The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  Tam Finn paid their score, and they wandered away to the second gate into the city on the west road. There was a good clear street leading down into the square with the statue of the Lady Elfridda, a tall woman with bound hair and a look of the Goddess in a sacred grove. Gael and Yolanda took up places on either side of the statue, in the midst of the square. The roundhouse was out of sight, up a hill. Now the kerrick clock struck the hour of eleven, and soon afterward there was a trumpet call. The people in the streets, men and women going about their business—marketing, carting, taking garlands down from balconies—turned to the curb to see what was going on. Gael was glad to see that not many were lining the streets. The rescuers were placed beyond the statue, ready to spring into action when the hour was at hand.

  Now the procession could be seen approaching, led by a duty escort of two Athron guardsmen in green uniforms with the device of a golden stag’s head for Prince Joris Menvir, the ruler. The Athron folk were law abiding, and they were puzzled by the procession. Yet some understood and were bold enough to protest and cry out to the guardsmen. The shouts of “For shame!” and “Set her free!” increased as the prisoner came into sight. Still some way off by the statue, Yolanda Hestrem drew forth her long sabre.

  The old woman was guarded by three tall soldiers in the uniform of the Royal Guard of Lien, all in bright blue with the emblem of the silver swan. One went ahead, with a rope strung around the prisoner’s throat. Her face was down bent; the way the rope was tied, if she tried to hold her head proudly, she would choke. The two other guards held her on either side, tightly by the arms; they wore mailed gauntlets.

  The prisoner was a tall old woman; even now in a filthy, ragged kirtle of reddish drugget, she retained some marks of what must have been a formerly striking beauty. Behind the old woman walked three members of the Brotherhood of the Lame God Inokoi; two were in the familiar brown habits, with their hood raised; they carried scourges, cats of more than nine tails. In the center, directly behind the prisoner, strode a young man with a long black and silver tabard over his brown robe, his face shielded from the sun by his black hood. This was Brother Sebald, at present Queen Fideth of Lien’s most favored counselor, known in his own land as Hagbane and everywhere else as the Witchfinder. Gael thought his thin young face had the look of harsh determination she had seen in certain officers, both male and female.

  The procession came on, step-by-step, at an orderly rate; Gael had her hand raised to Yolanda across the square. Now the prisoner was near the statue and the Lienish soldiers led her to the right a little, and now the Witchfinder himself was behind the statue and she let her hand fall. Working in perfect unison with Yolanda she raised her lance and pronounced in a loud voice the hour of Stillstand, the Grand Bewitchment.

  There came that crackling in the upper air as the spell took hold, and it seemed louder in the clear air of Athron. The Witchfinder, the brothers, the soldiers, the prisoner herself, all stood like statues now. The spell had grasped and held everyone in the high street and a few were off balance: children and their mothers, an old man before the inn, tumbled down and remained still. Already, Yolanda had run to the prisoner, unbuckled her halter, and loosed the chains at her wrists with a spell of unbinding. In a few pulse beats, she had thumbed the old woman’s forehead with another spell. Thus released, the former prisoner began to move her limbs and cry out feebly in the eerie half-silence of Wennsford town.

  Marta Finn ran to help, and they hurried the old woman between them and led her up the empty street to the west gate. A few townsfolk stood and leaned, or lay about in frozen attitudes; their faces were blank, and, though Gael knew they felt no pain, she was sorry for them. She waited, watching closely, halfway up the street, and sure enough there was a loud, angry shout from beyond the statue. Tam and the sailors had hold of one of the Lienish guards—he had escaped the Bewitchment. This could only mean that he was shielded himself—that the Witchfinder, after all his spew of vile hate, did himself use magical protection. Yet the young guard with the shield was simply unequal to three men shielded like himself.

  “Bring him here!” called Gael.

  They marched the guard up the street, and he stared at her fixedly—she saw that he was not a guard but an adept. He said in a low voice:

  “The Grand Bewitchment!”

  Gael looked into his flushed young face. Something in him seemed relieved, perhaps even afire with joy for this unlooked-for rescue, but she only said:

  “Be still!”

  She slid her lance point through his shield and it became visible, an aura of blue green light all around him. He said bravely, looking squarely into her eyes: “You must be witches indeed!”

