A Princess of the Chameln (15 page)

“Your present!” she said. “What . . . only a book?”

“I might have had a dagger,” said Aidris, “or a yellow jewel. But I chose the book.”

She imagined some scene at the fireside, in a lady's bower or even in the nursery, where the Lady, warm and real, offered her these gifts. Yet she had been alone on the barrow in the winter's cold, peering into the world of the stone.

“Let me see!” said Sabeth. “It
is
a fine book.”

Then the strangeness of the gift began to reveal itself, for Sabeth could not open the book. The key held fast; she could not turn it. They decided that it had stuck in the tiny lock; Aidris took the book again, and the key turned for her at once. She opened it up and showed some of the delights and conceits.

When Sabeth had turned away to the window again, she noticed that a first page of the book had been tucked away under the leather slipcover. She prized it out carefully, and there was her message. A single name, bold and fresh, in straight-letter, with the serifs of the letters laced into a pattern. A name that explained and added to the mystery.
Guenna
. So she whisked the page back to hide this name, and she knew at last who lived in the world of the scrying stone. She felt warmed and comforted, as if she had indeed been sitting with this lady at her fireside.

Later that day she had gone alone into Varda, walking invisible through the cheerful streets. Sabeth had primmed up her mouth when Aidris asked if she had any message to send. She had, she declared, torn up the letter from Mother Lorse and was not expected in Varda.

The Trading Envoy, Nenad Am Charn, had a tall stone house, wonderfully foreign like all the houses she gaped at. The ground floor was an elaborate shop for goods from the Chameln lands. When a young Vardan came to wait on her by a table of beadwork she sent her sword in its scabbard to the master of the house. He came out, a round Firnish man, and kissed her hand, his black eyes darting about with apprehension.

“Come . . . Come Highness . . .” he whispered.

He led her into a storeroom beside the shop and fell on his knees.

“Ah, Dan Aidris! I had word, roundabout, from Lingrit Am Thuven, the Envoy in Lien. Nothing has come through the mountains . . .”

“I have come, good Envoy,” she said, smiling and raising him up.

They sat knee to knee on two bales of cloth, heads together like conspirators.

“My house is yours,” he said. “I will give it out that you are my sister's child. The Varda princes are flirting with the might of Mel'Nir. I must be very correct; I am watched. I have goods in this house that could be claimed by the usurpers in Achamar . . . you understand me?”

“How will you live?” asked Aidris. “You have no more goods coming from the Chameln lands, and you cannot trade except by treating with the Melniros.”

“Princess,” he said, “my loyalty to the Daindru is unswerving, but I cannot lie to you. I will delay and parley with everyone, the princes, the agents of Mel'Nir . . . then in a year or half a year, I
will
treat with Regent Werris and the usurpers. It is not so much that I need the trade to live . . . I could do well enough by trading elsewhere . . . but we must have an open border to the Chameln lands and a flow of news and goods. Better that I should remain envoy than that some bravo of Mel'Nir should take the post.”

He looked at her seriously.

“You are right,” she said, “but you must admit that it is dangerous for me to remain in your house.”

Nenad Am Charn nodded, lips compressed.

“I have had some misfortune on my journey,” she said, “but I have found help and protection.”

She told of Ric Loeke's death, of help from the Tulgai and from Gerr of Kerrick. The invitation to Kerrick Hall impressed the envoy and pleased him, but he could not shrug off his responsibility.

“You are very young, Dan Aidris, to go about alone.”

“Athron is a safe place,” she said. “I know I will be well cared for at Kerrick Hall. Besides I have my travelling companion, Mistress Delbin.”

“I will write a letter of introduction, using your new name, to Huw of Kerrick,” said the Envoy.

“Put in Mistress Delbin too,” she said, “for she will go with me.”

Nenad turned away to a cluttered desk and wrote neither more nor less than was required:

To the noble Lord Huw of Kerrick, at Kerrick Hall, from Nenad Am Charn, Trading Envoy of the Chameln lands, at the sign of the double oak, Tower High Street, Varda.

I recommend to your care and hospitality Kedran Venn and Mistress Delbin, two ladies from my own country, seeking refuge from war and civil strife. May the Goddess send us in time that peace that ever abides in the land of Athron.

