The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “I have heard,” said Gael Maddoc, almost whispering, “of the Sea Children, and of other magic beings … like the Afreet and the Djinni …”

  “True,” said Luran. “And the Children of the Sea, Hugh McLlyr’s close kin, are flourishing in their watery element. But the Shee are, to all intent, a lost race. Lost as surely as the unicorn and the white mountain deer, the pied winter geese, the ring adder and the great grey bears—the last one died in Night-wood by the Danmar when Yorath Duaring was still a young lad, roaming that patch of forest.”

  “Lord Luran,” said Gael, “how may I serve the light folk?”

  “There are certain tasks yet to be done,” he said plainly. “The tying up of loose ends—the settling of certain debts. Enormous discretion is required and boldness and complete truthfulness, as in a good envoy.

  “This wandering messenger of the Shee must go far and wide, not only riding like a kedran, but crossing larger distances in the light or magical fashion as we did to come here, to our home, that Tulach Hearth of which you were bold enough to speak in your summoning.”

  “I can do all this,” said Gael Maddoc, “if you put your trust in me. How far have we come as the dark folk measure distance?”

  “We are in the region of Goldgrave,” smiled Luran.

  “You will think this a foolish question,” said Gael, “but can a horse and rider be transported in this way?”

  “Not foolish at all,” said Luran, though he smiled a little.

  “The magic is strong. With a grand working, one could take the Halfway House and set it down in the market place at Krail, to the stupefaction of Val’Nur and his henchmen.”

  There was another overtone here and Gael was careful to mark it; although Luran distanced himself from the doings of the race of men, “the dark folk,” he was not altogether averse to show his leanings. He seemed not to care for the Lord of the Westmark, Knaar of Val’Nur.

  “But first of all we must ‘untie the knot’ and rescue your Eildon visitors,” he continued. “It is time for a first swearing, Gael Maddoc. What would you swear by for a binding oath?”

  “Why, we swear at home, I mean in our house, ‘by the Goddess and the waters of Holywell,’” she said. “We have always done so. My father and I used this form before the reeve one time … and he laughed and said it was very old.”

  “Excellent!” smiled Luran. “Lay your hand on this holy jewel, for a reminder of the Goddess and her mercy …”

  He gestured, and there was a golden round, about the size of a small food bowl, and in it was set a huge jewel, unfacetted, glowing with a blue white light. Gael reached out and laid her right hand upon the cold surface of the jewel and repeated the words of the oath of silence that he gave her. Luran did not veil the jewel from sight again but left it in the middle of the table, allowing it to add its own light to the shadowy chamber.

  “The light folk have suffered in ages past from the diggings on the high ground,” he said, seeing her gaze linger upon it “We made every allowance for the dark folk and their mining of precious metals and their search for jewels.

  “Indeed we do not scorn these things ourselves and have dealt with those of every race who were gold and silversmiths, jewelers—but it was a relief, certainly, when the veins of gold and silver diminished, when the rubies were gone.

  “Two years past, the ground moved up here, in our domain, not far from Silverlode, and we were afraid. Our servants told us that at least one new vein of pure silver has been revealed. We will not have it taken out, mined by the dark folk round about, until the Shee have gone … you understand me?”

  Luran sighed deeply and sipped his wine. He waved a finger at the fire so that it burned up a little; the big vaulted chamber was cold. Bran, the hound, crept close to Luran and laid a paw on his knee, asking for comfort.

  “Poor Bran would do better with dark folk,” said Luran.

  “Is he not one of the Huntress’s Own?” asked Gael.

  These hounds of legend belonged to the Shee and were as strange and contrary as their masters.

  “No,” said Luran, “he is a dark dog … aren’t you, old fellow?”

  He sipped wine and went on with his story.

  “Before the earthquake,” he said, “we had been aware that a warrior from the Eastmark, a young disaffected man, Corvin Lovill, whose true name is Corvin Huarikson of Barkdon, had brought a small company of his men to nest in the empty town, Silverlode. He is landless, for the holdings of his father, Huarik the Boar, were confiscated long ago at the time of the Great King’s War. Do you know the story?”