  Gael, ignoring this bravado, recited her charm. He shut his eyes and fell asleep. She considered carrying him off for questioning, but time was short—they set him down in a great tub of planted flowers and went racing out of Wennsford town.

  Up ahead, Yolanda and Marta, with the old woman, were disappearing behind the grove of trees, and when the others came up, there was the little pony cart, already moving off down the western bank of the river. Gael and the three men slackened their pace a little, but then the sailors could stand it no longer.

  “Captain,” said the older seadog, “ye’ve surely done a great deed here today! We’ll go now to our ship yonder and prepare to sail off with Mistress Elnora.”

  Off they went, and Gael walked on alone with Tam Finn. They passed the harbor where a few folk were going about their business; everyone was quite ignorant of what had taken place in the town. There seemed to be some activity aboard the ship from Lien, the Sacred Fire. It was canted a little in the waters of the dock, and crewmen were peering over the side. Tam Finn chuckled.

  “The Merwin lads have some magic of their own,” he said. “They’ve hexed the Lien vessel some way, I’ll swear.”

  “I hope this works for the best,” said Gael. “Now the brothers will have to go through Varda and on to the pass at Benna without a prisoner.”

  Now they had come to the next lock in the canals of the Wenz, and there was the River Queen, a homely, full-bottomed ketch with pinkish sails and two great oars on either side, for use upriver. Nearby Marta Finn had drawn the pony cart to a halt. Gael saw the prisoner more clearly.

  The old woman lay half-slumped on the bench of the cart, and Yolanda sat beside her, wiping her face tenderly with a damp cloth. Then she drew out a brush from a velvet traveling bag and began to smooth the old woman’s long thick hair. They were speaking together, and the prisoner already seemed to have recovered a little from her ordeal.

  “Yolanda?” said Gael softly.

  “Praise the Goddess!” said Yolanda, her proud face near weeping—but for gladness. “Oh see what you have done, Gael! Mother—this is our brave kedran captain, Gael Maddoc. Gael, this is my mother, Elnora Hestrem of Hythe-on-Laun, in Eildon!”

  Gael understood at last “A former sea wanderer”—had Yolanda said this to her at the Halfway House when they became friends? Now the old woman fixed Gael with her fine dark eyes and held out her two pale, wrinkled hands. Gael laid her own hands in those of Elnora Hestrem.

  “O child, child,” said the old woman. “It is you. From the Chyrian coast, from the sacred ground of Lost Tuana, where the Merwin sailed in times past! You are indeed the Wanderer, the servant of the Shee, the one who goes about by sea and land …”

  Tears coursed down her cheeks, and Gael answered in a choked voice, trying to smile:

  “Dear Mistress Hestrem—I—I am proud to have helped Yolanda and the other brave rescuers!”

  “One word before I join the bonny boys on the River Queen,” said Elnora in a lower voice. “I see now the Goddess’s hand; I must be here to give this news to you: there was a treasure taken by ship to Banlo Strand a year or so ago—it was stolen from Eildon. But true Chyrians would tell the story that it was saved, brought home again …”

  Then, following the loud cries of the crew of the River Queen, Yolanda
embraced Gael and all the other helpers. Elnora Hestrem gave Gael one more sharp look from her dark eyes and said:

  “You and I—my daughter, too—will meet again in Eildon!”

  Then Yolanda crossed the gangplank, supporting her mother before her. The pink sails filled so suddenly with wind that Gael suspected another piece of Merwin magic. The vessel moved through two locks and into the main stream of the Wenz, bearing away swiftly toward Westport and the sea.

  Now, the last three rescuers stood there with Gael, and the kerrick clock chimed the half hour.

  “How long yet?” asked Bly, the Athron ensign.

  “Nearly another half of Lord Kerrick’s hours,” said Gael.

  “Master Finn, I must fetch my good horse. Shall we bring the wagon into the yard of the Widow Craine’s stable up by the harbor and lift ourselves back to Finnmarsh from there?”

  “As you say, Captain!”

  They all climbed into the cart, and Marta Finn drove the pony smartly back to the crossroads. There was a shade of unrest in the people round about, and Gael thought she saw a crowd at the north gate. She made sure that Ensign Bly knew how to remove her magic shield before they all bade her farewell.

