The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Lord Falk turned to him with a lifted brow, but Carick thought he detected understanding in the faces of the Hill chieftains as they, too, looked at the hedge knight. Ser Bartrand simply looked blank. “In all the lands between the River and Ishnapur,” Erron put in quietly, “Summer’s Eve is sacred to Imuln as Maiden, but it is not just the festival of the first new moon. It also marks the last of the old, the dark of the moon, and that is sacred to another god altogether.”

  “Karn,” whispered Hawk, and all the Hill folk openly made the sign that averts ill luck. “The Dancer in Shadows, the slayer and avenger, the drinker of blood.”

  Erron nodded. “It was not unheard of in the dark times for Karn to be offered his sacrifice of blood at Summer’s Eve: the giving up of life in exchange for the coming of summer and the rising of the new moon.”

  “Old superstitions!” Ser Bartrand said harshly. “All such practices were outlawed long ago.”

  Erron said nothing, but Lord Falk nodded, as though agreeing with what was left unsaid. “Those who raid the Hill clans do not observe the Duke’s laws. It may well serve their purposes to use the old rites of Karn for their own ends.”

  “It would be an ill omen indeed,” Manan spoke for the first time, frowning, “if the promise of Imuln’s moon were to be drowned in blood.”

  “And so both need and honor call us to the Hills,” Lord Falk agreed. “Ser Bartrand, you will muster our troops for departure at first light the day after tomorrow. Erron will command here in my absence.”

  “But surely,” Ser Bartrand protested, “we will need Erron with us?”

  The Castellan shook his head. “With you and I gone, Bartrand, Erron is the one the people will look to and follow. He will have Ser Raven to call on for experience of war.”

  Ser Bartrand shot a frowning look at the hedge knight. “I thought he would ride with us, given that experience.”

  “I would prefer it,” Sir Falk said, “but with Ser Rannart away we must leave one knight here.” He stood up. “Hirn, Hawk, sers. We will meet again later to break bread as friends and discuss strategy. But for now, we have a great deal to do if we are to prepare an expedition—and no time to waste.”

  They left two mornings later, a strong company of horse and one of archers marching out behind the black oak banner of Emer on its green ground, with Lord Falk’s red fox ensign flying bravely beside it. Carick watched from the castle wall as the early sun caught on speartip and helm, shading his eyes until the strange, spike-backed serpent finally disappeared through a gap between forest and hills. “And we,” said Raher, standing beside him, “are left behind. As always.”

  “With the maidens,” said Hamar, his tone an echo of Raher’s but with a sly grin at the damosels, who had also come up to see the column depart.

  “Exactly,” said Raher. “I’ve had enough of lessons. It’s time they took us seriously.”

  “We’ve got garrison duty,” Audin pointed out, “which makes us part of the castle’s strength.”

  As if to underline that responsibility, Raven worked them harder than ever on the training field and spared none of the squires who came against him, whether on foot or horseback. “You pay for every mistake,” said Hamar, after a hard-fought melee that seemed to Carick, watching, to be all dust, swiftly turning horses, and hard blows.

  “But,” said Jarna unexpectedly, dabbing at a puffed and bleeding lip, “you don’t make that mistake again.” Her face was shining through its mask of grime, her usually downcast eyes a-blaze.

  “There’s no second chance in battle,” Audin agreed, and Jarna’s abused mouth twisted.

  “That’s why I don’t mind how often or how hard he hits me, so long as I’m learning.”

  She must mean it, Carick thought, because Raven worked her harder than anyone, so that she always had more than her share of scrapes and bruises. “Yet she thrives,” Malisande pointed out that evening, grinding up herbs with a pestle and mortar. “And I overheard Erron saying that Ser Raven would make knights of them all, even Jarna.”

  “She will deserve her vigil,” Carick agreed. “And you have the good weather you wanted for the Temple in the Rock.”

  Malisande shook her head, her smile tight. “Haven’t you heard? With Lord Falk away and unrest in the Hills, Erron has forbidden us to go.”

