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?
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 insisted 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.
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 hugged 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.
“Praise the Goddess, you are here, Gael Maddoc!” said Druda Strawn. “I do not come to this vigil—I am a town officer, so Culain tells me.”
At his side, Jehane dipped Gael a worried nod, confirming the Druda’s words—but then her irrepressible spirit rose again. “I will ride with you!” cried Jehane. Gael saw that she wore the badges of a captain in the Sword Lilies. “I’ll be your standard bearer! Kedran together will show honor to their old comrade.”
“Take my lance then, dear comrade!” Gael called to Jehane. “It has a banner for Coombe!”
“Gael and Tomas,” said the Druda, holding up his hand in blessing. “I am sending you both into a strange encounter with the heirs of Ardven. Bring me back a thorough report!”
There was a fine, improved road winding down to Ardven. Gael saw at last how Culain Raillie had had the mansion rebuilt, as part of the beautification of Coombe. Now the Cresset Burn flowed in a new channel, held back by flood walls, and there were gardens behind the tall house. It had all its tall chimneys again, glazed windows with good shutters, and some half-timbering on the upper floor, in the manner of Lien. Gael recalled the time not long past when she had sat with Old Murrin
in the cold above the flood waters and heard marvelous tales of the old kedran’s life in the wide world.
There were more people than she expected waiting in the new courtyard, keeping a vigil. When they entered, with Jehane leading the way, there was a reaction—a voice cried:
“A banner for Coombe!”
But another voice answered, “Maddocs all come up in the world!” and yet another, “Incomers from the Long Burn!” Then a voice she recognized cried out loudly, “Give a hail for the brave
Wanderer,
summoned to the bedside of her old comrade, and for our own Sword Lily, brave Jehane!”
The hail was given, a decorous form of a cheer for the sad occasion, and then there was a chant, so sweet and sad it could hardly be called squint-singing:
Here come kedran,
One brave and one fair,
To stand by an old companion.
Kedran and kern,
Those who yet may ride home:
Bring voice to all ears of this action!
Shim Rhodd and Bress Maddoc, large as life in their uniforms for the Westlings, with ensign sashes, came to greet their cart.
“Sister, Tomas, we’ll see you to the door!” grinned Bress. “Greetings, Captain Vey!”
The watchers were not quite silent; they murmured, and sometimes a voice was raised, then hushed. A groom in the Ardven colors, grey and crimson, took Vey’s horse to the stableyard, and another drove the cart. Bress took charge of Bran as Gael stepped up to the wide porch before the door, with Jehane at her side. There were windows and fretted stonework, full of watchers inside the house—but no one opened the doors.
Jehane rapped with the lance a second time, and there came the sound of drawn bolts. A big man in livery stood framed within the doorway. The spacious hall at the base of the fine staircase was filled with as many as twenty men, all strangers, some of them out of livery, finely dressed, others in guard uniform,
like a fighting force. All stood back as the door was opened and stared at the two kedran.
“Greetings in sad time,” said Gael to the big man. “May I speak to your master?”
“What’s your errand, kedran?” he asked.
“We have come to sit vigil beside our old comrade, Captain Emeris Murrin.”
Among the watchers a young boy said, “Captain? Captain? Old Aunt Captain?” and laughed aloud. Gael was shocked and angry; Tomas spoke up behind her.
“Is your master Oweyn Murrin of Balbank there, please?”
“Not sure,” was the answer.
At the landing where the stairs divided, Gael saw a woman in a long, pale healer’s cloak, holding towels. It was her mother; she beckoned them. Gael took the lance from Jehane and said loudly:
“We will go in!”
She rapped gently on the paving stones, and the tip of her lance held a blue spark; then at a whispered word or two, her shield encompassed Jehane. Gael looked at Tomas, who shook his head, unsmiling, and stepped back, indicating that he would not join them. The tall steward gave a great rumbling laugh, with some fear and unbelief in it. Gael, losing patience, jerked the tip of her lance and he fell backward on the polished wooden floor. She marched in with Jehane, and they stepped over his legs.
The new heirs and their servants cried out at this simple act of magic. As they reached the middle of the stairs, a loud voice called:
“You there! Captain Maddoc!”
