Emyas Bill took up the tale:
“I have been shown the portrait that was in this package. One of the new style, not a miniature—they are painted in our school in the Old Town at Chameln Achamar and at many other workshops and schools of painting in the lands of Hylor. This painting showed a man seated under an oak tree and surrounded by symbols of the Chameln lands.”
“There was a message to the young queen with the portrait—written out fair upon a piece of vellum …” continued Auric.
“A message?” Gael asked.
“Trust me!” he smiled.
He drew out from the sleeve of his cambric shirt a folded piece of Lien paper with the message hastily scrawled with a stick of charcoal, reading it aloud in his voice so silken fine:
To Queen Tanit Sharn Aravel Am Zor, who shares the double throne, greeting!
Behold the likeness of one who was deemed lost or dead but who has returned to the world to proclaim his innocence of any treachery toward his royal brother and to greet in love his niece. This is Prince Carel Esher Kelen Am Zor, the so-called Lost Prince, brother of your lamented father, King Sharn, the Summer’s King, beloved throughout the lands of Hylor. Highness Carel, who is now in Eildon, humbly begs you and your advisors to give a sign that you will meet with him and hear his story, that all might be happily reconciled.
“And this was a false portrait?” asked Gael, looking from one man to the other. She was not sure she understood how this could be a threat.
“I can’t doubt that this was the portrait in the foreshadowing of Brother Less,” said Auric Barry. “A pretender.”
“Well chosen for looks,” said Emyas Bill sadly, “and carefully coached or even enchanted, as such persons have been in the past. The work done in Eildon, certainly, I recognize the tinctures used.”
“Master Bill,” she said earnestly, “I pray you—could you use your great gifts to make a sketch of this portrait, a copy of the face of this man?”
Emyas Bill smiled, he was flattered, and Gael knew it was because she trusted his talent. He took thick paper and a charcoal stylus from his satchel and set to work.
“Lord Auric,” she went on, “what would be the sense behind this? If the pretender did convince the queen—”
“He would have a place in the court,” said Lord Auric, “and might influence the government of the Two Queens. But there are greater problems here than this. Sham’s younger brother … some would whisper that this man would better serve the Chameln than a woman so rapt within her feelings that she could not hide the coldness of her heart”
“What did Queen Aidris have to say to this?”
“She would say only that she had grave doubts that the man in the portrait was Prince Carel—she believed this was a pretender. But Queen Tanit was intrigued—she will summon this man to Chernak, at least to observe him covertly and have him shown to those who knew Prince Carel.”
“Queen Aidris is right,” broke in Emyas Bill.
He was sketching with furious concentration. Then he would pause to add little patches of dry powder color to his copy of the picture. He went on:
“This is indeed a portrait of a man resembling Sham Am Zor and his younger brother, but there is something wrong. I would swear the age is not right—I would have said this fellow was being painted as older than he really is. That clipped beard, the weathering of the skin—these are techniques we use to make a young subject appear more worthy and solid.”
“This speaks for a chance likeness,” said Lord Auric. “Perhaps some distant connection of Edgar Pendark, grandfather of King Sharn and Prince Carel. The sort of person who has served as a pretender in the past.”
“Lord Auric, how can I serve the Daindru in this matter?” she asked.
“I had hoped you might question the Eilif lords of the Shee,” he said. “They know many secrets of Hylor—perhaps they know what became of Carel Am Zor. Did he die in battle with others who seized the king—the mad Lord Inchevin and his son and daughter and the wild tribe of the Aroshen?”
Gael bowed her head. The young lord said nothing of service to his own land, Lien. She wondered what she should make of this.
She had begun to understand, a very little, the role she had been set to. Her pride of service to Hem Blayn, the bond between ruler and lifeguard that he had broken, her scouring passage through the desert … and now this recent disobedience to the Shee. She was the Wanderer in truth, with the hallow-string to serve as sigil of her service. She was not bound to a single rule or command, but to the lands and their peoples. This arrogant young lord—did he imagine her trust would fall sway to him, simply because he was a handsome man, and knew the manners a great lord called “the Common Touch”?
