by Andre Norton
“That’s in the hands of the Ruler of Waves, but I think so, too.”
There never seemed an end to the tasks that Third Mate Dorsus could find for the two boys to do. Dorsus’s main responsibility, as the boys learned, was being the leader of the Marines, who were primarily archers. He was also out on his first adventure a-roving. If either of the boys thought this latter circumstance would create some measure of sympathetic kinship with them, they were very much mistaken.
Tjórvi hit on the idea of asking Dorsus to give them lessons in archery.
“Maybe that would sidetrack him, just a little, from finding every nail that needs polishing, or line that needs waxing,” he said. “And we could do well to learn a new skill. Well,” he added a bit boastfully, “hone the skill I already have, that is.”
“Hah,” Mikkel said. “And who was it who brought down a coney with his bow, when we went hunting?”
“You missed another,” Tjórvi jeered companionably. “It wouldn’t hurt you a bit to take a lesson from an expert. He learned from Chief Archer Dordon, his father, you know.”
“I’ve heard Uncle Rohan speak of him. Well, it costs nothing to ask.”
Mikkel settled into his bed, trying to find a comfortable spot, a problem that never concerned Talkin who seemed able to relax completely wherever he was. The spare sails made a mattress much harder than anything Mikkel had been used to, and they smelled stale and musty to boot. He was tired as he had never been before in his life, with half-healed blisters on his hands and muscles he never knew he had aching abominably, much too tired and sore to sleep. He smiled, utterly happy and content, and fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
The next morning, they were hard at work under Dorsus’s watchful eye, when the lookout spotted sails from another ship on the horizon. At once, Captain Fritji ordered them below to their quarters, with instructions to stay out of sight.
“But—” Mikkel started to say, but Fritji stopped him before he could protest further.
“We don’t know if these are honest merchants who’ll pay us our tithe to let them sail on, or if they’re brigands after our blood. You’d be a hindrance if there’s a fight,” he told them sternly, “and no help if there isn’t. We can’t afford to assign men to guard you. You will obey me. Take the warkat with you.”
Already the Spirit Drum, in the hands of Jens, was whispering. It would make smooth the waves under the bow of GorGull and roughen the waters through which an enemy must go to reach them. Third Mate Dorsus was busy with his Marine archers, handing out quivers of arrows and making certain that every man had a sound bowstring on his weapon, and another safely in reserve. Second Mate Arund was seeing to the distribution of swords to those who had the skill to use them and cudgels to those who did not. Even the cook, Ferbus, laid aside his pothook for a wicked-looking blade.
“Go! Now!” Fritji was not to be defied.
Crestfallen, the boys, followed by Talkin, headed for the mid-ships ladder leading down into the lower part of the ship, disappointed that their first brush with real excitement was going to go unexperienced, the sweetness of danger untasted.
Rohan Sea-Rover was furious, and not troubling to hide it. He called Obern into his apartment and closed the door ungently behind him.
“Tjórvi is missing and Mikkel with him,” he said as soon as he was sure they were alone.
“They—they’ve probably gone out hunting.”
“I think not. Their disappearance coincides with GorGull’s sailing. Frode consulted the Spirit Drum, and confirmed my fears. They’re on board. How could you let this happen, and right under your nose?” he demanded of his eldest son.
“I can’t be everywhere,” Obern returned, more than a little defensively. “And Mikkel’s whereabouts is not the concern of the Sea-Rovers.”
“It is my concern. And should be yours.” Rohan’s voice dropped to a growl. “If you’d pay more attention to your duties and less to the castle maids you wouldn’t be standing there looking stupid while your brother and a prince of the Nordorners sails off a-roving with an inexperienced captain.”
Still Obern stood silent, glowering, showing no outward sign of chagrin or acknowledgment of error. Rohan’s eyes narrowed.
“Shall I inform Hallfríðr Snolladóttir of your—your pleasant activities among the castle serving women?” he asked.
Obern started, stung at the mention of his wife. “No!” he shouted. And then, more calmly, “No. I will find him.”
