Authors: Cherry Wilder,Katya Reimann
The Wanderer (36 page)
As they made their way back to their grandstand seats, Amarah was cast down by the role they were all playing. Chion did not seem a bad fellow, yet he was not going to get his fee. Was it certain that he was involved in this Lost Prince charade?
“Yes,” said Gael. “He is. The best we can say for him is that he is an artist who does not understand intrigue, who has this great love for light and color and so on.”
“You are tender hearted,” said Mev Arun to Amarah. “Remember how it will end. You will fall ill, and he will receive quit fee.”
They settled into the stands with Hadrik just as the firs
wheeled platforms came by, to gusty cheers. There were the Hunters, the Falconers, and the Fishers, the princely houses of Eildon, and the scenes on the floats were teasing, full of foolery. Old Borss Paldo was a boozy old prince with his coronet askew; Princess Merigaun was a sorceress with a wand that turned stones into sweetmeats, which her servants threw at the crowd. Then, on the Falconer’s tower were strange messengers: an old man, a woman, and a young man dressed as a bird, serving the Eorl Leffert, the patron of the order. A Mermaid, swinging overhead in a golden net—Princess Moinagh, with a little merchild in her arms—a bold reference to the house of Tramarn, family of the Priest-King. To the party out of Mel’Nir, it was almost overwhelming. In Eildon there was no disposition against the use of magic: half the pageantry figures they saw, the sweetmeats that had showed as stone—these were cloaked with glittering illusions, magic, borne as lightly as the decorations of crepe or gauze that were worn by many in the crowd.
wheeled platforms came by, to gusty cheers. There were the Hunters, the Falconers, and the Fishers, the princely houses of Eildon, and the scenes on the floats were teasing, full of foolery. Old Borss Paldo was a boozy old prince with his coronet askew; Princess Merigaun was a sorceress with a wand that turned stones into sweetmeats, which her servants threw at the crowd. Then, on the Falconer’s tower were strange messengers: an old man, a woman, and a young man dressed as a bird, serving the Eorl Leffert, the patron of the order. A Mermaid, swinging overhead in a golden net—Princess Moinagh, with a little merchild in her arms—a bold reference to the house of Tramarn, family of the Priest-King. To the party out of Mel’Nir, it was almost overwhelming. In Eildon there was no disposition against the use of magic: half the pageantry figures they saw, the sweetmeats that had showed as stone—these were cloaked with glittering illusions, magic, borne as lightly as the decorations of crepe or gauze that were worn by many in the crowd.
In the second group of scenes, there came that year’s Shennazar, “The Summer’s King,” handsome and golden-haired; clad in golden armor, carrying a great black bow. At his side rode a beautiful dark girl, wearing a crown, and her handsome partner—the king’s daughter, the new-wed Queen Tanit and her new husband Count Liam.
Then there came a group of riders—knights, kedran, a pair of lovers sharing a single saddle, three dwarfs together on another—were they Tulgai from the border forests over the sea? The scene had passed before any among their little group could decide.
“By the Goddess!” cried Mev Arun. “Gael, look there!”
They laughed and cheered. The party of riders was led by: a tall kedran with a mop of bright red hair and the banner mounted on her lance proclaimed
The Wanderer.
The Wanderer.
“Time I took to the saddle,” said Gael, disturbed. Eildon was indeed a land more than passing strange, glutted upon magic. How else could whisper of her own doings have reached these shores?
She left the stand with Hadrik, and he led the way to a park; there were two horses being held by a groom from the livery stable. Gael stripped off the skirt of her riding habit and laid it
with her cloak across the back of her saddle. She kept her long wig, tied back, and the smart, blue green riding cap that went with the habit. She carried no lance but wore instead her longsword, slung on a baldric. Gwil had procured her a nice, neat-footed brown mare called Sparrow, while Hadrik’s mount was a big black steed who made her pine for Ebony. Was he getting good exercise at the Long Burn Farm?
with her cloak across the back of her saddle. She kept her long wig, tied back, and the smart, blue green riding cap that went with the habit. She carried no lance but wore instead her longsword, slung on a baldric. Gwil had procured her a nice, neat-footed brown mare called Sparrow, while Hadrik’s mount was a big black steed who made her pine for Ebony. Was he getting good exercise at the Long Burn Farm?
They rode out of Oakhill and followed the high road, which they had traced carefully on their guide maps to Lindriss. The bright sun was darkened now and then by patches of mist in the valleys between the hills. There, some way to the west, was the great Paldo fortress. Gael told Hadrik of the wedding at Chernak New Palace and of the princes and nobles who had been there; along with her happy meeting with Kerry-Red, Kerry-Black, and their other old comrade from the desert, Ensign Dirck.
