A horse, bare backed, galloped away into the trees; Astrin, a bloodstained sword in one hand, was unbuckling the saddle from the other. He wrenched it off, led the horse by the bit over to Morgon. There was a smear of blood across his face; the traders lay sprawling beside their packs and saddles.
He said, his own breath fast, "Can you stand? Where are you hurt?" He saw the black stain spreading down under Morgon's arm and winced. "Let me see."
Morgon shook his head, holding the arm clamped to his side with his hand. He struggled to his feet, swallowing sound after sound that would have set the crows mocking; Astrin got a firm grip on his good arm. His face, always colorless, seemed grey in the ram.
"Can you make it back to the house?"
He nodded and managed to make it as far as the edge of the plain.
He woke again as Astrin, dismounting behind him, pulled him gently down from the horse and into the house. He kicked the door shut with his foot as Xel, scenting them at the door, streaked out. Morgon collapsed on the pallet; Astrin, taking a skinning knife to the robe, managed despite Morgon's mute argument, to find the wound that began in the soft skin of the armpit and slanted down to lay three ribs bare.
Astrin made a sound in his throat. There was a knock on the door then; he whirled, reaching in a single, skilled movement for the sword by the pallet, and rising. He flung the door open; the point of the bloody sword came to rest on the breastbone of a trader who said, "Lord . . ." and then became uncharacteristically inarticulate.
"What?"
The trader, a broad man in a flowing Herun coat, black-bearded, kindly-faced, backed a step. "I have a message from . . ." He stopped again as the sword, shivering in Astrin's grip, rose from his breast to his throat. He finished in a whisper, "Rork Umber. Lord, you know me—"
"I know." Morgon, lifting his head with an effort, saw the skin stretched waxen across Astrin's face. "That's why if you turn now, and go very quickly, I might let you leave this place alive."
"But, Lord..." His eyes broke from Astrin's face in helpless curiosity, met Morgon's, and Morgon saw the flash of his own name in the dark, astonished eyes. He made an eager, questioning noise; the trader drew a breath. "That's what happened to him? He can't talk—"
"Go!" The harsh, desperate edge in Astrin's voice startled even Morgon. The trader, his face white under his beard, held his ground stubbornly.
"But the High One's harpist is in Caerweddin, looking—"
"I have just killed two traders, and by the High One's name, I swear I will kill a third if you don't get off my doorstep!"
The trader disappeared from the doorway; Astrin watched until the sound of hooves died. Then, his hands shaking, he leaned the sword against the doorpost and knelt beside Morgon again.
"All right," he whispered. "Lie still. I'll do what I can."
He was forced to leave Morgon at the end of two days, to get help from an old fisherman's wife at Loor, who picked the herbs for him he needed and watched Morgon while he slept and hunted. After five days, the old woman went back home with chips of the Earth-Masters' gold in her hand; and Morgon, too weak to walk, could at least sit up and drink hot soup.
Astrin, worn himself with short nights and worry, said, after half a day of silence, as though he had resolved something in his own mind, "All right. You can't stay here; I don't dare take you to Caithnard or Caerweddin. I'll take you to Umber, and Rork can send for Deth. I need help."
He did not leave Morgon alone after that. As Morgon became stronger, they spent hours painstakingly piecing together the fragments of red and purple glass that Morgon had found; it began to take the shape of a fragile bowl, beautifully dyed, the red streaks becoming figures moving around the sides in the pattern of some ancient tale. Excited by it, Morgon, his pen scratching across Aloil's spells, talked Astrin into searching for the remaining pieces. They spent a day in the ruined city, found three more pieces and returned to meet the fisherman's wife on Astrin's doorstep. She had brought them a basket of fresh fish; she harried Morgon back into bed, scolded Astrin, and cooked supper for them.
The next morning they finished the bowl. Astrin placed the final pieces carefully, Morgon hovering at his shoulder, scarcely breathing. The red figures became whole, moving through the misty purple in some strange action. Astrin, trying to decipher it without touching the bowl as the paste dried, gave an impatient murmur as someone knocked on the door. Then his face tightened. He reached for the sword, held it loosely as he opened the door. He said, "Rork!" and then nothing more.
Three men came past Astrin into the house. They wore silver-white mail under long, heavy, beautifully embroidered coats; swords were slung on jewelled belts at their hips.
The black-bearded trader whom Astrin had driven from his door said, looking at Morgon, "There he is. The Prince of Hed. Look at him. He's hurt, he can't speak. He doesn't even know me, and I bought grain and sheep from him five weeks ago; I knew his father." Morgon stood up slowly. Other men entered: a tall, richly dressed, red-haired man with a harried expression on his face; another guard; a pale-haired harpist. Morgon looked for Astrin's face in the confusion of faces, found in it the same incredulous horror he saw in the strangers' eyes.
