by Robin Jarvis
“This will bear you to Greenreach,” Ninnia told her. “Griselda shall accompany you and Master Godfrey will be your guide. Only he knows the route you must take, for only he has studied the charts and maps of the land. I know many of my subjects deride him, but Godfrey Gelenos is a most learned scholar—do not hesitate in taking his advice. When you are the Starwife you shall have need of his counsel.”
“I don’t want to be the Starwife!” Ysabelle protested. “It isn’t fair!”
Her mother wavered, even now it was not too late.
“You must fulfil your destiny,” she said at last. “The Starwifeship is already yours. All that remains is for you to bring the amulet and the Starglass together. Once that is done the power of the heavens will be yours to command. Use it wisely, for the forces locked within the silver acorn may be used for good or ill. On your journey, never be parted from it, always wear it about your neck.”
“I wish I could use it now to protect us all!” Ysabelle snapped. “When I get to Greenreach, the first thing I’ll do will be to use the magic against the bats—I’ll set a terror in each and every one. They shall not live long to rue what they have done!”
Ninnia stepped back from her. “The day grows old,” she said quickly. “Master Godfrey is coming, and you must leave now.”
“Ooh, M’lady,” Griselda cooed, “look at the prime counsellor—see who’s walking with him. Well I never did!”
Down the avenue of trees the eldest of the queen’s advisers came and at his side walked Wendel the jester. The two seemed to be involved in a most heated discussion punctuated by vehement shakes of the head from Master Godfrey and feverish hops from the stoat.
“Most certainly not!” Godfrey cried, unfurling a chart and trying to ignore his unwanted companion. “This is a most serious undertaking, there is no room for your base levity here!”
“Oh kind—most benevolent squirrel!” Wendel implored. “Most noble and clever scourer of books, let me tag along—I beseech thee, assuredly I do!”
Here the jester fell to his knees and began hobbling over the grass with his paws clenched before him in supplication. As one of his arms was in a sling, this proved to be very distressing and he whined at the pain in between speaking.
“There!” Godfrey squawked, greatly flustered at this embarrassing show. “That’s precisely the kind of foolery I mean. Now get away with you!”
“You won’t even know I’m there—I vow!” begged the jester. “For a few days only—oooch my poor shoulder! Was it my fault I missed the others? I would have joined them but—eeeh how it pains me! But they left so quickly!”
Godfrey abandoned all hope of trying to ignore him and tucked the scroll he had been studying firmly into one of the satchels that he carried. “Am I to blame for that?” he said tersely. “I do know the voles came looking for you but you were nowhere to be found.”
“I was with the woodwright! My cart needed mending! I can do naught without it.”
“Well, they obviously thought you weren’t worth waiting for. Now, do get up off the ground, you’re getting under my feet!”
He quickened his pace and approached the head of the company, leaving the stoat behind. When he reached the Lady Ninnia, Master Godfrey bowed low and announced that all was ready—the route had been planned.
“Remember,” Ninnia said, “the bats must not guess the way you have taken; the obvious paths must be avoided.”
“Fear not,” he replied sombrely, “it will be difficult but we shall not be marked by our enemies.”
The Lady nodded, then looked to where Wendel sat in the grass—his face miserable and forlorn. “Tell me, Master Godfrey,” she began, “what were you and the stoat talking about?”
The counsellor assumed a haughty and disparaging air. “Would you believe it, madam,” he began, “that nauseating and vulgar personage was asking to join this noble company. Such unrivalled impudence I cannot remember.”
“The other entertainers have left without him?”
“Indeed, and in truth I am not surprised—his constant banal babbling has given me an ache in my head.”
Ninnia looked from the stoat to her daughter and wasted no more time. “Tell the jester he may join you,” she said firmly.
Godfrey gasped and mumbled under his breath, but his sovereign had decided.
“The forest is too dangerous for him to traverse alone and we cannot expect a stranger to remain here to defend our realm. Let him journey with you as far as he wishes—a small reward for the valour he showed this morning. Remember, Godfrey, that without him we should all be mourning the loss of my daughter. Go to him, tell him to collect his belongings—perhaps you will learn to find his ways amusing?”
