, 
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 realized 
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 stirrups, 
javelin raised— 


But too many branches were between him and die wyvem, 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


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 assassin, 
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 


Josephs Sherman 


As the javelin left his hand, Ardagh hurled every bit of 
will not against the traitors but at the javelin itself. Powers, 
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 javelin; 
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 staring. 
"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 


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 listening 
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 certainly 
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 decision, 
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 condemn 
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 treacherous 
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 meaning, 
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 ambitious 
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 ambition. 
And just to keep matters nicely stirred, there were also 
those two swift raids to the north of Eriu by the Lochlaanach, 
the seafaring barbarians come down from their 
frozen northern lands. Those raids just might not be isolated 
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 admitted, 
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 monastery. 


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 


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 midday 
of the week, was the one deemed suitable for royal 
hunting. 


"So be it," Aedh muttered, disentangBng himself carefully 
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 


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, biting 
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 murmured, 
"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 Christian 
priests, that his wife secretly practiced a far older religion, 
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 palace 
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 disapproval. 
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 


"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 speaking 
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 


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. Blinking 
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 shadows! 


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 sunlight, 
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 sunlight 
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 


^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 Powers, 
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 comfortably 
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 calmness. 
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 whatever 
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 hunting 
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 disgustingly 
dusty, aching from having slept on beds of gathegted 
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 reactions 
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-smothered 
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 welcome 
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 remembered 
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 habitation? 
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 appreciate 
the fine, clear day around them. Ardagh heard complaints 
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 comjjfeBcrs 
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 


, --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 graceful, 
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 without 
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 


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 suddea 
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 promisj, 
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 


Josepha Sherman 


was clearly a fortress of sorts, a series of earthen embankments, 
rings within rings, over which the upper half of a 
round, broad tower could be seen, but it was all so—primitive! 
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 making 
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 interesting? 
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 insuring 
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 forward. 
"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 


and ... chat. And you will, of course, be my honored guest 
at dinner." 


And beyond, Ardagh told him silently. But gently, gently—
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 wickerwork, 
they'd been whitewashed and polished to an elegant, 
gleaming purity, and the doorposts themselves were intricately 
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 honorable 
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 


]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 Powers 
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 clothing 
bad been whisked away, but surely other clothes of suitable 
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 pinning 
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 nothing 
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 connected 
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 conversation 
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 sunlight 
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 wariness, 
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, wearing 
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 trying 
to puzzle out everything about him- "I have been told 
how you saved the life of our king. Please accept my gratitude 
in the name of the Church." 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


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 advisor 
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 remember 
it." 


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 happened, 
"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 


"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 subjective 
wisdom might not be as useful as objective observation." 


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 


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 control, 
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 


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 animal 
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 hurried 
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 weakness, 
she retorted sharply, "Oh, no, of course not. It simply 
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, blazing 
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 terrible 
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 carefully 
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. 


fosepha Sherman 


Now, isolate the human noise . . . separate out the animal 
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 drinking 
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 frightening 
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 manners 
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 


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 audience 
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. Unfortunately, 
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, Leicester, 
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 everyone." 


"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, unrolling 
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 probably 
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 official 
condolences, either. It would look as though I were taking 


Josephs Sherrwn 


sides in the quarrel. Private sympathies, then," Aedh decided. 


"What else?" 


Fothad hunted through the scrolls. "Nothing overiy dramatic, 
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 inheritances." 
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 wandering 
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 undeniable 
hint of sorrow to the man. Besides, no one could carry 
on such a perfect act of being so totally ignorant of everything 
about us—or feign such a hunger about learning how 


to live here." 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


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 forward, 
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 technically 
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 


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 


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 rigidly 
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." 


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 alienated 
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 calling 
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, haunting 
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 monasteries 
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 fascination 
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 


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 specific—" 



"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 royalty?" 


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 


]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 antiquated 
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 continued 
hastily, "but once again, that should not be a problem. 
You are not a criminal, nor one who—" 


He stopped short. Prince Ardagh had, without warning, 
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 faintest 
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 travellers 
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, managed 
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 


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 charmingly. 
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 joining 
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, peering 
into the precious little glass mirror the servant hefd for 


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 nothing 
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, teaching 
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 learning? 
If only there was something different for her to do with 


THE SHATTEHED OATH 


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 without 
rancor. His eyes really were most remarkably green, 
Sorcha thought uneasily, clear as glass yet revealing absolutely 
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, 


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, without 
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, trembling 
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 


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 anything 
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, Donnchadh 
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 horror, 
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 climate 
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 notwithstanding. 


