Princess Elwina, on a gilded garden bench, was a striking blond beauty, surrounded by ladies in whispering silk dresses. A nursemaid stood by, and now the Princess gave back her infant son, the little prince, Kirris. Gael saw that what Tomas had spoken of this child was all true: he was not yet ten months old, but already strong on his legs. As his mother set him on the
grass, he ran off across the lawn and had to be chased by his nurse. There were ten or twelve young folk of the court taking their ease near the Prince and Princess, or waiting to take their turn at the archery targets, or simply walking hand in hand. Gael did not like the negligent ease with which these courtiers employed their arrows with the child so near, so ill attended.
“I will leave you to approach them,” said Mihal Carra.
“You’re cruel,” said Gael Maddoc. “Why do you do this?”
“I am not part of their court. I serve the Old King.” The young lord evenly met her gaze, and Gael saw suddenly that she must do this. Gol might have been put off by her talk of past champions betrayed—but truly, it seemed, he must know something of what she had brought to him in her carrying straps.
“I hope I am expected, at least,” she grumbled.
She pulled her brown green finery to rights, couched the Krac’Duar at the trail, and strode off down the steps, carrying her hat. No one seemed to watch her approaching; she came from the east, toward the Prince’s bench. Then she was roughly grasped and pinioned by two giant warriors in the livery of the Duarings. Gael remained very still and said nothing.
“Armed,” said the ensign on her right. “Making for his Highness the Prince!”
Still Gael did not speak.
“Declare yourself!” said the captain on her left.
Gael looked at Prince Rieth—he was looking at the guards and their prisoner, and so indeed were all the court—even the archers at the butts seemed to have paused. What would the next move be with an unexpected, armed intruder? She smiled at the captain and made as if to free her poor arm from his mighty grasp.
“Highness,” he called. “Prisoner won’t speak!”
“Oh, bring it here,” said Rieth impatiently.
The captain nodded to the ensign—already the spectacle of two huge men restraining one kedran seemed rather forced.
“A scarecrow!”
she heard in an undertone as they walked her forward. This time the word was not spoken with affection. The junior officer led her to stand before the prince, who nodded so that her arm was released. Rieth’s eyes were blue; if she had not known Blayn of Pfolben, Lord Auric of Chantry—Tomas Giraud
of Lort!—she would have thought him a handsome man. Now she had learned to judge such things differently. He was only a handful of years older than herself. She recognized in his face an unpleasant teasing look that told her she had, in fact, been expected.
“Do you have a name, kedran?” he asked in a clear, amused voice. There was a hint of laughter from Princess Elwina and her ladies.
“I am Gael Maddoc, Highness,” she said. “I was sent to meet you by King Gol.”
“We expected a creature of legend,” said Rieth. “One who deals in magic, who flings open Tulach Hall and consults with dark folk and light, in every land under the sun!”
“The old King will quit his throne,” said Gael evenly. “I suppose he sent me here to look upon the man he expects to follow him onto that hard seat.”
Rieth was suddenly angry. “I will have nothing from you, Captain! Take your leave, or I will have you taken off by my guards!”
“Oh, the guards!” she said, smiling. Back so early as her journey to Queen Tanit’s wedding, she had learned how to use just the mere whiff of the Stillstand. She remembered, with nostalgic sadness, how it had knocked the fierce Durgashen warriors on their backs, the men who had attacked the young Fareo juggler, threatened an innocent boy. Now she did not even need to point her weapon—only to close her eyes, to concentrate. The guard captain and his ensign who were guarding her fell quite gently to the ground and lay on the greensward in ungainly attitudes. There were hoots of laughter from the court. Gael bowed low to Prince Rieth and wandered across the lawn, heading back to the western staircase to the gallery. But then, needing in her heart to salvage some small piece of dignity from all this foolish play, she paused and made a bow to the princess.
“My service to you, Highness,” she said, “and to your noble son!”
Elwina tossed her pretty head. “You must be that uncouth Chyrian wench, the one who made poor Lady Malm such a poor companion on the high ground.”
The jibe hit home. Gael had intended to mention her meeting with the cheerful Prince Kirris, Elwina’s brother, in the Burnt Lands. Now she swung away, stung—and there was the young prince, baby Kirris, right in under her feet.
