“I believe that they will remain like themselves,” he said, seriously.
“Did you hear of the Witchfinder of Lien?” she asked timidly. “And of the rescue in which I played a part—the old woman in Athron?”
“Yes, I have heard of this bold deed,” said Druda Strawn, with a taut smile of approval.
“It may have cost me the trust and good opinion of the light folk …” said Gael.
She gave a deep sigh, and it was echoed strangely by the dog, Bran, who uttered a whimpering howl and moved close to her.
“Have no fear,” said Druda Strawn, softly. He looked up at the door of his cottage: Luran strode out into the small yard. He wore a grey tunic with a russet hood thrown back; his jewels were very fine. She thought of the first time he appeared to her at the fireside in the Halfway House and of the difference between the light folk and the dark.
“It is as you said, Gael Maddoc,” he said with a half smile. “I cannot disapprove of what you have discovered in Coombe.”
Bran whimpered again and Luran bent toward him.
“Foolish fellow!” he said. “No, I have
not
come to take you back to Tulach! You are Maddoc’s dog now!”
Gael soothed Bran and said the same things, and he seemed to understand. The black and white cat took the opportunity to descend the oak tree and march into the cottage.
“In two days we have the new moon,” said Druda Strawn, “and at the
next
turning of the moon it is the Young Men’s Month, the Elmmoon; and this is when the ceremony must take place at the Holywell. Tomas Giraud has the exact way of it from the scrolls, and some noble guests will wish to attend, I am sure. I believe Lord Luran will honor us with his presence.”
It was a time of preparation and excitement. To be sure, Mother Maddoc fussed a little when Tomas and Gael moved into Long Burn Farm two mornings later, but she saw the honor of it. Mistress Raillie, now Mistress Rhodd, was still her good friend, and she had often visited the Long Burn. So Gael and Tomas rode out with Bran two hours before noon; it was another perfect day, spring shading into summer. They crossed twice over the burn and looked down upon the Maidens, the standing stones, in their everlasting dance for the nymph Taran.
They passed below Ardven house—Gael was warmed to see the fresh stone facing on the main building, the gay pennants rapping in the breeze, and on through the red rolling hills until
the turning for Long Burn. As they came toward the Railles’ handsome stone house, there seemed to be movement, but when they came into the yard, it was empty and quiet. They got down, and Gael went up to the great door and knocked loudly with the end of her lance. Suddenly there was the sound of shouting, singing, someone played a bag-pipe—grooms rushed out of the stables. There upon the doorstep, crying out her welcome, were a sturdy kedran captain and a dark ensign, Mev Arun and Amarah, Gael’s true companions from her four years’ service in the Kestrel Company of Pfolben, in the Southland.
So often during her journeys, Gael had dreamed that these good friends had come to her door or that she rode with them again; now the dream was truth. More than that, Mev Arun cried out that there was another old comrade, a captain of the kern guard from Lowestell—and there stood Hadrik, who had traveled with her through the Burnt Lands. Then they all embraced, and she and Tomas were taken into the house. The housekeeper welcomed them, and Gael remembered her as Bethne, who had served Mistress Raillie as a maidservant when she first came to visit the Long Burn Farm.
Appendix 903 (Gatherings and Ceremonies, fully witnessed) as recorded in The Book of Sooth, also called The DATHSA.
At this time, on the Chyrian coast of Mel’Nir, in the town of Coombe, an ancient treasure, recovered and brought home to its native shore, was
held up
and shown to the Goddess and to the Gods of the Far Faring and to the people, in a rare ceremony known as
The Unveiling.
This was done at the Holywell, within its sacred cavern and in the precinct of the Goddess, and a priest, Druda Kilian Strawn, together with an old woman of Tuana, known as Aroneth, the last surviving priestess from the Sacred Grove in the old Chyrian capital, performed the ritual. Six young maids of Coombe, in raiment of white and yellow, assisted in the ceremony.
The treasure, enclosed in a gilded chest, was carried to
the Holywell from the Long Burn Farm, beyond the village, by an honor guard of kerns and kedran; the way was lined with citizens cheering and crying out and waving lilies and branches of green willow.
