“Ai-oi! But it is your birthday,” said Tuck, attempting to brighten her spirit. “At least we have that to celebrate, though I have no gift for you, nought but a smile, that is.”
Tentatively the Princess smiled back, brushing aside a stray flaxen lock. “Your presence alone is gift enough, Sir Tuck. Yes, your presence gladdens me. Please do come to my birthday feast tomorrow night on Yule Eve. High King Aurion holds the celebration in the Feast Hall, and all the Captains are to attend. Ah, but they are such stern warriors, all cheerless but for Marshal Vidron, and Igon, and, of course, the King himself.”
“But, my Lady,” protested Tuck, “I am no Captain. I and Danner are but lieutenants; it is Captain Patrel you would invite.”
“Nonsense!” Laurelin tossed her head. “I’ll invite whom I please. After all, it is my birthday we celebrate. Yet, would it make you happier, I invite all three: Captain Patrel, Sir Danner, and yourself, Sir Tuck.”
“But we have nought to wear except our rude clothes, not fine jerkins nor shiny helms nor . . .” Tuck’s protests were interrupted by a stamp of Laurelin’s foot.
“But me no buts, Sirrah!” she exclaimed, her sad mood now replaced by one of amused determination, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes atwinkle, her mode of speaking now dropping into that of formal court parlance: “I shall see to the petty details of thy raiment. Tomorrow eve, gather thy two friends unto thee at the change of watch. I will meet thee here at the wall, as is my wont, and then we will get thee hence to be fitted, for I have secret knowledge of the whereabouts of clothes just thy size but fit for a Prince. Then thou shall be dressed for my party, be it one of farewell or of a birthday anniversary or simply a celebration of the coming Yule.”
Tuck threw up his hands in surrender, resigned to the inevitable, and the Princess laughed at the look upon the face of her diminutive, new-found confidant. Then, while Laurelin spoke of Lord Galen and Tuck listened, the Warrow and Princess gazed over the waiting snow until it became too dark to see.
~
During the early part of the next day-watch, one of Laurelin’s Ladies-in-waiting came first to Tuck, then to Danner, and lastly to Patrel and took their measurements with a tailor’s tape. Yet when queried by the curious Warrows as to what was to be done with the figures, the Lady merely smiled and answered not their questions.
That day all three were the targets of the jests and japes of their fellow Warrows: “Ar, keeps yer thumbs out o’ the soups if you please, me buccoes,” said Dilby. “Mind your p’s and q’s, and stay off the Ladies’ toes when you dance,” said Delber, grinning. “Watch out for lettin’ your little fingers droops as you takes your tea,” cautioned Argo. “Mind you now, eats with your knifes and forks, and don’t go tearing into it with just yer little teeths like a common hanimal,” added Sandy. Throughout the day the good-natured remarks assaulted Tuck’s, Danner’s, and Patrel’s ears, accompanied by raucous guffaws.
An hour before sunset, Laurelin came alone to stand at the wall and search for sign of the return of her betrothed. Long she sought, but again, the vigil bore no fruit, for the expectant plains lay empty as great flat shadows mustered upon the distant prairie. The darkening land seemed poised upon the brink of doom, yet nought stirred in the deepening gloom. As the last of the Sun dipped below the horizon, the ward-relief appeared, and so, too, did Danner and Patrel. Sadly, Laurelin turned away from her watch, for this was her last night. Tomorrow would see her depart south, and who, then, would look for her beloved? She sank to a ledge and put her face between her hands and wept silently.
Laurelin cried as Tuck, Danner, and Patrel stood helplessly by, not knowing aught else to do. At last Tuck took her hands in his own and said, “Fear not, my Lady, for as long as I can I will come hence to be your eyes, to watch in your stead. And when Lord Galen comes at last, I will tell him of your lasting love.” And Laurelin clasped Tuck to her and wept even more so. And he held her and soothed her while a tear ran down Patrel’s cheek and Danner, in dull rage, looked out over the empty stillness toward Modru’s black wall.
After long moments, Laurelin’s tears began to subside, and she looked at the three Warrows and then quickly away, as if afraid to catch their eyes with her own. “I am shamed by my outburst, for often I have been told that a Princess should not be seen to weep, yet I could not help myself. Oh my, I seem to be lacking a kerchief.”
