Authors: Cherry Wilder,Katya Reimann
The Wanderer (45 page)
The scene by the Aldwell of Lady Race was like something from an ancient picture: the beautiful boy, hooded by the shining white fleece, held the young virgin’s hands, pressed his brow gently to her breast, and called aloud the blessings to the Goddess. Then the tall, fire-haired kedran gently drew him away. She splashed a last dipperful of Blessed Water from the Aldwell about his face and shoulders, then she directed the virgin to take the Fleece and mount up upon her pony. Then last, the tall kedran herself sprang to her tall black horse, ready to make the final blessing. The steed stamped, in fiery temper, but the
Wanderer
took him firm in hand, turned to the Prince of Lien, and lowered her Lance to touch his shoulders.
Wanderer
took him firm in hand, turned to the Prince of Lien, and lowered her Lance to touch his shoulders.
“Today the Mother has made you a King, a truer King, than any created by force and guile. Return to Balufir, and rule peacefully.”
These ancient Chyrian words contained great force, though no one here but the
Wanderer
herself could comprehend their meaning.
These ancient Chyrian words contained great force, though no one here but the
Wanderer
herself could comprehend their meaning.
It was all like a scene in a sacred book: then came a cry of rage, almost of agony, and swift arrows. The first struck the
Wanderer
in the back; it tore across a shoulderblade and did not lodge; the second, hastily aimed, took the child Guendolin in the arm, piercing the muscle through, for she wore no armor. But something was wrong—though the tall kedran was the least wounded of the pair, it was the
Wanderer
who cried out and slumped forward on the saddle, the great black lance dropping from her hand.
Wanderer
in the back; it tore across a shoulderblade and did not lodge; the second, hastily aimed, took the child Guendolin in the arm, piercing the muscle through, for she wore no armor. But something was wrong—though the tall kedran was the least wounded of the pair, it was the
Wanderer
who cried out and slumped forward on the saddle, the great black lance dropping from her hand.
“Devon! Devon!” Prince Matten cried, as two horses crashed into view from between the trees. “What have you done?”
The young adept went straightway pale; he had heard the horror in his prince’s voice. He had hunted all through the woods for his beloved liege, forcing the big man on the other horse along with him; now he dropped the hasty noose he had slung about this man’s neck, jumped down from his own saddle, shaken, seemingly not believing he had found his master whole, unblemished—and in such a rage! “My lord,” he said, almost weeping. “I hardly thought to find you well.”
“How can I be
well
?” said the prince, tearing away. “What have you done?” He stared at the bow in Devon Bray’s hands. “That is my bow,” he said, amazed, though he knew Devon Bray had carried this weapon for him, strapped to his saddle. “It is
my
arrows you have used …”
well
?” said the prince, tearing away. “What have you done?” He stared at the bow in Devon Bray’s hands. “That is my bow,” he said, amazed, though he knew Devon Bray had carried this weapon for him, strapped to his saddle. “It is
my
arrows you have used …”
The big, handsome man, still up on his foaming horse, was shaking his head. Matten saw it was the Eildon Pretender, and once more he did not understand. “What have you done?” he asked again.
“It was the Skelow,” said Dannell Royl. “The
Wanderer
’s
Bane.
It was on the arrow’s tip.”
Wanderer
’s
Bane.
It was on the arrow’s tip.”
Devon went deathly pale. “She was going to kill you,” he whispered. “I used the brandhul man to come to you, to cut a path through the spell and follow. Then, when I saw the lowering lance … Sebald—” he said, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Sebald told me—”
They would have spoken further words, harshly, but there came more crashing through the woods. “Father!” called Guendolin. She was almost dropping from the shock of her pain.
The Lord of Grays galloped into the clearing, pulled up his horse, took stock. Not for nothing had he led the Green Riders, the hidden outlaws, for fifteen years. He read every face within the glade, decided what needed to be done.
“You there!” He told the prince and his adept companion. “We have done all we can for you! Away with you!”
He shouldered them aside and pulled his daughter onto his own saddle. And then—then, Garvis of Grays did not hesitate. Pulling the Fleece from between his child’s chilled fingers, he rode to wrap it tightly around the
Wanderer
’s shoulders. Tully
he sent to recover the Lance, and Hunter to the great horse Ebony’s other side, to hold the
Wanderer
up in her saddle. All settled, he turned them to make way from the glade, to ride the green roads to safety.
Wanderer
’s shoulders. Tully
he sent to recover the Lance, and Hunter to the great horse Ebony’s other side, to hold the
Wanderer
up in her saddle. All settled, he turned them to make way from the glade, to ride the green roads to safety.
