The Summer's King (11 page)

It was plain that the early snow was most to blame in the matter, the early snow and the king himself, urged on by his reckless young friend Tazlo Am Ahrosh. Tazlo had redeemed himself; he had found the king and brought him to safety. He was now, Seyl murmured to Denwick privately, more firmly entrenched than ever. Probably sleeping like a faithful hound across the threshold of the king's door in Chernak. All that the king's Heir and the king's torch-bearers and the palace guard could do was to guard his person more carefully in the future, even at the risk of his displeasure.

Yet there was one who could do more. Queen Aidris Am Firn, torn between relief and anger when the tale was told, was the first to take a sleigh and come to Chernak. She was not displeased at the thought of Lorn Gilyan caring for Sharn Am Zor. She hoped some good would come from all this foolishness. She saw the king alone, bruised, docile, and so far as those clustered at the closed doors could tell, she upbraided him fiercely. The king was told his duty in no uncertain terms; he was scolded like a child. Then when the doors were open, the king, somewhat pale, and the Queen, with tears in her eyes, sat holding hands. The Daindru were one and would always remain so.

The queen found occasion, at Chernak, to speak with Tazlo Am Ahrosh. The charm and modesty of the young man from the north did not cut so much ice with Aidris Am Firn as they did with others. She questioned him about his life in Vedan, his family of proud and warlike chieftains, perpetually on the verge of quarrelling with their neighbors, the Oshen and the Durgashen. His view of the world was narrow; it reached no further than Achamar and contained no one more perfect than King Sharn Am Zor. He took in all her entreaties concerning the king's safety with lowered eyes; he swore to protect the king's life with his own and never to lead him into danger again.

Back in the city, Aidris could not let the matter rest until she had spoken with Engist, the king's master-at-arms. She had never cared for this hardy veteran from Lien, but the sight of him, still grey faced from his ordeal, aroused her pity. He had brought along the young Ensign Fréjan. She received the two soldiers in her workroom at the palace of the Firn, where years before she had recovered from the arrow of an assassin. So the tale of the king's ride was told again, and when it was done Engist nudged his companion.

“You must tell the queen!”

“There is no proof,” said Fréjan miserably.

“Speak,” said Aidris Am Firn. “Anything you say is safe, Ensign.”

“My comrade, Ensign Bladell, rode off to the southeast,” said Fréjan. “We had been searching far out over the downs, but then we had returned almost to that first group of maple trees. So Bladell rode out, and I remained to show the way for other searchers. Count Ahrosh came by at a distance and shouted to me and then set off to the southest himself. The searchers did appear, and Captain Engist. Dan Aidris, I believe that Ensign Bladell found the king.”

“But Count Ahrosh . . .”

“I believe that Bladell found the king and set him across his horse, Redwing. Bladell was found dead in the snow by the wall of an old sheepfold and his head was broken as if from a blow. I believe Ahrosh struck him down from horseback, to have the honor of bringing in the king for himself alone. He could not have lifted the king onto Redwing's back by himself.”

“Is that all you have? This suspicion?”

“I came to it first through the king's leather bottle,” said Fréjan. “It was carried first of all by Bladell, but at the Beacon Head the king gave us all a drink. I swear that he did not give it back but kept it himself. Yet Bladell had it in his hand when he was found. He took it from the king's saddle to revive Dan Sharn as he lay in the snow.”

“Engist?” murmured the queen.

Engist shook his head.

“I remember the flask going round but nothing more.”

They were all silent, thinking of this strange deed of blood. Was it possible? Was the young man from the north so mad, so tenacious of “honor”?

“There is no proof,” said the queen. “We must keep silent.”

The king lies safe and warm in Chernak Hall and is tended by Lorn Gilyan and her healer Granja. He sees no one else at first save for Queen Aidris and then Tazlo, who tells him all that has passed. Sharn is puzzled by the Lady Lorn: she has such a straightforward Chameln way with her, like a kedran. Yet she is attractive, even beautiful, and he believes that she has come down with a familiar sickness. He sees that she is in love with him. He has seen it happen in an instant to all kinds of people: men and women, old, young, noble or humble, they have looked at him, and in their own way been stricken with love. To have his will with the young women of the court in Lien, he had only to turn the light of his presence upon them: a smile, a word. Now, almost for the first time, he feels sympathy and tenderness for one so afflicted. For hours together they are happy as two children, reading old tales, playing Battle.