Patrel stepped forth and gave her his own. “A gift my Lady, for it is your birthday eve.”
“I have acted more as if it were a funeral, keening my lamentation,” said Laurelin, wiping her tears away, gently blowing.
“Then, Princess, I suggest we give over this whole night to the singing of dirges,” smiled Patrel, and Laurelin laughed at the absurdity. “If not dirges, then, let us instead celebrate, for I know where they’re holding a party tonight, though we have nought but rags to wear.”
Again Laurelin laughed, and she rose up and clasped one of Patrel’s hands and twirled him about. “Ah, yes, such lowly beggar’s garb you wear,” Laurelin crowed, “yet I know where we can remedy that, and then perhaps all four of us can slip into that party of yours and not be cast back out the door. Come.” And smiling secretively unto herself, the Princess led the three Warrows into the castle, to the old living quarters of the royal family, to a long-abandoned room. Inside was a waiting valet, there to attend the three young buccen, much to their surprise.
“I shall return in a trice,” said Laurelin, mischievously. They heard the sound of a distant gong. “Hasten, for the guests now gather and we would not be late to the feast.” She slipped out the door and left them with the valet.
In an adjoining room three hot baths had been prepared in great copper tubs, and the Warrows wallowed and sloshed in the soapy suds but were soon herded out by the servant who bade them to hurry and dry themselves for betimes the Princess would return. They found awaiting them soft silken garments, both under and over: stockings and shoes, beribboned trews, blue for Tuck, scarlet and pale green respectively for Danner and Patrel, with jerkins to match—and they fit as if sewn for them by the royal tailors. As fine as these clothes were, the three young buccen had a greater surprise in store, and they were astounded: the valet presented them with three corselets of light chain mail: silveron for Tuck, with amber gems inset among the links, and a bejeweled belt, beryl and jade, to be clasped about the waist; Danner’s ring-linked armor was black, plain but for the silver and jet girt at his middle; and Patrel was given golden mail with a gilded belt: gold on gold. Helms they wore, simple iron and leather for Tuck and Patrel, a studded black one for Danner. And at the last they were given cloaks, Elven-made, the same elusive grey-green color as was worn by Lord Gildor.
They gaped at each other in astonishment. “Why,” said Danner, “we look like three warrior Princelings!”
“Just so,” came a tinkling laugh. Laurelin had returned, now dressed in a simple yet elegant gown of light blue falling straight to the floor from white bodice, and blue slippered feet peeked under the hem. Her hair was garlanded with intertwining ribbons, matching those criss-crossing the bodice. A small silver tiara crowned her head.
“You do look like Princelings,” she said, “but that is befitting mine escorts, warriors three.”
“But how . . . where?” stammered Tuck, holding out his arms and pirouetting, indicating the raiment and armor upon Danner and Patrel and himself. “Tell me the answer to this mystery before I burst!”
Laurelin laughed and said, “Oh, lah! we can’t have you bursting on my birthday eve. As to the mystery, it is simple: Once apast, my Lord Galen showed me where first he and then Igon quartered as children. Here I knew were closets of clothing worn by the seed of Aurion. And I thought surely some would fit you three, and I was not wrong. But happiest of all, here, too, was the armor of the warrior Princelings of the Royal House of Aurion: the silver you wear, Sir Tuck, is from Aurion’s own childhood, handed down to him from his forefathers; silveron it is, and precious, sa
id to be Drimmen-deeve work of old. And, too, Sir Tuck, I chose the silver armor for you because you wear your dammia’s silver locket.” Laurelin smiled as Tuck blushed before the other young buccen.
The Princess then turned to Danner. “The black, Sir Danner, comes from Prince Igon’s childhood, made just for him by the Dwarves of Mineholt North who dwell under the Rimmen Mountains in my Land, Riamon. It is told that the jet comes from a mountain of fire in the great ocean to the west.”
Laurelin spoke to Patrel. “Your golden armor, Captain Patrel, is Dwarf-made, too, and came from the Red Caves in Valon. It was my beloved, Prince Galen, who wore it as a youth, and I hold it to be special because of that.”
Princess Laurelin turned again to Tuck. “There, you see, the riddle is now solved, though simple it was, and hence you must not burst after all. You are, indeed, wearing clothing and armor fit for Princelings, yet they never graced a more fitting trio.” The Princess smiled, her white teeth showing, and the young buccen beamed in response.
