by Andre Norton
Contentedly, he watched Jens, lately Spirit Drummer and Wave Reader on the GorGull, at his duty. Sea-Rovers did not hold with such as magical bowls and water that formed little people who spoke and, Tordenskjold discovered, neither did he. The old ways not only sufficed, they were also better in his estimation.
Jens, busy stroking his drum and scanning the waters ahead, signaled the helmsman who gave the wheel a turn. Presently, Ice Princess glided past a large chunk of pack ice, newly broken free to float where the currents took it.
So deftly had Jens estimated the size of the ice and its location, Tordenskjold felt the tiny vibration as the ship’s hull kissed the hidden underwater floe. Nothing, he knew, had been harmed; not even the paint covering the planks would need to be touched up. Jens looked back at the Admiral-General from his station at the prow of the vessel and grinned.
Showing off, Tordenskjold thought, as he grinned back. And well entitled. Holger might know these waters like he knew the hairs on his head, but he did not have a talented Wave Reader to make the way smooth for him, nor one who was also a Spirit Drummer who could foretell all sorts of other matters as well.
Tordenskjold made a note to have Jens see into his future. Not, of course, that he had any doubt as to the outcome when he and Holger should meet, but it never hurt to have a little fore-knowledge as well.
Holger den Forferdelig’s third ship, Marmel, never left the steading via the secret way. By tradition, the three-ship fleet sailed out through Forferdelig Sound, blood-red banners flying. Later, once they had cleared the headland, these would be furled and set back for use when Holger decided to declare his identity.
Even if the Wykenigs had wanted to use the secret way, Dragon Blood was too big to fit through the channel, as was Ice Rider. Only Marmel was small enough. Then little Marmel came into its own, running from a larger foe. The entrance to the narrow fjord had trapped more than one vessel whose rash, unwary captain found himself unable to come about and escape when the Marmel’s captain, Ridder Shraig, turned to fight.
Later, when the ship had been vanquished, it was either towed out of the fjord with a greatly lightened cargo hold and let go with much merriment at the expense of the captain who had been taken so easily, or the hulk removed to be scuttled where it would not be a peril to Wykenig navigation. The bottom of an inlet some two or three leagues distant was littered with the corpses of ships taken and destroyed.
Therefore, this day, Holger’s three ships sailed proudly from the sheltered entrance to Forferdelig Sound, scarlet banners floating in the breeze. They made a brave show; Ridder Holger was the only Wykenig who could boast of commanding three fine ships. His pride in his fleet was dimmed only by Gunnora’s absence. Surely the Knight-King of the Upplands should be graced by the presence of his lady wife when he went out a-venturing. But Gunnora was absent on some unnamed errand and he knew from experience that trying to find out what she did not want to divulge was an exercise that would yield him nothing but domestic disharmony. So, wisely, he said nothing.
After all, she had counseled him that a rich prize was his for the taking, if he so chose: two NordornLand ships were plying the waters close to Holger’s haunts. Also, she hinted at a mystery ship that needed investigating. Then she had left.
The NordornLand ship he craved as his own, Holger knew, was as good as lost to him with young Ridder Red Fox’s disappearance, for he had nothing with which to barter. Now he wished he had come to some kind of agreement back during the winter rather than teasing Red Fox’s parents with hints of how well he was doing.
But no matter. If there were three ships to contend with, he also had three ships and they were filled with Wykenig warriors, all on edge with battle spirit after the forced idleness of winter.
Dragon Blood led the flotilla by a league and a half—far enough distant that Ice Rider and Marmel could come upon a quarry almost unremarked and flank the ship under attack. It was a maneuver Holger had employed many times. If, however, there really were three NordornLand ships, each of his would have its target laid out plain.
Gunnora had been vague about that third ship, hinting only that it was, somehow, different from the others. A white ship, she said, and gave no further details. As usual, Holger did not question her about how she came by her information. She was a woman of mystery, and she employed mysterious ways.
A lookout high on the main mast called out. “Sail on the horizon!”
“How many?” Holger shouted back.
“One.”