Inside the cavern, the ceremony was witnessed by the Reeve of Coombe Leem Oghal and the Town Fiscal, Culain Raillie, by Emeris Murrin, the chatelaine of Ardven Old House, together with Rab and Shivorn Maddoc, keepers of the Holywell, and their daughter, Captain Gael Maddoc, a freelance kedran who had done service for Coombe village. Other honored guests at The Unveiling included Captain Hadrik of the guard and kedran Captain Arun from duty in Lowestell Fortress at the Southwold border, with other members of Kestrel Company, serving the house of Pfolben. A nobleman from Lien, Lord Auric Barry, was also present, having conveyed to this ceremony a great scribe, now well advanced in years, Brother Less, the chaplain of the Dowager Duchess of Chantry.
The most august personage of all was hardly to be beheld, yet near the spring, in a niche of the cavern’s wall, stood Luran of Clonagh, an Eilif lord of the Shee, come down from Tulach Hearth for the ceremony.
When the time came, the golden chest was opened and the treasure brought forth, and the Priestess Aroneth held it up above the holy spring and drew aside its veil of fine black gauze. It was seen to be a tall goblet of metal, decorated in ancient style, dull looking at first but then shining with an inward light. Rays of the sun came through the fretted roof of the cavern and blazed upon the sacred Vessel. Then Druda Strawn cried out in a strong voice, saying that this was
Taran’s Kelch,
a bowl of plenty for the Chyrian lands and for all the lands of Mel’Nir. It had been stolen away, but now it had been brought home. So all the folk of all the Lands of Hylor and the Lands Below the World must know that it was in its rightful place again, here at the Holywell.
Tomas Giraud has writ this, Scribe of Lort, in the year of Farfaring 355.
“ … who will come next?” said Gael. “An army of wraiths from Lake Nimnothal?”
Tomas was changing his boots. They had settled most comfortably into the largest bedroom of the Long Burn Farm. This was the celebration night, which promised to be a long one. Gael’s old comrades, Mev Arun and Amarah, were in the second parlor with Hadrik and some kern officers; Bran the dog sat with them. Soon they would all ride out to Coombe, where there was dancing in the streets.
Yet there was more afoot. Gael held onto Tomas and said:
“You understand that I must make this journey into Eildon?” Auric Barry had not come to Coombe just to witness the unveiling ceremony—though it was true that there were not many who would not have found themselves deeply moved by that ceremony, not to say impressed by its parade of magic. He had come to propose a journey into Eildon—there had been new letters from this supposed “Lost Prince” of the Chameln, with private details from Carel and his brother Sham’s early days as exiles in Lien. Now even Queen Aidris was intrigued—and Auric Barry all the more concerned, for these letters were either proof of the Lost Prince’s true identity, or evidence that some Lien-man had provided this information, was taking part in what could only be meant for a sad betrayal. The
Wanderer
could go where folk of the Chameln—and one so noted as Auric Barry of Lien—could not, perhaps she could find out, at least, the conspirators who had set this “Lost Prince” on the road to Achamar City.
Gael did not know why—but the Shee had agreed that it was right for her to go. Luran had even given her a band, a heavy gold bracer she was to wear on her upper arm over her sleeve, and bid her fast and safe travel.
“Truly,” Tomas said. “I believe you are the one to uncover these answers—and you have your old comrades to help with the work.” Hadrick, Mev Arun, and Amarah would be accompanying her—good plain Melniro folk with no connection to Lien, nor to the Chameln either. Also Gwil Cluny, called down
from the High Plateau—though his heritage, being half-Shee, was not quite so a plain one! “How does Druda Strawn go with arranging the boat?”
“His wife’s people own the great inn, Strandgard, with its own anchorage, at Banlo. Between them, he and Culain Raillie have a vessel of the right kind waiting. My father will drive us there in a cart from Long Burn Farm—he has some business on the coast, so it will not be inconvenient for him.”
“Three young women, traveling to Eildon,” grinned Tomas. “I’d like to see the three of you in skirts …”
“We will have our portraits painted,” she said primly, “at
Shennazar
, in Oakhill, in the city of Lindriss—on—the—Laun!”