Again they heard the tolling of a distant gong. “Ah, let us begone,” said Laurelin, “for the time is upon us. Captain Patrel, your hand please.” And thus they went forth from the abandoned quarters and through the corridors and down the steps to the great Feast Hall, Captain Patrel in golden armor with the hand of the beautiful Lady Laurelin, gowned in blue, black-armored Danner to Patrel’s right, and silver-armored Tuck to Laurelin’s left. And each of the Elven-becloaked Warrows strode with a helm under one arm, and a silver horn of Valon on green and white baldric hung at Patrel’s side. And when they came through the main doors and into the long Feast Hall, all the guests rose and murmured in wonderment, some at the great beauty of the Princess, others at the Waerling warriors by her side.
Across the wide floor they strode, unto the steps of the throne dais, and thereupon sat Aurion Redeye; scarlet and gold raiment were upon him, and he looked every inch the High King. To his right stood youthful Prince Igon, in red, and Lord Gildor, in grey. To Aurion’s left stood Hrosmarshal Vidron, dressed in the green and white colors of Valon. The Warrows bowed low and Laurelin made a graceful curtsy. Aurion acknowledged their courtesy by inclining his head, and then he rose and walked down to the Princess and took her hands in his and smiled. Then he turned to the guests. His voice was firm and all heard his words:
“This is the eve of the twelve days of Yule, a time of celebration, for it marks the ending of an old year and the beginning of the new. Tomorrow, First Yule brings with it the shortest day and longest night as the old year lays dying, and some may take that as a bleak omen in these dark times. Yet I say unto ye all, First Yule is also a time of new beginnings. Hearken unto me, though Twelfth Yule is reckoned as the first day of a new year, I ween that First Yule marks its true beginning; for it is thereafter that the days grow longer as the land begins the slow march toward the shining days of summer, and that is a bright omen of hope.
“But First Yule also has brought us great grace and beauty: the Princess Laurelin. If there be omen seekers amongst ye, look upon this Lady in blue, and ye can nought but see good fortune in your rede.”
King Aurion led the Princess to a throne to one side where she was seated and flanked by the armored Waerlinga. The King turned to his guests and proclaimed, “Let the celebration begin.” And there rose up a great cheering in the Hall that made the very rafters ring.
Spectacle and entertainment filled the Hall as the grand party got under way: with jugglers and wrestlers, dancers and buffoons, prestidigitators and a Man who spewed fire from his mouth, and others, strutting in file through the doors and around the floor to be seen before they were to perform.
Next, servants bearing platters laden with food paraded into the Hall. There was roast pig and lamb, beef and fowl; and vegetables such as carrots and parsnips, beans, red cabbage, and peas; and great pitchers of frothed ale and dark mead; apples and pears, and even the strange new fruit from Thyra, orange and tangy and full of juice.
The tables were set and groaned beneath the weight of the feast; and the Warrows’ eyes grew big at the heaped mounds of food, for trenchers were they all, but never had they seen such a spread of banquet.
The King stood and escorted Princess Laurelin to the royal table, and Prince Igon, Lord Gildor, Marshal Vidron, and Tuck, Danner, and Patrel accompanied them. The Princess was seated and King Aurion raised a horn of honey-sweet mead, and so did they all. “Yule and Lady Laurelin!” he cried, and a great shout went up: Yule and Lady Laurelin! And the Princess’s eyes were bright with tears as she signed for the feast to begin. And so it did.
Food and drink and entertainment occupied Tuck’s senses as the party pulsed into the night . . . and good conversation, too:
“We celebrate this same festival in my Land of Valon,” said Marshal Vidron to Tuck as they watched a juggler. “Only there we call it Jöl rather than Yule. But that is because the old language, Valur, still names many things in the Valanreach, though the Common Tongue, Pellarion, makes up our everyday speech. Ah, Valur: a language rich in meaning, once spoken by many, but now known only to my countrymen; yet Valur will live forever, for it is our War-speech, the battle-tongue of the Harlingar, the Vanadurin, Warriors of the Reach!” Vidron raised his cup in salute and took a great gulp of mead.