But before they could depart, Dannell Royl pushed his horse in front of Garvis of Grays’ steed, boldly spoke. “You must take me with you,” he said. “For I am brandhul, and a master of herbs, and something of a healer. I alone in all the world can keep the
Wanderer
with us.”
Wanderer
with us.”
Garvis glanced to his daughter, pale with pain, and then back to this man, unknown to him. “You can come,” he said. “But only if you can keep with us through the woods. We will not wait for you.”
Then they were gone, and all that remained within the quiet of the glade were the young prince, his companion, and the Aldwell’s serene waters.
THORNMOON
In their friendly tower rooms, Gael and Tomas relaxed over a
good supper and joked about being an old married pair. Dark days of shadow had passed from them. Gael would always bear the Skelow’s mark, a jagged scar across the back of her shoulders. A young girl had lost her arm that Gael Maddoc might live: Garvis of Grays, Lady Mayrose, the Keepers of the Fleece of Lien: all had been put to a terrible choice. Even then, without special healing knowledge held by Dannell Royl, the sacrifice of their youngest child’s arm might not have been sufficient to save her.
good supper and joked about being an old married pair. Dark days of shadow had passed from them. Gael would always bear the Skelow’s mark, a jagged scar across the back of her shoulders. A young girl had lost her arm that Gael Maddoc might live: Garvis of Grays, Lady Mayrose, the Keepers of the Fleece of Lien: all had been put to a terrible choice. Even then, without special healing knowledge held by Dannell Royl, the sacrifice of their youngest child’s arm might not have been sufficient to save her.
There had been many, many days of sorrow and pain; now that sorrow was spent, Gael was returned home. She had lost much flesh, her clothes hung loosely from her tall frame, but she was in Tomas’s arms again—she had rejoined him.
It was already Thornmoon, the Moon of Sacrifice, the last of autumn—Gael had lost more than a month to the poison of the Skelow, the black tree. Tomas filled her cup with golden wine, kissed her on the mouth. A rumor had come and gone that the Swan would be closing. Rolf Beck—for the Prince Carel Am Zor still answered to that name—would winter in the Chameln
lands, but the scribe’s refuge he had created in the Swan was also his life, and he intended to keep it going.
lands, but the scribe’s refuge he had created in the Swan was also his life, and he intended to keep it going.
Across the room, hung on the wall, were dress clothes for Gael, brought over from Tulach. An invitation had come: tomorrow, Gael would give it answer. For her action on the border, the rescue of the Chameln’s princes, King Gol had commanded her appearance at the Palace Fortress.
Tomas and Gael lay together in the welcoming bed, speculating about this invitation.
“The public statement concerning the princes—that will surely not be all of it,” Tomas said. “It has long been the word that Gol will abdicate—pass the kingship on to Rieth, his sister Fadola’s son. But this line is not direct—now that the Krac’D-uar is recovered, perhaps our goodly king has heard word of this and wishes you to sanctify his choice.”
“What do we hear of Rieth’s young wife and her little son?” she asked, troubled in her mind that the Black Lance might be commanded to such a purpose, as though it were merely a formal stamp of approval, nothing greater in it. Yet how could she say
no
to her own king if he asked her such a thing? “It proved a hard task to bring Lady Malm to her duty as a royal midwife. But I found you, my dear, as a reward.”
no
to her own king if he asked her such a thing? “It proved a hard task to bring Lady Malm to her duty as a royal midwife. But I found you, my dear, as a reward.”
“The little prince, Kirris, is already walking—a true Duaring, as they say. Just nine months old, and already hardy and strong on his feet. His grandfather is dead—old Baudril Sholt. He gave up his name for his wife Fadola’s child—Rieth has always been called Duaring, for the succession. Some day I would like to hear Lord Yorath’s account of the Bloody Banquet of Silverlode—his meeting with Fadola and Sholt. Did he really believe they were innocent of old Ghanor’s murderous plot?”
“Someone—was it Mistress Vanna?—said that he deliberately allowed those two poor things to go to the Southland, to put them out of the reach of the old despot.”
Tomas nodded. “If so, it was a kindly act. Now—the little boy’s mother—Elwina of Eildon—they say she is capricious and spoiled. Didn’t you meet Kirris Paldo, Elwina’s brother, in the Burnt Lands?”
“Yes,” she said, “and he was a decent fellow.”
“I’ve heard—you’ll call it gossip—that the young royals and their friends are arrogant and clannish. They are impatient with the old king and his circle—eager for him to be out of their way.”
“Oh Goddess,” she sighed. “Gossip is worse than secrets. Now, has word come from the Chameln lands about our friend, the pretender? He was gone from Erinhall so many weeks before I left there.”