  “I do indeed,” said Gael Maddoc. “It bears upon the life of our hero in Coombe, Yorath Duaring.”

  “A charmed life,” said Luran, nodding. “I have spoken with Yorath. A man of great modesty and good sense. A worthy hero, if ever there was such a thing. At any rate, it was soon clear that Tusker Lovill, so-called, son of the Boar, was seeking wealth and revenge upon the world. His company scoured the old mine workings for tailings—that was their excuse for coming to Silverlode—and began to rob travelers. The number of travelers over the high ground has gone down, and this is to our liking. No one will go prospecting in the region about Silverlode; Lovill and his band are quite ignorant of the new lode to the west.”

  Gael knew this was not all, but she did not ask “What of the magic? What of the Voimar?” After a silence, Luran spoke again.

  “We yielded to temptation. There are two renegades among them whom we know well. So-called witches, a man and a woman, Fyn O’Quoin and his wife, Catrin. They have taught various spells to Lovill’s followers. They are of the half-blood of the Shee; they come from Aird, a village on the plateau west of Goldgrave, where there are many of the half-blood.”

  “What must be done, lord, to rescue the prisoners?” asked Gael.

  She understood it as a small part of the problem surrounding Tusker Lovill and his henchmen. Was she to pluck away two prisoners, during some kind of magical truce, and leave the Young Boar to work his havoc as before?

  “I have studied battle plans,” said Luran, “and the plans of fortress and keep. This kind of thing makes me queasy. Here, Gael Maddoc, here is Silverlode …”

  He rapped on the table top and a large irregular piece of stuff seemed to fall out of nowhere with a soft flopping sound. Gael saw that it was not paper, nor parchment nor cloth but, when she dared to touch it, a piece of vellum or other soft, treated skin. The plan of the deserted town was drawn very finely, with side pictures for all the levels underground and for the upper floors of the main buildings.

  “You will take a small group of helpers,” said Luran, matter-of-fact as ever, “to search the underground. You, as the leader, will be armed with spells of bidding and binding, so-called. You will all be heavily shielded against attack. One part of the quest is more difficult … we have spoken of ‘untying the knot’; do you know what this means?”

  “No, Lord Luran,” Gael shook her head.

  “The magic makers, the O’Quoins, have ‘charmed the ground’ as we call it and hidden a witch-quoyle, a large amulet of coiled rope and other things, somewhere in that ground, at Silverlode. It must be found and burnt at once, or it will hamper the rescue.”

  “Might we not ask the witch-pair—or one or other of them, where the quoyle is hidden?” asked Gael.

  “I know what you mean,” said Luran. “Put one of them to the question!”

  “Not so, my lord,” smiled Gael. “I thought of some magic that made a person talk, answer questions truthfully, without need of harsh measures.”

  “This is not a simple matter.” Luran made a gesture of negation. “It is better for you and your followers to find the quoyle with a search device—your own ring might do.”

  “It has found treasure more than once in the Burnt Lands,” admitted Gael, “and it is sensitive to magic.”

  “The whole venture into Silverlode will be mainly a test of courage and steadfastness,” said Luran. “You will
bring out the prisoners, Mortrice of Malm and his lady.”

  Gael said carefully: “Sir Hugh McLlyr has volunteered to come …”

  Luran sighed again and gave the reply she had expected.

  “There is no knight with more courage, but Sir Hugh must not take part. He is too old and too frail. You have acquaintance among the folk of Coombe, Captain Maddoc. Who is to be trusted for this venture?”

  Gael had already been racking her brains.

  “My brother, Bress Maddoc,” she said firmly, “and his friend, Shim Rhodd, son of the innkeeper. I do not know the people of Coombe as well as I should, and the young men I trained with under the rule of Druda Strawn are all away with the Westlings in Krail. I would have the young man of the half-blood, Cluny, from the Halfway House, and Wennle, the Malms’ steward, if he has regained his strength. Best of all I would like to seek out two kedran officers from one of the households in the Eastern Rift, if any of the Rift Lords are acceptable to the Shee. I know there is some kedran tradition in the valley.”

