Free Forging the Runes by Josepha Sherman

his nose wrinkle despite his best intentions; this was far from the best corner of the city, and it stank.
    But there was the screaming woman, crouching at the mouth of what was far too narrow to be called an alley. She was of the commonest sort, judging from that too-brilliant tunic, but the horror in her eyes pulled him from his horse.
    "What—"
    But then he, too, saw the body. A woman, a dispassionate part of his mind noted, young, dead. No, not just dead: murdered. Whoever had killed her had done a rather alarmingly neat job; her throat had been cut as daintily and cold-bloodedly as though she'd been nothing but a rabbit—
    A rabbit. The memory hit him with the force of a blow. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment? That rabbit, with its neatly cut throat pressed to a man's mouth. To ealdorman Osmod's mouth, yes, and him with the look of a sated demon.
    A ritual killing. He'd thought that then, for the brief moment he'd thought clearly about it at all. A ritual killing—like this one. And that meant that the poor woman's blood had also been . . .
    But Worr couldn't bear to finish that thought.
    Beortric must know of this, he thought blindly, Beortric must be told.

Hopes and Dreams

Chapter 7

    ". . . and the highest Wessex nobles," Ardagh recited in a fair imitation of Fothad's most teacherly voice, "are ealdormen, who make up the Witan, the law council, while a rank below them lie the thegns, and . . ."
    He paused, glancing at Sorcha as she walked the chilly autumn rounds of Fremainn with him. "And you have not heard one of three words I've said."
    "I have!" she protested. "I'm glad to hear how quickly and well you've been learning about Wessex and its ways."
    "But?"
    "But what do you think? I can hardly take joy in anything that keeps reminding me how soon you'll be leaving. And I—och, my love, I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep whining about something that's unavoidable. It's just . . . I've said this before but . . ." She shook her head impatiently. "What it is, is that I feel so—so damnably helpless! I hate having to wait here like a useless little nothing and I hate the idea of not going with you. But most of all," she added, a touch more gently, "I hate, och, I hate with all my heart knowing I'll not be knowing what's happening to you."
    He grinned. "Now that, at least, is a problem I think I can solve. See this? With any luck at all, we should be able to speak to each other through it."
    "That?" She eyed the little clay thing skeptically, "Isn't this the amulet you tried using that other night? Just after the battle against—"
    "Leinster? Yes."
    "You said it failed."
    "It did. Only, I think, because it just isn't strong enough to work anything as Powerful as opening a Doorway. But it still does hold its own tiny magic—and that, if I'm correct, will be enough for something as relatively simple as linking us two—"
    "Simple!"
    "Hush. It would be simple, since we're already linked on a psychic level by our love. In fact, it shouldn't take more than a drop or two of mingled blood to seal the charm." He raised a wary eyebrow. "Are you willing?"
    "I'm not sure exactly what you're proposing, but I—I suppose so—Ouch!"
    He'd pricked her finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the clay. Before she could protest, Ardagh pricked his own finger as well, murmuring the gentlest of persuasion spells, telling the clay that yes, it was porous, and no, what it was absorbing was not foreign to it, not foreign at all, but part of him, part of her, part of their being, part of their thoughts. . . .
    The prince let out a great, shuddering breath. "That begins it."
    "Are you all right?" Sorcha asked in alarm. "You've gone so pale!"
    "Sunlight truly doesn't like Sidhe magic. Besides," he added in resignation, "I only said that the spell should work. I never said it would be easy." Not in this magic-poor Realm, at any rate. The prince glanced down at the amulet, which now showed not the slightest sign of