The Wanderer (21 page)

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Authors: Cherry Wilder,Katya Reimann

BOOK: The Wanderer
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So, at the fourth hour after noon, the procession formed up for the last time—the Malms were rested, as well as the horses, and the guard had been very moderate at lunch. They rode out in good heart, and Gael, bringing up the rear, saw that Lort was a spreading town, filled with new buildings in a handsome Lienish style. It was not so much of a city as Pfolben or Aghiras or even, by repute, Krail in the Westmark, but it was a pleasant place. Down a long vista of houses and public buildings in yellow stone, she glimpsed the mighty Ox Gate, built in old time, before the Farfaring.
Beyond the northern gate, the King’s Way was wider than ever and marked out with fine avenues of trees. The weather had altered a little, giving way to fine sun-showers coming in from the east The escort went up one more hill, and there before
her Gael beheld the end of the Malms’ journey. There, spread out like a picture from the scrolls, was the inland sea, the Dannermere. Directly ahead, amid an array of gardens and flowering trees, there rose the walls and towers and bastions of the Palace Fortress of the Kings of Mel’Nir.
Gael Maddoc could see the way the procession must take, even to the open gates at the end of the last avenue. She beheld men and women of every degree going about near the gates and could make out a group of ladies and lords who might be waiting to receive the Malms.
She considered her two charges—how she had thought to speak to them, bid farewell, at the last inn, the Good King Gol, but had simply lacked courage. She wanted the Malms to remain in her memory as more or less humane and thoughtful, in the end. Deliberately, she reined in her horse on the crest of this last hill and let the fine gold carriage draw away. The two “runners” mounted behind waved to her, and, as she lifted a hand in salute, a curtain of misty rain blew across from the east, hiding the escort and the carriage from view. Her duty had ended; she had brought the Lord Malm and his lady to the king’s court.
Suddenly the afternoon sun came shining through the misty rain and, a magnificent rainbow sprang up, arching over the green hills; the procession passed under its mighty arch. Gael Maddoc was not alone on her hilltop—they stood all about her. There was Sir Hugh McLlyr, mounted upon a tall grey horse; Ebony shied away from this wraith. There were Myrruad and Ylmiane, seated in a small bronze carriage, drawn by two more ghost greys, while the Lady Ethain was mounted upon a real horse, a dainty roan. Luran stood in the grass by the roadside, with the great dog Bran on a leash.
“Well done!” cried Sir Hugh of the Fishers in a ringing tone. “Well done, Captain Maddoc! You have brought these poor dark folk to the king’s court!”
Then all the ladies of the Shee applauded and cheered, like a peal of sweet bells.
“Corvin Huarikson has come to heel,” said Luran. “All in all a rescue most skillfully carried forward!”
Gael could only nod and smile, like an old lady of the Shee. She felt tears on her face among the soft raindrops.
 
 
Appendix 904 (Marvels and Wonders, witnessed and unwitnessed) of that compendium of ancient writings in Chyrian and other tongues known as
The Book of Sooth
or, more commonly, THE DATHSA:
Then, as Lord Mortrice of Malm, knight of the Hunters, and his Lady Malveena were brought to the Court of King Gol of Mel’Nir, their servants and the men of the escort cried out loudly The escort and the royal coach were halted, and all looked back the way they had come. There upon the brow of the last hill, under the arch of a mighty rainbow, there was a tall kedran upon a black horse. Horse and rider were outlined in golden fire. There were those who understood that this person, whose name was known, the woman who had saved the Malms from a cruel fate, was none other than
THE WANDERER
And this was made clear to all by the figures of five or six lords and ladies, Ruadan and Fionnar together, of the Eilif race, the Shee. This was the largest showing of the Bright Folk since the days of Ankar Duaring, the so-called Wizard King, father of Ghanor, the so-called Great King, and grandsire of Good King GoL There they stood on the hilltop, bearing witness to the deeds of their true servant
…
THE SWAN IN WINTER
The inn was a spacious old building of yellow stone, built in the
plain manner of Mel’Nir; it reared up and spread along the city wall within sight of the mighty Ox Gate. Besides the splendid inn sign, some attempt had been made to beautify the Swan with hanging plants and bright metal swans on the iron balconies.
Gael dismounted in the misty rainbow weather and looked for the entry to the innyard. As she led Ebony under an archway, a groom in tan livery came running up and said he was Daken, at her service.
“Is your place kept, Captain?” he cried. “The old Bird is filling up this time of year!”
She assured him that her place was kept, by Tomas Giraud.
“Good! Good!” said the young fellow. “Now come, my beauty—”
He had a way with horses as well as a handy piece of carrot, and Ebony allowed himself to be led into a good stall.
“How far have you traveled, Captain?”
“All told,” she said, smiling, “it sounds a longish way. We have ridden from Coombe, a village in the Chyrian lands—be—tween Lowestell and Hackestell.”
“Coooombe?”
It was a loud hooting cry in a strange resonant voice, and it seemed to come from the gallery of the stable.
“Coombe, did ye say, good Captain?”
Gael could hardly believe what she saw: a tiny man, with a shock of snow white hair and a body gravely twisted, was perched on the gallery rail.