After ten days, near the end of the Aldermoon, the king has another ordeal. He has promised to submit to an examination by the Queen's Healer before he returns to Achamar. The Healer comes riding on a tall horse through the icy sludge on the Chernak road, a pale-haired fellow with dark almond eyes who goes by the name of Jaraz. The king knows him as Jalmar Raiz, a man of magic and intrigue from Lien, a man who struck at Sharn Am Zor's sacred right, who set up the False Sharn and the False Aidris, those two sorry pretenders, in the city of Dechar. The sight of him entering the sickroom fills Sharn with hatred.

“Dan Sharn,” says Jalmar Raiz, bowing deeply.

“Get on with your task!” orders the king. “I will not have you in my presence any longer than I can help, Raiz!”

With the aid of Granja, the Healer of Chernak, Jalmar Raiz makes the examination. He compliments Granja; they consult together.

“You are healed well, Dan Sharn,” he says. “Do you have any memory of the fall that caused all this?”

“None!”

“Yet memory of such an accident may return.”

So the healer goes on his way, and it is time for the king to return to his palace. A procession of sleighs and carriages decked out with bells, pine boughs and banners makes its way to Chernak. There they stand in the old hall, raising a cheer as he appears upon the stairs in the fine clothes that Prickett and Yuri have brought: Seyl of Hodd, Zilly of Denwick, the ladies of the court, magnificent in their furs and jewels. Merilla and Carel bring the king down the stairs proudly, and behind him, bearing his ermine cloak, comes Tazlo Am Ahrosh. The king, perhaps a shade paler than usual, moves towards the blazing hearth of Chernak Hall where Lorn Gilyan stands in a long golden robe, the mistress of the household. When he takes her hand and speaks his thanks aloud for all to hear, Iliane of Seyl twists her hands tightly inside her sable muff to think of such a whey-faced creature tending the king.

But any fears the king's intimates may have had are dispelled at once. Sharn claps Tazlo on the back, is received into the arms of his friends, strides out to the waiting procession. He complains of the weather, will not wear his gloves, demands candied apple for Redwing, whom Tazlo is leading home. He upsets the order of the procession, sets off at once in the sleigh with Seyl and Iliane without another word to his sister and brother, who must ride last of all in an old carriage. Lorn Gilyan comes to stand on the steps of her house, but Sharn Am Zor does not look back. The king is himself again.

The people of the Chernak estate line the way to cheer the king; and when the procession reaches the south gate of Achamar, there is a great noise of trumpets and voices. Sharn Am Zor is much loved; the thought of losing him through accident or sickness is not to be borne. The king is driven slowly to the palace of the Firn; he goes in with only Jevon Seyl and appears upon the balcony with Queen Aidris Am Firn. The cheers are raised for the Daindru.

Sharn comes at last to his own palace, and after he has dined, he confesses himself too tired for any further celebrations. He retires to his apartments—he has missed them—and settles down by his own fireside. Only the two valets are allowed to remain. The king sips mulled wine.

“Now behold, Sire,” says Prickett gently, “the new stuffs and patterns have arrived from Balufir.”

“What, those slow birds, Starling Brothers?”

The king begins to lay the swatches of silk and velvet along the arms of his chair.

“A packet was sent,” says Yuri, offering it on bended knee. “A packet of books and writings . . .”

The king sees the writing upon this packet, seizes it with an oath of surprise and strips off the wrapping. He reads the letter first, and then, between laughter and tears, dips into the sheaf of other writings. He returns to the letter over and over again, as if this short screed and the wine and the fire's warmth had made him a little drunk. He looks up, more than once, as if he expected to see a friend, a companion with whom he can share his good fortune—but that other warm room and Lorn Gilyan are far away. He turns back to his letter: one for the silver casket.

To the most excellent and mighty King Sharn Am Zor: Greeting!

It is the privilege of poets and fools to address their betters familiarly so I will say at once—Dear lad, I have come out of prison. Think of me as a half-drowned sailor taken from some dark ocean. I am warmed by the sun of this “false summer” and by the reports that you have come into your kingdom. Most of all I am comforted by the thought that the Lord of the Wells in Achamar did not forget his old companion, that unhappy prisoner in “the Wells,” the Blackwater Keep.