“Who can say, madam?” Godfrey muttered before stomping off to tell the jester the news. In a moment Wendel Maculatum had leapt to his feet, whistled his thanks to the Lady Ninnia and sped to the Woodwright’s to retrieve his cart.
“Now is the time,” Ninnia said gravely. “Come Ysabelle, you must depart.”
Ysabelle gave her father one final hug and his tears mingled with hers. Neither of them spoke, for the agony of this parting was beyond words. He crushed her against his chest and carried the raw pain of that moment into eternity.
Then Ysabelle turned to her mother, but Ninnia held back. Though she cursed herself, she knew she must not weaken.
“Farewell, child,” the Lady said, and how magnificently she controlled her voice, not a tremor of emotion betrayed her anguish. “May the Green watch over you and may he guide you safely to the holy land.”
With that she walked away and gave the signal for the company to leave.
Ysabelle stared after her mother and sorrowfully climbed into the litter. Griselda had already clambered in and the mouse squeezed her paw tightly. “This is it, M’lady,” she muttered, “into the deadly forest we go.”
The heralds blew their trumpets, but the sound echoed hollowly about the avenue like a funeral dirge. In one movement, the eight guards took hold of the bier and lifted it off the ground. Then, with the wailing of those left behind still ringing in their ears, the great host marched for the border with the waddling form of the jester and his cart taking up the rear. None of them ever saw the Hazel Realm again.
As the sombre procession moved away, the Lady Ninnia moved to her husband’s side.
“Green be with you, my little Belle,” Cyllinus whispered as he watched the last of the company disappear into the distant trees. “I will pray for your safe keeping, and may you come at last to the holy land and be victorious against our enemies.”
Ninnia stared intently at the blank stretch of trees into which the host of Coll Regalis had marched. Desperately she clutched at the bronze hazelnut about her neck and the desolation that she had so valiantly been mastering now consumed her. The grief into which her spirit was plunged was too terrible to bear. Shaking, she fell into her husband’s arms.
“What have I done?” she wept. “Our child is gone, she is lost to us!”
Cyllinus held her grimly, his heart was too injured to feel anything. “You did what your wisdom demanded,” he said flatly, “you did what you had to do, for the good of all.”
“But, I never held her!” she sobbed bitterly. “I never even said goodbye!”
Cyllinus trembled as all the pain his wife had concealed erupted in great, racking bursts of emotion. But all his thoughts were for their daughter and he could not comfort the Lady Ninnia. Awkwardly, he stepped back and looked about the avenue, where similar scenes of grief were being enacted. “There is no time to mourn,” he muttered gruffly. “If we are to be ready for the assault which will befall us this coming night then there is much to do.”
Ninnia stared at him; now more than ever she needed him but Cyllinus had grown cold towards her. She wiped the tears from her face and nodded. “We must prepare to fight a battle we have no hope of winning,” she said.
A dark gleam shone in her husband’s eye—win or not, he wo
uld take many Moonriders with him. “For our daughter’s sake,” he said, “we must fight well. A fine Starwife she will be—the greatest that ever there was.”
With that he strode to the centre of the avenue and began rallying his subjects, spurring them to take up arms and give all in defence of their land.
Alone, her soul destroyed and her heart bereft and empty, the Lady Ninnia touched her amulet and closed her eyes. “No,” she breathed, “I was wrong. This time my wisdom has failed me. Our daughter is not ready—to become the Handmaiden of Orion, one must know terrible grief in order to learn compassion.” She gazed after her husband and shook her head sorrowfully. “Even the deaths of us, her parents, are not, I fear, enough. May she find what she needs upon that dark and deadly road which I have sent her. My poor, poor child—farewell.”
4 - Through Gorse and Bramble
The woods that flanked the Hazel Realm were calm and tranquil glades. Many creatures dwelt there in peace—safe in the knowledge that no harm could befall them while the boundary wardens kept vigil in the branches of the trees high above. But now the watchdrays were empty; every squirrel had joined the company of Ysabelle and an uneasy silence possessed the once tame woodland. In the grassy, flower-speckled banks, the entrances to burrows and holes gaped blindly—for each inhabitant was away preparing for the coming battle.