  The damosels’ outcry over this decision echoed throughout Normarch, and Carick entered the hall the next morning to find a deputation arguing their case to Erron. “The Hills are leagues away from here!” Ilaise wailed. “And the Temple in the Rock is completely in the other direction! We’d be in absolutely no danger.”

  “There has been unrest in the west as well,” Erron replied. “That is why Ser Rannart is there.”

  “He’s campaigning a lot farther westward,” Selia said quickly. “The Temple in the Rock is less than a day’s ride from here.”

  “And,” Alianor put in, “there’s been no incursion within Normarch’s demesne for at least quarter of a century.”

  “We’ll have numbers, too,” Brania added, “and weapons, which we know how to use.”

  Erron shook his head. “We can’t send an escort with you, not with the garrison depleted. And we dare not risk Countess Ghiselaine.”

  “Why does everything always come down to her?” Selia snapped.

  Linnet’s foot tapped. “Ghis is just their excuse for making us all little better than prisoners. Alli’s right—there’s been no incursion anywhere near here for years.”

  “You are forgetting Maister Gervon’s death,” Raven pointed out. He had been standing back from the confrontation, but now came forward to join Erron.

  The damosels hesitated, before Linnet waved the observation aside. “A single murder is not an incursion, Ser Raven.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Erron, “my decision stands.”

  “The effrontery of it,” declared Selia as they swept out, clearly meaning to be overheard. “A horsemaster and a sword-for-hire daring to tell us what we may and may not do!”

  But Erron had already left, and when Carick glanced at Raven the knight just shrugged, his expression more sardonic than ever.

  Carick shook his head. “I don’t understand their obsession with the Temple in the Rock. Do you?”

  “A little. Emerian tradition claims that it was the center of Imuln’s worship throughout what we now call the Southern Realms, back in the days of the Old Empire—more important even than Jhaine, although that seems hard to believe now.” Raven shrugged again. “It may be true though, because there’s a line of ruined fortifications along these hills, which suggest the Empire wanted to protect something in the area.”

  It wouldn’t have been Normarch, Carick reflected. He had learned enough about Old Empire ruins to know that the Castellan’s stronghold in the north, if it existed at all in those days, would have been little more than some minor lord’s folly. As for the thwarted expedition to the Temple in the Rock, Carick felt sure it was a minor storm that would soon blow over. Still, he grinned when he recalled how fierce the damosels had been in the hall—and how the squires were going to have to rise well before dawn for their vigil. The castle’s chapel to Serrut had not yet been reconsecrated after Maister Gervon’s death, so the squires would be riding to the one in Crosshills village, four miles away.

  When Carick walked down the hill at midday, he saw that the wood for the Summer’s Eve bonfire had been stacked beside the training grounds, with another pile on the common outside the village. On impulse, he turned aside, thinking he might find Hamar in the forge, or perhaps the orchard—although the sessions there had ended now that Raven was training all the squires. The stable interior was dim, but peaceful with the mingled scents of straw and leather and horses. Carick heard a rattle, as though someone were shifting harness, followed by a murmured word as the gray cat whisked out of the tack room. He stooped to stroke it before looking around the door—and instantly drew back, heat flooding into his face.

  The tack room was dark
er than the stable, but still light enough to make out the two figures locked together against one wall: one standing, the other seated on a storage barrel. A chink in the roof illuminated Jarna’s face, tipped back with her eyes closed, and revealed the slight, half-moon curve of her breast where her shirt was unlaced. The young man with her had his back to the door and his shirt still on, but there was no mistaking the broad back or gleam of russet hair.

  Hamar and Jarna. Carick drew in a deep breath and stepped silently away from the door. They had not seen him—and would not have heard him either, absorbed as they were in each other. Carick flushed again, recalling the pale curve of Jarna’s breast, and wondered why it bothered him. He had already guessed anyway, given the amount of time the two spent together. But guessing, he found now, was not the same thing as knowing, and he took a deep breath as he emerged into the yard. He had seen what he should not, no question of that. Not just because of the intimacy of the moment, but because he strongly suspected that Lord Falk would frown on the liaison.