She turned her head, and there surely was the new heir himself—Oweyn Murrin, the nephew of old Emeris Murrin, son of her brother, who had remained in Balbank after it was purchased by Lien. It was said that the Melniros who chose to stay had been fairly treated by the authorities in King’s Bank, the rulers of Lien. There was a name for them, Aldmen, or simply Alders. It had become a title: Aldman Murrin was tall and well built, a brown-haired man, tanned by the sun; he did indeed bear a strong family likeness to Emeris Murrin.
“This is my house!” he said loudly. “I will have no magic, no witchwork here! It is not my custom!”
Gael held his gaze.
“We will sit vigil by our old comrade Emeris Murrin,” she said firmly. “This vigil at a deathbed is a custom here in Coombe. The folk outside are keeping vigil as well. But we—we must go up.”
Jehane was already at the landing; they both continued up to Shivorn Maddoc and followed her. There were a few jeers from the Aldman and his followers. So they came at last into what was surely the last vestige of that upper room where Gael had spoken with Old Murrin years past. There was new plaster on the walls; a rough tapestry covered the old door to the alcove where the old woman had in past days stored her accoutrements of battle. The captain herself lay on a pallet bed, propped up on pillows, and the late summer light shone in through a new window.
Gael was nearly at the bedside when she saw that the large room was filled with all the women of the household. In the furthest corner, to her left, there were strangers, quietly sipping Kaffee or tea. One was finely dressed, the wife, perhaps, of Oweyn Murrin, and she had two female attendants. On the floor there sat two young girls, probably kitchen maids. Then there were two other women, unknown to Gael. From the woven patterns of their dress, she knew they came from Rift Kyrie. These two must be the child of Captain Murrin’s sister and the housekeeper, Matilda. Of all the faces, only this last pair bore the mark of sorrow.
“What is this?” she said to her mother in a low voice. “Where are the men of the house?”
“It is a King’s Bank custom,” said Mother Maddoc. “Men and women do not sit together.”
Gael joined Jehane, who was already in a chair beside the bed. She looked into the face of Emeris Murrin and felt nothing but a helpless love and admiration for a proud spirit.
“Dear comrades …”
It was a breathy whisper.
“Hush,” said Gael. “We are here …”
“Content …” the halting voice continued. “Ylla—my dear Ylla waits in the golden fields—”
From below there came the sound of raised voices, shouting,
and laughter. A heavy door slammed. Gael felt a surge of anger for the heir from King’s Bank. Old Murrin said, her eyes fixed on Gael:
“A word for the
Wanderer …”
Gael bent closer.
“Take the banners,” came the halting voice. “There is a message …”
The old woman caught her breath, and Mother Maddoc came with a cup of water. After a few sips, Murrin’s breathing changed. Her frail body arched up from the pillows; a strange sound grew in her throat. She turned toward the lighted window, showing the gardens, the Cresset Burn. Gael and Jehane held her up; then she was gone.
A heavy silence spread through the room; the cousin from Rift Kyrie began to weep softly and was comforted by the housekeeper. The women from Balbank set down their Kaffee cups. Shivorn Maddoc made a sign of blessing and removed the pillows. Then she drew up a pale sheet and covered the body of Emeris Murrin.
“Help me, girls,” she said. “We’ll move the pallet into this room for lying out.”
The lying-out room was the cool alcove behind the tapestry. Here, also, lay Emeris Murrin’s belongings, in an untidy jumble, as though her room had been all quickly cleared to make way for those sitting vigil. Gael’s mother pulled the tapestry flap down, leaving them in partial dark, but also making them some privacy as she opened the old woman’s clothing. On a sudden thought, Jehane asked:
“What has become of Oona, the grey cat?”
“Gone to the gold fields that await all good mousers,” said Mother Maddoc. “She was sixteen years old. Lies under an ash tree down in the gardens.”
“Mam,” Gael asked. “Where are Murrin’s treasures—I mean her wall banners, from old time? She charged me to keep them safe.”
“Why they’re here, in this press,” said her mother. “These things will be stored, I think …”
Gael shook her head. “I’ll take the banners out—under my cloak, maybe, or vanished some way.”