No eyes saw the great army of Coll Regalis march deeper towards the shadowy forest, there was no one to hear the rattle of shield against spear as the host departed from Ninnia’s land. On they marched and the tramp of their many feet was the only voice heard beneath the blossoming trees.
Upon her couch of gold, Ysabelle drew back the curtain and let the sunlight of the warm afternoon play over her features, while upon its fine chain, the silver acorn burned with a cold white fire.
Griselda sat beside her; the mouse had brought some needlework along in an effort to keep her mind off things but this proved to be an exceedingly vain hope. In the space of only half an hour she had pricked nearly all her fingers at least twice and the delicate embroidery she had been working on was spotted with red dots.
“Blether!” she said, throwing the fabric among the cushions and sucking her sore fingers.
Ysabelle glanced down at the embroidery and the scarlet spots seemed to dance before her eyes. Silently she wondered how long it would be until the blood of her parents spilled over the Hazel Realm.
Feeling sick, she turned away and took a deep breath of the spring air.
At the vanguard of the company, Master Godfrey finished instructing the royal marshalls on the route he had devised and stood to one side. As the countless wardens, sentries and guards marched by, he rolled up the maps he had been studying and went in search of the princess’s litter.
“We make good time, My Lady,” he told her. “When evening falls we should have put a fair distance between us and our home.”
Ysabelle nodded as Godfrey trotted alongside but did not know what to say. For as long as she had known him Master Godfrey Gelenos had been her tutor—and a decidedly stuffy one at that. Most of her short life had been spent inventing ways to avoid his boring lessons and thinking up excuses as to why she had not been able to complete a task he had set her.
Now everything had changed, Godfrey was treating her with a respect and deference he had not shown before. Gone was the weary voice of the impatient tutor and Ysabelle found it difficult to adjust to this different attitude.
The prime counsellor cleared his throat. “The straight path to the holy land lies, of course, due north,” he told her, “but we cannot go that way. Once the forces of Hrethel discover our flight, they shall naturally assume that to be our route. This is why I have chosen a large detour into the west which will hopefully confuse our enemies.”
He held out the map for Ysabelle’s inspection and approval but the squirrel maiden barely glanced at it. “Forgive me, Master Godfrey,” she said, “but mine head is too full of grief to think of aught else. Later, perhaps, I will be able to give it my full attention.”
“There now M’lady,” Griselda clucked, patting her mistress’s paws. “This is no time for book learning—why not try to get some sleep?”
“Come, come,” pressed Master Godfrey, with some of his tutorial authority creeping back into his voice, “I really do think you should take a look.”
Ysabelle sighed and stared for a moment at the chart he held out to her. In the centre of the parchment was a detailed drawing of the Hazel Realm, but once outside its borders the pictures became rather vague. The dense forest was everywhere of course, and fine red and blue lines indicated where the main paths and sacred streams criss-crossed the country. Here and there, green symbols showed where holy shrines stood, but apart from a hesitant depiction of a wide river at the top of the scroll there was very little else.
“Is this the best map we have?” Ysabelle asked. “I cannot see where Greenreach lies. Can it be that curious expanse there?”
“No, My Lady,” Godfrey replied. “That appears to be an area of swamp and marsh. The Blessed Hill of the Starwife is up here, near the bend of the great river.”
“But it looks smaller than our own land!”
The prime counsellor coughed and muttered apologetically. “A regrettable trait of our chart makers and illuminators, I fear,” he sorrowfully admitted. “Alas, these parchments are very old and in those simple days our folk were wont to feature Coll Regalis most prominently. Remember that there was very little call for anyone to journey so far. No one ever travelled to Greenreach from our small realm—not in my lifetime anyway.”
Ysabelle frowned. “Forgive me,” she began, “but it seems to me a very small distance between the two. I would deem it to be a day’s ramble at the most.”
“Ah, there again, I fear the chart is deceiving. A good many days shall it be.”
