by Andre Norton
Steuart. The Ice Dragons are an unprecedented weapon of war in and of themselves. This—this giant bow that Gaurin is proposing is but a counter to what we face, not an escalation of weaponry."
Steuart considered the High Marshal's words. "There is merit to what you say. I will lodge no further objection."
The Lord High Marshal nodded, his authority and leadership almost palpable.
"Then set the men to finding trees suitable to the task and build as many of both of these machines, as possible." Royance glanced around the table. "It will serve to keep the men's minds off our recent near disaster in battle. It is always well to keep them busy, and ourselves as well."
Snolli merely shrugged at the news that Lord Royance was now High Marshal of
Rendel. "Makes no difference to me," he said. "Go, be an errand boy. Take
Spume-Maiden. I'll stay here and fight from my deck on Gorgull, the way a
Sea-Rover should."
Gratefully, Rohan accepted and set sail before his grandfather could change his mind. A few days later, he arrived at the Sea-Rover stronghold. With a good wind behind them they had sailed past the cliffs at a brisk pace, but not so swift that he had not been able to make out the remains of what had once been an Ice
Dragon at the bottom of a precipice. It was rapidly being reduced to bones by predators.
"Wonder how Tusser did it," he said to himself, and made a mental note to ask later. His vote for Royance as High Marshal in Tusser's name had been but wishful thinking. When he had heard how the Bog-men had gone immediately to defend their own piece of Rendel, he had had no doubt but that the Dragon would prevail and kill them all. He found himself unexpectedly hopeful that his somewhat capricious ally was still among the living.
Even if there had been an anchorage anywhere on the rocky rim of the Bog, he would have dared go no other route than the familiar one he had known since childhood, full of good hiding places in case Bog-men less friendly than Tusser were about. That meant anchoring Spume-Maiden in the harbor at New Void.
Harvas, her captain, offered to accompany Rohan into the Bog, but he declined the company. "Trust me, I will be quicker gone and returned if I go alone," he said.
"It goes hard with me to let the Chieftain's grandson venture into that dark and dismal place," Harvas replied. "I got my first look when we sailed along the cliffs and had to fight great birds and nasty swimming horrors. You were just a mewling brat at the time."
"Well, Snolli isn't here and I'm all grown up now," Rohan said. "Believe me, I am. I'll be all right. When I was a youngster I spent almost as much time there as I did at New Void or the Oakenkeep. But if it will make you feel better, go with me to the Barrier River and post guards until I come back."
The captain had to grudgingly settle for this concession. He selected half a dozen of his burliest sailors in addition to himself and then, with Rohan safely placed in the middle, they journeyed cross-country, thence along the river to the familiar ford.
There Rohan left them, despite renewed protests from Harvas. Almost gratefully, he plunged into the dank gloom of the Bog and, alone and without any untoward incident except nearly slipping on a patch of ice, arrived at Zazar's hut. To his surprise, he found the hearth cold and the Wysen-wyf sitting on a large pack half asleep, her fur-lined traveling cloak about her shoulders. Weyse was curled beside her, napping.
"Looks like you were expecting me," he said.
"Of course I was," Zazar said, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn. "And you're late.
Sit down, sit down. Supper grew cold a long time ago, but I can strike the fire again and warm it up if I have to. What happened to your arm? And your hard head?"
"It's a long tale, and I'll entertain you with it on the ship."
"Ship? What ship?"
"The Spume-Maiden, Granddam. She's mine now—or, at least, close enough to claim her for my own."
"No need for a ship just to go to the Oakenkeep."
"What?"
"Did that knock on your head make you deaf? I said we didn't need a ship just to go to the Oakenkeep. Maybe you've gone daft instead."
Rohan felt the conversation slipping rapidly from his grasp. "Let's start over.
My ship, the Spume-Maiden, is waiting for us. The Oakenkeep is not our destination."
"Oh," Zazar said.
"I thought you knew—"
"Well, maybe I don't always know everything," the Wysen-wyf admitted grudgingly.
"There are some details I might be a little vague on. I expected Ashen might have returned from Rendelsham to the Oakenkeep, and we were going to be with her. That's why I was all packed and ready. You had me thinking we'd be sailing down the Great Barrier River like a flock of loons."
Rohan held onto his reason with both hands. "No, Grand-dam," he told her, "we're going north, close to where the battleground is. Ashen is there and she sent me.
There have been many terrible things happening. You're needed."
"Then why didn't you say so? Here you are, dawdling about wasting time with story-telling and asking for supper with the fire out and the ashes swept. That doesn't make any sense. We have to get goingl You take the pack, and I'll look after Weyse. Don't keep babbling at me. You can just wait awhile and give me the whole story once we're on the ship and on our way."
She set off at a brisk pace, leaving Rohan to shoulder the pack lopsidedly, and wonder at why he was so fond of Zazar when she had to be the most difficult, exasperating woman he knew.