“I did indeed,” she replied. “Do you know Coombe, good sir?”
She had seen one or two dwarfs in Pfolben and more at the court of the Dhey at Aghiras, but none so cruelly deformed as this old man. Now he waved a hand at the groom, Daken, who said:
“Right you are, Master Forbian!”
He stood under the gallery, holding out his arms, and when the little man swung down on a rope, he caught and steadied him.
“Set me on my saddle, good Daken,” he said, “so I may talk to this brave kedran!”
Sure enough there was a child-sized saddle fastened upon a stall rail. The groom gave Gael a wink as he set the dwarf in place.
“My name is Forbian Flink,” said the dwarf when he was comfortably settled. “I am a scribe, and I once served a young master, a hero of Mel’Nir, who did great things during the Great King’s War in the village of Coombe.”
“What?” said Gael. “You served General Yorath?”
Forbian Flink laughed so hard he nearly tumbled off his perch, and the horses were set off whinnying and stamping.
“There!” he said. “There! His name is still well-known?”
“Truly,” said Gael, “he is well-remembered. The whole Chyrian coast blesses the name of the founder of the Westlings of Val’Nur.”
“Have you served in Krail, Captain? Should I know your name from the lists of the Sword Lilies, Lord Knaar’s famed kedran troop?”
It was a remarkably polite way of asking her name and that of her troop.
“I am Gael Maddoc, Master Flink,” she said. “I have never served in Krail, but I trained and served in Kestrel Company, first household troop of the Lord of Pfolben in the Southland.”
“Aha!” said the little old man. “Then you will surely know who is the captain-general of the palace guard …”
“Why, it is Eugen Florus,” said Gael promptly.
She did not quite understand his questioning—later she learned it was more than the simple testing of her own story, and it was a common practice at the Swan Inn, she was to find. The scribes and archivists checked their information whenever they could.
“Good, good!” said Forbian Flink. “Now I recall another very strange tale from the Southland—and from the Burnt Lands. Many are anxious to come to the true gist of this tale. A troop of kedran were given up for lost in the desert wastes after some kind of seasonal hunt—but there was among them a remarkably stubborn officer who brought the poor gals home again after many hardships …”
“Who has spoken of this?” asked Gael warily.
“Why, I had it from a man of Eildon,” he said. “An esquire name of Merflyn, serving now at the court of King Gol. Do you know anything of this magic cohort and their leader?”
“Yes, Master Flink,” she replied, catching his eye. “I do indeed. They were all good hearts and with my officers I brought them home!”
He took it in with his old bluish brown eyes widening until they shone in the dim light of the big stable.
“Psst!” he said, looking about to see that Daken, the groom, had not heard them. “Not a word, Captain Maddoc! Who else hereabouts knows of your part in this adventure?”
“Why, I have told the story only to my friend, Tomas Giraud, a scribe, whom I met on the way to the king’s court,” she said. “But it is no secret that I served in the Burnt Lands.”
She deliberately omitted the fact that she had told all to the Shee, who surely did not count in this context of telling news or passing on tales. But then Gael felt a stab of pain, or at least disappointment. Had Tomas asked her to the Swan only because of her adventure in the Burnt Lands? It did sound to her just the kind of stuff that might be written up into a tale—like those in the paper Lienbooks she had exchanged with Druda Strawn.
“Aha!” said Forbian Flink. Perhaps the dwarf sensed a little of her hurt, for his matter gentled, he reined in a little his scholar’s enthusiasm. “A good man, a reliable archivist, and one who can be trusted. Tell no one else! Let good Tomas know that Old Flink is in on the secret and will write it all up fair for him with illuminations and without extra charge! This is only right for a kedran from Coombe!”
“I will do all that you ask,” laughed Gael, “if you will tell me true tales of the life of our hero, General Yorath.”
“I may surprise you,” said Forbian Flink.
He flicked back his shock of white hair and laid a crooked finger alongside his crooked nose. Then he climbed down from the rail, scuttled to his rope, and scrambled up again into the stable loft. Gael called for Daken and gave him a silver piece—she wanted to ensure good treatment for Ebony. He thanked her warmly, and she struck out across the damp yard, carrying her saddlebags.
There was a small, dark entry, then a large comfortable room, more like the hall of a large private house than anything else. A low fire burned on the hearth, and the settles were filled with guests, none of them very fine, but all remarkably relaxed. Mainly men, she must allow, but there were women and girls there, too, even some in kedran dress. A woman in a dark red gown, who had been serving tankards of ale from a tray, came up to her now, smiling.
“Yes, Captain?”
She was a striking figure, sturdy but not fat, with slanting dark eyes and straight coarse black hair done in thick braids, twined with colored threads. Her skin was a clear yellow brown.
“I am called Maddoc,” said Gael. “Tomas Giraud will have taken a room for me …”
“So he has! I am Demira Beck, the host’s wife. Come into the taproom, and we’ll write you down in the book!”
She waved a hand, and two young boys ran up. They were short and sturdy, so it was hard to tell their age—perhaps as much as eleven years. They were identical twins, with the same slanting black eyes as Mistress Beck, skin of a light olive hue,
and heads of dark brown curls. They were a natural wonder, and it was impossible not to smile at them.