Then Aidris yielded to a vulgar curiosity.

“Good Envoy,” she said, “do you know who lives at the sign of the dove, in Fountain Court?”

Nenad Am Charn flushed a little.

“I know,” he said, “but in heaven's name, Princess,
you
should not!”

“Tell me!” she ordered.

“A certain Count Porell and his Countess live there,” he said. “Most disreputable people. It is a house of assignation, if you understand me, for the young gentlemen of the court. How do you come to know of such a place, Highness?”

She had the answer ready.

“Ric Loeke, our poor guide, had those words written on a paper in his pack. I wondered if he might have friends or family in that place!”

“Tush!” said Nenad. “He had not, depend upon it. You have done all that you could and more.'

So she went back to the Owl and Kettle and set out on that first magic journey across Athron, with Sabeth, looking beautiful as springtime, and Gerr of Kerrick, their true knight and rescuer. They came to Kerrick Hall and were received with warmth by Lord Huw Kerrick and his lady, Aumerl. Sabeth went to the great house as a waiting woman and Aidris to the barracks as a kedran; and now a whole year had passed.

A bird flew up, and she came to herself on the hill; for her birthday she drew out the scrying stone. Her relationship with the Lady had changed subtly; now she was to be seen at once, smiling, in the world of the stone. On the table or altar lay a bunch of oak leaves in honor of the day. The Lady set down a thin-shaped circlet of gold beside the leaves . . . a crown or coronet.

“Oh, will I come to this estate?” sighed Aidris.

The Lady nodded, seemed to counsel patience. Then she smiled again, and the stone was filled with a sparkling mist, which cleared suddenly. Aidris beheld a garden with clipped trees, neat paths and rose bushes . . . a garden in Lien? Three children sat beside a round pond watching the gold fishes. The eldest boy, well-grown for thirteen, was Sharn Am Zor. His sister Rilla, brown-haired, was eight years old and not a beauty; she was strapped into an elaborate Lienish gown and held the leading strings of the four year old Prince Carel, who had golden curls and was as devilish as his brother had been. Aidris watched them intently; she knew this was all her birthday, all her presents and festivities.

The bird shrilled again, just as the stone clouded, and she hastily tucked it away inside her tunic.

“Good morrow, Kedran Venn!”

He had come over the hill, through the grove, a dark, loosely built young man. He was not so handsome as his younger brother but in certain moods she liked Niall of Kerrick's face better; he would never come to look like a wooden warrior.

“Have you been collecting herbs and simples, Master Kerrick?” she asked.

The pouch slung over his shoulder was full. He smiled vaguely and sat beside her on the bench.

“How does the Carach this morning?” he asked. “Has no one come to ask its blessing for Erran Eve, our day of dancing?”

“It is early still,” she said.

“May I see your book?” he asked.

She handed it to him, and he leafed through the tales and songs and riddles that she knew pretty well by heart.

“It is a magnificent book,” he said. “Was it a gift?”

He shut it now and ran a finger over the silver swan on the cover.

“A royal gift . . .” he added.

“That is a badge of Lien, where the book was made,” she said innocently.

“Do you know that some magicians can tell the origin of any object that comes into their hands?” he asked again.

Niall was teasing, as he often did, and she smiled, unruffled.

“Can you do that, Master Kerrick?”

He shook his head. She took the book back, locked it and slipped it into its cloth covering.

“The festivals divide our year,” he said, “and help to stave off boredom a little. Erran Eve and Midsummer and Carach Troth and the Lamp Lighting and the Holynights and who knows what other days in between. Athron is prosperous and full of magic. My father is to blame for that . . . he brought back the Carach twenty-five years ago. It was his destiny, some would say. Kedran Venn . . . do you know what the driving force is in this land of ours?”

“I have some thoughts about it,” she said, “but I would like you to tell me.”

“It is the fact that Athron was once very poor. The memory of that dreadful time is fixed into the minds of the old and passed on to the young, who can't believe it, having known only prosperity and magic and hope. There are farmers, the parents of your fellow kedran, who hoard food, skimp and scrape in their households, eat meat once a week and kill their aged horses for glue and tallow rather than set them out to pasture. The towns are full of misers, muttering spells to increase their gold.”