One. Holger frowned, thinking. That might mean that the Nordorn flotilla had separated, or it might also mean that the man to whom he had spoken months ago who identified himself as Admiral-General Tordenskjold of the NordornLand, the one he observed to be capable of being very unpleasant if the mood took him, was canny enough to have blundered onto Holger’s own tactics.
It deserved investigating. He gave orders that the other two ships hide in a fog bank and the parley flag be run up.
“No, surely,” said Asbjørn, first mate on Dragon Blood.
“Learn patience,” Holger rejoined. “We have nothing to lose by negotiating first.”
“The men will mutter at the delay in fighting.”
“Let them. I’m in command here, and there will be fighting enough for all before we return to Forferdelig Sound. Now, obey me.”
“Aye, sir.”
Presently, the parley flag—white with a branch of greenery and a talking-stick in gold—floated out in the slight wind as the two ships neared each other. After some delay, the NordornLand ship ran up its parley flag as well.
“Now,” said Holger, “we will see what we are about.”
The NordornKing and NordornQueen, mounted on palfreys, rode at the head of their procession, out through the gate of the Castle of Fire and Ice, through the town, passing through the barbican where Count Svarteper, Lord High Marshal of the NordornLand, waited to bid the sovereigns farewell. He was formally clad in armor, as befitted his office, and over it wore a jupon of black embroidered with a silver devil-tree, his device. Once his hair had been as black as his jupon; now it rivaled the silver of the embroidered devil-tree. He was accompanied by Hod, a young trumpeter who had distinguished himself in the Battle of Pettervil. Now he bore the rank of lieutenant and had become Svarteper’s chief aide. Out of pride, perhaps, the Lord High Marshal refused to have a second in command.
By custom, Svarteper presented the monarchs with new banners—Gaurin’s was of spring green bearing a silver snowcat, chained with a silver collar, and Ashen’s, flame rising from a blue vessel on a white ground. Two guards riding behind the king and queen accepted the banners Hod handed them, unfurled them, and inserted the thin rods that would hold them out even if the air were too still to let them flutter bravely.
“Good fortune to you, Sir and Madame,” Svarteper told them. “Have no fear for the safety of the realm in your absence.”
“You stand like a bulwark against anyone who would disturb the peace of our country,” Gaurin replied.
“Farewell,” Ashen said. “Look for our return when we have seen to the welfare of our kingdom.”
Then, spurs and harness jingling and wagon wheels creaking, the entourage made its way out through the north gate of the city and onto the road leading to Iselin, their first stop in their journey. To Ashen’s acute embarrassment, her House Troops struck up the verses of “The Song” that had first been composed when she had followed after Gaurin to aid him in the battle against the Mother Ice Dragon. In moments, the other Troops took up the melody as well, and everyone else who knew the words:
Stalwart Gaurin, praiseworthy NordornKing,
Faces unflinching the danger unknown.
His greatest weapon, steel-slender NordornQueen,
They live forever in story and song.
Gaurin reached out and took her gloved hand in his. “You are well loved by everyone, my dear,” he said, eyes twinkling, “and not just by me.”
Nevertheless, her
cheeks burned even though she rejoiced at Gaurin’s good humor and obvious pleasure at this undertaking. He seemed to be feeling a resurgence of his old strength and resilience and if it took being disconcerted by the singing of a song, she would gladly endure it for his sake.
One of Gaurin’s projects, early in his kingship, had been to order all main roads to be paved with stone if possible, and if not, to have a bed of pebbles laid to keep them from becoming impassable morasses in foul weather. Thus had the Duchess Ysa been able to travel between Iselin and Cyornasberg in weather that, in another time, would have had her coach bogged down to the axles.
Now the monarchs and their entourage rode through slowly melting snow, reaching their destination late in the same day on which they set out.
Princess Elin, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak and flanked by such dignitaries as Iselin boasted, waited for them at the manor house. “Welcome, Father, welcome, Mother!” she said. “Your message announcing your progress came just in time to delay my own through Iselin. Now we can go together.”
“A pleasant thought.” Gaurin dismounted, accepting only minimal help from Nalren. He did, however, take the staff Nalren offered. “I am stiff. Unused to the saddle, it would seem,” he said a trifle wryly. “Perhaps this outing will get me back in trim once more.”
