I pray sometimes that I might be rescued from this pretense, but who could there be to overcome the magic of my guards, let alone those who have set them over me?
The document was signed: Dannell Thorn, known as Dan Royl
Hadrik had read last. There was a silence, then he said:
“Poor devil! Captain—do you believe his story?”
“Yes,” said Gael. “He told me nothing of his parentage, but he asked for my help. He knew that as the Wanderer, I was the one to help him—but more than that, he sought to protect me in his own turn. This ‘Wanderers Bane,’ he speaks of in his tale, the dread Skelow tree—he must still possess the leaves. If it is truly a magic tree …” She shrugged, looked down at her hands. “I would be most unwise not to fear it.”
“Yes,” said Gwil, “that sacred tree. That is the strongest evidence that he is speaking the truth, that he truly is brandhul, and Sham’s true son.”
“He has read widely in the history of all the lands of Hylor, particularly the royal houses of Lien and the Chameln lands,” said Gael. “He trusted me to carry away this precious account that he has given of his life and his part in the conspiracy.”
“Is it certain that no harm is meant to the rulers of the Chameln lands—only a spy to report to Eildon?” asked Mev Arun.
“What of the real Prince Carel—was he a traitor? Is he dead?” asked Hadrik.
Gael Maddoc could not remain silent before her true helpers.
“I have some thoughts on that!” she said in a low voice.
“You answered his prayer, Gael Maddoc,” said Gwil. “You overcame the magic of Lord Evert’s guards.”
“With the help of my brave troop of adventurers!” she said. “I think, before we make any more plans, we should treat ourselves to a good supper!”
So Imala went down to order from the kitchens, and they feasted on quail and brook trout and fancy breads and pastries, washed down with fine vintages of Eildon.
“Thank the Goddess,” said Mev Arun. “We can cast off these damnable skirts!”
“Tomorrow,” said Amarah, “I must send word to Chion Am Varr at Shennazar workshop. I am sick and must cancel the sitting for my portrait—with a payment of course.”
“We must leave Oakhill at once,” said Gwil Cluny. “I am still not sure that we have escaped Evert’s guards, his men of stone!”
“No!” said Gael. “Amarah must return again to Chion Am Varr for at least a final sitting. We must know the name of the man who set the painter upon Dannell Royl. I believe Dannell—but the plot is deeper laid than he has imagined. It is no matter of chance that he is being sent to Lien before he will be allowed to visit the Chameln.” She pulled the amulet she had taken from Steward Nevil from her pocket, and showed it to the others. “This is a token of the Brown Brotherhood of Lien,” she said. “The wheat ear symbol was designed by the prophet Matten’s friend and spirit-brother Hiams, who founded the Brotherhood after Matten disappeared on his final pilgrimage.” Her long nights with Tomas and his dusty scrolls made all plain to her. “There has been plotting between Lien and, at the very least, some scion of the house of Greddaer here in Eildon. Perhaps this Evert even believes the story he has spun to our poor Dannell Royl—but I do not doubt that our poor ‘Lost Prince’ will be hard used in the Swangard fortress. And who can say what those who have formed this plot will do if they discover Dannell is brandhul, and cannot be bound by spells or charms? And worse—what arguments might the Brown Brothers bring against Tanit’s succession if it can be proved this bastard-born son is in truth King Sharn Am Zor’s oldest child?”
The room went quiet around her as her good comrades absorbed this information. Gael tapped the cover of the journal, then gave them all a serious look.
“This record must be carried home, regardless of whatever else we accomplish here in Eildon. Gwil, it is time for our dispersal. We must ensure that this news comes home safely! I am trusting you to take Dannell’s account and carry it home—you will travel more swiftly than we do, and, surely, if anyone notices our presence here, it will be you, a single man alone, who will draw the least attention.”
