They rode into Coombe in easy stages, and Gael recalled how it had looked back in early autumn, when she had led out the Malms to ride on the High Plateau. Now the fields south of Hackestell were green with young oats, and the bare brown hills were a market garden. There were oats, early peas, yellow reps flowers and beds of onion, beet, turnip, and several kinds of kale. Among the fields were women in bright headscarves and men in straw hats, working.
They came to the crossroads and gazed down and away to Lowestell fortress, standing out against the dark forest of the southwold. Tomas confessed he would like to visit this keep one day and compare it with old maps he had seen. They turned west at the boundary wall and rode up a fine new road, heading for the town. Gael showed him the way to the Holywell—newly cleared, the ancient white pavingstones she remembered from her earliest days freshly scoured, and mended in places with coarse, newer stone. Then it was time: they were at the gate of Holywell farm, and she cried out in surprise and began to laugh aloud. Bran bounded back and forth in front of them, and Gael got down, calling him to heel.
The Maddocs had “come to a house” indeed. Another story had been raised, with a covered staircase to reach it; a barn had risen behind the house. The yard was covered with green turf, and ivy grew over the new canopy of the well. The old lean-to
was a stable. A pathway in the grounds led down toward the Holywell. A thin dark man, getting to be old, was sitting at a rustic table under the apple tree, and a dark woman in a handsome green gown was serving him with drink and a platter of food. It was like a tapestry picture of “The Good Crofters,” not anything Gael could relate to her memories of the little old house and the ways of her childhood. She thought wryly that every time she went away, the lives of her parents were changed for the better.
“Gael! Gael, dear child!”
Her mother uttered a joyous cry, and Gael remembered the puzzled, almost suspicious welcome she had received on her return from the Southland. Her father stood up with his sturdy ash staff, and her mother opened the new green gates, making much of Bran and crying out:
“A dog! Oh yes, yes, he is a
good
dog then …”
Gael kissed her mother’s worn cheek and introduced Tomas Giraud, who took Shivorn Maddoc’s hand.
Her father had called a name: “Evan!” and now a young lad came from the barn. As the family clustered under the tree, he led away first Valko, the sorrel, and then Ebony, who knew the place and gave no trouble.
“Mother—Father—” said Gael, suddenly shy, “Tomas is my true love. We are betrothed …”
“Master Maddoc,” said Tomas, meeting her father’s eye firmly, “in other times I would have asked for your daughter’s hand. I do so now, most humbly, and will answer any questions you care to put to me.”
“Well said!” brought out Rab Maddoc, also shy. “Come, come now, Tomas. We know who you are from our son Bress. A scribe, no less, from the city of Lort … is it not so? Sit down with me while my goodwife and daughter take those saddlebags into the house …”
Gael went with her mother and exclaimed at all the changes in the humble cottage and its grounds. But she marked that her mother already took many things for granted, good fortune having changed her as well. Mostly, Shivorn was anxious to hear about Tomas and about how and where they lived. Together, mother and daughter carried the saddlebags into the back bedroom,
no longer a storeroom. Yes, said Mother Maddoc proudly, the upper rooms had been done out for Bress, his own quarters.
Shivorn Maddoc sat on the bed while Gael stowed her gear and Kenit, the sleek brown cat, came to sit by her side. “Soldiering,” she said, “or being chosen a messenger for the light folk. It is a kedran’s life, child, and it seems to become you. But this has to do with love, with loving—he is a tall, handsome fellow, your Tomas. Will you nibble that magic kedran herb all your life, or will you one day settle and bear us a grandchild?”
“One day!” said Gael. “Will Bress take himself a wife?”
“I’ll be bound!” her mother answered, though it seemed she had heard nothing of this “filly” Prys Oghal had mentioned—did not believe in her!
When they came out into the sunshine again, the two men were playing Battle together on the board that Rab Maddoc had inlaid into the tabletop.
“By the Well!” he exclaimed. “Young Tomas here could match Old Murrin herself at this game!”
