A Strange and Ancient Name Read Online Free Page B

confused being asked.
    “No. I mean, yes. I mean—Look you, we can’t stay down here talking like this. Ysilar is sure to find us. But if we can find him first . . . If I free you, wind spirit—”
    “Alliar. The sorcerer tried to put a name of his own devising on me soon after Binding me. But I secretly chose my own.”
    The young prince dipped his head politely. “Alliar, then. I free you, will you guide me to him?”
    “I . . . no . . .”
    “I’m not asking you to raise a hand against him. Just guide me. Come, hurry, decide! If you don’t want to help me, I promise I’ll free you anyhow. Then I’ll go find Ysilar on my own.”
    And almost certainly get himself slain in one of the sorcerer’s traps, and put an end to kindness. If I go with him, Alliar mused, maybe I can save this bright, brave young thine. Somehow. “Yes,” the spirit said reluctantly. “Remove this shackle and I will guide you.”
    It took some time for Hauberin to unlock the chain, murmuring wary Words, their Power muted so he wouldn’t alert Ysilar. But at last the shackle yielded and Alliar scrambled up, headed for the stairway down which Ysilar had dragged his slave.
    They met the sorcerer halfway up.
    Ysilar, tall and lean, long hair silvery-fair, ice-gray eyeswide and flat and mad, had presumably been descending the winding stair to see if his slave had learned proper submission. All three stood frozen for what seemed an endless time. Then the sorcerer smiled.
    “You. Slave. Come here.”
    Sick with fear, Alliar looked into Ysilar’s terrible eyes and trembled, remembering all the length of captivity, all the cruelty witnessed and, perforce, performed. And all at once it was quite beyond bearing. “No,” the being said in desperate defiance. “No. This time I will not.”
    But the spirit felt the sorcerer draw in magic and knew the target—
    The boy! He’ll kill the boy!
    With all the speed the imposed body knew, Alliar threw Hauberin aside onto a landing, then hurtled up at Ysilar, bowling the astonished sorcerer off his feet. But then Alliar hesitated, ready to howl in frustration, helpless to do anything to harm him. The furious Ysilar backhanded his slave across the face, sending Alliar tumbling. Sorcery struck, white-hot, merciless as the rest of Ysilar’s punishments, and the being screamed and screamed again, struggling futilely to escape.
    “Stop it.” That was Hauberin’s voice, and even through the pain, Alliar had to wonder at how regal it sounded.
    And, miraculously, the pain did stop. Shaking with relief, the being tried to rush to the boy’s side, but a magic-stunned body refused to move.
    “Who are you, boy?” Ysilar was amused. “You have the feel of magic to you, but the look of a mongrel.”
    That must have stung, but the boy answered proudly, “You should know me, traitor. I am Hauberin, son of Prince Laherin, your rightful liege lord.”
    Alliar managed to work the weary body up onto one elbow, in time to see the humor fade from Ysilar’s face. Not even a Faerie child could have sensed the subtle tremor of air that meant the gathering of death-magic by a master. But the wind spirit knew, the wind spirit shouted out a frantic “Look out!” to Hauberin.
    Ysilar was prepared for spells—not a quickly thrown knife. Silver flashing, Hauberin’s blade took the sorcerer full in the throat.
    Choking, wild-eyed, already dead, Ysilar clawed frantically at the hilt of the knife (a distracted part of Alliar’s mind noted that Faerie blood, like that within the imposed body, was quite red), then crumpled. The being twisted aside in a spasm of disgust to let the body tumble past, then scrambled up to stand beside Hauberin, staring back at the corpse in disbelief.
    “Come on.” the boy pulled at Alliar’s arm. “It’s all right, he—he’s dead. Alliar, come on!”
    Only then did the being realize that the castle was shaking violently around them. “His spells are falling apart!’
    “Can you