“You have it from your father the King,” replied the Carach. “Use this strange gift wisely.”
Then three gold green leaves fell down upon me; I gathered them up and stowed them in my collector’s satchel, separate from the leaves of the Skelow. The Carach spoke no more.
It was about this time that Raben Curren returned from his voyage to distant lands with a splendid cargo of rare herbs and spice plants. He settled in the Pendark lands, for their warmth; he came back to Thornlee, and he married my mother. I get along pretty well with my stepfather and have often spent time on their farm at Pencurren, but I was schooled to take over
Thornlee. My mother has borne two more children, Rowan and Rosemary, and I love my half-brother and half-sister. In time, my Uncle Elias made over the herb farm to me and went with my aunt to live down the valley. He died four years ago, and my Aunt Phylla went to live with my mother at Pencurren and help with the children. At Thornlee, for some time, I have had only my true servants, Han Lockyer and his wife, Jean.
A matter had arisen that caused some pain to my mother. I had been marked out for some time to play Shennazar at summer pageants in Oakhill. I was not the only one chosen—there were many men of the right type, with the right hair and features, but she thought I was cheapening my heritage. But I must say this
heritage
has not meant the same to me as it has to my poor mother. For so long, it was more like an ancient tale, it was not my own experience—I wondered if I might one day travel in the Chameln lands, and I have often wondered if it would be possible to tell the truth to some true friend of the Zor family. But these thoughts seemed to me only a foolish dream.
But my mother was right. I should not have taken my father’s role. My play as Shennazar exposed me, brought me to the attention of those who would otherwise have left me alone. Two years past, I was approached by the artist Chion Am Varr, from the Shennazar workshop in Oakhill. He praised my looks and my performance at the Pageants and expressed a wish to paint my portrait. It was clear that he was sounding me out for something more, and he spoke of the courts of the Chameln. There dwelt the two queens, one old and wise, the other beautiful but coldhearted and a little mad. The marriage of Queen Tanit had just been arranged with Count Greddach. I had no idea where this was leading, but I agreed to meet one he called his patron, the commissioner of the portrait.
I keep in a room apart, a secret room, all my books and scrolls on the history of Hylor—the Chameln lands, of course, and the Daindru, the two rulers, also Lien and its links to old Eildon, which has ever been my home. The man who came to see me was a certain Lord Evert—his father and grandfather had all served the Dukes of Greddach. Some of these noblemen have a strange reputation, especially the one who turned his great park at Boskage, in the south, into a kind of menagerie,
then his heir, the current duke, who made it a museum. Yet many of the branches of this ancient line have proved fine and respectable—for instance, the parents of young Count Liam, Count and Countess of Greddach, who served the house of Pendark and were known for helping the tin miners and pit workers. Count Draven Greddaer, Liam’s father, even served Eildon as an envoy into other lands and, before his death, was known and respected at the Conference Hall in Lindriss, where envoys from all lands meet and talk.
This Lord Evert who approached me is about fifty years old, handsome, easy, and not proud. He was very persuasive—asking first about my family, and praising my appearances in the Pageant and the splendid reputation of Thornlee, the herb garden. I suspected that he knew of my mother and her second family. I gave back the story that my mother and I had arranged some years earlier. Her family came from the Pendark lands, and her grandsire, a farmer, had spoken of Pendark blood, a very distant but lawful connection. I admitted that I would have liked to travel into the Chameln lands some day and see the true memorials of Shennazar, the King I was supposed to resemble.
Then he came out with it. There was a tale that Prince Carel Am Zor, the Lost Prince, had been completely innocent of any treachery. There was evidence that he escaped death at the hands of the barbarians, the Skivari, passed through their lands behind the mountain barrier, and came at last to the River Bal. His true companions had brought the wounded prince downriver to the Western sea and so into Eildon.