“I know it!” said Gael. “He is a master player!” She looked across to her betrothed, his elbows folded on the rustic table, his attention sharp upon the board, and an arrow of joy pierced through her that this active intelligence, this handsome, thinking man, would one day be her husband, might one day fill her womb with child. Then she was embarrassed and clasped his hand under the table, too shy to meet his inquiring look as he glanced up at this distraction.
They sat all together for a short time; it was about mid afternoon, and the spring day was very mild.
“Well,” said Gael Maddoc, reluctantly rising from her seat. “I will go into this fine new Coombe and speak to the reeve and to Druda Strawn—and others.”
“Yes,” said Tomas. “It would be best.” They had agreed that she must complete this ‘other’ business without him.
She changed her boots and put on her hat with the kestrel feather, then she called Bran and set off walking. They went happily along together, and she exchanged cheerful greetings with the folk they passed. Gael thought how quiet Coombe village
had been when she rode in, months before—now the new town was bustling, full of life. When she reached the reeve’s house—which had been enlarged and refurbished like everything else—she guessed that Reeve Oghal would be busy in his public rooms. Gael had put Bran on his leash and found out the way, up a wide staircase. She went directly to the chambers of the town fiscal.
There were scribes in the outer rooms and citizens doing business, but she had no trouble getting through. In a fine, airy chamber, there sat Culain Raillie, hemmed in among his ledgers, looking more than ever like a merchant in his counting house. His long dark face had filled out a little, his color was better; but when he saw Gael come in, his manner became wary, almost fearful.
“Captain Maddoc!” he said. “My friend … ?”
“Master Raillie!” she answered, smiling. “What great things have been doing, here in Coombe!”
“I see you have a dog,” he went on. “Is it dark or light, I wonder?”
“Oh, Bran is a dark dog,” she said. “Aren’t you old fellow?”
So first she asked after Reeve Oghal, who lived a little retired these days—it was certain he would be succeeded by his daughter’s husband, Bretlow Smith, now completely recovered from the skirmish on the coast. Then they spoke of Ardven House restored and Captain Murrin in good health and spirits. “Her folk from Rift Kyrie are pleasant people,” Culain told her. “Of course, we are expecting Ardven’s true heir, Oweyn Murrin of King’s Bank, later in the summer. Then Ardven will truly come back into its own!”
Gael rejoiced at all this good news. She bent and stroked Bran’s head, hesitating a little before she broached her true business.
“Master Raillie,” she said at last. “I think we must understand each other, as we have done in the past. It is time for plain speaking.”
The fiscal nodded to his young scribe, who left the room, then he gestured her to a fine chair and sat down again behind his massive table.
“Coombe has been blessed,” she said directly, “and I know the cause of this blessing.”
“A certain magic,” said Culain, hesitating. “You saw—you saw the blessed stone …”
Gael changed the subject—she wanted to come to the truth gently. “A short time past, I went into Athron,” she said, “on an errand for the light folk, the Shee. Afterward I helped to rescue a poor woman who was the prisoner of a Witchfinder, the fanatical Brother Sebald, out of Lien.”
“Was that you then, Gael Maddoc? There has been an echo of this business even in Coombe!” said Culain, smiling.
“The name of the old woman we rescued was Elnora Hestrem,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. “She is one of the Merwin folk, the sea rovers …”
She heard his sharp intake of breath.
“What is this truth you know?” he asked in an altered voice. “Speak plainly …”
“In the Long Burn Farm,” she said, “you hold a sacred treasure, one of the so-called Hallows of Hylor. It was stolen long past from Tuana and brought into Eildon, where it was put on show. You rescued this precious thing and brought it into the Chyrian lands with the help of the Merwin seafarers. You brought home
Taran’s Kelch,
the Cup of Blessing, which has its image set among the stars!”
Culain Raillie sprang up and strode about the room. He twisted his hands together.