“How? Do you propose to take Spume Maiden out in some random direction and call it a search? Hope that the Ruler of Waves will bring them to you? No, I will tell you what you will do. You will return to New Vold on Spume Maiden while I take Ice Princess in pursuit of GorGull. We should be able to catch up with her within a day, two at the most, with Frode to guide us with his Spirit Drum.”
“But Frode is with Spume Maiden,” Obern objected.
Rohan stared with some distaste at his eldest son, disliking the slowness of his mind and wondering what he could do to make the boy think at least as well as the lowliest Sea-Rover at New Vold. “Frode is now with me. You do not have his services. Surely you are competent to follow the coastline back south.”
“Yes, Father,” Obern said meekly.
“Now you will accompany me and wait outside while I break the news to Gaurin NordornKing and Ashen NordornQueen. I would not blame either of them if they called you in and decided to have you flogged until your back is raw. For that matter, I haven’t decided against such a thing myself. You can only hope that this turn of events does not disturb the festivities surrounding the marriage between Earl Royance and Countess Mjaurita.”
He started toward the door, then hesitated and turned toward his son again. “Most of all, you should hope that the Duchess Ysa does not get wind of this. If her plans are disturbed she’ll devise a punishment that will have you longing for the sweet and gentle taste of the flog. Now, go!”
Four
Rohan sent a steward urgently requesting a private meeting with the Nordorn rulers; his request was granted automatically, and the steward sent to escort him into the sitting room of the royal apartments. In happier times, he and Gaurin had exchanged pleasantries in this chamber while Ashen and Anamara puzzled over how to solve the riddle of the Dragon Box, wherein had lain a bracelet composed of small teeth—not all human—and an ancient parchment containing the history of the Mother Ice Dragon and the fabled Dragon Blade.
Today, Rohan was fairly blazing with anger. Ashen had never, to her recollection, seen him in such a state before.
“How now, good Chieftain, kinsman, and friend,” Gaurin said. “What troubles you?”
“I am the bearer of ill news,” Rohan replied. He began to stride back and forth in front of the NordornKing and NordornQueen, too agitated to take the chair they offered him. “My son Tjórvi has gone missing, and worse, so has Prince Mikkel. From all the evidence, the boys have stowed away on GorGull to go a-roving and it’s all Obern’s fault for not keeping a proper eye on them.”
“Why, those scamps!” Gaurin exclaimed.
“No wonder they’ve been absent from table at the evening meals,” Ashen said. “But isn’t this something that every young Sea-Rover does, sooner or later? Going out to sea, I mean?”
“Yes,” Rohan ground out from between gritted teeth, “but not on the first voyage of an untried captain. We always arrange these adventures carefully, to make sure the youngster comes back safely if at all possible. I knew that Tjórvi was planning to escape and go out a-roving; he might as well have had it written across his forehead. It was Obern’s duty to keep him safe and on shore. To keep them safe. Heir Obern might be, but he hasn’t any more sense than he needs, and I haven’t yet made up my mind how to deal with him.”
She remembered an incident, years earlier, when she had been sailing on Spume Maiden down the coast to New Vold. Obern had been a toddler in leading-strings then, reckless as only a young child could be, and had fallen
into the water. She still recalled the rough jokes about how to deal with the obstreperous child, and how he had been more outraged than hurt by the incident. Apparently, listening to Rohan talk about his heir, the young man had learned little in the way of prudence or foresight as he grew.
“You are beginning to frighten me a little, Rohan,” she said.
“As well you might be, if I allowed this little misadventure to go on much further. The Duchess Ysa may have some of her wedding planning spoiled, but my part in them was minor at best. I will ask Tordenskjold for permission to go after the boys on Ice Princess. I should be back within two days, no more than three. Frode will guide me to where the GorGull will be found. You can rest assured that Tjórvi will have a good hiding when I get my hands on him. Mikkel—Well, he’s yours to discipline, not mine. But if I had my way, I would impress on him the utter stupidity of running off on some wild adventure without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Do as you deem best,” Gaurin told the agitated Sea-Rover Chieftain. “You know your boy better than I do. I will deal with the Duchess, if need be.”