“Lord Auric,” she said at length. “I truly do not know if I can obtain answers from the light folk.”
“There is more,” said Emyas Bill, in a placatory tone. She guessed from his manner that he at least had penetrated to the heart of her reluctance. “When I was summoned to Chernak to view this portrait, I gathered together some miniatures of the two families, Am Firn and Am Zor …”
He reached into his tapestry satchel and brought out a package wrapped in cloth and parchment. He laid out upon the table before them five, six, of his exquisite miniatures. He slid the small portraits about—the younger Aidris, her co-ruler Sham Am Zor, Sasko, the heir of the Firn, a double portrait of his sisters, Micha and Maren, Princess Merilla Am Chiel, and finally, the young prince himself, Carel Am Zor, as a boy.
Gael and the old master exchanged a searching glance, and she believed she understood his intentions in carrying this great trove of art to display to her. Here were the faces of a fine family, cast for rule, yet loving and full of interest. Yes, this was a family. A pretender among them could tear at those natural bonds, even create a sad rift. She thought of Old Aidris as she had seen her in her private bower, the toys of her grandchildren strewn about her. Yes, perhaps for this, she would risk the ire of the Shee.
“I believe I know the artist who made the fake,” said the old man softly, closely watching the play of Gael’s expressions. “He is a young man of Achamar who worked in our school in the Old Town. Many of the school move away and begin their own school or workshop. There is in Lindriss city, in Eildon, a district called Oakhill, and there a large workroom and shop for all manner of mementos of the Chameln lands. It is called Shennazar, the Eildon name for Sham Am Zor, who is a hero in Eildon.”
“Would this painter be part of this deception?” asked Gael.
“Alas, I feel he must be,” said Emyas Bill. “His name is Chion Am Varr. He has talent …”
“My Lord,” said Gael, turning to Auric Barry, “why are you doing this?”
“For the honor of the Land of Lien,” he said ruefully. “My country will not always lie under the yoke of a fanatical brotherhood. The religion will be reformed—that movement has already begun. Further than this, I trust the good sense of King Kelen’s heir, Prince Matten.”
“You know him?” Gael asked.
“We have been companions from our youth,” he said, meeting Gael’s eyes steadily. “He has been much surrounded by counselors of the Brown Brotherhood in all that time. But he is a true swan of Lien—as he comes into his manhood, he will put aside the drab brown feathers of his youth!”
There was surprising force in this image for Gael, a force that much surprised her. “If it will serve this cause,” she said, as steadily as she was able, “I will travel into Eildon. For I am indeed the Wanderer, and it is my destiny to find out the secrets of Hylor!”
Soon afterward, when Emyas Bill had done his work and slipped it into a folder, they parted. He pressed her hand. She gave Lord Auric a salute. The host, Master Galdo, bowed them out, and they stood in the sunshine on the steps of Tzurn’s Haven until Ebony was brought from the stable. Lord Auric’s parting thoughts were again of the Brotherhood in Lien and the actions that might be taken by Brother Sebald and his entourage in the wake of the daring
rescue of Elnora Hestrem. Gael was able to reply, but she felt her head whirl a little, with fear for her next encounter with Luran, the Eilif Lord, and with a strange exaltation.
For now that she had seen Emyas Bill’s Chameln miniatures, she knew the true whereabouts of the Lost Prince, Carel Am Zor.
She mounted up and was on her way. Thinking on Lord Auric and his careless arrogance, his assumption of right and power, she found herself smiling, if a little thinly.
Perhaps it might yet be proved that Auric Barry was a right-minded young fellow, but he had allowed the glaze of his privilege to partly blind him.
Indeed, if the good Lord of Chantry had ever deigned to visit her Tomas in his quarters at the all-welcoming Swan, dispensing with the lordly formality of messengers, she had no doubt but that he too would have penetrated the Lost Prince’s secret.