  Luran chuckled.

  “This sounds well enough. I will send word to a person of trust in the household of Lord From of Nordlin. But the invitation must come from some other …”

  “Might not Mistress Cluny of the Halfway House send a message to the kedran captain at Nordlin Grange, asking for two ensigns to ride escort on some nobles?”

  “That will do very well.”

  “Lord Luran,” she asked, “how will word come to Coombe for summoning my brother and his friend?”

  “We will send to our true servant the Guardian Priest, Kilian Strawn,” said Luran. “He will tell the men what they need to know and have them swear an oath of silence.”

  “If they are asked, they might say they are coming to fetch home the Coombe horses left by the Malms,” said Gael.

  “Plotting and planning!” exclaimed Luran. “And the light folk are always blamed for their devious ways!”

  The fire had burned low on Tulach’s hearth; the dog Bran lay sound asleep. They spoke further of the enterprise in a way which showed Gael Maddoc that Luran knew very well how to plot and plan. At last he instructed her in an offhand way in her first magical procedures. She learned words and fingersigns and practiced until she got them right: her instructor was pleased at her quickness. He added certain warnings against magical workings, as they affected “the dark folk,” mortal men and women. The valuable “shielding,” for instance, must be removed for a pause, after hours of use.

  Luran led the way out of the chamber and down the grand staircase into the great hall: fires were banked on two wide hearths, and there a few hooded servants going about. She wondered if any were wraiths, who served those with magical powers. She followed the Eilif lord out into the moonlit courtyard and from there was able to use her new tricks to travel alone through the whirling dark back to the Halfway House, clutching the rolled map of Silverlode.

  Mistress Cluny was still awake although the hour was late. She smiled at Gael and greeted her with a warm posset. Gael knew this was from her own new status as confidant of the Shee, sworn into their service. She quickly told the tale of the Malms and how they were to be rescued from Silverlode.

  “We have heard of the Young Boar,” said the old woman, “but no action has been taken against him by the bright folk.”

  Mistress Cluny was pleased that Gael had chosen her son, Gwil, to ride in her troop of rescuers. When she heard of Gael’s request for two kedran, she nodded wisely.

  “There are good strong girls there in Nordlin Grange,” she said. “I will send Gwil with a message to their Captain Gleave, asking for two ensigns to come about noon.”

  She indicated a special cubicle with a soft bed made up: Gael Maddoc slept very soundly at first but then began to dream. A soft dream of flowery fields and the clear sky overhead suddenly became dark: she was plunged again into the dark cavernous place where the woman was imprisoned. Now she knelt up in the straw, flinging back her heavy braids of yellow hair; a faint ray of light caught her face as she made her summoning.

  “Come soon! I know you will come! Oh, forgive us!”

  And Gael was able to reply, in her dream:

  “Yes! Yes! We are coming! Hold fast! You will be rescued!”

  The woman was Lady Malm.

  II

  The day was bleak and cold, but about noon the sun struggled through. When she saw the two kedran come riding out of the last patches of mist, Gael realized how much she had missed her old comrades and the routine of kedran life. She saw that the two women were well mounted on a bay and a dapple-grey, and finely dressed, with much accoutrement, saddle leathers, leather cloaks, baldrics, all marked with the three bird crest of From of Nordlin. She stood aside, saluting, and they rode past her into the stableyard behind the Halfway House. She followed and approached the rider on the bay to help her dismount, but the ensign, who was heavily built and dark, waved her aside.

  “See to the lord’s daughter,” she said.

  Gael held the stirrup of the dapple-grey and helped down a tall pale girl with shining brown hair curling from under her cap and a curious set smile. She, too, wore an ensign’s knot.

  “That groom is far behind on his damned pony!” exclaimed the dark ensign. “We’ll have to shift for ourselves.”

  “Where is the hostess?” inquired the other in a soft, drawling voice. “Are you part of the escort troop?”

  “I am the leader,” said Gael Maddoc firmly, “and the ranking officer. Gael Maddoc, Captain, formerly of the Kestrels of the Lord of Pfolben in the Southland, now riding escort to Lord and Lady Malm of Eildon.”