A VOYAGE TO EILDON
As their vessel, a sturdy cog called Banlo Hope, moved carefully
under the tall white cliffs on the final leg of the approach to Eildon, they saw men and women in strange clothes working upon the precipitous paths above them. The land was the same as anywhere else; but no, it was not. There was a softness to the wind that brushed their sails here, curious effects of mist and sunlight, sparking off the white face of the rock. The skipper was a young man from the Strandgard anchorage called Alun Treyn, and they carried Hadrik, who knew sailing, and another Kestrel, Imala, Amarah’s friend. Eildon, Captain Treyn told them, ever presented this face of shining light and dancing mist; it was like no other country.
The weather in the Oakmoon had been splendid for sailing, and they’d been brought at a steady, good pace to the coast of old Eildon, where they passed their way beneath the tall white cliffs to the mouth of the great river Laun. The city of Lindriss, half-shrouded by drifts of magical mist and light, lay across the Laun’s ancient sprawling estuary, with its own character in every quarter: ancient, magical, bright and dark at once.
Down in the largest cabin, the three adventurers primped and
paraded before a long glass—Gael had made magic that turned one door of a press into a mirror. Wearing traditional female dress instead of kedran gear was a difficult and frustrating task for them—Gael had had some experience of loose robes from her happy hours with Tomas in their tower at the Swan, but never of ladies’ garb, tightly laced. The gowns they wore were simple but of fine quality—mostly the property of Culain Raillie’s mother, with a few culled from Mistress Oghal and her daughter, Ronna Smith, wife of Bretlow. Luckily, these were taller women, and their clothes fit even Gael well enough. There had been a problem with hair. Mev Arun simply added a dark brown tress to her own shoulder-length hair, drawn back. Amarah, who played the role of the Bride in their story, wore a longer black fall of hair woven into her own hair and covered with a veil.
Gael, with a dashing kedran cut of distinctive red, had to wear a full wig, ordered over from Krail, and dressed by the personal maid of the new Mistress Rhodd. The color was well chosen, she supposed, a red gold, and Tomas had been kind when she tried it on. She hardly knew the woman in the glass—long hair she associated with her callow girl-child’s years, and she could not see herself as much improved. At least, all agreed, they passed well for three maidens of the Southland, dressed in well-cut gowns that bespoke a certain wealth. Dark blue, pale blue and white, pale gold and soft green; head coverings, cloaks if needed, shoes firmly heeled, of soft leather, over pale, thin trunk hose: they drew the line at stockings and garters. The hemlines of their gowns brushed the instep and bore a slight train at the back. Gael struggled not to curse as, again and again, she trod her train underfoot.
Imala, their “attendant,” was allowed to keep her kedran dress, and they envied her. So they came at last to their mooring place and stepped daintily down the gangplank into the crowded, colorful port of Hythe. A carriage, surely—Hadrik and Imala let Captain Treyn brush aside the hawkers and the guides; the ladies were driven up and down the misty hills of the great city to an inn called the Stone Men. The sign showed a ring of tall grey figures, like standing stones, yet cleverly wrought by some ancient stonemason (or at least the signboard’s
painter!) so that each one had a special attitude, a hand lifted, a head turned, a striding step.
Inside, the arrangements were noticeably quiet and respectable; the hostess curtsied and sent two wenches up the staircase to usher them into their rooms. They fell about and complained loudly in the large bedchamber, then joined Hadrik in their parlor, for cordials and a light repast.
Word had been left with the hostess that a factor would ask for Captain Hadrik’s party. Sure enough, at the appointed hour, their prime helper in Eildon made his appearance—Gwil Cluny came to the door.
“Don’t laugh, old comrade,” said Gael.
“You look splendid,” he said, grinning. “I’ll tell my Mam how well long golden hair becomes our
Wanderer.”
She made him known to all the others; he accepted a tankard of the ale that Hadrik was drinking and made his report.