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 contradictions. 
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 customs 
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 practice 
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, staring 
at him with wide, astonished eyes. Ardagh crouched 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


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 gently. 


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. "Forgive 
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 charming 
a visitor?" No, that was far beyond me little one's understanding. 
"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 solemnly. 
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 finger 
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. Probably 
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 something 
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 wonder, 
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 


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 himself 
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 shuddered. 
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 premonition 
hasn't faded- Something is going to happen, something 
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. "Precognition 
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 youngsters 
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 politics, 
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 practice 
field. Ardagh noticed a slender figure hovering wistfully 
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 


"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-offact 
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 welcome 
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 visiting 
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 contemptuously, 
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 measure. 
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 


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 ambition 
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 someone: 
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. Sometimes. 
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. Nothing 
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 irregular." 


"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 


Ardagh sat back in shock. What foulness was this? Powers, 
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 maidservant 
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 falsehood, 
"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 


"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, putting 
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 servant 
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 tension. 
"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—particularly 
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 


"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 pleasant 
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 undeclared 
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 Charlemagne. 
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, taunting 
him widi, "You'll never be anyone of worth. You'll be 
nodiing but a musty old priest." 


Gervinus' mouth tightened with die memory, remembering 
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 honorable 
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 readjusting 
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 dominated 
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 


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 mirror 
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 produced: 
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, Charlemagne, 
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 warring 
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 murdering 
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 monastery, 
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 


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!Looking 
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 unpleasant, 
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? Something 
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 bureaucrats, 
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 Prankish 
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 standard, 
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 humor, 
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 


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, HoHness, 
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 himself 
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, submerging 
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 


"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 tangling 
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 snapping 
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 tatters, 
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 sorcery 
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 hastily, 
"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." 


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 


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 sudden 
pang of guilt, / am not honest with you. Aedh, I cannot 
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 dropping 
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 royalty. 


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 afterthought, 
"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 fighting. 
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 training 
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 doorway, 
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 matter, 
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 comparison. 
But me prince had clearly fought in few actual battles, 
at least not battles won by the sword; he lacked the downright 
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 seeing 
me any longer, are you? 



Enough of this. Cadwal hastily stepped back and lowered 
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 understand. 
"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 translate, 
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 . . . interesting, 
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 conversation, 
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. Someone 
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, surrounded 
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-wandering 
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 falsehood, 
"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 


"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 lessons 
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 captured 
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 reminder 
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 hastily 
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 obvious! 
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 independent' 
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 simply 
abandoning one." 


"I assume that means you've met Breasal mac Donnchadh." 


"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 generous—
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 


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 stupidity 
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. 


THB SHATTERED OATH 121 


No matter. I shaB. still win. 


At least these idiots had been clever enough to recognize 
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 carefully. 
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. Suddenly 
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 hundred 
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 seeking, 
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 retinue 
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 bewilderment, 
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 whatsoever 
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 curiosity, 
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 sorcery 
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. Christianized 
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 necessary. 
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 typical 
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 meticulous 
care, enjoying the way it gleamed in the autumn sunlight 
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 dazzling 
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! Sometimes 
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 livelihood, 
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 politic 
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 tangling 
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 cousins 
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 servant. 
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 hunting 
party rode down from the fortress of Fremainn, cloaks 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


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 surrounded 
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 wonderful 
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 monasteries 
as he ruled Eriu, the king could hardly be comfortable 
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. Aching 
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 


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 nothing 
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 contents 
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, struggling 
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 repulsively 
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 telltale 
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. 



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 thoroughly, 
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 


"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 asking 
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 condemning." 


"Och, I know. It's only that I've had to hide my—my abilities 
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 benedictions 
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 suddenly. 
"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-impatient 
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 connection 
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 attempt 
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 psychic 
stain of guilt and fear . . . 


^ ... a dragon fiercely looming up out of water . . . 