  Yet none of that, thought Carick, sitting down on the edge of the well, explained why he felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.

  “Maister Carick.” He looked up to find Ser Raven regarding him. “Are you well?”

  “Er, yes. Fine.” Carick tried to pull himself together, but instantly saw Jarna’s breast again, with Hamar’s arms wrapped around her and the girl’s legs twined around Hamar’s waist. He felt the color creep up into his face. “Were you looking for me?”

  “No.” The knight studied him curiously before glancing toward the kitchen. “I heard Manan was making a fresh batch of saffron buns. Although I would like to go over those maps with you again, if you have time.”

  They were sitting on the kitchen step, eating the buns and some jam pastries that Manan had given them, when Hamar and Jarna emerged from the stable. The pair looked happy, Carick thought, a little sourly until he realized that Raven was watching him. Once the two squires joined them, it was hard to believe that the scene in the tack room had actually happened. Jarna was her usual self, shy and withdrawn, while Hamar disappeared to wheedle more buns out of Manan.

  Shouldn’t they seem different, Carick wondered, if they’re in love? And did Raven have to give off quite such a strong aura of secret amusement?

  “More night training again tonight, ser?” Hamar asked, returning with the buns. A few extra pastries had been tucked into the corners of the basket.

  Raven shook his head. “Not with the vigils starting the day after tomorrow. You’ll need your sleep for that.”

  “True enough.” Hamar looked solemn, but then a grin broke through. “And after that, Caer Argent. Jarn and I have been talking about the tourney. We thought I’d win the sword competition, but leave the horsemanship trials to her.”

  “Those events would suit your strengths.” Raven rose to his feet. “Could we look at those maps now, Maister Carick?”

  So Carick had no choice but to follow him back to the castle and focus his mind on cartography for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter 18

  Vigil

  The following night, Carick woke in the dark hours to the muffled sound of horses walking along the road verge and the occasional clink of bridle or stirrup. He raised his head, realized it must be the squires leaving for Seruth’s chapel, and went back to sleep. When he woke again it was full day but remarkably quiet, with no clatter in the yard or distant clangor of training. He was dressing, taking his time and thinking it was going to be a long day, when he heard a horse gallop down the hill and away through the village. By the time he opened the shutters, the rider was long gone. Manan, too, was nowhere to be seen when he went downstairs.

  Of course, Carick thought, helping himself to breakfast. She’s the lay priestess of Imuln, so she’ll be at the village shrine with the damosels.

  The peace lasted until he walked through the castle gate and noticed visible tension in the guards on duty. By the time he reached the hall, he could hear a woman’s flurried, anxious voice. Dame Nelys, he thought, stepping inside, and saw the chaperone from the Girls’ Dorter standing with Erron and Raven. She looked as though she might faint at any moment, while the handful of younger damosels in the background appeared frightened and excited at the same time. “I can’t understand it,” the dame said, twisting her hands together. “I had no idea of this, none at all.”

  “They are not in the village,” Raven said. “And their horses are gone from the stables, together with supplies for an overnight journey. They have gone to the Temple in the Rock.”

  Erron frowned, his expression deeply troubled. “Who urged them to this madness? Do you know, Dame Nelys?”

  Nelys shook her head. “I knew nothing. Heard nothing, not even a whisper.”

  “Linnet was wild for the venture.” One of the younger damosels spoke up nervously. “And Selia, too. She kept saying that all the most famous daughters of the Old Empire, those whose lives and leadership made a difference, were consecrated at that shrine in its great days. And the way she spoke—” The girl shook her head. “All I wanted was to go along with whatever she said.”

  “She had a scroll,” a second girl said. The scattering of freckles across her nose stood out sharply against a pale face. “I was there when she showed it to Ghis—the Countess. It recorded a prophecy that Emer would only rise to true glory when its Duchess had kept her vigil at the Temple in the Rock.”

  Erron’s frown deepened. “I’ve never heard of such a prophecy,” he said.