Fifteen
A cloud of almost palpable gloom hung over all of the city of Rendelsham and, in those parts of the country where the heralds had taken the news, over Rendel itself. With the death of Count Harous, Lord High Marshal of Rendel and leader of the Four Armies, the spirits of the people dropped sharply. No matter that he had died a hero; his absence was sorely felt.
Harous's body was already in the family crypt of the vault at Cragden Keep, kept packed in ice, awaiting the final, private rites. An effigy lay in the Great
Fane of the Glowing, resting upon Harous's shield and covered with the Marshal's banner showing the badges of the Four Houses—Oak, Yew, Ash, and Rowan. As much of the populace as could make their way into the Fane filed past in respectful mourning until the day of the funeral, when the nobility occupied the choice spots in the Fane and only the luckiest ones of the commoners would be able to crowd in to watch.
The Dowager Ysa, First Priestess of Santize, the premier lady of Rendel, stood beside her grandson, King Peres, as the service for Count Harous droned on.
There were no fireplaces in the Fane, of course, and no braziers either. It would have been unendurable had it not been warmed a little by so many bodies packed in it. Her hands, bare of gloves so that the Four Rings could clearly be seen, were stiff and blue and she wished for boots such as the men wore. The floor was so cold that her feet were numb. Though she kept her demeanor grave, giving the proper responses at the proper times, her thoughts were busy, occupied with other matters.
Two state funerals within such a brief time, and an entire House, a staunch ally of both Oak and Yew, now vanished as if it had never been. What a pity, Ysa thought, the late Countess Marcala had not fulfilled her dynastic duty and produced an heir. Now, however, when the Cragden vault was closed, it would never be breached again, for Harous was the last of his line. Ysa made a note to order a magnificent monument be erected over the entrance to the vault and seal it permanently, with appropriate sentiments carved into the stone attesting to the bravery and valor of all the Cragdens, the last count the most staunch of all, falling in defense of Rendel.
Poor Marcala, so ill that she had been out of her mind at the last. Ysa didn't believe a word of the nonsense she had babbled. Poison indeed. A strange malady, yes, but natural. Ysa hoped it would not bring more cases in its wake. She made a note to consult Master Lorgan and have herself examined thoroughly, in case she had contracted something.
After all, she had been most assiduous in nursing her
poor, doomed friend.
Vaguely, she hoped that the exiled king of the Nordors, Hynnel, would recover from the injury suffered when he had gone to Harous's aid. That wretched
Sorceress and the weapon that burned out men's lungs! Ysa rued the day she had ever trusted the woman. But then, she had not known she dealt with any but a
Magician, a man, being totally unaware that the woman was going in disguise. All of the Dowager's innate distrust of her own gender came back upon her full force. Better, far better, she thought, to rely on those she knew from long acquaintance that she could trust such as the unfortunate Marcala. Or unearthly servants, such as the flyer Visp.
She glanced past the King to Lady Rannore, his mother. Her shameful condition was very apparent, and in Ysa's opinion, to the point of dictating that she retire from public view. Ysa knew that Rannore had been questioning members of the military escort for news of her baseborn husband's well-being even as Ysa had questioned them for news of how the war was going now that the Lord High
Marshal had fallen.
Perhaps it was all to the good that Royance had gone haring off into the snowy wilderness with the Bog Princess Ashen on that fool's errand. Royance was, Ysa had to admit, the best qualified of all Rendelian senior nobles to take up
Harous's duties. Despite his silver hair and the age that would have bowed his shoulders had he not fiercely resisted all such signs, it had been little over a score of years since he had defended his property, or what he deemed his, in full siege from neighbors too ambitious. He knew full well what he was about, even if he did not take the field personally.
The ceremony was drawing to a close. Harous's effigy, still resting upon his shield, would now be shouldered by his military honor guards. Then the funeral procession would wend its way out of the Fane, through the streets of
Ren-delsham, and along the well-worn road to Cragden Keep and the vault that awaited. Ysa and King Peres, of course, would form the head of the cortege which would also include those senior nobles still in the city for the Countess's recent funeral. Out of the corner of her eye, Ysa glimpsed Wittern of Rowan, the
King's grandfather. Just behind him would come Gattor of Bilth, as lazily sleepy-eyed as ever. He had come in for his share of criticism, Ysa knew, because the war was being fought practically in his back yard, with Bilth Keep close by. Surely he should have been in residence but Gattor had never been a warrior. His conflicts had ever been conducted in the shadows and few were the times men could more than speculate on his part in the sudden collapse of an ally of a House rumored to be encroaching upon his own holdings. It was no surprise to Ysa that he preferred to stay in Rendelsham now, where he was relatively safe.
Valk of Mimon, Jakar of Vacaster, and Liffen of Lerkland ranged themselves behind Gattor. It remained only for her and the King to assume their positions and then the final portion of this sad occasion would begin.
Despite the solemnity of the moment, she was glad that only her feet would suffer. Her black mourning dress was heavy and warm, and she would not be required to go without a cloak. It was enough that she, the Dowager Queen, wearer of the Four Rings, holder and guardian of the true power in Rendel, would be forced to go on foot, to honor the dead.