Trying to protect him, to prevent injury to the child, she fell clumsily down on one knee, fumbling to keep hold of her weapon. Raucous laughter met her ears from every side—yet not a single voice raised for the safety of the child next in line but one to the old King’s throne. Perhaps they thought the Lance was too long, the point too far away, to do the child injury.
Gael knew otherwise—the weight of the Krac’Duar in her hand alone would be enough to give the child a grievous hurt—perhaps she was the only one who thought of that! From the kneel, taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stared at this precious royal child, his level, trusting gaze. She could not help a stab of guilt, thinking on young Guendolin of Grays, and all that had fallen on that child so that Gael could be saved. At least
this
innocent she had not harmed.
The child—the baby, with his fringe of red gold fuzz, his slate blue eyes—it was not possible to tell if they would stay that color, or darken when he became a little older—darted toward her. His nurse, appalled, would have seized him back, dragged him away, but already the little prince was too fast for her. He buried himself against Gael’s tunic, not at all afraid, for a child such as this must be very accustomed to towering “giant warriors.” He had come to her because he wished to touch the Krac’Duar—its cracked band of golden tape had attracted his interest.
“Fie, it’s dirty. Your Highness, come away.” The nurse cast her dagger glance on Gael as the child squirmed from the tall kedran’s arms and laid both hands upon the shaft of the Lance, bracing himself, chortling with childish pleasure as his pink fingers broke free a small cracked square of the shining stuff—
Gael did not know what to do. She felt strong magic shifting within the shaft of the great weapon—certainly there had been a passing—she looked down at the child, clutching the tiny square of broken tape in his little hands, turning again to Gael, to protect it from his nurse—
How had no one else sensed it? How had no one else felt the almost sick-making, strong spasm of power, only Gael?
She looked round at Prince Rieth, the obnoxious Princess Elwina—now all she could do was feel sorrow for them. Yes, they were full of arrogance and pretension—but none of that would ever be rewarded.
This had not been Gael’s doing: it had been fate.
“Tush, on your way,” she whispered warmly to little Kirris, laying her hand on his small skull, stroking briefly the soft bright hair. No one was close enough to hear; the child himself would not comprehend: “One day, you will make a good king for Mel’Nir; yes you will, perhaps even a great king,
but not today,
my bonnie boy.” She pushed him back toward his nurse.
Now she simply gave another bow and hurried away to the staircase. She did not neglect to take her spell off the unfortunate guardsmen.
On the gallery again, she stood in shadow, gazing out over the Dannermere. She had entered the shadowy room through the louvered doors, following the way that she had been led by Mihal Carra. He came toward her with a rueful smile.
“That looked very bad,” he said. “But you seem to have carried it off.”
She wondered if he had seen deeper than the unfriendly interplay—but she would not ask him. “It was an unpleasant meeting,” she said stiffly. She had no wish to attempt to explain the rest of it.
“Before I take you back to the gate,” he said, “the King and Queen asked me to think of something that might please you.”
Ah, but at least Gol and Nimoné had been well-satisfied to see her today, and yes, in truth, she had performed a good service for the old king—and perhaps for Mel’Nir too. She set the Krac’Duar back in its traveling bands, hoped it would be called no more to this unhappy court.
She followed the young equerry across a pleasant room where older men and women were taking a meal, and then they went down a winding stair to a lower level. The room was busy, full of paper, with journeymen and apprentices; the head scribe sat at a raised table, before a fortress of books. Three copyists
wrote the work out fair. The man who met them at the door murmured: “It is the
Dathsa.
We are completing a whole binder!” The head scribe, at the top of the room, looked up from his work now, and it was Tomas Giraud.
He smiled and called for a pause. The bustle stopped, and the team of helpers relaxed and drifted away. Tomas came down from his high table, greeted Mihal Carra, and embraced Gael. He held up his hand, and they listened: a mysterious rhythmic sound came from behind a heavy door.
“Oh, I know what it must be!” said Gael. “It is a machine called a press, for making printed books, Lien Books!”
“So it is!” said Mihal Carra. “But do you use paper?”
“No, we use parchment or even the reed paper, papyrus,” said Tomas. “But we move with the times, and the results can be very fine.”
The controller who had let them in now came with two servants, a boy and girl, who carried wine and salads, with cold game birds. As the repast was set out for them in an alcove, Tomas drew Gael aside, and his face was grave, yet full of the curiosity she knew so well.