The supper party ended, and since it was not late, Hadrik went down, paid for their sojourn so far at the inn, and ordered their covered carriage for their appearance at Chion Am Varr’s early morning. In the quiet of her sleeping alcove, Gael thumbed her magic slip of wood and beheld Tomas. No, Gwil was coming home first, and it would be a few more days at least before she, too, turned her face homeward. Then—then he might pray for a good wind. Was all well in Coombe? Never better, Tomas assured her. They exchanged a quick greeting—love, love and longing until they met again.
In her dreams, she beheld a map on old soft vellum, the kind she might have seen in Tulach Hearth. There were darting silver arrows on the map that all seemed to go southeast from some point in Mel’Nir—was it Goldgrave, or farther north, even as far as Balbank? She awoke in the cool Eildon morning and recalled that they were in the middle of the Oakmoon, with Midsummer not far away. She recalled old Jared Wild of Wildrode’s words, spoken with a certain weight of foreshadow, in the night she had removed his house’s ancient curse: Who knows what else will befall in the lands of Hylor before Midsummer? And she wished of a sudden that she was safe home with Tomas, indeed among all her family, Bran the dog exuberant, overjoyed to see her.
What had Lien and Eildon planned together against the Land of the Two Queens? Were these countries working in tandem or at cross purposes, Eildon only desiring of a hidden ear in the Chameln court, while Lien’s purpose went deeper and more deadly? She touched the gold band upon her arm, Luran’s gift, feeling again for its coldness, amidst all the summer’s heat.
Why indeed had the Shee authorized her journey here, plunging her ever deeper into the morass of the dark folk’s politics?
II
It was five days since Gwil Cluny had sailed away home, bearing the Journal of Dannell Royl, the true son of Sham Am Zor. Amarah’s portrait was not finished—but they had their answer, they had broken their contract with the painter, and they were going home. They gave up their horses and set sail in a hired pleasure boat down the river Laun, all the way to fair Lindriss city. Hadrik had gone on just a few days ahead to secure them passage at the port.
Gael was set down first in the district called Old Hythe. She made a tryst with the others, left her saddlebags and lance, but kept her sword. Their boat with painted sails went off toward the markets. Gael had sent off a message in the early hours of morning before their docking, using a certain amulet. Now she climbed the mossy steps from the river and walked along the cobbled street to stand before a tall house of red stone. The sign on the lower story showed a bunched shock of golden grain and before it, a new-baked loaf—from the shop itself came a delicious scent of baking breads and pastries. On the upper floor, there was a second device and this one in metal, hammered flat upon the stone—crossed rapiers and the letters A.H.
As she gazed upward, a double window was opened, and a dark beauty leaned out, smiling:
“Gael, my dear comrade!” Yolanda Hestrem cried. “Welcome to Hythe!”
She went in through the bakeshop—busy with male and female apprentices and with customers. As she approached the stairs, a door was flung open, and there was a tall old woman, her hair now worn in a crown of well-coifed plaits about her head, rather than loose and straggling. Elnora Hestrem embraced her rescuer, and Yolanda came racketing down from the fencing rooms up above, where Alban Hestrem, the famed fencing master, was occupied putting his noble pupils through their paces.
The private rooms of the house were spacious and comfortable, decorated with rich hangings—even the ceilings—swirled with sea creatures and waves, the designs of the Merwin folk. The three women sat by an open window that showed the stableyard and behind it green fields and were brought Kaffee with cream and fresh pastries.
“Yes,” agreed Mistress Elnora, “I not only left the sea, left my Merwin folk, but I i
nsisted upon learning a useful art for the land. Alban, my dear swordsman, lived in a half-world, between nobles and soldiery—it is difficult for those who perform a service for the lords and ladies and their children. The bakehouse was a great gift.”
“Because you were gifted, Mother,” said Yolanda. “At baking and at handling the shop.”
Gael asked gently if Mistress Elnora had fully recovered from her ordeal.
“I tire easily,” said the old woman, “but I think I came out of things better than one other …”
“Have you not heard?” said Yolanda in a low voice that Gael recognized as her conspirator’s tone. “Brother Sebald came home to Lien, and, soon after, he vanished from Balufir’s court. Rumor has it his old bear-leader Justian, the Brother-Advocate, had him committed to Blackwater Keep, in punishment for the Athron debacle.”