Buckrill has fished me out, then, to cobble up a troth gift out of some new and old Eildon stuff, and it shall be for the new Duke, Hal of Denwick. Yet the fair maid that is praised in these pages, the lovely dark princess, far off as dreams, deserves a better suitor. If I am not mistaken, the Princess Moinagh Pendark is a bride fit for a king, especially if that king be her own blood cousin.

Balufir is a melancholy place these days, however tall the roses grow; I hear the brown brothers at the corners of the streets exhorting one and all to forgo every pleasure. I will go into Athron and see what they have to offer in the way of homespun magic, garrulous nut trees and the like. An old friend is host at the Owl and Kettle Inn, near Varda, but if you would favor me with a reply, send it first through Buckrill.

So I wish you well for the New Year, the year of changes in old Eildon and in Lien. There will be no change, come wind and weather, in the unswerving love and duty of one who is bold still to call himself

Your friend,

Robillan Hazard

Sharn Am Zor dips into the sheaf of parchment. He skims through at first, then begins to read more carefully. At last he calls Prickett to his side and asks:

“Who do we know from Eildon?”

The valet tugs at his lower lip a moment and replies, “No one of name, sire. A few kedran in the queen's guard. But wait . . . the lute player, Princess Merilla's lute player, Aram Nerriot . . .”

“Excellent!” says Sharn. “Send for him! No, wait . . .”

He is in a kind and reflective mood.

“Send first for Count Ahrosh. He must take my compliments to Rilla and Carel, and yes—I will send them each a gift. Do we have one of those leather baldrics with a dagger for young Carel? I will choose a ring for Merilla. Then the count can ask for the musician, to play to me in my sickness.”

Prickett bows deeply and goes about his business. A log crashes down in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Far out in the gardens of the Zor palace, cold but not snowcovered, there is a soft thump and a frantic rustling. Some animal has been caught in one of the gardeners' pitfalls.

Snow fell again at the proper time, and Achamar celebrated the Winter Feast. When Aidris raised the question of the king's marriage and the promise she had made to the Dainmut regarding a list of suitable maidens, Sharn Am Zor was surprisingly keen. He proposed an immediate meeting with those members of the inner council who were wintering in the city.

They sat down together in the palace of the Zor, in that pleasant room above the royal apartments where the king gave his little suppers. It was the third festival day, given over to fasting and long wintery sleeps in preparation for the New Year celebration. In the warm anteroom the royal attendants whiled away the time with dice games and fortune-telling for the season; the musician, Nerriot, waited to play for the Daindru.

The king welcomed Lingrit Am Thuven, the Chancellor of the Firn, and Nenad Am Charn. Of his own torch-bearers only Seyl of Hodd was present; Denzil of Denwick and his betrothed were visiting in Lien, and Count Barr was not expected until the New Year. Sharn had invited his sister Merilla and the Countess Caddah, and now he spoke kindly to them. He was so agreeable that Aidris wondered if he might still be sick. He talked aside with Jevon Seyl, and they seemed to share a secret.

Aidris spoke some words of welcome herself and then said to the king, “My good torch-bearer Nenad Am Charn has an interest in family history, and I have asked him to prepare a list of maidens suitable to be your wife.”

Nenad bowed to the king a little warily, and Sharn gave an encouraging smile.

Nenad Am Charn chuckled sadly.

“Sire,” he said, “I have ransacked the archives of Achamar, and I must say that we live in a time of bad harvest. Ten years earlier or later, and you would have had a wider choice.”

“Perhaps I should wait ten years,” said Sharn, “and wed Imelda of Kerrick, Zerrah's lovely daughter.”

“For shame!” said Aidris. “Let me hear your list, Nenad, and compare it with my own.”

So Nenad, moving from north to south, presented such names as: Jamilar, High Chieftainess of the Durgashen, niece of Ferrad Harka; and Natocha, High Chieftainess of the Ingari; and Dan Sharn's cousin of the Inchevin, Derda, aged seventeen, not well endowed with the world's goods but a beauty: The Starry Maid of Inchevin.