;' ;' 
•^ 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 pushing 
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 understand. 
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. Unfortunately, 
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 rigidly 
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 


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 anything 
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 promise 
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 


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 cowardly 
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 talking 
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 discussing 
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 wander 
far from Fremainn, nor wul I wind up lost in the wilderness 
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 disappoint 
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 forest, 
shedding the merely human follower with ease. The 
prince moved easily as a wild thing past oak and ash, trying 
to avoid places touched by humanity. Overhead, some 
of the trees were already losing their leaves, but the underbrush, 
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 


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 possible 
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 conscious 
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 twilight. 
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, stretching 
like a cat. Mind and body snapped back together, fully 
reunited, and the prince sat up, listening to the forest stirring 
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 himself. 
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 language. 


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 afterthought, 
"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 hastily. 
"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 involvement." 


"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 silver, 
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 technique 
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 regularly 
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 treasure. 
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 tangible 
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 


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 kingdom, 
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 enjoyment 
to be found here. Ae, but you don't want to hear condolences. 
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. Catching 
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 sarcasm 
in Cadwal's voice. "Trying to make sure we haven't 



gone sBding back into pagan ways, begging your royal pardon," 
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 followed 
Cadwal to where the bishop, with his retinue trailing 
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 intricate 
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 


"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 possibly 
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 nothing, 
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 something 
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 journeying 
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 truthfully. 


"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 


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 fireplace 
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 messenger 
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 actually 
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 something 
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 enduring 
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 slowness. 
"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, keeping 
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 undermine 
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, nodding 
absently to this servant or that guard, not really seeing 
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, easily 
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 forward. 
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, staring 
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 desperately 
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 sitting 
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 surprisingly 
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 sorcerer. 
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 happen 
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 psychic 
layer of no one here, nothing here, a layer of innocent 
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 sorcerous 
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, 


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 flickering 
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 invisibility 
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 recognize 
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. "Sorcery," 
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 anything 
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 euphemistic 
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 mirror 
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 everything 
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 impossibilitiesturned-
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 gotten 
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 encouraged 
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 barrier 
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 furrowed. 
"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 slightest 
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 interference 
he was encountering. Gervinus swore a very secular 
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 morning, 
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 dissatisfied." 


"Hardly with the Holy Word!" 


"Eriu, then? Can it be that Eriu does not agree with you?" 


"You misread me. Prince Ardagh. The only dissatisfaction 
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 comfort 
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 uncertain 
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 unnatural, 
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 interesting 
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 limited 
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 certainly 
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, 


178 Josepha Sherrwn 


I wonder, would a man who is almost certainly going to be 
called back to Rome want to know such detailed information 
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 sleeping, 
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 stupid? 
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 himself 
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—reason 
enough to keep one of them locked to protect the precious 
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 unpleasant 
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 straightened 
guiltily. If the woman had been aware of his confusion, 
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 welcome." 
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 intruded. 
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 carefully, 
and with a little shock realized exactly what was happening. 


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 satisfaction 
of seeing several of the men, who by now had forgotten 
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 interest, 
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!" someone 
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 speculation. 
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 cannot 
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 salvation." 


"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 offering: 
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 religion 
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 monastery 
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. 


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 definite 
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 rousing 
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 


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-depieciating 
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?" Amusement 
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 experience. 
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 attacking 
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 incentive." 


"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. 


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 everyone 
at peace. And though I do sponsor craftsmen and the 
like, it's the monasteries who do the work of spreading learning." 



"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 hospitality 
as something sacred." 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


"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 discussion. 
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. 


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 weariness 
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 reasons 
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-loving 
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 statement, 
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 blatantly 
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 acolyte 
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 control, 
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 overheard 
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 sorcerous 
discipline- His cool words to Amulf notwithstanding, 
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 wonderfully 
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 


"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 anything 
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 acolyte 
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 anyone, 
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 sorcery." 


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 everything." 


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 certainly 
listening at the door." Ignoring Amulfs too-indignant 
splutterings, Gervinus continued, "He is not the most useful 
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 common 
serving woman a crime at all, let alone one not solvable 
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 process, 
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. Heedless 
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 


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 dreaming. 
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 sorcery 
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 sudden 
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 something 
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. Contrary 
to what me superstitious commons believed, there were 
few spells powerful enough to kill a man yet allow the sorcerer 
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 sorcerous 
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 winter. 



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 benediction, 
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 backlash. 