“I—I could not bear it!” he said. “I am a Chyrian, indeed, born in Tuana, but I lived and worked in other parts of the world—in Athron, in Lien, in Cayl, and in Eildon. I am a trader and a merchant, like my father before me. Yet when I saw the Cup in that trumpery museum on the Greddaer estates, I could not bear it. The Goddess laid her hand upon my shoulder that bright morning: I knew I would cast away all my wealth, my good connections, in order to bring this sacred vessel home again, at least to the Chyrian lands …”
He paused and smiled a little and said:
“You will know, of course, why my mother and I chose Coombe …”
“Yes, I know that too,” said Gael quietly. “You were seeking out the Holywell, where the sacred Cup could be put under the protection of the Goddess …”
“And so it must be!”
cried Culain.
“Yes, and it will all be done before witnesses!” echoed Gael Maddoc. “I do not come alone but with a scribe from the scrolls—my betrothed, Tomas Giraud. He knows how the ceremony must be done—and seen by all those who can see it, magically, and set down in the scrolls for a memorial!”
“Goddess be praised,” whispered Culain. “I have—I have not known how to properly reveal and share my burden. Is this known to your present masters—to the Eilif folk?”
“They await my word,” Gael said. “Even in their darkening days upon this soil, the Cup’s recovery will be a joy to them. I will go now and consult with Druda Strawn—he will surely know the best time for the ceremony to be performed in the sacred cavern!”
“Oh, this is surely part of Coombe’s Blessing!” said Culain Raillie. “I know you and your betrothed will have planned to stay at the Holywell House—but pray, do us a greater service! I offer you the Long Burn Farm for your home, as long as you care to stay!”
“If you need us,” said Gael. “It is a fine house!”
“I keep some trusty kedran and kerns at the Long Burn, to guard the treasure,” said Culain, and she thought he smiled a little.
“I must tell this all to the Druda,” she said. “Though I feel he may know the truth already.”
“Bless you for a true friend, Gael Maddoc …”
“You have brought a blessing to Coombe,” she said. “The greatest blessing since Coombe began—greater even than the founding of the Westlings by Yorath Duaring!”
She sent congratulations to Culain’s mother, now Mistress Rhodd, and led Bran down the stairs. She still felt very strange in this new, prosperous town of Coombe, but the sight of Druda Strawn’s house, beyond the new smithy and the livery stable, reassured her. It had changed very little: under the great oak tree, green for the spring, there was a table inlaid with a Battle
board, like the one at Holywell croft. She divined suddenly that her father, Rab Maddoc, had made this table—a gift for the Druda who had given them so much over the years.
Bran went bounding suddenly into the yard, and she called him sharply to heel—but not before a large black and white cat had sprung up from the grass and climbed the tree. Druda Strawn came to the door of his aged cottage, and he was smiling, touched by the blessing of Coombe:
“Ah—you know it all, Gael Maddoc!” he cried, spreading his arms and gesturing with the staff he carried. “A source of great magic …”
“My dog has sent your cat up the tree,” she said. “You never had a cat before, Druda!”
“Oh but I did,” he said softly, as they took their places at the new table. “We had cats when we were first wed, my dear wife and I, after the Great King’s War. Perhaps I have let myself remember that happy time …”
“Druda,” she reached out her hands to him, “my true love, Tomas Giraud, the scribe, is here with me, and we have been offered the Long Burn Farm while we are in Coombe. I have spoken freely with Culain Raillie, whom I hold for an honest man and a good Chyrian. All that is left for Coombe and its sacred treasure is a ceremony at the Holywell, for all the lands of Hylor to behold and know …”
“Oh, it will be done!” he said, smiling. “I have already rehearsed the form of this
Unveiling.
But it was for the
Wanderer
to confront Master Culain, not an aging village priest …”
He broke off and looked into her face.
“But child, you are still troubled …”
She shook her head, not knowing why any foreboding had fallen upon her. “I can hope that so much good fortune will not corrupt the good folk of Coombe, after years of simple living—and some years of hardship …”