“By the Goddess,” exclaimed Gael, feeling a strange thrill of excitement and of guilt for a task left undone. “I have come to Eildon on a mission, and I have not sought any further news of the Witchfinder’s way since he crossed the Adz and returned to Balufir!”
“I had it as a thin whisper,” said Yolanda. “There are great movings in Lien this summer. King Kelen has entered his final days—it is rumored he can no longer rise from his bed, or indeed answer to the world around him. Prince Matten will not reach his majority until the last day of the Winter Feast—that gives the Brown Brothers barely six short moons to once and for all secure their hold upon him. Small wonder that Justian should have no patience with a brother, even one so inspired as Sebald, who has brought ridicule upon the Brown Robe, just when they want it to be taken as the land’s sole authority.”
Gael shook her head, baffled by this unexpected turn. “We must be grateful for this removal. Surely this Justian has taken a wrong step. Sebald was a most valuable man to him.” Yet she spoke with doubt, for something in this action did not make sense to her.
Elnora, marking Gael’s puzzlement, nodded. “I agree. My Yolanda might rejoice, but I find the rumor most strange. To me, Justian was to Sebald as father to son—if any in Lien these days may be credited with warm family relations!”
“When I return to Lort, I will try to discover the truth,” Gael promised. “And I know one who might tell us more. Remember the young adept who came into Athron with the Witchfinder’s Progress? I do not know his name. He was not a Brother, could not be because of their stand against magic. And more, it seemed to me he did not serve them in his heart. Do you know of whom I speak?” she asked Yolanda’s mother. “Now that I have visited this land and seen the folk in the streets, I would say he came out of Eildon.”
“He can be found,” said Elnora, smiling, gesturing for the girl who had come in to refill their cups to bring pen and paper. “I will write you his name, and all I remember of the others. Now—can you say anything about your travels in Old Eildon, our strange land?”
“Not until I have spoken with others,” said Gael.
“See,” said Yolanda. “Our Wanderer is a woman with a tight tongue.” She smiled at Gael from under her lashes. “I would not pretend to press you on this …”
“Go along with you, Yolanda!” laughed Gael. This was the very line the dark beauty had used when she courted Gael for Lord Auric, in those heady days following on the Silverlode rescue. “You love intrigue for its own sake!”
Mistress Elnora received her writing box and brought out a scrip of parchment, a pen and ink. She wrote out the list of all the names she had marked among those who had been her persecutors, her hand, if not her fingers, fine and strong. “This one,” she said. She pointed to a name as she handed Gael the tidily written sheet. “This one was the young adept. And I think you were right—he was Eildon born, and perhaps even of the blood.”
As Gael turned to look at the name, there was a noise in the yard below. Yolanda rose to investigate, and Mistress Elnora—Goddess be thanked!—was distracted as well, giving Gael a moment to cover her astonishment. The name Mistress Elnora had written was Devon Bray. The very same name Amarah had uncovered in Chion Am Varr’s records: the man who had paid and commissioned the artist to complete the portrait of the ‘Lost Prince.’ Gael could hardly imagine all this connection might mean—though for certain it meant danger for Dannell Royl!
Yolanda came back from the window, laughing—it was some accident from the kitchen below that had caused the noise, nothing further.
They talked a little while longer, mostly of pleasantries. When Mistress Elnora became too fatigued, she went off to rest. Yolanda took Gael strolling in the sunny back garden; she was grave and serious now.
“My mother sees a good outcome to many things, but there is a strange dark strand across the magic web. From the Kingdom of Lien, of course …”
Gael nodded. “I fear for that poor young prince, for Prince Matten. Yet he may surprise us …”
Yolanda touched Gael’s arm, below the gold band of Lord Luran. A shiver passed through her into the tall kedran’s body. “The trouble that has been foreshadowed will arise in King’s Bank, where there is a border with Mel’Nir!”
“What? Where have you heard this?” said Gael. “How do you know?”
“I cannot say,” said Yolanda. “No more than you can tell me of your own business here in Eildon.”