“It is as we thought, the workshop of Chion Am Varr at Shennazar in Oakhill is busy, but a place can be gained with a little extra gold. They use a ‘school’ system, like Emyas Bill and many others—a portrait is drafted by the master, then finished by the assistants, save perhaps for details of the face and hands. A list of all those men and women who sat for their portraits can be obtained for more gold and by magic.”
“And this pretender,” said Mev Arun, “surely he was not painted by anyone but this Master Chion himself.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Gwil. “That fact has narrowed our search. In the last two years, Chion Am Varr has done only seven private sittings. Most often he traveled to a noble house to do some notable among the gentry. Once, twice, he went off with his requisites, and perhaps one friend, as if it were a holiday.” He brought out a rough map of Eildon’s demesnes, to show the routes the painting master had taken.
“It is a puzzle,” Gwil continued, turning to Gael. “Think of this—someone in Eildon has set up this pretender, paid for the portrait, perhaps schooled or instructed the fellow. What better cover for this portrait than a family sitting in a great house? Chion Am Varr paints Lady Thus and So, but also paints the Lost Prince, so-called.
“Before this morning of your arrival, I have been through the
four nearest mansions,” said Gwil. “There is always a need for a fortune teller or a seller of fancy goods among the servants of these houses.”
“Do we have any promising candidates then?” asked Gael.
“One or two,” he grinned. “Do you not have some sort of copy of the famous portrait, sent to the new-wed queen?”
“You first,” said Gael, bringing out a large folded parchment.
“There was a tale in one country house of the Paldo clan, the Knightly Hunters,” said Gwil, “of a man from the Pendark lands who worked over the summer and had his portrait done by Chion Am Varr for an inn sign, somewhere in the south.”
“And the other?”
“There is a young man who has a herb garden not far from Oakhill. He joined in the Summer Pageant several years past—though not this most recent year—because he bore a likeness to Shennazar himself. To Sham Am Zor, the Summer’s King—a handsome, golden-haired man.”
“But now he has grown old,” said Gael. Something in Gwil’s description—she knew this must be the man from the painting that had been sent to the Chameln court.
She unfolded the copy Emyas Bill had done from memory and dusted with tinted chalks here and there to give a hint of the man’s coloring. They all gazed at the sketch, and Gwil Cluny said softly:
“Yes, it could be a match for Dan Royl, the herb gardener,” said Gwil. “It was always held that his name is a kind of stage name, from his days playing Shennazar.”
“The first part of his name is the Chameln word for a king or queen,” Gael said softly. “If this man is indeed our Lost Prince, he has not done so much to hide himself.”
“So where is this royal fellow?” asked Hadrik. “Gone yet? Away learning his story?”
“I can hardly believe …” Gwil Cluny frowned. “From what little I have seen, in some ways he might be a good man, in others not. I think he is still there, over at Thornlee Herb Farm.”
“Remember what I asked,” said Gael, “about the tenure of the land, here at Oakhill.”
“Eildon tenure is a maze,” said Gwil. “All the land belongs by custom to the three princely families, Tramarn, Paldo and
Pendark, and to the seven Eorls and the Barons. There are adjustments of tenure by deed, marriage, and inheritance. There are a few earlier rights still recognized and some later changes, as when land comes ‘under the cowl’—into the possession of the priestly colleges of the Druda and the white sisters, the Dagdaren. The very place we were speaking of—Thornlee and the countryside round about—is ‘under the cowl,’ and it is worked by tenant farmers, including Master Dan Royl. There is a steward who lives not far away and watches over all the priestly land in the name of the college.”
“Tomorrow is a testing day,” said Amarah. “First we meet Master Chion at Shennazar, but then it is the Pageant and we see more of Oakhill.”
“The Pageant now,” said Mev Arun craftily, “fancy dress and merriment. Any chance we could get out of these clothes?”
“You know my plan,” said Gael. “Forgive me, sisters, but at some time during this parade, I will slip away with our Captain Hadrik. We will meet Gwil Cluny and prowl about a certain herb garden. I can’t prowl in a gown.”
“I have an idea,” put in Ensign Imala. “Don’t you ladies have riding habits?”
