The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Raven nodded. “To be married as soon as she turns eighteen—sealing wax on the Ormondian peace. But she’ll still be Duchess in Caer Argent, which is why some already call her the Fair Maid of Emer.”

  “The other girls were pretty, too,” Carick said, weathering Raven’s sardonic look.

  “Candle flames,” the hedge knight replied, “beside the sun.”

  True enough, Carick thought. He was still thinking about the countess and her companions that evening, eating his dinner in the inn kitchen and watching the play of shadows across the wall. The door banged open and Malisande blew in on a gust of wind, her arms full of herbs. “I hear you watched our training this afternoon,” she said, putting the herbs down on a bench and reaching for scissors and string. “And Ser Raven did, too. The boys watch sometimes, but not many of the knights ever do.”

  “No?” Carick shook his head. “They should. That ladyspike is a wicked weapon.”

  “All weapons are wicked,” Malisande said. “Or that’s what Audin says. But this is Emer and we must be able to defend ourselves at need. I wouldn’t have been let off, except that Manan said she needed help with these herbs.”

  Carick nodded, but she had reminded him of something else. “The first night, before I came here, I was sure I heard Ser Bartrand call Audin ‘Lord’?”

  “Yes.” Malisande tied a bunch of herbs together and hung them from a rafter. “Audin Sondargent. He’s the Duke’s nephew, and the others—Raher and Girvase and Hamar—were sent here as his companions, just as Linnet and Alianor and I are companions to Ghiselaine.” She hooked up another bunch of herbs, then stopped, frowning at her handiwork, although Carick was sure that she was seeing something else. “Ormond was the largest of the old, independent kingdoms,” she said slowly, “and the last to come into Emer after many years of war. It is important for the peace that this marriage happens.”

  Carick pulled a face. “Does it matter what Countess Ghiselaine wants?”

  Malisande shrugged. “She knows her duty. We all do. That’s why we are here.”

  Carick had wondered about that, too: why remote Normarch would foster so many of the young nobility of Emer, including the Duke’s nephew and the Countess of Ormond. But apparently it was the way of Emer for children of both the great and lesser nobility to be sent away as young as six or seven, to grow up in another household.

  “So we get to know each other, I suppose,” Malisande said now, “which helps bind Emer together. Though some, like Ser Bartrand, say it is so we are not spoiled by our families, but learn the discipline and manners required to survive in the world.”

  That idea, too, Carick knew, would seem very strange in the River lands. He glanced at the smoke-blue dusk, pressing against the small panes of the windows, while Malisande tied away the last of the herbs. A voice called from outside and he heard the stable doors being pushed closed. Malisande wiped the bench clean with a damp cloth.

  “Lord Falk, the Castellan, says that we shall all go to Caer Argent for Midsummer this year. There’s always a tournament as part of the festival and the squires will compete—unless they fail in their vigil, of course. It’s likely that Ghis will remain there, although the wedding won’t be until next spring. Audin will stay, too. So you see, you will already know people at the court, just because you came here first.”

  Carick nodded, but asked another question that had been niggling at him. “Why is it that Jarna alone trains with the squires, and not with you and the other damosels?”

  Malisande looked surprised. “Because she is a squire, of course,” she said, as though that were obvious.

  “I think,” said Hamar, opening the inn door, “that Maister Carick is asking why Jarna is a squire at all.” He scraped his boots on the mat. “It’s a longstanding tradition here, one that evolved out of the Cataclysm years. When families have no son to pay the knight’s service owed to their lord, the old custom says that the eldest daughter must be both son and daughter to her house and undertake the duty.” He moved to lean against the end of Malisande’s bench. “Jarna is the eldest of six daughters, and both her father and uncle died in the fever, seven years back. Now there is only her grandfather to hold their demesne from the Duke, so he has sent Jarn to do a son’s service here.”

  “Although these days,” said Malisande, “most families would adopt a son into their house instead, marrying him to a daughter. Or pay the Duke gold in lieu of service.”