“Well I have seen another side of Athron life,” she said, “and I would say the driving force is indeed your golden prosperity, but that it leads to recklessness, setting all at hazard. This is the place for games, risks, fortune telling and taking not much heed for the morrow because each day, each month, each year is as secure as the one before.”

They looked at each other and laughed aloud. Presently she rose up from the bench and went off to pay her respects to the Carach tree. She slipped under the white railing and knelt on the short, soft grass. Above her she felt the leaves stirring like silver hands raised in blessing.

“
Oak maiden
—”

The voice was rough and smooth at once, rather like the purring of a huge cat. It made her shudder, not unpleasantly.

“
Oak maiden
,” murmured the Carach tree, “
are you still here?”

“
You see me, Carach. Will you give me another blessing?”

“
Take it then, Aidris Am Firn.”

“
Carach, when will I see my native land again?”

There was no answer; a wind shook all the leaves and then was gone. Aidris drew back from the tree and said formally, “
I bid you farewell, Carach.”

She turned to find Niall leaning upon the railing.

“What speech is that?” he asked.

“Why, it is the Old Speech,” said Aidris.

“I have never heard it spoken,” he said. “Who else knows it?”

“The Carach tree.” She smiled.

“Ah, so the Carach speaks to you . . .”

There was a sound of singing; three young women were ascending the hill and a young page with a lute strumming rather listlessly as he climbed after them. The waiting women wore kirtles in the style of Athron, more simply cut and shorter than the trailing and floating garments of Lien.

“Do not weep, O dearest Mother,

Soon an end to all my pain,

Do not blame my faithless lover,

Sang the Fair Maid of Stayn.”

The dark-haired Genufa and blonde Amèdine were no more than foils to the loveliness of Sabeth. In a year she had grown in beauty, if only because she no longer took so much heed of it. Her modesty and gentleness were as much a part of her as her singing voice, her gift for fine needlework. She raised a hand and waved to Aidris.

“Our swan maiden,” said Niall softly, “flown to the warmth of Athron.”

“Hush!” said Aidris. “I would hear the song.”

“O do you mourn for lord or leman,

For kedran bold in battle slain?

Nay, 'tis for one who died of waiting,

Called the Fair Maid of Stayn.”

“Truly it is a foolish old song,” said Niall of Kerrick. “Would any die of waiting, Kedran Venn?”

“Nay, you mistake the theme, Master Kerrick,” she said. “The Fair Maid, surely, died of love.”

She ran down the hill and met the women. Genufa and Amèdine greeted her, all smiles, and Sabeth gave her a quick embrace.

“We will ride to the dancing floor,” she said. “Will your company ride escort?”

“Why, Aidris Venn,” said Amèdine, “Have you been taking instruction from yonder scholar?”

On the hilltop Niall Kerrick bowed to them, hitched the strap of his herb satchel and strode off into the trees.

“Ladies,” whined Moss, the page, “are you going to the Carach? I want my breakfast . . .”

He played a chord all out of tune and fumbled with the pegs of his instrument. The three girls jollied him along, and Aidris ran back down the hill to the barracks.

She came into the muster hall in time and took her place for first breakfast. She sat beside Ortwen Cash, the big country girl who rode with her in Grey Company. There were fifteen kedran, three companies, in this early muster, and ten men-at-arms.

“Where you been?” wheezed Ortwen softly.

“Up the hill.”

“Who you see there?”

She reeled off the names, and Ortwen frowned, crumbling bread.

“Always ballocking around with the house folk. Han't you been taught your place yet?”

“You'll protect me, sweetheart,” said Aidris, digging her in the ribs.

Ortwen went off into a guffaw of laughter, checked when Lawlor, their sergeant, raised her head. Ortwen had protected Aidris more than once during the past year. She had been bullied, set upon, accused of giving herself airs. She defended herself, but refused to fight in the “single combats,” anything from finger-wrestling to staff play, that were popular in quarters. She knew enough of kedran ways not to pimp to an officer. She lost her temper only once when a burr was set under Telavel's saddle and left a sore. She flew at the arch bully, a hard-muscled girl from the west coast called Hanni, and fought so recklessly that the pair of them were hauled bleeding out of the stableyard, to the sick bay first and then the coop.