“Yes, yes!” said Mistress Beck, not really hiding her mother’s pride. “Double the trouble, I can tell you, Captain. My sons, Kay and Marek.”
She clapped her hands at the twins:
“Now you can bring the captain’s saddlebags to the turret east.”
Gael followed Mistress Beck into the taproom. It was even larger than the outer hall, and the talk was just as intense and lively. In one corner, four dark-clad older men had their heads down, checking sheaves of pages, while a fifth man read aloud. Then she noticed that there was written work going on everywhere, in a more relaxed fashion, punctuated with laughter, food, and draughts of ale. She signed her name and rank in a huge black book, and suddenly a cry went up:
“Chyrian? Knowledge of idiomatic Chyrian?”
The speaker was a thin, bearded man, who looked indeed like a scholar—he wore eyeglasses and a shabby green gown. His voice was strong and penetrating. No one came forward, but a younger fellow cried out:
“Damn you with your outlandish tongues, Robard!”
Gael set down her pen and held up her hand. She made her way to Brother Robard’s table.
“Chyrian,” she said timidly.
“Aha!” said the scholar eagerly. “Captain … ?”
She gave her name and was greeted by an older woman, Terza, and a young lad, Hannes, who were working on an untidy pile of parchment She sat down and accepted the offer of a pot of ale and was plunged into the struggle with an account of a battle on the Chyrian coast in old time. She knew the story: it was part of the life and legends of King Baradd O’Doon, Baradd of the Golden Throat.
The original parchment was mainly written in Low Lienish, which she soon gathered was an early form of the common speech and easy for these folk to decipher. There were several passages, however, in the original Chyrian, as spoken by the handsome young king, Baradd O’Doon, and his adversary
Leem Dhu. This rogue had the habit of turning into a monstrous water serpent who hid his hideous coils in a lake near Tuana, the old capital of the Chyrians, north of Banlo but south of the Westmark proper.
Gael wondered if she had been too rash in her offer of help, but in fact she was able to deliver exactly what her new companions wanted. King Baradd, in this written version of the tale, used a very quaint sort of Chyrian, with many homely turns of phrase. She was able to explain that “the one who empties” was the first person to get up in the morning, who must, as a rule of hospitality, empty the chamber pots. It became clear that burnable or black cut were words for peat, the burnable turf that had spread out around Tuana lake. The peat marshes were almost worked out, but the custom was still remembered. Also, Taran’s Kelch, the ancient Hallow of the Chyrian people, was used for a large measure of mead for thirsty warriors, and a
binlennie bride
was a fancy woman, a singing girl—named for a vanished village where women could be brides for a night. She mentioned little of the Hallow; Robard, she was intrigued to note, seemed hardly to mark its name.
The team of scribes worked well together and easily: they all wrote down their work or made notes, but Terza was the scribe who wrote all out fair on a new parchment, in a beautiful, clear straight letter and in the common speech. But she also contributed many thoughts and turns of phrase and knew where they had been used. The boy, Hannes, was very sharp and learned, and Brother Robard guided them all firmly but with kindness and good humor.
Time passed, and they took ale and then a platter of fresh bread and cold meat. Her new colleagues were pleased to have found her, and she believed she did the right thing in waving aside an offer of payment. Now Hannes brought up a vexed question.
“Captain Maddoc,” he said. “Those entertainers at the courts of the Chyrian Kings—we have seen them called clowns and fools and even satirists. The Chyrian word, or one of them, is Atharn. What is the best translation for this?”
“This name is borrowed from a singer of ancient times,” she
said. “Athairn or Atharn, a bard of the old Tuana ‘court.’ An atharn, such as King Baradd’s Riggan May, was always a skilled musician and singer.”
“He was a bard, then?” put in Terza.
“No, the atharns had a different way with them,” said Gael. “They could indeed sing and play the harp or the bagpipe, but mostly they made up certain verses on the spot.”
“They improvised!” exclaimed Brother Robard. “Aha! Yes, I’ve heard something of this … part of the mighty oral tradition of ancient times, now withered away.”
“Not quite,” said Gael, smiling. “It goes on to this very day … I know two young men in the village of Coombe who are well known for their squint-singing or rigganoi.”
“And these village boys sing in Chyrian?” pursued Brother Robard.
“Yes,” she said, “but it is simple stuff and can be done easily into the common speech.”
“Example!” said all three of her new friends in one voice.
Gael explained that it might be considered bad form or bad luck to sing again an improvised verse, but in the interests of scholarship, she gave forth with two that she remembered, first in Chyrian, then in the common speech.
Here comes a girl
Dressed up so fine,
Is it Queen Meb, fairest of the Shee?
Or is it the Swineherd’s daughter?
One for a kedran in dress uniform, then one for a visiting lord:
Who is that lord
With the shining face?
Is it King Nud, the Lord of the Lake?
Or is it a drunken tinker?
“Remarkable!” said Brother Robard, as Terza and Hannes clapped their hands. And Gael, for the honor of the art of squint-singing, was inspired to continue.

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