Gael had hardly considered that this matter of the Chameln and Lien might spill over into her own country. There had not been that kind of unrest in Mel’Nir since General Yorath’s glory days. “I’ve heard nothing,” she said, uneasy in her turn. “Thank you for this warning, Yolanda! Now—I fear it is past time I took a hire boat to the city markets.”
From a corner of the garden in Old Hythe, they could look across the cobbled street to the river.
“Go well!” said Yolanda. “Until we meet again!”
Gael echoed her farewell with the same words.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER XVI
INHERITORS
Now the adventurers were homeward bound on the fishing boat Moon Child. The Master, Captain Caleb, was a man of Eildon, the trusted friend of Captain Treyn, who had brought them from Banlo Strand. He had a mate and a crew of four, and they netted for herring, which they quickly salted and put down in the forward hold.
The passengers made themselves useful. After so many days of mincing in cumbersome skirts and lacing, the kedran were eager to work with their hands. Ignoring the smell, Mev and Imala ventured into the hold and made themselves busy packing the casks of fish. Gael and Amarah, with noses more delicate, took over the galley from the elderly cook. They had victualled the boat for the journey as part payment, and their chicken stew, spicy Southland dumplings, and pan bread from Coombe were loudly praised by the fishermen. Hadrik, fit for idleness no more than the rest of them, took turns at the wheel and at helping the fishermen.
Still, Gael feared some kind of magical pursuit, a great storm sent after them. She wondered about a bird, flying impossibly high in the sky above the Moon Child. But the voyage continued unhindered, and in six days they came to Banlo Strand. They left their seafaring companions with the Treyn family at the Strandgard anchorage.
It was early morning, and they could not bear to trundle all the way back to the Long Burn in the cart provided. In a small cantreyn behind a dune, they stood close together, Gael, Hadrik, Mev Arun, Amarah, and Imala. Mev Arun made a joke, saying Gael was hurrying home to be with her big scribe, Tomas.
“And with my horse and dog!” protested Gael, blushing, which only made them laugh all the louder.
She sketched the magic circle with the blue fire from her lance and uttered the familiar words. Then, in a few pulse beats, shrouded in the magic mist, they were in the cantreyn beside the tall elm, not twenty yards from the hay barns of the Long Burn Farm.
As they drew apart and heaved up their saddlebags, men from the farm came out and hurried toward them. There was a loud familiar sound, between a bark and a howl of joy, and there was the great dog Bran bounding to greet Gael. She hug
ged him. Then Tomas appeared in the main doorway of the house and began to stride across the green.
She knew at once that something was wrong; there was bad news of some kind. She thought of death, sickness—was it in her family?
“Oh, what is it?” she cried, as he took her in his arms.
“I feared you might be too late,” he said, holding her close. “We must go down to Ardven House. Emeris Murrin will rejoin her old comrades.”
She took a little time to visit Ebony in his stall. Then Tomas drove a cart, and they let Bran come with them. The kedran cook at the Long Burn—for there was still a guard in place, despite the Cup having been removed to the Holywell—made them up a basket of good food and drink such as the others were enjoying. They drove past the standing stones, the Maidens, and on toward Coombe, the new, prosperous town, bright with summer. They talked freely, without sadness but also without gaiety. It was simply a blessing to be together at the end of another journey, their longest apart since they had spoken words of troth.
“There are strange feelings in Coombe,” said Tomas. “Maybe the aftermath of all the wealth and good fortune. I’ve heard that there are voices raised against the so-called New Rulers.”
“Meaning the fiscal, Culain?” she asked.
“And his helpers—including the Wanderer and the scribe at the Long Burn …”
“I’ve done my best for Coombe,” said Gael sadly. “Where does this come from?”
“You’ve hardly seen the new Ardven mansion—and the present owners, come out of the north …”
As they came through a street of shops behind the reeve’s house, they were loudly hailed. There stood an old man with a staff and a kedran on a tall brown horse: Druda Strawn and Jehane Vey.
The Wanderer Page 39