  She gave them a salute and received one back from the dark woman, who spoke her name:

  “Ilse Bruhl, Ensign, of the first household troop of the Lord Harel From of Nordlin Grange. I ride with the Lady Ellin From, Ensign.”

  “Do you know of a Danasken wench named Leshnar who served with the Kingfisher company in Pfolben?” asked Ensign From bluntly.

  “Indeed I do,” said Gael, smiling. “Was she a member of your household troop?”

  “She was a stablehand,” said Ensign From. “A Danasken. I heard she was dead in the desert … her people were yammering, raising the keen.”

  “She has come safe home,” said Gael, not at all liking this one’s tone. “Let us go in, and I will explain this strange duty that has fallen to us.”

  “One word, Captain,” said Ensign Bruhl, who seemed to make nothing of From’s rude and haughty manner. “Who gives this duty? Is it the Eildon lord? Whom do we serve?”

  “We serve the light folk,” said Gael Maddoc. “We serve the Eilif lords of the Shee and their consorts, the Fionnar.”

  Ensign From gave a nervous splutter of laughter.

  “My father’s scribe, Old Padric, said as much! I think the high ground drives everyone out of their wits!” she cried. “The Shee? The Fairies? The Ghost horde? Where do you get this crazy talk?”

  “Where do you get your manners, Ensign?” said Gael fiercely. “On this showing, I should order you to mount up and ride home!”

  “The Lady Ellin has come just a little time past out of Lien,” said Ilse Bruhl. “She has been in training for only half a year, and she knows no tradition of the high ground and the Shee.”

  “She must not only learn that tradition,” said Gael bluntly, “but also how to address an officer. What do you say, Ensign From, shall I relieve you of this duty?”

  “No, Captain. I apologize, Captain.” From spoke in a singsong voice, barely civil, like a wayward child.

  Gael, for now restraining herself from making further comment, led the way into the cavernous stable of the Halfway House. While they were attending to the horses, Gwil Cluny came riding up on his pony. When Ellin From ordered him to water her horse, he did so willingly, but gave Gael Maddoc a sidelong glance and a wink.

  “Master Cluny will ride in our troop,” said Gael, “and so will two young men from Coombe.”

  She led the way
into the inn, where Mistress Cluny was serving an elderly couple out of Goldgrave, traveling south to Rift Kyrie for their grandson’s wedding. Gael sat down with the kedran and Gwil Cluny near the eastern hearth, at a big screened table for their special use. The map of Silverlode was spread out, and she bade them all study it

  “I have visited Silverlode once in summer, about four years past,” she said, “but I cannot say I know the place. Has anyone else been there?”

  “I know Silverlode pretty well, Captain,” said Gwil Cluny. “I ran about there as a child with my sister and brothers.”

  “How accurate is the map?” asked Gael.

  She could see that it had been altered several times, and some of the underground levels had been scored out.

  “So far as I can tell,” said Gwil, “it is true right up to the present.”

  “Was it made by the fairies?” drawled Ensign From.

  “More likely by the half-Shee, at Aird,” answered Gwil, seriously, “or some human scribe at Lort, where many of the chronicles are written.”

  “Ensign Bruhl, Ensign From,” said Gael. “Have you been sworn to secrecy in this matter?”

  “Captain Gleave said it was a private matter,” said Ensign Bruhl, “and we gave our word to keep it so.”

  “This is sufficient for me, at any rate,” said Gael. “I hope the lord we serve will agree.”

  At this moment there came a gentle knocking at one of the screens, and Wennle joined them. He was still very pale, so that the marks upon his face stood out harshly, but he was himself again. Gael made him known to the two kedran and then said:

  “You know, Master Wennle, that we have been given the power to rescue Lord and Lady Malm. Have you regained your strength? Can you tell us the tale again?”

  “I can indeed!” said the old man, lifting his head. “And I will ride with you in good heart, Captain Maddoc!”

  He sat at the end of the table and in his clipped, dry tones began the tale.