  “They all wanted to go anyway,” another girl whispered. “For the adventure of it. And they swore us to secrecy.”

  “Surely they’ll be all right.” Dame Nelys gripped her hands together. “They will be all right, won’t they?”

  Raven and Erron’s eyes met. “We must ride after them,” the knight said. “At once.”

  The dame’s hands twisted again. “But—that would destroy their vigil.”

  “Better that than dead.” The knight was brusque. “I’ll have to take the squires,” he said to Erron. “We can’t do this otherwise, and still keep a realistic garrison here. And we dare not strip this place of its last strength, even for the Countess of Ormond.”

  “But their vigils,” Dame Nelys moaned. “Think of the ill luck!”

  “I am thinking,” Raven said, “of the ill luck to Emer if Ghiselaine of Ormond dies while in the Lord Castellan’s care.”

  “You fear treachery,” Erron said, his words a statement, not a question.

  “I smell it,” Raven replied. “This comes too pat with the Castellan’s departure. It may be a two-pronged attack, both against the Countess and this castle if we leave it undermanned.”

  “Vigils or no vigils,” said Erron, “we will not do that.”

  Raven nodded and his dark stare flicked to Carick, standing just inside the door. “I will need your maps, Maister. We need to see if this shrine is marked anywhere and what paths lead there, especially from the border crossings we looked at yesterday.”

  He cursed, a soldier’s pungent epithet, when Carick returned and unrolled the maps. “Two routes in,” he said grimly, “besides the road we’ll take. One from the western foothills, true as a leyline down this ridge, and the other from the east, up this riverbed. What’s it called, the Rindle? And the shrine placed squarely between the two, as neat a trap as one could wish for.”

  “They are not trapped yet,” Erron said quietly. “We will get them back.”

  Raven slanted a quick, bleak look at him. “If it were not for the Countess, I would say they must take their chance. We do not have the numbers for this folly, and we risk losing the squires as well, going after them.”

  Erron shook his head. “The squires are about to become knights, in any case. And this is what they were trained for. Risks of this kind will come to them sooner or later.”

  Carick hesitated, unsure whether his opinion would be welcome. “The girls are their friends,” he said finally. “The
y’ll want to go.”

  “Friendship may also cloud judgment,” Raven said, not dismissively but as one stating a fact. “Another risk they will have to overcome if they are to be effective as knights.”

  “You had better take Herun,” said Erron. “He’s our most experienced tracker. Darin and Aymil, from the guards, are both good in the woods—and Solaan goes, too. The damosels may listen to her once you catch them.” He turned at a sudden rush of hooves outside. “They are back. Let’s hope that Manan has managed to calm them a little.”

  It must have been Manan galloping that horse earlier, Carick realized—and it made sense that she would have missed the young women first, when they never arrived at the village temple.

  Erron had been right about the squires being unsettled. Keyed for their vigil and then pulled away from it, the young men crowding into the courtyard were bewildered and furious. Carick glanced at Manan, walking her horse up and down to one side, and thought it said a great deal that she had not only gotten the squires to the castle, but maintained some semblance of order. Only a semblance, though: one look at their white, angry faces made it clear that whoever had called them back would have to provide a very good explanation.

  A second look told Carick something more. Beneath their anger the squires were afraid, because they knew that a vigil would only be broken in exceptional circumstances. Raher had his hand on his sword and his horse moved restlessly, tossing up its head. By contrast Girvase sat very still, but his hand, too, rested on his sword hilt, and his eyes were hooded as Erron and Raven came down the steps. Audin moved his horse forward to meet them. He was pale, but holding himself in check. “Erron?” he asked. “I know a priestess of Imuln may break a vigil once it’s started, but Manan said that Ghis and the other girls were missing?”

  “They are,” Erron said. “We believe they have ridden to the Temple in the Rock, against Lord Falk’s express order.”

  Raher’s brows snapped together. “You break our vigil for that?” he demanded. “Isn’t it their right to keep vigil for the Goddess where they will?”