Astrin breathed, "Rork, it's not possible. I found him tossed up by the sea—he couldn't speak, he couldn't..." The eyes of the High Lord of Umber met the harpist's, received affirmation; he said wearily, "He's the Prince of Hed." He ran a hand through his bright hair, sighing. "You had him. Deth has been looking for him for five weeks, and this trader finally brought some tale to the King at Caerweddin that you had gone mad and killed two traders, wounded the Prince of Hed, kept him imprisoned, somehow—through a spell, I suppose—stole his voice. Can you imagine what Heureu thinks? There's a strange rebellion building in Meremont and Tor, among the coastal lords, that not even the High Lords can account for. We're bidden to arms for the second time in a year, and on top of that the land-heir of Ymris is accused of murder and imprisoning a land-ruler. The King sent armed men to take you if you resist; the High One sent his harpist to place you under the doom if you try to escape, and I came... I came to listen to you."
Astrin put a hand over his eyes. Morgon, his eyes moving bewilderedly from one face to another, hearing a name that belonged to him yet had no meaning, made another sound. The trader sucked a breath.
"Listen to him. Five weeks ago he could talk. When I saw him, he was lying there making noises, with the blood pouring out of his side, and Lord Astrin standing at the door with blood on his sword, threatening to kill me. It's all right," he added soothingly to Morgon. "You're safe now."
Morgon drew a breath. The sound he wanted to make was cut short before it came; instead he lifted the bowl they had put together so patiently and smashed it against die table. He had their attention then, but as they stared at him, startled, he could not speak. He sat down again, his hands sliding over his mouth.
Astrin took a step toward him, stopped. He said to Rork, "He can't ride all that way to Caerweddin; his wound is barely healed. Rork surely you don't believe —I found him washed up on the beach, nameless, voiceless—You can't believe I would harm him."
"I don't," Rork said. "But how did he get hurt?"
"I was taking him to Caithnard, to see if the Masters recognized him. We met two traders who tried to kill us both. So I killed them. And then this one came, knocking on my door when I had just brought the Prince of Hed in, hardly knowing if he were dead or alive. Can you blame me for being something less than hospitable?"
The trader took off his cap and passed a hand through his hair. "No," he admitted. "But Lord, you might have listened to me. Who were these traders? There hasn't been a renegade trader in fifty years. We see to that. It's bad for business."
"I have no idea who they were. I left the bodies in the woods, not far from the edge, as you would go straight south from here to reach the trade-road."
Rork nodded briefly to the guards. "Find them. Take the trader with you." He added, as they l
eft, "You'd better pack. I brought two mounts and a packhorse from Umber."
"Rork." The white eyes were pleading. "Is it necessary? I've told you what happened; the Prince of Hed can't speak, but he can write, and hell bear witness for me before you and the High One's harpist. I have no wish to see Heureu; I have nothing to answer for."
Rork sighed. "I will have, if I don't bring you back with me. Half the High Lords of Ymris gathered at Caerweddin heard this tale, and they want an answer to it. You have white hair and white eyes, you meddle with ancient stones and books of wizardry; no one has seen you at Caerweddin in five years, and for all anyone knows it's entirely possible that you have gone mad and done exactly what the trader said you did."
"They'll believe you."
"Not necessarily."
"They'll believe the High One's harpist."
Rork sat down on the stool, rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "Astrin. Please. Go back to Caerweddin."
"For what?"
Rork's shoulders slumped. The High One's harpist said then, his voice quiet, even, "It's not that simple. You are under the doom of the High One, and if you choose not to answer to Heureu Ymris, you will answer to the High One."
Astrin's hands went down flat on the table among the glass shards. "For what?" He held the harpist's eyes. "The High One must have known the Prince of Hed was here. What can he possibly hold me accountable for?"
"I cannot answer for the High One. I can only give you that warning, as I have been instructed. The doom for disobedience is death."
Astrin looked down at the splinters of glass between his hands. He sat down slowly. Then he reached out, touched Morgon. "Your name is Morgon. No one told you." He added wearily to Rork, "I'll have to pack my books; will you help me?"
The guards and the trader returned an hour later. The trader, an odd expression on his face, replied only vaguely to Rork's questions.
"Did you recognize them?"
"One of them, yes. I think. But..."
"Do you know his name? Can you attest to his identity?"
"Well. Yes. I think. But . . ." He shook his head, his face strained. He had not dismounted, as though he wanted to stay no longer than necessary in the lonely, wild corner of Ymris. Rork turned, seized with the same impatience.
"Let's go. We have to reach Umber by nightfall. And—" He glanced up as a stray tear of rain caught his eyes, "It's going to be a weary ride to Caerweddin."
Xel, too wild to live at Caerweddin, sat on the doorstep as they left, watching them curiously. They rode eastward across the plain, while the clouds darkened behind the ancient, ruined city, and wind passed like some lost, invisible army across the grass. The rain held miraculously until early evening, when they crossed a river at the northern edge of the plain and caught a road that led through the rough hills and green woods of Umber to Rork's house.
They spent the night there, in the great house built of red and brown stones from the hills, in whose vast hall all the lesser lords of Umber seemed to be gathered at once. Morgon, knowing only the silence of Astrin's house, was uneasy among the men whose voices rumbled like the sea with talk of war, the women who treated him with a fine, bewildering courtesy and spoke to him of a land he did not know. Only Astrin's face, closed and aloof to the strangeness, reassured him; and the harpist, playing at the supper's end, wove a sound within the dark, fire-washed stones that was like the wind-haunted peace Morgon remembered. At night, alone in a chamber big as Astrin's house, he lay awake listening to the hollow wind, groping blindly for his name.