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 magical 
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 complaining, 
"mere's only one thing I truly need right now— 
and that's food," 


Much to his relief, that sent most of the humans scurrying 
out of his house. The rest hovered around him as servants 
returned with a quickly assembled meal, all set to watch 
him eat until he waved mem all away. In the midst of enthusiastically 
devouring his food in the sudden wonderful solitude, 
Ardagh paused, remembering: 


Ah, Gervinus. It might have been an accident, that snatching 
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 heartbreaking 
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 helpless 
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 something 
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 disappoint 
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 benediction 
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 


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 desperation 
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 understanding 
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-tumedhuman? 
7 ... don't know, Ardagh realized in astonishment. 
I reaUy don't know. 


Nonsense. She was human, only that. This stupid, endless 
winter was affecting him, nothing more. Ardagh determinedly 
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 solstice—
and, Ardagh learned, to one of these folk's most vital 
religious days, the celebration of their deity's birth—Gervinus 
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 undergone 
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 Lochlannach 
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 beacons, 
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 winter 
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 stopping 
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 smallest, 
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 beautiful 
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 frustration 
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 panting 
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 public 
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 coldest, 
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 interfere 
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 monasteries. 
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 speculative. 
"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 Somethingor-
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 taxing." 



"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 


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 messages 
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 doorways, 
any place a spy might be hidden to watch or overhear. 
Only then did he unroll the parchment Fothad had 
given him, noting without surprise diat the seal had already 
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 innocuous. 


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 communication 
with Odran before this. 


With me. and with who knows how many other discontented 
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, catching 
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 attention 
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 


And doesn't he? Ardagh wondered. Isn't it Aedh he seeks 
to rule? 


Tes, yes, I'm all right," Aedh was insisting, waving everyone 
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 ringing 
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 suddenly 
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 private." 


Ardagh watched King Aedh gaze sharply about the audience 
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 cannot 
believe that poor boy plotted on his own to slay you. 
He has neither a reason nor the strength of body to commit 
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 ridiculous!" 


"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 something 
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 intruding 
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 conceivable 
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 Donnchadh 
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 wolfsbane 
was strong on his breath. A dose strong enough to 
be scented would easily have been strong enough to distort 
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 common 
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 


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 virtually 
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 humility, 
Bishop Gervinus had just endeared himself to these 
Christian folk. The prince remembered Gervinus' scornful 
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 nothing 
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 foreigners, 
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 


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, appreciating 
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. Inhuman 
• . . 


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, "Interesting-" 


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 admitted, 
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 worrying 
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 stupid 
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 increasingly 
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 somehow 
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 honorable 
funeral and bury our memories with it?" 


The prince saluted him with his empty cup. "An excellent 
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 ramparts, 
looking out over the earthen rings of the fortification 
to where the forest loomed as a dark gray-green mass 
in the dim tight. 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


"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 stupidity; 
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 wonders 
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, wondering 
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 whisper, 
his young face grey and twisted with pain. "Didn't want 
.,. just didn't want... to die indoors ..." 


THE SHATTERED OATH 


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 semiconscious 
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 strangeness. 
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 shimmering 
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 herself 
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 breathing, 
Sorcha saw the king's arm go about the boy in so tender 
a curve that her heart skipped a beat for sudden sharp, irrational 
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 surprise, 
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 reasons 
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 portion 
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 


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, terrified 
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, forcing 
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 shuddering. 
"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, husband; 
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 


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 triumph. 
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 animahstic 
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 succeeded 
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 actually 
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 nostalgia, 
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 outside. 


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 supposed 
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 building, 
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 resignation, 
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 awkward 
laugh, hoping it would look as though he was struggling 
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 sobriety. 


"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 sunlight—
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 spUnters—
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 laughing! 
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 restrictions 
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 himself—
ae, no, he would not laugh, he would not! Struggling 
for composure, Ardagh hastily concluded, "B-but I am convinced 
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 weeping. 
"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 homeland?" 


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 drunkards." 


"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 replenish 
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-


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 foster 
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 


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 trying 
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 challenge 
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 promises 
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 


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! dislike 
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 


a» 


t 


: '•/ 


And who could that possibly be? Who at court could be harboring 
such intense hatred he'd be believable as an assassin? 


A bizarre problem, Gervinus mused. But one that definitely 
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 everything!" 
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, Donnchadh 
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 himself 
as he trudged into Fremainn behind the messenger. / 
wiV. not. 