  “Go to the gate yonder, where we came in and out,” Gael said. “I think the folk are all staring into the town, but know enough not to step inside the circle of bewitchment. Say that you have heard that the spell will be lifted when the clock strikes the hour of noon.”

  “I’ll do that,” said the ensign, who was very young, a bright-eyed Athron maid. “But Captain, what will I do later, if anyone knows that I took part?”

  “Make no secret of it, Ensign, unless you think that you’ll be punished. Go to the town reeve and say you were asked to help in this rescue by folk from the land of Mel’Nir! Don’t give names. I am simply a kedran captain called the Wanderer. Together with Mistress Hestrem and these good folk, we will be the Friends of Tuana, or the Tuannan, in the ancient Chyrian tongue!”

  They all accepted the names eagerly and laughed aloud at their own boldness. Ensign Bly ran off, and Gael hurried in to fetch Ebony and her saddlebags, while Marta brought the pony cart into the yard. The Widow Craine was waiting for Gael with a gleam in her eye.

  “Stillstand, indeed!” she cried. “You were one of that mad lot rescuing the poor witchwoman! How long will you keep the Witchfinder stiff as a board, eh?”

  “Watch the sun, good mother, and listen for the noon bells!” grinned Gael, paying her score and adding a tip.

  “Do you have names, then?” asked the widow. “Are you from the Land of the Two Queens?”

  “No, we are not!” said Gael, mounting up on the skittish Ebony.

  She gave the name again, Friends of Tuana, directing attention to the Chyrian coast of Mel’Nir—far enough from Lort and Nightwood—and also, she hoped, keeping this matter free of her Shee business. Then she rode into the stableyard and lined up beside the pony cart. A few words from the Finns about their destination, and she was able to lower her lance to the cobbles and send out the circle of blue fire for a long lift. They were carried away, swiftly and silently, to the yard of Finn’s smithy, in the village by Nightwood.

  II

  Gael stayed with her friends and fellow Tuannan long enough to feed and rub down the horses and take a bite to eat in the smith’s house. Word would be sent to Vanna Am Taarn—Marta and Tam Finn would give her a report on the rescue, which would be sent to Queen Aidris Am Firn. Gael asked to be sent any news that came from Athron in the aftermath of their escapade.

  She rode home to the Swan through the forest, past Hagnild’s grave, and it was there that she first admitted her fear. What would this venture of mercy bring her from Luran, from all of the light folk, her taskmasters for the present? She knew well that Luran had watchers in Athron; she had thought of them as friendly powers, guarding the interests of the Shee. But they and those they served were distant from the affairs of the dark folk, the politics of princes and kings. Her intervention in the dance between Kelen of Lien—or the Brown Brotherhood, acting in Kelen’s name—and Joris of Athron … There was no reason for her to believe her acts would be welcome to those whose touch had already so far faded in Hylor.

  She put aside her fear—the spring seemed to have advanced here in the north of Mel’Nir. Nightwood and the old marshlands were looking wonderfully green. Seen from the highroad, the Palace Fortress was like a great tiered garden. She galloped along to the ancient Ox Gate, thinking of Tomas. She did not even take Ebony to the stable herself but paid a young stable boy to do it—she told herself the spirited black horse was already fed and rested. Then she staggered into the inn with her saddlebags and her lance.

  The strange atmosphere swept over Gael at once—everything was as easy and pleasant as before, though the front parlor and the taproom were not full in the early afternoon. But Mistress Beck gave her a secretive nod; she was alone at the counter. Her glance indicated a table by the hearth, filled with leaves and flowers for the spring. At the table, three young men were drinking wine. She recognized one of them at once—a solid, fair young man whom she had seen upon the balcony of the palace at Chernak. Here was Prince Gerd Am Zor, brother of the new-wed Queen Tanit. His two companions were darker, and they were twins. She guessed at once who they must be—Prince Gerd’s cousins Till and Tomas Am Chiel, the sons of Princess Merilla, who had not been seen at the wedding. All three of the young men were well dressed, though without display, and clearly enjoying their visit to Mel’Nir.