“Something has happened,” he said. “I see it in your face—”
She shook her head. “Tomas,” she said, “what I have performed here today will one day appear in your own book, the
Book of Sooth,
the
Dathsa.
But please, my heart—it is not timely that it should make its appearance there today.”
Tomas glanced at the Krac’Duar, and his gaze grew solemn. “I will wait,” he said. “The great book can wait. But come, my love—you must eat. Your strength is not so fully recovered that you can miss a meal.”
Gael, completely drained, was happy to put herself into his charge throughout the meal, and then for a further time afterward.
TULACH AGAIN
The chamber of the Shee’s tigh-Aoraidh felt chilly after the
warmth of her supper, shared with a tired Tomas, who had just ridden out to Tulach two days before, in Little Hearth. She had brought a candle down, to light her way once inside the chamber—it was after dark, and she had closed the door to the perpetual illumination of magic on the wide staircase that descended to this hallowed place.
She had removed the golden hallow-coins from their string, laid them upon the table, in a certain order: the Cup, the Fleece, the Lance. Below these, a second row: the Crown, the Lamp, the Stone. The Hallows she had yet to meet.
Since her meeting with the king—and with Prince Rieth, Princess Elwina, little Kirris—she had been deeply unsettled. Immediately after that unpleasant day, she had swiftly brought the Lance again to Tulach—overland, not through the magic cantreyn fields, for a lingering effect of the Skelow wound was great pain when she called the mist of the traveling spell down around her. It had been a hard journey, in bad weather, a journey that had set her down for a few uneasy days in bed, feverish, tended by a worried Widow Menn and pretty Lyse Cluny.
But the effort had been worth the pain: the Krac’Duar was not a weapon properly carried about in the dark world, flaunted like an ordinary weapon. She was reminded of the stories Mother Maddoc had told throughout her childhood: how the Star Kelch had traveled through the hands of one Chyrian hero, then another, until old King Baradd thought so little of its sacred nature that he used it to serve out the mead to his drunken soldiers. Lively, loving stories, all told, but some essential power had faded with every changing of hands, every uncaring usage.
Then had come the Melniros through the mountain passes from the Svari and the cursed Dettaren, and the Chyrians could do nothing but fall back before them, all the way to the shores of the Western Sea. There were great Chyrian ramparts, earthworks, as far east as the Daneskan deserts, but the Chyrian peoples were gone from those places. They had kept their hold only on the ancient heart of the land, its long, jagged coast, and that only by capitulating to their conquerors.
Gael fingered again the hallow-coins, moving them on the table. The Hallows, she had come to believe, granted power in inverse proportion to their active use. The Cup—so carelessly bruited about in the world, so haphazardly employed—had been greatly diminished. Now, restored at last to its secret home of old, the Druda sent word that the sacred Kelch was regaining strength, soothing to the hearts of Coombe.
The great healing powers of the Fleece of Lien … it seemed to Gael they had left that land’s rulers with an irresistible urge to use its power to overcome every sickness, every ill … a misuse, she believed, that had stirred a bitter power within the magic. Now the Fleece was dangerous. It healed, yet it drew disaster close by it. She did not think it was chance that left both herself and young Guendolin of Grays wounded, left Garvis of Grays with the terrible choice which one he would see healed, in those moments so hard upon the heels of the grove ceremony.
She threaded the top row of hallow-coins back on their thong. The Lance-coin went on last, and then she set the half-threaded thong down, went to rest her hand on the real weapon,
the great Krac’Duar, lying across the wall below the high, night-darkened window, in the brackets Gwil Cluny had devised for its keeping.
At least Mel’Nir’s Hallow had not been overused, not turned bitter, or been squandered—or if it had, the long tenure it had lain unused with the Shee had mellowed it, readied it again for its proper use. The Lance had lain in the secret shrine of the Shee for more than seventy-five years, from before the time Ghanor had taken Mel’Nir’s crown. Yes, it had been hungry for use from the moment she had taken it into her hand, and how much it had accomplished in the little time she had held it! But this hunger was not to be taken for granted—she thought of the Shee, and their swift departure from Tulach’s Halls. Magic could pass quickly from a land, and by rules far from her capacity for comprehension. It was best to remember that a life could be well lived outside its purlieus, best to not become
too
dependent.