  “You have to have the gold first,” Hamar replied. “And Jarn says that her grandfather is too proud to adopt a boy who is not of their blood.” He shrugged. “The old man sounds half mad to me, but that’s why Jarna’s here.”

  “She looked so forlorn the day she arrived, sitting up on that huge horse.” Malisande shook her head. “I didn’t think the Castellan would agree to it. And do you remember Ser Bartrand?”

  “Spitting daggers.” Hamar grinned, then sobered again. “The Castellan had no choice though. He had to agree, or shame Jarna and insult her grandfather. Even these days that could end in a declared feud. And Jarna’s family have ties into the Hills. Lord Falk wouldn’t want to risk ill feeling there.”

  “Still,” Carick said, recalling how quiet Jarna was amongst the other squires, “it must be hard on her, especially if Ser Bartrand is against her being here.”

  Hamar just shrugged again. Malisande looked as though she would like to say more, but refrained, and Hamar began to rummage through the cupboards, looking for jam tarts.

  Carick yawned and excused himself shortly after that, yet despite his tiredness he found he could not sleep. He got up again and opened the shutters, gazing out at the sprinkle of lights that was Normarch. The moon, worn almost to a half disc now, was just lifting above the eastern hills. Its light seemed muted against the misty brilliance of the spring stars, so much larger and closer here than in brightly lit Ar.

  Carick stretched and moved to pull the shutters closed, then paused, sure there was someone standing against the stable wall. Watching, he thought with a shiver. The shadow was little more than an outline of deeper black within the night’s darkness, and he tried to make out more details without leaning forward. Light cut across the yard as the kitchen door opened and Hamar stepped out, Malisande’s voice floating after him—and when Carick looked back at the stable, the watching shadow had gone.

  But there had definitely been someone there. He fastened the shutters with greater care than usual and got slowly into bed. Probably it had just been a villager, wanting herbs from Manan but too shy to ask while castle folk were in the kitchen. All the same, Carick kept his face turned to the window, and sleep eluded him for quite some time.

  Chapter 14

  Maister Gervon

  A clangor shattered the morning’s peace, followed by voices shouting. Still half asleep, Carick fumbled the shutters open, shading his eyes against the early sun. Girvase and Hamar were circling each other in the center of the yard, swords in hand, while their comrades yelled from the perimeter. Carick recognized Malisande and Alianor, looking down from the loft, while Raher, Audin, and Jarna stood just inside the gate. The two combatants continued to cut and thrust, their faces intense with concentration. When Carick leaned further out, he could see Ser Bartrand striding down the hill, with Col, the Master Archer, beside him.

  Ducking back inside, Carick raced to pull on his clothes and comb his hair into a semblance of order. When he looked again the two combatants were still hammering away at each other, but their adherents had fallen silent, easing away from a chestnut destrier that had appeared in the gate. The chestnut’s rider was bareheaded; the early breeze riffled thinning sandy hair as he surveyed the yard, and the voice that spoke was light, but with an edge beneath the even tone. “What,” the newcomer asked, “is going on here?”

  The rider had not seemed to raise his voice, but it cut across the clash of swords all the same. The two combatants sprang back, lowering their blades; their faces wore matching expressions of chagrin and apprehensi
on as they turned toward the gate. “Lord Falk,” Girvase said, gasping for breath. “Ser, we didn’t realize . . .”

  So this, thought Carick, taking in the mix of dismay and apprehension around the yard, is the Castellan of Normarch, the Duke’s foster brother and strong right arm in Emer’s wild north. Curious, he leaned further out.

  “That I was back?” Falk of Normarch inquired. “So I apprehend.” The light eyes continued to survey both combatants a moment longer before traveling around the inn yard. “Now have I, or have I not, forbidden private contests such as this?” He turned as Ser Bartrand strode through the gate. “Ah, Bartrand, good morning. Col.” He nodded to the Master Archer.

  “My lord.” Audin stepped forward before either of the newcomers could speak, his expression respectful. “You have forbidden such contests in Normarch, but we took that to mean the castle and training grounds, not the inn yard.”