He hadn't expected the messenger to take him so literally 
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, muttering 
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 


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 someday 
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 discussing. 


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 soldiers." 


"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 pressure 
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 awareness 
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." Remembering 
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 something 
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 without 
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 process 
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, silver 
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 something 
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 sending 
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-andout 
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 thoughtfully, 
"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 protest 
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 eccentricities 
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 distracting 
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 information 
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. Gritting 
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 tickling 
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 aristocratic 
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 ordering 
me around," the acolyte continued warily. Then, realizing 
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 Clonach? 


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-quitecovered-
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 Doorway. 
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 anything 
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 without 
the slightest bit of caution—riding out into the wilderness. 


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, untraceable 
attack. 


He would do mis, Gervinus decided. All he need hope 
was that the prince not return too soon. Or rather, he corrected 
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 bedchamber 
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 himself 
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 forest 
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 dealing 
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 tripping 
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 lightness, 
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, twisting, 
wriggling, struggling his way through the tangled forest. 
He burst out into a clearing, gasping—only to find the 
demon facing him as if it had been mere all along, radiating 
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 impossibly 
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 seemingly 
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 sudden 
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 discemable 
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 completely, 
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, forcing 
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 layers 
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 himself 
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?" 


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 savage 
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 mission 
was as dangerous as the recoiling backlash of an unsuccessful 
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 comment, 
"No- Several members of his retinue suffered injuries, 
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 cultivating. 
"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 


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 monster. 
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 suspicion, 
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 frantically 
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 everything 
that had gone wrong, it still felt wonderfully satisfying 
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 palisade." 


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. Particularly 
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. Probably 
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 fortress 
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 something 
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 investigate." 


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 avoidance 
spell, a tiny, fragile thing that should be just enough to 
let an apparent servant near me royal presence without challenge, 
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 


a pleasant drink. But of course he couldn't give up a mission 
midway, not if he meant to go on living. And he certainly 
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 palisade 
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 redden 
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 confess 
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 teasingly, 
"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 making 
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 frantically. 
"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 twisting 
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 inhuman 
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 functioning 
as clearly as it should ... it didn't seem to be functioning 
. . . 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 breathless 
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, fighting— 


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 controlled. 


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—" 



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 reddish 
plain beneath a barren reddish sky: reddish earth, reddish 
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, surrender 
... 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 weakening 
him, and that damnable croon was continuing, surrender. 
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 figure 
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 recognized 
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 overthrow 
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 irreverent 
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 something 
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—wherever 
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 comparison 
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, murmurs, 
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 palisade 
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 monasteries 
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 confusion 
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 continued, 
"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 


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 hostage. 
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 suddenly 
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-deariymarked 
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 sounding 
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-deepening 
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. Delicately, 
enjoying himself, the prince spoke soft, magical 
Words, sent out waves of Strangeness to Odran, chill whispers 
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 throwing 
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 carrying 
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 suspicions. 
Ardagh glanced at Cadwal and frowned. "What?" 


Cadwal was very plainly holding back amusement. "Nothing. 
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 laughing 
at you. Wouldn't be that rude- Or stupid. It's just," he 
added with a sly sideways glance at the prince, "marvelously 
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 Gervinus. 
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 stalking 
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 fantasy, 
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 wrongness. 
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 


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 important 
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, abandoned 
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 shaking 
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, sorcery 
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 gathered 
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 


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 shouting, 
Fool! She is but human! 



Powers. Too much was happening too quickly—the disappearance 
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 backlash 
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. Powers, 
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 aching 
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.... 


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 morning 
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 understatement. 
"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 subject 
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 complaints 
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 masterpiece 
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 suffering 
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 interruption. 
"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 ensorcelled 
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 suggestions?" 


"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 underneath 
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 Scripture, 
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 wonder? 
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, political 
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 waiting. 
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 honorable—
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 deceptively 
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 


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 Donnchadh 
would be incredibly easy for anyone stronger of 
will to control; it would not be difficult to win an-mfluential 
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 performance, 
aware that Aedh was deliberately never inflicting 
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 suddenly, 
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 Donncbadh 
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 


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 winner, 
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 subterfuge 
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 Fremainn. 
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 shatter. 
"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 frustration. 
He had to search this room, find something, anything, 
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 managed 
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 evidence 
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!" 