She smiled, touched the Lance a final time, came back to the table to retrieve her coins. Pretty thoughts, for one who had retreated within Tulach’s gates … and yet she was not so bad as the Priest-Kings of Eildon! From what Druda Strawn had told her, the Priest-Kings had lived in retreat from the world for hundreds of years now—the Hallow Crown with them in their seclusion. She wondered if the power that had been gathered there could account for the strange, magical quality that suffused that entire country—and perhaps also for its almost tragical waywardness.
She did not guess she would ever see Eildon’s hidden crown—so closely kept, so carefully guarded. She picked up its coin, threaded it back again on the thong, moved on to the next, Cayl’s Lamp. Poor occupied Cayl! She doubted it would ever find its independence. But if Cayl’s Lamp was held in the same Larkdel Sanctuary in Lien that housed the Prophet Matten’s two hundred and fifty year old supposed-life stone … a stone with a light that had never gone out, “evidence,” it was said, of the Prophet’s undying nature … Well, she had her guesses about the force that might truly keeping that stone alight, whatever faith the Brown Brotherhood might place in Matten’s immortality!
But she had already done her part in Lien—and more. She did not think the call would be coming to bring her to Larkdel any time in the near future. That coin also went back on the thong—then she held up the last Hallow token in that row.
The Stone of the Chameln—yes,
that
she was eager to see, and Tomas with her. She would stand before it and admire the foresight of a people who had vested the best of their magical strength in a stone, laid it as the foundation for their double thrones, the Daindru—still running in an unbroken line for almost twelve hundred years!
Already, she and Tomas had spoken of a winter visit to Achamar, to visit this sacred Hallow—and perhaps some other friends, along with it. The Chameln lands were milder than the bleak plain of the High Plateau; “Rolf Beck” had sent word that they would be welcome there.
For a little time—why not take a “grand tour” and enjoy some pleasure in traveling and the company of good friends? When she considered all that had happened in this long year, since her first journey across the High Plateau with Lord and Lady Malm—why shouldn’t she take a rest?
Surely hers was not a destiny that could be pursued. She must be patient, and wait for it to find her.
There was light snow on the ground the day she and Tomas rode out for Lort. Bran was with them, loping along, skidding, dashing his nose playfully into the little drifts and then running, ears flown back, to catch them again. Gael scolded him and told him to keep close—the ride to Goldgrave, where they would spent the night, was not a short one. “I wonder if we will ever come to winter here,” she said, looking back at the dark walls of Tulach’s gardens, the skeleton double row of bare elms, the distant gate where Lyse and Gwil were still waving their good-byes.
“The Shee would not grudge you the comfort of the lowlands,” said Tomas, speaking seriously. “Anything to make you stronger—I think you were not sleeping long last night.”
She had not told him of her visit to the tigh-Aoraidh, the Lance—he had been asleep already when she had returned to their room. Sometimes, being the wife of a scholar was a liability:
since she had gone to the Palace Fortress, the Chronicles of the Krac’Duar had been opened, the edict that had banned its name quietly revoked.
Gael knew this must be King Gol’s doing: it was, if not subtly done, then at least done in a manner so as to cause the least disruption, the least resentfulness. Gael knew at last the story of Simeon Red-Letter, the mortal son of Ethain of Clonagh, the man who had dared to love the woman Prince Ghanor Duaring had chosen to be mistress, dared to carry her away—Gael and many others, too. Though it seemed folk were enjoying the stories, there was no talk of raising a new champion for Mel’Nir: this was spoken of as something legendary, something of the far past. The Lance—it was spoken of as a perilous weapon, a weapon that could draw forth the soul, all mortal love.
Gael Maddoc, who had held the Krac’Duar in the strongest moments of its magic, knew intimately its powers, recognized this story to be a parable for the desire for power, not for the magic of the Lance itself, but she had not entirely been able to convince Tomas of this moral lesson. He was happy when they rode out from Tulach—and left the Lance safely behind them in its holding brackets.
“Ah, but I am strong enough!” she told him. This was not completely true—the Skelow wound still troubled her, more even than she wanted to admit; but it was true enough for her to delight now in pushing Ebony forward playfully, making the horse dash out away from him, her doting husband, forcing him to chase her. Valko at least caught her teasing mood, and they rode on together, making good speed and in good temper. Bran had to stop playing in order to keep up.