“For not having my head for my carelessness, I thank you, Gaurin NordornKing. And thank you, Ashen NordornQueen,” Rohan said formally. He bowed. “Now I take my leave. The soonest departed, the more quickly returned.”
Then he was gone, leaving Ashen and Gaurin to stare at one another.
“I never thought Mikkel would do such a thing,” Ashen said. “Tjórvi must have put him up to it.”
“Undoubtedly,” Gaurin replied, “but the notion fell on fertile ground. Do not fret, my Ashen. Rohan is a good Chieftain, a good father, and a good uncle to all our children. I have no doubt that he will bring the boys home, much chastened.”
“Surely he will.”
Privately, Ashen determined to seek Zazar’s advice and counsel. As Rohan had his Spirit Drummer Frode, so did she have the old Wysen-wyf, Zazar. If anyone could reassure her about the outcome of this harebrained boyish misadventure, it would be Zazar.
In spite of herself, Zazar was startled when Ashen told her the news. “I thought I was past being surprised. They are idiots. Imbeciles. Just like all males. It’s a wonder any of ’em ever grow up, the reckless way they act.”
“I was hoping you could, could do something. Perform a ritual, perhaps. Look into the future.”
The Wysen-wyf stared at Ashen, thinking. Should she admit that it was possible she could have warded off this incident by consulting the Web castings, if only she hadn’t had that brandewijn? Better to wait.
“Too soon for that.” Or too late, Zazar thought glumly. “Let Rohan do what he’s skilled at—chasing around the open seas going after a prize.”
“He has set sail already.”
“Good. Don’t borrow trouble until you know the true face of it, is my advice. He’ll bring the boys back if anybody can, most likely none the worse for wear except for a good soaking. You’ve got enough to worry about here, what with the wedding and having to keep a rein on Ysa. There’s no telling what she could or would make of this opportunity to cause trouble, not to mention what a tantrum she’s apt to throw now that her beautiful plans may be disturbed.”
“Ysa!” Ashen exclaimed. “I had forgotten about her. Is there any way to keep this from her?”
“I wouldn’t count too heavily on it. The word has to be out, and widely, by now. I saw Elin hurrying in the direction of Ysa’s apartments, and I have to think she was eager to let her granddam know what had happened. Elin, I think, likes to be the bearer of news, whether good or ill.”
At that very moment, the Princess Elin was rapping on the door to Granddam Ysa’s apartment. “May I come in?”
Lady Gertrude answered. “Is there a warkat with you?” she asked. “Or that creature Madame Zazar harbors? Poor little Alfonse gets so frightened—”
The tales of Ysa’s lapdog and his encounters with any creature larger than he, which encompassed almost all the animals living in Cyornas Castle, were well known to Elin. The warkats especially seemed to think Alfonse was some sort of toy, created for their enjoyment. They never hurt him, but loved to terrify him. “No, Lady Gertrude, I made sure that I was alone.”
“Then come in, child!” Ysa called from the inner chamber beyond the sitting room. “Your company is always welcome!”
“The more so when you hear what I have to tell you,” Elin replied as she entered. “Mikkel has run away!”
“No!” Ysa exclaimed. “Grisella, bring the Princess Elin a cup of hot berry juice. She looks quite out of breath. And yes, a little hot wine in it. Not too much, mind you.”
Elin accepted the beverage gratefully. “Thank you. And yes, I did hurry here, Granddam. I thought you should know in case you—you wanted to remake some of your plans. For the wedding, I mean.”
“Then tell me, child.”
Quickly, Elin relayed to Ysa the information about Tjórvi and Mikkel’s running away to sea, and how Uncle Rohan had gone in pursuit of them. “He told Mother and Father that he’d leave Mikkel’s punishment to them, but I think he’ll give both of them a good beating.”
Ysa thought a moment, eyes narrowed. “Ladies, please leave us,” she said.
Obediently, the three—Grisella, Ingrid, and Gertrude—arose and, with a rustle of snow-thistle silk skirts, went into the outer room. Little Alfonse, who had been napping on a chair in that chamber, trotted back to his mistress quickly, before the door closed.