“Queen Tanit was gracious—she welcomed her lost brother. But there has been no public announcement as yet—Dannell Royl, though bastard born, is indeed King Sharn’s oldest child. There will be much work, documenting the legitimacy of Tanit’s own succession, before any public announcement can be made.”
Gael Maddoc came to the Palace Fortress in her finest clothes—although as New Tulach’s Chatelaine, she had chosen simple colors: brown and green, with a small yellow crest of a rising sun, and today all felt ill fitted, for the weight she had lost to her great sickness made all hang loose upon her. She raised no banner—the Krac’Duar was slung in its carrying straps; she did not flaunt it. In the bright light of day, its strange quality of absorbing light was less notable, and the broken gold tape wreathed round hardly marked it as a weapon of power—like the Star Kelch and the Fleece of Lien, it only showed its greatness when its power was called forth.
The ancient pile of the Duarings’ palace was a fortress still—the lower floors and terraces thronged with the warriors of Mel’Nir in all stages of their military career, their training. There were boys from the King’s Longhouse, in their grey and gold, alongside pensioned officers, white bearded, who had fought in the armies of King Ghanor. Mihal Carra, Brother Robard’s lord those months when he served as tutor at Carrahall, was one of Gol’s equerries, and it was this Carra, familiar to Gael from the tail end of her ride with the Malms, who had been sent to greet her. He met her at the gates, where she was looking back wistfully at that hilltop road where the Shee had
honored her. He greeted her warmly, and they turned their horses toward the first ramp.
honored her. He greeted her warmly, and they turned their horses toward the first ramp.
As they rode through the soldiery, she was suddenly recognized by a company of the Palace Guard, handsome fellows—she had no idea where they might have seen her.
“By the Gods, it is our own Far-Faring Maid!” boomed an ensign. “Cheer for the
Wanderer,
lads!”
Wanderer,
lads!”
And cheer they did, with the quick, ritual shouts of “Long Life! True Blades!”
She laughed aloud and doffed her hat to wave at them. A voice came out of the ranks: “Trust Captain Carra to find himself such a fine duty!”
“—to a scarecrow!” cried another, which drew friendly laughter and another salute. Gael was not offended; she recognized in the jape a warrior’s recognition for a proven comrade in arms.
When their horses were stabled about the third round of the mighty hill, they at last reached corridors that could properly be called a palace. Gael was led through the fine rooms of state and presented, as a guest, to guards and waiting women. In an anteroom to the present throne room, the young Lord Carra paused to show a famous artifact that stood behind a dark red arras.
The great throne, Azure, was built for giants: a huge construction of metal and dark wood, still with its upholstery of deer skin, its claw grips upon the heavy black metal arms. It told of the awful might, the lust for power that had ruled Ghanor Duaring, the so-called Great King. It suggested to Gael what it might have been like to have and to serve such a father.
“Legends,” she said to her companion. “I have heard that the small creature, Drey, who crept out from the King’s robe to kill with Sting, his dagger, lived for many years after Ghanor’s death.”
“Yes,” said Carra, unsmiling. “He may have been a deformed Kelshin—at any rate a midget. No one would put an end to him, for fear of some magic. He lived like a small, raging, twisted animal in a padded room, high up in the eastern tower. At the last, he took a fever, and Hagnild put an end to his sufferings.”
Yet now, after so much misery and bloodshed, here was the good king, Gol Duaring, in his eighty-fourth year, sitting in the sunshine with his third wife, fair Nimoné, in a pleasant room at the top of the Palace Fortress. The royal pair greeted Gael Maddoc with ease and gentleness—praised subtly the rescue of the Chameln princes, the discovery of Carel Am Zor—yes, they had heard of this matter—remarked upon that other rescue—the Malms brought out of Silverlode. They were familiar with the work of Tomas Giraud, described him as a leading scribe and archivist for Mel’Nir.
Then came a pause, and when the king spoke again, it was of deeper matters, closer to his private heart.
“I will pass on the crown,” said King Gol in his smooth deep voice. “My dear Queen and I would make a final progress along this southern shore of the Dannermere into the lands of the new Lord of the Eastmark, Degan Keddar. After that—I am ready to retire from this hard seat.” He patted the cushion of the soft settle on which he sitting at the moment, then smiled at his little joke. “Degan of Keddar. Very sound man, eh Carra?”
“Indeed, Sire!” said the young equerry.
“The new Lord of the Eastmark has found something for us,” smiled Nimoné. “The beautiful horse farm at Cloudhill, where Strett of Andine trained so many
famous riders.”
famous riders.”
“You must mean your stepson Knaar of Val’Nur, my Queen,” said Gael, catching the Queen’s eye. Nimoné, who had indeed been married to the great Valko Firehammer in the last years of that lord’s life, blithely smiled, her true thoughts masked by a bland expression.