The ride was hard and cold, yet pleasant. At day’s end, they came in to the Heroes of Goldgrave, that good inn where Gael had once stayed in the train of the Malms, and they stood inside to take their rooms. But the hosteller, alas, was in no good mood; there was some confusion, the big public room was full, their rooms not kept, particularly, they did not want the dog.
“An unexpected party,” the hosteller explained, looking down his narrow nose.
“We have paid already for places,” Tomas said mildly.
“Unexpected parties on the road!”
Gael and Tomas looked at each other, trying to be amused. She was wearing the plain clothes of a kedran captain; Tomas was warmly dressed in his scribe’s tabard and cloak. They did not wish to reveal themselves, but also after a long day’s riding, they did not wish their day ended in a drafty room up under some cold ceiling. “Who has come here?” Gael asked.
It was a great party, a family reunion—all of great ladies. The hosteller, Shim Doon, a little unbent, for this was an awkward time of year to provide great ladies—three of them!—with all the comforts that were expected—and one come all the way from the Southland, and unhappy with what she called the cold. The cold! Was this cold? Master Doon did not see it that way! But one among the ladies, she was renowned as a Seer, and thus—no choice in it! All three must venture forth! What could their husbands—they were great lords indeed—what could they be thinking?
Gael did not need to ask, she knew. This could only be the Strett sisters: Annhad, Perrine, and Pearl. “Take in our names,” said Gael. “They will see us.” She put her hand over the green stone of Lady Annhad’s ring: it had served her well since that bright morning in Pfolben when Elim, Lady Annhad’s servant, had watched her put it on her hand. Tomas met her eye. He saw her worry and put his hand reassuringly around her waist.
Master Doon was surprised when Gael and Tomas were brought swiftly to the “great ladies’” chambers; Gael was surprised when they were ushered into a big room with a blazing fire, and all three sisters were there to greet her. In four years—five!—Lady Pearl had changed little in her appearance. She still shone with the light of magic; the touch of age was yet in abeyance. Lady Annhad was also well.
Perrine, the new-made Lady of the Eastmark, looked older than both her sisters, and very tired, as though her new responsibilities lay heavy on her shoulders. Gael would learn, a little after this conversation, that she had only just received the sad news that her first grandchild had been born with the cord around its neck. It was not thriving, but neither had it died. Perrine was polite enough, but she made her welcomes and retreated. Her sisters’ company was all she wanted, this cold evening of new winter.
“Gael Maddoc,” said Lady Pearl, after all had made their welcome, and Tomas was properly introduced. “You are looking tired.”
“There were troubles back in the Maplemoon.”
Lady Pearl nodded, with knowing eyes. “We had news of this at Cannford,” she admitted.
Annhad called Master Doon to bring refreshment—he came himself with the tray, whispering to Gael in an aside that rooms had been made ready for them, Bran had been taken there already. Soon after, Tomas bid his adieus and went out to see that everything was well prepared for them.
“He is worried about you,” Lady Pearl smiled. “Surely a virtue in a husband.” She had never married, thus this light jest.
Gael, having paid her respects, sought now to make her escape, leave these long-separated sisters their privacy, but Annhad bid her bide a moment. She wanted to see her old ring—Gael held it out to her.
“That was mischievously done!” The Lady Pearl tapped her sister’s hand. “Taking the
Wanderer
’s protection, putting this bauble in its place!”
Gael could not quite see what had provoked this. “It has been very useful to me,” she said hesitantly, “and I think … I think I have come safely through all you foretold for me.”
“Yes,” said Lady Pearl, looking at her deeply. “I think that you have. Is that why our paths have crossed here tonight? Do you imagine your destiny fulfilled, and wish another forward-peering glance from my crystal ball?”
Gael thought of the lovely afternoon at Cannford Old House, how she and Jehane had come so lightly down the avenue, and gone away from there … burdened. She thought of the things she might like to see: a child … not soon, but not too late, also, that her mother would not see it. Baby Kirris crowned king? No, he was yet too little. She wanted that to wait. The other things she wanted to see … she had a feeling as though her Skelow wound had twisted, and she was touched by the memory of her father’s corpse upon the ground. Where there was adventure, there would also be pain. “When last we met,” she said, “you indeed gave me a great gift. You foretold some pictures from my life … a man, a royal boy, an old woman before
a mirror. These set me on my destiny when I was a raw young girl, and could scarcely see that there could be any such strange road before me.”