They left Umber at dawn, rode through a morning mist that coiled and pearled on black, bare orchards. The mist resolved into a rain that stayed with them all the way up the long road from Umber to Caerweddin. Morgon, riding hunched against it, felt the damp collect in his bones, like a mildew. He bore it absently, vaguely aware of Astrin's concern, something drawing his thoughts forward, an odd pull out of the darkness of his ignorance. Finally, racked by a nagging cough as he rode, he felt the half-healed wound in his side scored as with fire, and he reined sharply. The High One's harpist put a hand on his shoulder. Looking at the still, austere face, Morgon drew a sudden breath, but the moment's strange recognition wavered and passed. Astrin, riding back to them, his face taut, unapproachable, said briefly, "We're almost there."
The ancient house of the Ymris Kings stood near the sea on the mouth of the Thul River, which ran eastward across Ymris from one of the seven Lungold Lakes. Trade ships were anchored in its deep waters; a fleet of ships with the scarlet and gold sails of Ymris were docked at the mouth of the river like colorful birds. As they rode across the bridge, a messenger, sighting them, turned hurriedly into the open gates of a sprawling stone wall. Beyond it, on a hill, stood the house that Galil Ymris had built, its proud face and wings and towers alive with beautiful patterns of color formed by the brilliant stones of the Earth-Masters.
They rode through the gates, up the gentle incline of a cobbled road. Thick oak doors in the mouth of a second wall were opened for them: they entered a courtyard where serving men took then- horses as they dismounted and flung heavy fur cloaks over their shoulders. They went in silence across the wide yard, the rain gusting against their faces.
The King's hall, built of smooth, dark, glittering stones, held a fire that ran half the length of the inner wall. They were drawn to the fire like moths, shuddering and dripping, unaware of the men falling silent, motionless around them. A quick step on the stones made them turn.
Heureu Ymris, lean, big boned, his dark hair speckled with rain, bent his head courteously to Morgon and said, "You are welcome to my house. I met your father not too long ago. Rork, Deth, I am in your debt. Astrin—" He stopped then, as though the word he had spoken was strange or bitter to his mouth. Astrin's face was closed as surely as one of Yrth's books; his white eyes were expressionless. He looked placeless in the rich hall, with his colorless face and worn robe. Morgon, suddenly possessed of a father he did not know, wished futilely, desperately, that he and Astrin were back where they belonged, in the small house by the sea fitting pieces of glass shard together. He glanced around at the silent, watching strangers in the hall. Something snagged his eye then, down the long hall, something that flamed across the distance, turning his face toward it like a touch.
A sound came out of him. In the shifting torchlight, a great harp stood on a table. It was of beautiful, ancient design, with gold twisted into pale, polished wood inlaid with moons and quarter moons of ivory or bone. Down the face of it, among full moons, inset in gold, were three flawless blood-red stars.
Morgon went toward them, feeling as though his voice and name and thoughts had been stripped from him a second time. There was nothing in the room but those flaming stars and his movement toward them. He reached them, touched them. His fingers moved from them to trace the fine network of gold buried deep in the wood. He ran his hand across the strings, and at the rich, sweet sounds that followed, a love of that harp filled him, overpowering all care, all memory of the past, dark weeks. He turned, looked back at the silent group behind him. The harpist's quiet face rippled a little in the firelight. Morgon took a step toward him.
"Deth."
NO ONE MOVED. MORGON, FEELING A WORLD SLIP easily, familiarly into place as though he were waking from a dream, gave a second look at the massive, ancient walls of the house, at the strangers watching him, jewelled, double-linked chains of rank flashing on their breasts. His eyes went back to the harpist. "Eliard ..."
"I went to Hed to tell him—somehow—that you might have drowned; he said you must be still alive since the land-rule had not passed to him. So I searched for you from Caithnard to Caerweddin."
"How did you—?" He stopped, remembering the empty ship sagging on its side, the screaming horses. "How did we both survive?"
"Survive what?" Astrin said. Morgon gazed at him without seeing him.
"We were sailing to An at night. I was taking the crown of Peven of Aum to Anuin. The crew just vanished. We went
down in a storm."
"The crew did what?" Rork demanded.
"They vanished. The sailors, the traders, in open sea ... In the middle of a storm, the ship just stopped and sank, with all its grain and animals." He stopped again, feeling the whip of the wet, mad winds, remembering someone who was himself and yet not himself lying half-drowned on the sand, nameless, voiceless. He reached out to touch the harp. Then, staring down at the stars burning under his hand like the stars on his face, he said sharply, amazed, "Where in the world did this come from?"
"Some fisherman found it last spring," Heureu Ymris said, "not far from where you and Astrin were staying. It had washed up on the beach. He brought it here because he thought it was bewitched. No one could play it."
Riddle Master of Hed Page 6