  “Goddess keep you, Captain,” said Demira Beck. “Your own Tomas will be full of joy to see you again!”

  “Is he at work in the city?” asked Gael, foolishly disappointed.

  “That’s right! Home for dinner.” The older woman smiled to see the young kedran’s dissatisfaction, but there was something cautious in her manner, something that dampened her friendly teasing.

  Mistress Beck had brought out the inn’s book for Gael to sign, and now she bent over the big leather-bound volume and whispered, very low:

  “I beg you, slip off your ring, Gael Maddoc. We must have no spark of magic showing!”

  Gael did as she was told, and the hostess held out her hand.

  “I have an agate cup under here,” she said, just as softly, moving her hand under the counter. “It forms a shield.”

  Then, raising her head she said loudly and cheerfully.

  “Yes, my goodman Beck has taken the children to the Spring Fair at Goldgrave!”

  Gael slid the precious ring into Mistress Beck’s palm and read the names of the guests written in the book. Till am Chiel—Mistress Beck indicated the twin with lighter hair—had written, as many travelers did, the reason for their visit

  We are seeking the wisdom of Brother Robard for our studies of the history of the land of Mel’Nir.

  In other words they were a group of callants, probably traveling to battle sites and joining the lectures of Brother Robard at the King’s Longhouse, where the young officers were trained.

  A servant, called Sawyer, had also signed in the book and one called a guard, with the name of Garm Am Rhanar. One of the inn servants pointed out this fellow as he carried up her baggage. Garm Am Rhanar was a Giant Warrior whose father, most probably, came from Mel’Nir. Gael had heard of the Changelings. When the Ghanor’s armies failed to conquer the Chameln lands, there were some men of Mel’Nir who swore allegiance to the rulers of this wild wide country where they had wives and established estates.

  To Gael, it was clear without telling that Rolf Beck, the innkeeper, who had taken his three children, beautiful Zarah and the twin boys, to a spring fair, was hiding from these Chameln royals. Especially from Prince Gerd, the one rumored to be a Seer. It was all too much—she felt sick and tired of mystery, magic, and old tales.

  In the friendly tower room, with Tomas’s scrolls and papers and a candle set on the wide sill of the window, to be lit for her return, she was overcome with weariness. When she had washed and slipped
on her loose blue robe from the press, she lay in the dear curtained bed under a counterpane and fell fast asleep.

  The low hills of her dream had turned green for the spring, and she saw a bridge over a small river, and on a green cantreyn by the river, a familiar group of standing stones. She was home, outside Coombe village, riding on the high road nearing the Holywell. There was a handsome carriage ahead of her, and it passed over the river by another bridge and drove up long, grassy approaches toward the big farmhouse. She had reined in Ebony, and there was a tall woman beside her on the road: she was dressed in a brown robe embroidered in gold and dark red, and the skin of her face shone with light. In her dream they spoke without speaking, as if they only needed to think the words between them.

  “So it has come home again!” said the woman. “It is lost no more …”

  Then Gael understood and thought the woman’s name, and the woman smiled and said aloud:

  “Yes, my daughter, I am Taran!”

  There was music, harp and flute. They beheld six maidens dancing in place of the standing stones. The woman went back among them, her feet, in red leather boots, scarcely touching the ground. As she was taken into the circle, the dream swirled away and Gael sat up with a loud cry:

  “It is the Cup!”

  The lamp was lit and several candles, and Tomas was standing by his desk. He came and took her in his arms, and they clung together as if she had been absent for a long time, instead of for only two nights.

  “I must report,” she said. “Dear love, I must report all from the first to the last and tell it to you.”

  “Before telling the Shee—the Lord Luran?” asked Tomas.

  “Yes!” she insisted. “I—I may have displeased the light folk. I must record all that happened. Can you take it down in your beloved short-script and write it up for me?”

  “Of course,” he smiled. “Come now, dear heart, sit before this spring fire—”

  So Gael wrapped a shawl over her blue bedgown and sat before the small brazier on the hearth, for the tower room was cool as the night came on. Tomas sat in his writing chair, with a platten attached to one of the arms, and scribbled on new Lienish paper in a little book. They brewed herb tea and sipped it like two old gossips, and Gael told on and on.