Ysabelle shook her head, “Then I pray we do not lose ourselves in the fastness of the trackless woods,” she said.
“There is no chance of that,” he confidently assured her.
The squirrel maiden breathed deeply. “What madness do we pursue?” she whispered. “Here are we, hurling ourselves deeper into danger, putting our trust in ancient maps and desperate hopes.”
Ever more frequently, the sunlight grew dim as the ceiling of branch and twig became tangled and knotted overhead. Here was the beginning of the wild world and a sensation of dread and apprehension coursed throughout the entire company as they left the safe woods far behind.
“I’m afraid our progress will be slower henceforth,” Godfrey informed Ysabelle. “In places the undergrowth will hinder us and must needs be cut down. If you will excuse me, I shall have a word with the marshalls.”
“Ooh I don’t like this, M’lady,” Griselda miserably whimpered. “If’n we have to constantly hack through weeds and brambles, we shall never get to your holy place and those filthy bats will find us!”
Ysabelle leaned out of the litter and looked to where Godfrey was telling the marshalls to unsheathe their swords and begin cutting through any obstacles in their path. “Fear not,” she told the mouse, “for the undergrowth which slows us down will also screen us from the eyes of Hrethel’s army.”
But Griselda was not so easily comforted. “Well, if they don’t get us the Hobbers will!” she yelped. “You remember the stories I used to tell you, M’lady?”
Her mistress threw the mouse a reproachful look that was mostly born from fear. “Be quiet!” she snapped. “Are we not in peril enough without you wishing to add to it? Keep the ogres of the nursery under your cap, Griselda—I don’t want to hear of them again!”
The mousemaid folded her arms and stared dismally at her needlework.
Very softly, a voice began to chant. Griselda looked up in surprise, for Ysabelle was repeating the lines of a rhyme she had taught her long, long ago.
“Tread not into the fearsome night
But pull the covers high.
Step not into the wild dark wood<
br />
For the Hobbers are dancing nigh.”
“Oh M’lady,” the mouse spluttered, “I marvel you can recall that—why, you were only a babe in arms!”
Ysabelle did not hear her; for a brief moment she was back in the nursery. It was a grim winter’s evening and a biting gale howled around the central oak. As a child, the young squirrel had been very afraid—the wind seemed to shriek with evil voices and she imagined that they called her name.
“Who is out there?” her own meek voice had asked.
A much younger Griselda swept the squirreling into her maternal arms and kissed her forehead. “Don’t you listen to them now, my little duck,” the mouse had said. “’Tis but the Hobbers, wanting to lure you out. But they can’t get us in here, can they now? We’m all snug and cosy—and your mammy’s soldiers would never let them near. No, so long as we’re here, nothing shall trouble us—not even the sleep visitor shall haunt your dreams. Fret no more, you are safe from the infernal three.”
The memory of the fear she had felt in her childhood now returned to Ysabelle, and for some time she felt cold and scared. Then its hold was broken, and the mood scattered in tiny ripples as a familiar clattering sound dragged her back to the present. Into the leaf-dappled afternoon, her childish fears melted and once more she felt the warmth of the sun upon her face.
Twisting about, she peered back to where the company stretched far behind and the shadow of a smile flickered over her lips.
“Ho, Mistress!” came a voice above the clattering of the cart’s wheels. “What can be the delay? I did bump into one of thy guards, so sudden was the halt. Not popular is Wendel back there, I fear mine prop wagon did shed some of its splinters into a soldier’s behind.”
Ysabelle’s face broke into a full grin as the jester came hurrying alongside—pushing his repaired wagon before him. A loud ‘Tut!’ issued from the litter as Griselda showed her disapproval of the stoat’s familiarity, but neither he nor her mistress took any notice.
Wendel made a comical bow that set all the bells of his hat ringing madly. “A most peculiar road we have taken thus far,” he observed, utterly bemused. “Surely little can be gained by trudging through every nettle patch and ditch? Or is this some new game devised by Gloomy Gelenos over yonder? If so, I find its merit and wit exceeding rare.”