  The Castellan’s brows rose. “Indeed?” he said. “I have always understood Normarch to include the castle and its demesne. And the demesne includes not only this inn and the village below it, but the whole Northern March of Emer, where my word, as I also understand it, is meant to be law.” He shook his head, checking Audin as he began to speak. “No, Lord Audin. The Duke has sent you all here to be trained in the knightly skills that will defend Emer, not to kill yourselves in private contests. In due course, no doubt, you will all attend tourneys and can amuse yourself in this manner to your hearts’ content. But you will not have that opportunity until Ser Bartrand and I say that you are worthy—and this morning’s episode does nothing to convince me of that.”

  “But my lord,” protested Raher, “it wasn’t serious. It was just in fun.”

  The silence that followed filled the inn yard, and Carick found that he was holding his breath as Lord Falk studied Raher. “Now, does that make it better,” the Castellan mused, “or worse? So, what brought about this particular piece of fun? Audin?”

  Audin looked uncomfortable. “Er, Hamar held that Countess Ghiselaine would be crowned queen of this year’s Midsummer tourney in Caer Argent, but Girvase expressed doubt on that point, ser.”

  “He did?” The Castellan looked at Girvase. “Why was that?”

  Girvase said nothing, just stared stolidly in front of him until Audin answered again. “Girvase thought that the crown should go to Alianor, ser.”

  Lord Falk shook his head. “You should never let either loyalty or admiration cloud the evidence of your eyes, Girvase. But hear me, all of you! I’ll have no more of this nonsense anywhere in the Northern March. Do I make myself clear?” Heads dipped around the courtyard, and he nodded. “Well and good. Ser Bartrand, I’ll let you decide on suitable chastisement for these miscreants—not excluding the young ladies, whose presence might be construed as encouragement for the squires’ willful disobedience.” Lord Falk began to back the chestnut destrier out the gate, then paused, looking up at Carick in the window. “You must be Maister Carick. I will see you in the castle as soon as I’ve had my breakfast.”

  The castle’s outer yard, when Carick reached it, was filled with the men and horses that had returned with Lord Falk. He had to weave his way through to Raven, who was standing in the hall door. “We are to see Lord Falk together,” the hedge knight told him. “But he is closeted with Ser Bartrand and Erron at present.”

  And that is Emer, thought Carick, inwardly amused, where a Castellan’s horsemaster is as important as the captain of his guard. A pennant fluttered by the stable door and he jumped, his amusement evaporating as he remembered the previous night’s shadow. He had almost forgotten it in the aftermath of Lord Falk’s arrival, but now that the memory had revived, found he could not shake off a sense of something out of place. Eventually he asked Raven for his opinion. “I’m not used to this country,” he explained. “In my place, what would you do?”

  “In your place?” Raven shrugged. “I would speak to the Castellan or Erron. This isn’t the kind of country where you take chances.”

  Carick hesitated. “Would the wolfpack trail me here?”

  Raven’s gaze sharpened. “Is that who you think it was?”

  I must sound like a nervous fool, Carick thought, aware that he had no reason other than his lurking uneasiness for suspecting the wolfpack. Yet a short time later, after they had been called into his presence, Lord Falk repeated Raven’s question. The Castellan’s eyes were the color of barley ale, their expression thoughtful as Carick shook his head.

  “I’m not sure.” He could not bring himself to admit that it was just a feeling that had dogged him from the moment he remembered the shadow.

  Ser Bartrand scratched at his chin. “They certainly pursued you for longer than I’d have expected, once they had your mule and goods. But for an outlaw, even a scout, to come all the way here . . .” His expression said he thought it unlikely.

  “There are those,” Erron put in quietly, from the deep window embrasure, “who refuse to turn aside from a chase once they have begun it. But those who run in the wolfpack are not usually of that kind.”

  They do think I’m a nervous fool, Carick reflected, and wished he had never said anything.

  Lord Falk switched his attention to Raven. “Ser Bartrand tells me that you are looking to take service in Emer?”

  “For a time,” Raven replied. “If there is a place to be had.”