There he had lived quietly for a number of years but now he was dead. His grave was to be seen in the north. Yet, continued Lord Evert, in these times of uneasiness with the Kingdom of Lien, it was of supreme importance for a watcher to be placed in the court of the Zor. Count Liam would naturally send his own intelligences to his family, but he was no spy. What if a suitable person, carefully introduced, took the place of the Lost Prince? Yes, indeed, there was an age difference between myself and the prince, but there were methods of aging by magic, by the application of certain salves and potions. I could grow a beard …
What was behind this curious offer? I could hardly say,
though it seemed to me Lord Evert spoke with no approval of Count Liam’s marriage, which the Count, being long-since orphaned, and having reached his majority some years past, had undertaken without the blessing of the immediate members of his remaining family, though this had not been widely spoken aloud, the marriage being a very honorable one, and reflecting well upon the power and prestige of the Greddach family. I awaited two things—a threat and an offer of payment—and they came promptly. Thornlee and its famous herb garden was in fact “under the cowl,” held by the priestly colleges of the Druda—it might be reclaimed and the tenants evicted if anything displeased the landlords. Then, of course, if I proved apt for this task, I would receive rich rewards in land, gold, and goods—I had surely, said Evert, thought of marriage. In fact, I had not considered it very much—I had two dear mistresses, both actresses from the pageant, but the hidden circumstances of my birth held me back from a more permanent commitment. Despite all my reason told me of the futility of my mother’s ideas, perhaps I have always had this dream of traveling to the Chameln lands.
I could see no way out of the offer that had been set before me; all I had to protect myself was the hidden secret of my birth, which must remain hidden, lest it offer some new idea for my
usefulness.
So, with a pretty show of reluctance mastered by greed—and a hidden, true eagerness to go into the Chameln lands—I agreed to the plan.
Chion Am Varr, who had already suggested I allow my beard to grow, arrived the very next day, with a smug look—as if he had known I would be open to suggestion. He painted the portrait in the large drying room for certain herbs, which is above this room, my study. He explained to me all the symbolism of the picture—from the oak tree to the letters printed on the saddle for Prince Carel’s lost horse, Ayvid.
He has worked carefully to make me appear older both in the portrait and in the flesh. I had already a ruddy complexion from outdoor work—not for me, the sheltered life of the gentle born—and some of his salves have produced wrinkles. I refused any attempt to alter my appearance by magic because I knew it would not work on a brandhul, and I did not want them
to uncover my secret. Lord Evert would have challenged my refusal, but Chion pointed out that the very folk who welcome a Lost Prince can accept a Lost Prince who wears his years lightly. Besides, there would be those in the Chameln who would have recognized any whiff of magical fakery.
It took the painter four moons to complete the portrait—when it was dry and aged a little in the dry air of the loft, it was given to Evert. I understand it was held for a time, then sent mysteriously to the new-wed queen, arriving the day after her wedding. I don’t know how this has been done.
Lord Evert has come often and provided me with a tutor. A handsome kedran ensign, who gives the name of Quelin—she is a good tutor, and I believe I am being tested again. Should I or should I not try to make love to my teacher? Is there some curiosity about whether I love women—or men? I have compromised by showing her fond attention, even taking her in my arms once or twice, but then drawing back—out of shyness, it seems.
From the first, Lord Evert has been concerned with keeping his tame pretender safe from other spies, especially from Lien and from the Chameln lands, even the court of the Zor. He showed me half a dozen stalwart men who patrolled the grounds and shielded Thornlee against magic. Nevil, steward for the lands “under the cowl,” is privy to the whole plan.
I am a quick study of lines and facts. I already know the history of poor Prince Carel very well; I have heard rumors that place him in the distant lands of the barbarian tribes, long dead in the border country or living in the Southland, in Eildon or in Mel’Nir. I believe I will make an excellent Lost Prince. May the Goddess and the family of the Zor forgive me for this masquerade that is about to begin. I have sent word to my mother at Pencurren—I am off on a visit to a Festival in the north in the lands of Eorl Kimber, then a voyage in a pleasure boat to some of the western isles. In truth—come fall, they will send me to Lien, and I will be in the Swangard for a final month of tutoring before being sent on into the Chameln.
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.