Yes, admitted Nils Hadrik, he had it in mind to quit Pfolben with his sweetheart, who served Lady Annhad, and take service in Eildon, in the Pendark lands, as the others had done. In Pfolben, Lord Maurik was ailing. Some said Blayn seemed to have settled since his marriage, but Hadrik thought him still a little swine, whatever the Southlanders’ hopes. And, yes, who should visit Pfolben in a trading galley from Seph-el-Ara, but a certain rich merchant—barely beginning to grow his first moustaches! It was Ali el Bakim, formerly a camel boy who came upon a troop of magic women warriors in the Burnt Lands’ shifting sands. He had asked after Gael, and they told him what news they could, and he sent his love and duty.
“There lies the way,” said Gael, looking ahead, even as she smiled at these memories.
They turned off the highroad and rode east, through a village, until they saw the herb farm of Dan Royl. A country fellow in a pancake hat was strolling along the farm boundary, and, yes, it was Gwil Cluny.
“Our man is there,” said Gwil, coming up to them, “and I believe he is alone except for his cat and his dog. He talks to them and a little to himself.”
The farmhouse was old and solid, finer even than the Long
Burn Farm. Gwil bade them leave the horses in a grove of willows by a stream and approach on foot with woven baskets, as if they came to buy herbs. At the beginning of the path that led up the hill, Gael was warned sharply by her ring; there was magic all around the house and in the garden.
Burn Farm. Gwil bade them leave the horses in a grove of willows by a stream and approach on foot with woven baskets, as if they came to buy herbs. At the beginning of the path that led up the hill, Gael was warned sharply by her ring; there was magic all around the house and in the garden.
“Is it a spell?” asked Gwil, “or do we have guards here?”
“Maybe guards as well,” said Gael, “and the spell is far stronger than a mere working to keep thieves out of the gardens.”
“How would it be,” asked Hadrik, “if Master Gwil here went a longer way round and checked the back of the house?”
“Very good,” said Gwil.
He ambled off, chewing a straw. Gael and Hadrik both had their shields up; they climbed the gentle slope, admiring the beds of thyme and sage, the pots of basil displayed before the greenhouses. On a terrace in the midst of the garden was an enormous garden god of some kind, in stone, with a vine that grew over him, surrounded by smaller figures.
They went into the yard through wide double gates with one side half open for customers, and took a comfortable brick path edged with lavender and rosemary and some low-growing border plants. In a shaded place under a lemon tree was a small water trough that had splashed upon the path. There on the red bricks were several large, misshapen footprints. Gardeners—or guards?
Everything went on like an ordinary visit—they came into a large open room with counters covered with potted herbs and dried sheaves. Far back under the house, there was a wide counter where a man and his wife served them cheerfully and helped them make their choice. The man was a veteran soldier with a game leg who spoke to Hadrik as an old comrade and said he had served in Lien and in the outer isles. He asked Gael if she might be a kedran, and she agreed that she was. It was friendly talk, not suspicious questioning—Hadrik mentioned the pageant. Gael paid in Eildon silver, and they carried out their baskets. They had seen no one else, and it was easy to walk around a corner to the back of the house, out of sight of the selling room. The back of the house was old but orderly, with its own small garden. Hadrik sat with their baskets in the
shade of a yew; Gael tried the back door. It was open; she slipped through into the house.
shade of a yew; Gael tried the back door. It was open; she slipped through into the house.
There was a large hallway, dark at first. When her eyes were accustomed to the dim light, Gael saw a suit of armor—Shennazar’s carnival body armor, perhaps left over from Dan Royl’s participation in years past, complete with a plumed helmet and a golden lance. She tested the weapon, and it was firm and good, not a pageant property. The rooms nearby were open and empty—kitchen, dining room, all darkly paneled, unused, she would have said. Upstairs she heard the sound of a man’s voice.
“Bad cat!” he said fondly. “Oh, bad Auntie Parn! You too, Tazlo, old comrade—you’ve had enough of the mutton!”
A dog gave a sleepy bark. The man—Dan Royl, no doubt—went on talking to his friends; he fell into a kind of chant. It was a list of names: “Derda, Ilmar, Engist, Huw Kerrick, Old Inchevin, Lady Sarah, no, wrong, Lady Zarah. Aram Nerriot, good old Nerry, came from Wencaer, city of Wencaer in Eildon land … .”
It was almost too good to be true. Here was the pretender learning his lines, the names of those close to Prince Carel Am Zor. Then, from outside, there was a sudden blast of a hunting horn, and Hadrik uttered a loud cry. Gael felt for the sword at her side, then changed her mind and snatched up the lance, Shennazar’s golden lance. She charged out into the sunshine.
A man on a red roan charger was prodding at Hadrik with his own lance. The captain, protected by his shield, had rolled away from the attack. Gael muttered strengthening words and directed her lance at the rider. There was a familiar crackling in the air as the spell took hold: horse and rider were struck to the ground and remained in frozen attitudes. Gael rushed to check them both, while Hadrik scrambled up. They spoke in low voices—any others? No, nothing seen. The rider had ridden uphill, then suddenly blown a blast from the hunting horn slung across his chest and charged at Hadrik—at a man with his herb baskets, seated peacefully under the yew tree.
“He knew I was an observer, at least,” said Hadrik.