CHAPTER XIII
LIGHT AND DARK RECKONINGS
Gael rode off from Aird in the direction of Tulach Hearth about three hours after noon. The tall, gloomy edifice was not to be seen in the wilderness, but she knew its boundaries from her own ring, which she had reclaimed from Mistress Beck. Before she was halfway through her special summoning, there came sounds in the upper air, and the mighty gates began to appear. They swung open and she rode in, but none came to greet her. She rode slowly up the avenue between the tall elms and felt a sudden fear that the place would be empty, the last remaining Shee passed into the sunset … the old, fine rooms hidden under falls of dust … Luran and Ethain flown to their Eildon lands with the house servants …
Then she and Ebony stood at the portal, and before she could knock or call, Luran was suddenly beside them. He stood hand on hip as she dismounted, and she felt at once his sharp disapproval. The servant who led Ebony away was a wraith.
“You have had many adventures, Captain Maddoc!” he said, in hard bell-like tones.
Gael said humbly:
“Lord Luran, let me report on my journey!”
“Oh, I know well all you have done!” he said sharply. “The magical gossip of the dark folk speaks of nothing else! Playing politics! And on our sworn errand!”
She had known, as she put it to Tomas, that the light folk were well informed of human affairs “that were of interest to them.”
“I completed the task!” she said, struggling not to speak defiantly. “The curse is lifted from Wild of Wildrode!”
Luran softened a very little; the doors of the hall had opened, and she saw within the candles that burned day and night.
“Go in,” he said, “and tell me the rest of your adventures …”
They came into the great Hall itself, and he led her toward the hearth where she had once seen Sir Hugh McLlyr sitting. The air was chill—no fire burned on the huge hearth today, not even a brazier. There was a wreath of laurel leaves tied up with knots of black and green silk; Gael was full of dread. Had another of the poor remaining ones passed on? She put the question very timidly, but Luran shook his head.
They sat in silence by the cold hearth, and presently Hurlas, the old steward, brought in light ale and bread. She imagined that he looked at her reproachfully as well, and she was filled with the sadness of rejection. When they were alone again, she burst out at once:
“I could do no other, Lord Luran! You all knew well when you bound me to your service that I was one of the human race, whom you call the dark folk! I live in the world—if its rulers desire from me some boon, I must give it serious consideration! And this incident—I cannot see anyone, woman or man, used as a spectacle by a fanatical Brother from Lien and then be carried away for a slow death! Could you watch that, my lord—could you see one of the dark folk burned alive?”
Then the fine features of the Eilif lord took on a hard, pinched look and she knew he was more angry than before. She did not know, she was never to know the true answer to her question—how much compassion did the Shee bear toward humankind?
“What rulers do you mean, Gael Maddoc?” demanded Luran.
She took a sup of the ale and told her story from the time she came into Athron quite simply, leaving nothing out. Luran questioned a little from time to time, showing that he knew the land there very well—its towns and roads and the tamed and peaceful countryside. He listened keenly when she came to the encounter with the old knight, Sir Jared Wild of Wildrode, and all his servants. Then she described her summoning by Queen Aidris Am Firn.
“Are you sure this was indeed the queen?” he asked. “Not some spirit or magical imposter?”
“I am certain it was the queen!” said Gael. “I saw her only a short time past, at the wedding of the young queen in Chernak!”
“She is called the Witch-Queen …” he said, almost teasing.
“In the Kingdom of Lien this is mere insult!” Gael retorted, not much amused. “Queen Aidris uses her own strong powers of natural magic. She is not a great sorceress like her grandmother, Guenna of Lien. When she appealed for help to save this poor woman, Elnora Hestrem of Lindriss, the queen asked for my help quite simply. She made no effort to ensnare me to her will.”
“As you will,” said the lord diffidently, though something within him seemed a little soothed. “Go on with the story.”
So she went on, and he made no more comments but laughed once or twice during the account of the rescue in Wennsford town. When her tale was done, she looked about in the dimly lit hall and felt it was already late at night though she knew that outside it was early evening.