King Peres turned to Lady Rannore. "Madame my mother, you are excused from this last sad journey," he told her. "Please, return to Rendelsham Castle where you will be warm." He gave her one of his rare smiles. "And also for the sake of my brother, or sister, who waits to be born."
"Thank you," Rannore said. "I will obey."
Then Peres addressed Ysa. "And you also, Madame Granddam. This is no matter for women. Let the men take up what is rightfully their duty."
"I would gladly go, to honor Harous, but will stay behind, at your request," Ysa told him.
"When we have come back from Cragden, we will send for our fair cousin Hegrin,"
Peres continued. "She dwells, we are told, in Rydale, for the safety it affords.
But since there is no longer any safe place in this land, we would have her by us and to that end have already written out a letter to this effect. To lend a kind note to our request, we have bethought ourselves of a certain strand of pearls, strung with sapphires, in the royal treasury. Please have it ready when we return, for we would send it to her, in loving friendship."
Ysa opened her mouth, and then closed it again. There was that in her grandson's face that told her protest would be futile. Instead, she dropped a small, stiff curtsey. "Yes, Your Majesty," she said.
Inwardly, she was furious, warning bells clanging a far from melodious din in her mind. She knew full well what this might entail, with the King now of marriageable age, if barely. Now, while Ysa searched out the pearl and sapphire necklace, she would have to begin thinking of a way to thwart what was surely to become a dangerous situation, with the daughter of the Ash heiress and the King of Rendel in such close proximity to one another.
Dalliance was one thing, but marriage another and, unlike either his father or grandfather, Peres was not one likely to be given to trifling with a woman's affections. When he wed, she, Ysa, would choose the girl and the daughter of the
Bog-Princess Ashen was, without a doubt, the last one Ysa would ever consider.
"Come in, young Chevin," Lady Rannore said. She showed Chevin to a seat by the fireplace where spiced wine was being heated by her maid. "I am told that you will be leaving Ren-delsham now that the funeral is over."
"At first light tomorrow." Gratefully, the young knight pulled the chair closer to the warmth and accepted a goblet of the steaming mixture. He drank deep and then set the goblet aside, rubbing his hands to get some circulation back into the fingers. "Thank you, Lady Rannore," he said. "It was brutally cold, on the way to Cragden and back, in formal clothing. Now I fully understand the wisdom of the many layers of tunics and other garments that Lord Gaurin and Lord Hynnel bade us wear. We would not have survived our first week in the encampment without them."
"It was a sad journey, bringing Lord Harous back for burial."
"Sad and more than sad. But we are most grateful that Lord Royance was there, to step into the breach. He is a brave old gentleman, and I doubt not that he will lead us well."
"Please forgive me for asking again. Blame it on my condition. You are certain that my lord Lathrom is well?" Ran-nore asked.
"For a few moments by your fire and the pleasure of your company, I would answer the same question a dozen times over," Chevin replied gallantly. "Yes, he was as well as any of us when we saw him last."
"Almost I would not ask for tales of his exploits, but I find that I must."
"He fought valiantly at the battle of the valley. If it had not been for him leading our men against the Frydians who hoped to fall upon us when we were in disorder after the avalanche, I daresay that the war would be over by now and ourselves not the victors."
Rannore shook her head in wonderment. "Would that I could be there, with my kinswoman Ashen. Tell me of her as well."
Chevin smiled; obviously this was a pleasant topic for him. "She is the very embodiment of what we fight for," he said. "Without a thought for her high station, she tends the wounded from daylight to dusk. She always has a word for everyone she meets, and just to see her lifts all our spirits."
"Keep her safe, when you return." Rannore sighed. She took a packet, wrapped in waterproof covering and tied with yellow ribbon, from the table nearby. "Please take this to her. In it are letters for her and for my husband as well. Tell her— tell her that we who wait behind are concerned for her."
"She will be safe, as long as any of us have breath in our bodies," Chevin promised. "Oh—I almost forgot, in the press of other matters. I do know something that might lift your spirits a little. You know that Rohan suffered a broken arm and is out of the fight."
"Yes, I had heard. It must go hard with him."
Chevin smiled. "We might tease him about making a capital errand-boy, but we know he chafes at it. Anyway, there was a st
ory in camp, before the honor guard left, that Rohan had been sent off on another mission, to bring the Wysen-wyf of the Bog with him when he returned."
"That is news indeed!" Rannore exclaimed. "For what purpose?"
"That I do not know, Lady."
"It is one more mystery among so many. Perhaps Rohan can report to Rendelsham
Castle now and then, as part of his duties, and bring us news."
"I will suggest it to Lord Royance," Chevin promised. "And now, Lady, I must regretfully say my goodbyes. My thanks for your hospitality, and know that I will deliver your messages to Lady Ashen personally."
He rose from his chair and Rannore attempted to do likewise. Her bulk made the task difficult. Chevin offered assistance.
Rannore put her hands on his shoulders. "I will give you three kisses to take with you," she said. She touched her lips to his right cheek. "This is for