“Yule has had many names in many tongues,” said Lord Gildor, his Elven eyes aglitter, “yet it always has been the same twelve days of winter festival throughout the years. And though days, months, and years mean little to my Folk, memories are important to us. And many a happy memory centers about Yule, or Jöl, Yöl, Üle, or whatever it may be called. Yes, I can remember a time such as this when it was still called Gêol, and we celebrated even though Modru threatened the Land in that Era, too.”
“You can remember?” exclaimed Danner, hushed awe in his voice. “But that was . . . that was back before the Ban, four-thousand years . . .” Danner’s words trailed off in wonder.
“Yes,” said Gildor, his voice soft, “I can remember.”
A roar went up from the guests and nothing more was said as they watched wrestlers grapple on the central floor. At last, one of the young soldiers hefted the other and spun him about and flung him to the mat, pinning him. Great shouts of praise rose up from the assembly.
“Ah, if I am not mistaken,” said Aurion to the Princess, “that young Man, the victor, is from Dael in your Land, for I have seen him wrestle before. He has great strength and agility, as many in Riamon do.”
Laurelin smiled brightly, but behind her eyes loomed sadness. “What a grand party,” she said to the King, “yet many of this gay troupe will be on the waggons with me on the morrow.”
“And I ride with the escort,” said young Igon, glumly, “when I think it would be better that I return to the Dimmendark to stand beside Galen against the foe.”
“My son,” said Aurion, “I need you in Pellar. You but ride with the escort to Stonehill, beyond the range of Modru’s Vulgs. Then you will leave the train behind, and with six fast companions you will go apace to Caer Pendwyr to rallye the Kingdom to our aid.”
“Sire, I will obey thy command,” replied Igon, his speech now courtly, “though I think thee but try to place one of thy heirs temporarily beyond harm’s way.” King Aurion’s face flushed and he glanced at Vidron as if to a conspirator. Prince Igon spoke on: “I think others, Captain Jarriel for one, can do this deed thou hast given me as well as I if not better, whereas I have fought and slain foe in the bitter Winternight and that is what I am suited to do. Aye, ’twas perchance by accident that we stumbled across the enemy, still that does not alter the fact that Galen and I slew five between us; it is this task I would return to: to stand with Galen against the foe.”
“Son, you spoke that others could do this deed I have given you,” responded Aurion, stonily, “and you name Captain Jarriel, for you know I send him south as your counsel. But this I say unto you: Captain Jarriel cannot command the jealous generals of rival factions to set aside their pettishness. On
ly one of the Royal Family can fire the will of the armies with the resolve and unity needed to meet and do battle with Modru’s Horde. And that is the command I have thrust upon you: to muster the forces and return unto me with them.”
“The commanding of that army, Sire, should be Galen’s task, not mine, for he is eldest, by ten years,” answered Igon.
“But he is not here!” snapped the King, his voice rising, the flat of his hand slapping the table, setting cups atumble. Then his eyes softened and his speech became as courtly as was Igon’s: “Ah, mine son, in thy veins flows the same blood as mine own, yet thine is made hot by youth, just as mine once was. Heed, I know thou wouldst sally forth to join thy brother and meet the foe, for that is a hard thing to resist. Yet set aside thy rashness at this time, and see that a royal hand is needed to bring mine Host northward apace. Thou knowest that the first heralds were Vulg slain, and perchance the second, and only slowly doth the word go forth unto the Land. Hence, the muster has not yet truly begun; this, then, is the eleventh hour of our need. Thou, or Galen, or I must go and return with that which will whelm the Enemy.” King Aurion placed a hand upon Igon’s. “Fate hath decreed that it is thou who must gather mine Host, for Galen is to the north, and I must remain here to take the field if Modru comes. This, then, is my charge unto thee: bring unto me mine Host.”
The youth bowed his head to the King and placed his free hand upon Aurion’s. “Sire, I am at thy command,” said Igon, acceding to Aurion’s reasoning. And the King stood and raised up Igon and embraced him, and then they each drained a horn of mead. Not knowing a word of what was said, still at the sight of King and Prince, father and son, saluting one another, the Captains shouted acclaim and hoisted their own.
Prince Igon turned and spoke to the Princess: “It seems, my Lady Laurelin, that we are to be travelling companions, at least for a while. Hear me now: I take upon myself a sword-oath to ward you to safety on our travel to Stonehill; let the Enemy in Gron beware.”
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 13