“Much as we thought,” said Luran, frowning. “You are a kedran, after all, trained in military exercises. Perhaps you are not suited to our tasks.”
“I had thought to request a furlough,” she said. “I would beg leave to go home to Coombe and visit my family at Holywell Croft.”
“Well, we have no more use for you at present,” he said coldly.
She thought of the great day when she had stood with all the Shee looking down the last hill toward the Palace Fortress—how she loved and honored them at that moment. Her eyes were filled with tears again, and she wiped them away angrily.
“Lord Luran,” she said. “How do you stand with the so-called Hallows of Hylor? For another one is found!”
“What—have you heard from your dark friends the secret of the Lance?” he asked—and there was menace, true disdain, in his voice. “It is known to us.”
“No,” she said, a chill shivering through her. Luran had never before hinted that the Shee might be privy to such secrets. Did they not care that the land was out of balance, Mel’Nir’s proud marches set one against the other, only held in check by Good King Gol’s even temper and wisdom? “Not Mel’Nir’s Lance. I speak of the Chyrian treasure.”
Then he stared at her, his golden eyes alight with curiosity.
“Do not speak lightly of these holy things, Gael Maddoc!” he said softly. “The Cup, Taran’s Kelch, was in Eildon, dishonored, among a collection of wonders … then it was stolen a second time …”
“It has come home to the Chyrian lands,” she said. “I could send you word!”
“As you will,” he said, still coldly.
“My lord,” she said earnestly. She felt she was stumbling into waters beyond her depth, yet she must go forward … “Please let me tell you of the foreshadowing of a great scribe, Brother Less, of the house of Chantry in Lien. There is an attempt afoot to foist a pretender on the new-wed Queen Tanit and her consort, Count Liam. Those who would prevent this want peace between Lien and the Chameln lands. May I ask what the Eilif folk, what you know of the Lost Prince—Carel Am Zor?”
“You are more sunken into the swamp of dark politics than I thought!” said Luran, raising his voice so the sound hurt her ears. Yet his very anger seemed to tell that he knew nothing of the Lost Prince, that he had not received her own enlightenment.
They sat for a moment, deadlocked, in silence. Then there came a wild sound of barking, howling, and snuffling, with the pad of bounding feet. The great dog Bran came racing down the stair
case and flung himself on Gael with signs of joy. She embraced him and wept into his golden fur until he was soothed and sat by her chair sweeping his tail across the stones of the hall.
“O Lord Luran!” she cried. “Dark and light do not always bide so well together. I pray you, set him free—let him go with me to Coombe! Perhaps you will end my service. I never looked for any reward from the Eilif Lords and Ladies of the Shee, but let it be Bran’s freedom, to live in my care.”
Then Luran gave a wry smile, as if he thought all the dark folk, dogs included, were wayward children.
“You are very bold, Gael Maddoc,” he said. “Take your dog, then. Go to Coombe and send word of the sacred Kelch, if you can find it. Your friend Tomas the Scribe will soon tell you of a suitable place for this holy vessel …”
He vanished, unreconciled. She and Bran went up the long staircase and came first to the room called Little Hearth. Presently, the brazier burned on the hearth, the candles came alight. She hoped for one of the servants, but even their supper simply appeared upon the table. Bran was perfectly happy to sit beside her, and after supper, they went off in the direction of their humble bedroom nearby. Bran took his run down the ancient stairway that led out of doors, then returned to lie on the hearth rug, close by her. Gael sat on the bed in her sleeping shirt and spoke to Tomas with the aid of her magic oval of cedarwood.
The morrow was a fine spring day, and Tomas arrived most punctually at the hour of noon and rode to meet her at the open gates of Tulach. Gael had been given her breakfast by the servants—though she saw none of the Shee before leaving. Ebony was brought out in fine fettle, and the dog Bran was overjoyed when he understood that he was going too. Tomas got down from his horse, Valko, and made much of their new companion. He had brought along, of all things, an old banner for Coombe, and Gael threaded it on to her lance.
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