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 second 
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 


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 tangible 
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 interest, 
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 dangerous, 
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 confessing." 
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 


stopped short, studying her, not sure if what he was feeling 
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. Ridiculous!" 


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, certainly, 
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 herself 
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. Suddenly 
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 fading 
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 hungry. 
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 building- 
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 ambition, 
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 undertone 
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 accusing 
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 unencumbered! 


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 sideways 
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 earlier 
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 hurting 
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 


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 discuss 
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 darkness, 
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 presumably 
hoped looked like an angelic pose. And he proclaimed 
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 kindness 
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 kindness 
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 beautifully 
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 continued, 
"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, endlessly 
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 terrible, 
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 disastrous 
last day in Fremainn. Oh, true, it was unfortunate 


346 Josepha Shemwn 


that he had needed to Idll Arnulf. But then, who would 
have expected that the little idiot would ever have become 
adept enough to try working true sorcery on his 
own? Up until that last inconvenient moment the acolyte, 
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 uneducated 
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 devious 
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 successfully 
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 independent; 
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 others 
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 husband 
for one last fierce embrace. What, be wondered uncertainly, 
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 mercenary 
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, something 
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 themselves 
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 someone 
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 collection 
of toy buildings, with no clues at all to the men living 
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 probably 
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 contradictions, 
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 


"I see them." King Aedh sat leaning his arms comfortably 
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. Particularly 
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 extraordinary 
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 expecting 
anyone able to fight back." 


"Indeed they won't," the king agreed and grinned. "Heyho, 
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, glancing 
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 hospitality." 
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 howling 
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 Lochlannach 
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. Dodging 
a dying man—of Eriu or Lochlannach, he didn't have 
time to see—Ardagh caught a blade against his own, staggering 
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 javelin 
pierced the boy, and Ardagh fell to his knees, catching 
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 


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 second 
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 mercenary 
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 others. 
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 Lochlannach 
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 


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 shudder 
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 follow. 
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 "brothers." 
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 suffering 
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 structure?" 
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 


imagine Donnchadh ofClonarch could; we're nearly on his 
land. Not quite ruined at that," he added in a more speculative 
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 sudden 
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 surrounded 
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, curving 
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 comeLet's 
see what we can do about holding them off." 


Ardagh heard the enemy pounding at the gate and, suddenly 
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 frantically 
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, gesturing, 
"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 anywhere 
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 comfortable 
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 traitors 
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 important 
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 follower 
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 someone 
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 rainwater 
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 neither 
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 catlike 
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 moonlight 
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 genuine 
oathbreaker. 


No. 


Donnchadh it was, then. The prince paused again, getting 
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 "borrow" 
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 


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 Portal. 
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 sending 
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 yourself 
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 curiosity 
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 gardens 
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 continued 
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 uncertain 
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 betraying 
me. Curse you to the endless Outer Dark for what harm 
you've done me and our land both—and may it be the traitors' 
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 certainly 
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. Somehow. 
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 


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 horror. 
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 


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, anything 
but Derval. "No, no, far better to wait, see who is 
stronger, who is weaker. If you make alliance with someone 
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 messenger. 
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 summons. 


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 admiration, 
Donnchadh realized with a touch of surprise, as in 
appraisal. 


And to his utter astonishment, he heard the man murmur, 
"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 nonsense 
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 Donnchadh 
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 deliberately 
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 gentier, 
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 whatever 
he styled himself, was waiting in apparent tranquility, 
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, followed 
by a fiery, noisy troop of mounted warriors, Ardagh 
glanced back once over his shoulder to see Derval standing 
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 surprised 
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. Ridiculous 
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 preamble 
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 stirrupless 
saddles were the norm—but no less swift and fierce 
for that. Ardagh, swept along in the sudden surge of warriors, 
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 underbrush. 
where he could sink to his knees, huddling in misery 
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 beginning 
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 himself, 
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 painfully 
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 


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 fighting 
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, pressing 
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 himself 
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 


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 somehow 
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 himself 
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 imperative 
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 


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 involuntary 
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. Nothing, 
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 moving 
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, agonizing 
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 admitted. 
"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—someone 
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 uncertain. 
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 occurred, 
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 mention 
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 


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 supernatural. 
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 History 
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. 


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.