“There might be an opportunity for us in what might otherwise be thought of as a calamity,” Ysa said as soon as they were alone. She reached for a plate of sugar cakes that had grown stale and began feeding bits to the dog.
“That’s what I thought, Granddam. And so, I was all impatience to get to you.”
“You acted wisely. Now. As to the wedding itself, the absence of the Sea-Rover Chieftain is unfortunate, but something we can cover. Your brother—Well, frankly, we won’t miss him in the least, nor that boy he is such good friends with. What’s his name? Turvus? Turvi? Something like that.”
“Tjórvi,” Elin said. “They would probably spoil things by pointing and whispering anyway, or not even show up. It would be worse than—” She closed her lips firmly. She had been on the verge of saying, worse than Alfonse being chased by one or more of the warkats.
Word of the young Prince’s disappearance, and that of the Sea-Rover’s son, spread quickly through the castle. Like any other small community, the doings of all of its inhabitants was a matter for great discussion, and this one was amusing as well as unusual. The castle servants eagerly took up the news, having served the great ones in the Hall and now free to have their own dinner.
“I always thought His Highness Mikkel was better suited to live in a crofter’s cot than here,” Rols remarked as he heaped his truncheon with roast fallowbeeste flesh from one of the big bowls.
“No!” exclaimed Grete, one of the maids. “The young master is missing? And what of Their Majesties? I expect Ashen Nordorn-Queen is right well beside herself with worry. She fair dotes on all her children.”
“She is holding up well,” Rols said, happy to be speaking with Grete. He was sweet on her, as the saying went, and she mostly ignored him. “The Sea-Rover Chieftain has gone out to find the young master and his own son and bring ’em back in some disgrace.”
A ripple of laughter went around the table.
“And the little warkat with them, I expect,” said Arne.
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Rols said. “I also heard that one of the warkats is missing. The little ’un.”
Rols had once been charged with caring for the warkats in Cyornas Castle. As he had advanced in rank among the servants, this task had fallen to Arne.
“His mama, Finola, wouldn’t touch the plate of fallowbeeste I gave her earlier,” Arne told the people around the table. “From the tenderest joint, too. Madame Zazar’s familiar, Weyse, is down in spirit as well.”
“It is sad, very sad,” Beatha said. She had made
herself useful as an assistant cook, and so ate with the other servants.
“Well, I daresay that all will be put to rights within a few days,” Huldra said. Second in rank only to Ayfare, her word carried a great deal of weight among the servants. “I will not be pleased if word of your tattling and mumbling over Their Majesties’ misfortune, minor though we all hope it may be, gets back to them.”
A murmur of acquiescence went around the table, and so the subject was closed—at least for the time being.
Despite Huldra’s warning, and orders from Ayfare and Nalren as well, castle gossip about the very unlikely missing trio continued unabated, if quietly, until the midmorning the warning bell announced that the new ship, Ice Princess, had returned to Cyornas Fjord and dropped anchor.
Only one boy, much chastened, trailed in Rohan Sea-Rover’s wake as he made his way straight to the Great Hall of Cyornas Castle. If the Sea-Rover Chieftain had had a face like thunder when he departed, a veritable storm cloud sat on his brow now.
Word of his arrival preceded him. Immediately on sighting the ship, Gaurin gave orders for a full, formal Court, convened as hastily as possible. He and Ashen and a sizable number of the nobility were already waiting in the Hall when Rohan made his entrance. Those not yet in attendance were on their way.
“Welcome,” Gaurin said to him. “What news?”
“I will tell it here and now,” Rohan replied, glancing around at the servants and others who were crowding in to learn firsthand what had transpired, “as soon as all have arrived.”
Bjaudin NordornPrince rushed into the room, hair mussed, clothing a bit untidy. “Greetings and apologies, Uncle,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. He took his seat at the High Table, at Gaurin’s right hand. “I was at practice with the sword. What news of my little brother?”
Princess Elin and the Duchess Ysa also hurried into the Hall before Rohan could reply. From another direction, Duke Einaar appeared, fastening his doublet. This was the hour at which he was usually hard at work in the chamber that served him as office, taking care of the brunt of NordornLand business.