  “I always need men,” the Castellan said, “both for garrison duty and to train the squires. But you would find easier service if you went farther south, into the Mark country or the six Wards around Caer Argent.”

  Raven smiled, a wry twist of the lips. “They might not look past my rough exterior. I will take your service, my lord, if it pleases you.”

  Lord Falk nodded. “Well enough, Ser Raven.” He turned back to Carick. “And you, Maister Cartographer, I must get safely to Caer Argent. We will be going there for the Midsummer festival, but I will send a messenger to find out whether the Duke needs you before that. Meanwhile, I have some maps here that could use your attention, if you’re willing?” He waited for Carick’s nod, then added: “I take it that Manan has been looking after you well?”

  “Very well,” said Carick.

  Lord Falk smiled. “I would ask you to try and pass on your scholarship to our young dunderheads, except that we have brought back a priest for that purpose: Maister Gervon from Serrut’s monastery in Bonamark. Best not to tread on his toes, perhaps.”

  “No,” said Carick, although he wondered why they could not both teach, if they had separate skills to offer. Ser Bartrand, he saw, was looking amused.

  “How many maisters can they need,” the captain asked, “to learn how to write their name and cipher out a letter? They have enough to do on the training ground—although I suppose there could be room for a little more heraldry, if they’re going to court.”

  “The arts of war, eh,” said Lord Falk, “softened by a few courtly graces? But the Duke does not agree that what was good enough for our generation will do for the next. He thinks we must knock some book learning into their heads—and I am inclined to agree with him, hence the Maister of Serrut.” His smile, as he glanced at Ser Bartrand, was sly. “I heard, recently, that the Duke plans to endow a university in Caer Argent.”

  Ser Bartrand’s expression made it plain what he thought of that, but he merely shrugged and bore Raven away to induct him into the garrison while Carick returned to the inn. He wondered what study Maister Gervon had specialized in and looked forward to meeting him, but soon found that the priest of Serrut was not disposed to be friendly. The man inclined his head when Lord Falk introduced them, but made it plain, through his manner rather than his words, that he preferred to keep Carick at a distance.

  He thinks I’m a threat, Carick thought, and shrugged inwardly, concentrating on the Castellan’s maps instead. These were in sad condition, but Carick thought they could be rebacked, with care, and the faded lines re-inked. He was more concerned, given their age, that the detail being re
done might be highly inaccurate, and that there were too may blank areas on every chart.

  “Do what you can, Maister Carick, and I will be grateful,” Lord Falk said, when Carick approached him with his concerns. “There’s no coin to spare for new surveys, not when we have the entire north to garrison.” He was standing by his dayroom window, gazing down at the village, and he beckoned Carick to join him. “It looks peaceful, does it not? But each year is a constant struggle to get the harvest sown and gathered, both for the folk in those fields and all those like them throughout northern Emer. Yet without the harvest, we all starve.” He shot a glance at Carick. “Starvation is not a thing you experience often on the River, from what I hear, but it’s as great an evil as anything a knight might slay with arrow or sword. And there is only so much I can wring out of these folk, even for the necessities to defend them.”

  Carick nodded, resolving to do the best he could with the resources and time available, which quickly stretched from two weeks into three. The days became warmer as Normarch began to focus on the festival of Summer’s Eve and the accompanying vigils for those squires and damosels who were coming of age.

  “What exactly is the festival about?” he asked Malisande, one fine evening when she was down at the inn again, helping Manan sort and bag herbs. The damosel looked up in surprise.

  “Don’t you celebrate Summer’s Eve on the River? The festival honors Imuln in her aspect of Maiden and is always held on the first new moon of summer. Those coming of age keep their sacred vigils and lovers make binding vows to each other.” She smiled. “That is the serious side, at any rate. But we also celebrate the beginning of the really fine weather by lighting bonfires, and use up the last of winter’s stores baking special cakes and breads. The fires are lit on the actual eve, but the next day there is dancing and feasting through into the night. And because Manan is the most famous cook in the entire Northern March, people come from all over to buy her spice bread and sweet pastries.” She wrinkled her nose. “So we won’t have the inn to ourselves anymore.”