The idea was welcomed—the habits had trews under a wide buttoned skirt that could be thrown back or removed. Hadrik knew of a livery stable and suggested a ride on the downs after the pageant: the kedran missed their horses, missed riding.
The carriage drove to the west, through the city, crossing handsome bridges over tributary streams—Waybrook, Falconet—of the great river Laun. The district of Oakhill was northwest of the fine Tramarn estates—they were not well tended; parts of the gardens near the mansion were overgrown. Prince Gwalchai, great-nephew of Ross, the Priest-King, was held to be the last of his line.
There had been a sad time after the Tramarn prince, when young, married Princess Moinagh Pendark, courted by so many, including King Sharn Am Zor. Moinagh became wayward after the birth of a daughter and ran off with the child to join the Children of the Sea, her mother’s kin. Gwalchai lived
many years alone and now had gone to a distant strand in the northwest, where he sat watching the sea. The story was a melancholy one. Remembering the dowager princess, Merigaun Pendark, Moinagh’s mother, Gael could only wonder what that gentle lady had made of her daughter’s wildness, and guess that her tender feelings toward her nephew, Liam Greddaer of Greddach, owed some of their strength to that earlier abandonment by her own child.
She shook herself, staring out over Prince Gwalchai’s hills. As a child in Coombe, she would never have believed she would come to know so much of these princely lives—so much so that she could share and almost feel their sadness and their pain, their hopes and joys. Fine fate for the crofter’s girl of the Holywell!
She touched for a moment the cool gold band upon her upper arm—Lord Luran’s gift—and wondered again at his change of heart, allowing—nay encouraging—her to come here. The metal of the bracer held an unnatural chill; Lady Annhad’s ring confirmed that strong magic ran within. She had sensed in Luran’s manners that something in this matter was not for Gael yet to be told—a touch of dread went through her, but her trust was in the Shee. Luran must have some reason for keeping the Shee’s purpose hidden. Something to protect the delicate Fionnar, perhaps, or frail old Sir Hugh.
Up ahead, there was a bustle of preparation in the streets and in four great pavilions where the carnival floats were being assembled. The three visitors and their kedran attendant stepped down from the carriage behind the grandstand, where their seats were waiting. Captain Hadrik stayed with the carriage, and the women went off in the direction of Shennazar.
Oakhill was a fine place, open and fresh with much greenery and wide streets decorated for the Pageant. Gael felt the morning sun on her face and looked up at the hill itself, crowned with a ring of great oak trees. The bright shops and stalls recalled the market near Goldgrave where, years past now, she had spent her reward from Hem Duro on gifts for the Winter Feast. The Shennazar art workshop had a golden sign and beautiful things laid out for sale behind its mullioned glass panes. They stepped inside and were greeted by a young man, who led them up and up the broad stairs to a room full of light.
A woman in a kind of kedran dress led “Mistress Amarah Habrin,” the chosen bride of a rich Danasken Lord, into a tiring room, where both the lady and her attendants were put to rights Then they came out, and there was the Master Painter holding out his hands to Amarah and smiling. Chion Am Varr was not much over thirty, a good-looking, brown-haired fellow, muscular and strong but well covered with flesh. He wore Chameln dress, with the sleeves of his fine summer tunic rolled up.
He led them first to a wall in the workroom full of portraits and painted groups; the light was adjusted to perfectly illuminate this grouping.
“Now, what can we choose?” cried Chion. “Where will you sit—indoors or out? I believe you would do well, Mistress Amarah, in this plain setting, with flowers in the urns and your two ladies one up, one down.”
There was a man with his wife and their young son in the painting upon the wall, and the background was a simple hanging, half-covering a window. They passed into another well-line room, and there was the setting they had just seen, even to the curtain and the window behind it, showing the clear blue sky and a branch of apple tree, white with blossom. They took their places on the chair and the velvet settle and looked at them selves in a large wall mirror while Chion and his assistants moved them about, adjusted their limbs and skirts, made chalk marks. The master painter discussed the colors of the gowns they were to wear—no, of course, no riding habits. Then, with an appointment for the next day, they went on their way—the Pageant was beginning.