“Yes—yes!” blustered King Gol. “You two bold gals are hinting at my true-born son, Yorath Duaring! Do not speak so slyly—today, it is his birthday, you must know, and a sad twenty years, almost to the day, since I have last seen him.”
Gael was surprised—she had not expected the king to speak of such manners so openly—and this before three pages, Mihal Carra, and herself.
But it seemed even a king must wax on, melancholy, on what would have been his son’s fifty-first birthday. “I cannot tell you how I miss him—but in truth, it is all my own fault; I never
earned such a son. But I’ve heard rumor you’ve seen him, Captain Maddoc, in some scrying glass … ?” His ill-shuttered eagerness could only prompt Gael’s pity.
earned such a son. But I’ve heard rumor you’ve seen him, Captain Maddoc, in some scrying glass … ?” His ill-shuttered eagerness could only prompt Gael’s pity.
“Indeed, Sire,” she said. “He is a great wonder to behold, together with his son, Chawn Yorathson …”
“Tell me my grandson is born straight, without any of the crookedness that has plagued our ancient line!”
“Yes, Sire,” said Gael, with a good will, for speaking truth could not be a hardship. “Straight and tall together. A fine figure—a true man of Mel’Nir!”
The King closed his eyes for a moment, picturing this vision with manifest pleasure. Then he spoke of his sister, Princess Fadola, mother of Mel’Nir’s heir-apparent, Prince Rieth—her husband, the old vizier Baudril Sholt, had passed on, but she still lived very quietly in her own apartments.
Listening to him intently, Gael felt she understood what he was saying. The old king knew his son, the great Yorath, had made his choice: he would not come again to Mel’Nir; he would never rule it. “Good King Gol,” as all called him, had no choice but to look elsewhere for the passing of his kingly trust. He was tired, he wished to retire—yet he did not seem wholly settled in his mind that Fadola’s son must be his heir.
“Captain,” asked the old king, “are you an adept in magic?”
“No, Sire,” replied Gael. “I may have some aptitude from my Chyrian blood, and I have a large store of magic from the Shee and from others, but I am not a true adept.”
“The great Hagnild is gone,” said King Gol, “and he was thought of mainly as a healer—but would it be valuable for a ruler to have a resident magician, a true adept at court? I ask this for my nephew and heir, for Prince Rieth.”
“I can only say yes,” replied Gael. “For one so Blessed by magic must hold even the notice of the Gods, I think. But finding a reliable adept, man or woman, is a difficult task, one for which I am not myself well suited.”
“In past times, Mel’Nir’s Kings were supported by great champions,” the old king said abruptly, his manner becoming a little sharp. “Do you think, Gael Maddoc, those days will come again?”
Gael looked down, did not know how to answer. The Krac’Duar
felt slippery in her hands. Was this why she had been called here? To claim this old title, this ancient trust? “I heard story that Mel’Nir’s last champion died a treacherous death,” she said seriously. “It seems to me the times have passed when Hylor’s Kings believed in sharing power and honor so close to their thrones.”
felt slippery in her hands. Was this why she had been called here? To claim this old title, this ancient trust? “I heard story that Mel’Nir’s last champion died a treacherous death,” she said seriously. “It seems to me the times have passed when Hylor’s Kings believed in sharing power and honor so close to their thrones.”
King Gol blinked. He had never considered the matter in this light. “Perhaps that is true,” he allowed. “Then perhaps I must ask you only to accept of me a smaller honor, that you avoid drawing ‘jealous’ attention. A pledge of land …”
His gesture brought a young page smartly forward, and there was the deed to the ground of Tulach on the High Plateau and the empty hills around, half the way to Aird. “There can be no title to accompany this gift,” he sighed. “For there are those who would be displeased by that. But I thought this at least might bring you some precious privacy, some relief from intrusion …”
By tradition, there were no lords of the High Plateau, from respect to the Eilif Lords of the Shee, no parceling of the land there. Gael felt her heart sadden that she would be the first to be given ground there, yet she could not say no to such an offer.
So the old King and his Queen were well pleased—they all took a sup of exquisite wine from the vineyards of the Chyrian lands, below Coombe. Then Gael took her leave and wandered with the equerry Carra to another part of the palace. He brought her to a gallery, and from there she looked down upon a terrace, where the young royals were gathered.
There was Prince Rieth Duaring, Fadola’s son, a tall, handsome young man, whose red gold hair, from the Emyan picture of him as a lad, had darkened to a rich brown. He sat in an upright garden seat and laughed aloud. Some kind of contest was in progress between two of the courtiers—they had armed themselves with light bows and were taking turns shooting at brightly painted targets set about the lawn.
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