The horse was not harmed by the fall, so far as Gael could see; the man was a stranger, past forty, well dressed—a landowner more than a soldier. He bore no crest, but Gael
opened his shirt to see if he bore an amulet, and there was a brass ear of wheat. Gael, for one hot, angry moment, almost let the man’s head fall hard on the flags; the man was a follower of Inokoi, the Lame God. She knew from Tomas that for the Brown Brotherhood, the holy wheat ear symbolized the six orders of creation—where farmworkers and handworkers, women and beasts, fell irredeemably into the lowest castes. But then there came a sharp pang of pain from the ring upon her finger—this wheat ear amulet was magic, some kind of collar or leash. Snapping the little piece of brass from its cord, she hid it away, safe within her tunic sleeve, then laid the man gently onto the flagstones.
opened his shirt to see if he bore an amulet, and there was a brass ear of wheat. Gael, for one hot, angry moment, almost let the man’s head fall hard on the flags; the man was a follower of Inokoi, the Lame God. She knew from Tomas that for the Brown Brotherhood, the holy wheat ear symbolized the six orders of creation—where farmworkers and handworkers, women and beasts, fell irredeemably into the lowest castes. But then there came a sharp pang of pain from the ring upon her finger—this wheat ear amulet was magic, some kind of collar or leash. Snapping the little piece of brass from its cord, she hid it away, safe within her tunic sleeve, then laid the man gently onto the flagstones.
“No sign of Gwil Cluny!” said Hadrik.
Gael drew out her wooden tablet and thumbed its surface briskly. Gwil’s anxious face appeared; he was moving swiftly, with leaves and branches passing before him as he hurried along.
“Front of the house,” he panted. “Use the other way around, and if needed, the Cloak of Air. When I come, it will be time for Stillstand!”
“The guards are showing themselves,” said Gael. “Come, we must take this way—”
They went stealthily around the northern side of the farmhouse just as a strange roaring sound began to fill the air. There were, two, three,
four
monstrous shapes in the center of the sloping herb garden. Stone Men, grown from the garden figures, who stamped and flexed their arms as they danced around the graven statue of the god. Then the tall statue itself came to life, ripping aside the vines that grew around it and lifting its arms to heaven while its strange companions uttered a shrill, harsh roar.
four
monstrous shapes in the center of the sloping herb garden. Stone Men, grown from the garden figures, who stamped and flexed their arms as they danced around the graven statue of the god. Then the tall statue itself came to life, ripping aside the vines that grew around it and lifting its arms to heaven while its strange companions uttered a shrill, harsh roar.
Gael and Hadrik stared so hard they were almost overthrown. In spite of her shield, Gael was seized clumsily, crushed in a harsh embrace, and flung sideways to the ground. A fifth Stone Man had come from behind a half-grown oak. Now he was at Hadrik, his shielding pressed, burning under the pressure, so that the loyal kern was surrounded with blue fire. Unable to draw his sword, Hadrik caught up a long board of undressed pine from the edge of a garden bed and hacked at the legs of his
attacker. Gael half-slipped, then took hold of her lance again, and she thrust at their adversary and shouted aloud:
attacker. Gael half-slipped, then took hold of her lance again, and she thrust at their adversary and shouted aloud:
“I name you for a Man, no Stone Man!”
she called in Chyrian.
she called in Chyrian.
The other Stone Men, still stomping and chanting below them on the slope, it was too far off to see what they were, but the creature they were fighting was indeed a man. The stony covering was a carnival costume, plastered with some kind of greyish mortar; there were joins and joints in the suit. Now Gael drove at the shoulder joint, and her new lance struck home; a low sound of pain issued from the head of the Stone Man. Still he did not fall but turned to strike at Hadrik with his own pine plank.
The captain threw his assailant down by tangling his stony legs; he fell heavily within his awkward suit and lay still, senseless. Gael flicked the pine board out of his hand just as Gwil came rushing up, right across the front of the farmhouse. Down the slope the Stone Men began to move up toward them, with a louder sound. Gwil Cluny had his sword drawn, and he shouted to Gael:
“Stillstand! Stillstand!”
They faced each other across a bush of rosemary, going straight into the familiar ritual. The herb sellers rushed out at last from a cellar far under the house as the Grand Bewitchment took hold, but they were not in its path. The noise from below by the fountain grew even louder, then stopped; the Stone Men remained in frozen attitudes. It was indeed the Hour of Stone.
“Who is the rider at the back of the house?” asked Gael. “He must be seen to, with his poor horse!”
“It is Steward Nevil,” said Gwil. “We’ll see to him …”
The woman from the herb counter came toward them, holding out her hands to Gael:
“Oh kedran, kedran,” she cried. “Have mercy on our poor Master Royl!”
Gael took her hands; she saw a middle-aged woman, fair and fresh faced, and thought of her own mother, older now, going about at the Holywell.
“Have no fear, good Mistress,” she said. “We will help and protect Master Royl. This strange thing with the Stone Men has been done by others—do you know who might have done it?”
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