Ashen also allowed Hensel, one of her Troopers, to lift her from her saddle. She smiled a little, remembering how Goliat had used to render her this service, and how his big hands had almost met around her waist. Brave Goliat, fallen protecting her from one of the Mother Ice Dragon’s spawn. A memorial to him stood in the public square in Cyornasberg.
“I am almost as stiff as you,” Ashen told her husband. “We will be glad of hot food.”
“All should be in readiness, both for you and those with you,” Elin said. She turned to the seneschal, identified by the pewter cup on the necklace he wore. “Harald?”
“Good comfort awaits within, Your Majesties,” he said, bowing.
“And where do you go when you leave Iselin?” Elin asked when they were all seated and the meal served.
“We have heard of unrest and rebellion in Åskar. Earl Royance has sent a letter requesting assistance.”
“The House Troops are hardly up to the task of quelling a rebellion,” Elin observed.
“Lord High Marshal Lathrom of Rendel has already dispatched my cousin, Cebastian, with a troop of men,” Gaurin said. “He is an able commander, and I look forward to seeing him again. I have no doubt that the rebellion will be well and truly over by the time we reach Åskar.”
“May it be so. Now, please, enjoy yourselves in such hospitality as I am honored to offer my esteemed parents.”
Ashen quirked an eyebrow at this unexpected courtesy on her daughter’s part, and then told herself that Elin was, at last, growing up. Tinka-Lillfot had begun her entertainment, and Ashen turned her attention to the little woman, curious about her. She was truly clever, as were the tricks she had taught her little dog—Ashen found herself laughing out loud and applauding with unfeigned enthusiasm. Perhaps she could persuade someone like Tinka-Lillfot to take up permanent residence in Cyornas Castle. That way, Lady Pernille could rest at times in the evenings.
Though it strained the resources of Iselin’s manor house and its surroundings, somehow space was found for all of Gaurin and Ashen’s people and nobody but the jarls who drove the wagons had to sleep in the stable. This was no great hardship for them, as the beasts gave off much heat and so they rested as comfortably as Gaurin and Ashen in the big house.
The next day, the NordornKing and NordornQueen began distribution of the King’s Penny to the farmers and herders and other good people of Iselin who had come to crowd beside the road in hopes of getting a glimpse of the fabled Maimed Majesties.
One farmer spoke for all. “Thank’ee, Queen,” he said as he doffed his cap. “You’re a good ’un, so they all say and yon King, too, and I think you oughter call it the ‘King and Queen’s Penny.’ ”
He bowed as Ashen laughed with pleasure. “Perhaps next time,” she said. “For now, we follow the old custom.”
Elin obviously basked in the goodwill shown to her parents. She distributed no coins, but accepted the praise and adulation of the people of Iselin with gracious smiles.
She is hoping that Iselin will be hers, Ashen thought, and is practicing for that time. Well, it does no harm. Who knows when Ysa will return. At that, a fresh pang struck her, at the prospect of being absent when Mikkel came back home.
Resolutely, she put the thought aside. For now, they were on the road to Åskar, the trouble spot of the NordornLand, and where she and Gaurin would be most needed.
Signs of the near-rebellion were visible along the road—a crofter’s steading burnt, winter grain left unharvested.
“Our good Earl may not have told us the full story,” Gaurin observed. “I think matters may have stood worse for him here in Åskar than he let us know.”
“Let us hasten to his capital,” Ashen said. “I hope that he and the Countess have suffered no harm.”
“With Cebastian and his men coming to his aid, I doubt that he has been in great peril. Don’t forget, my Ashen, that Royance can command respect and obedience by a look. Still, it is a measure of how things stand that he sent what word to us that he did.”
At that moment, they espied a rider, accompanied by a troop of armed men, approaching. Two of the soldiers carried banners, one bearing a silver burhawk on a red ground, the other four trees, quartered, on a blue ground.
“That is Royance, with the troops sent by Lathrom!” Gaurin exclaimed. “I recognize the Rendelian banner!”
Both parties picked up speed and in a few moments, they had caught up with each other.
“Well met, Sir!” Royance cried, tactfully extending his left hand so that the NordornKing would not have to use his withered one. “Well met, indeed!”
Gaurin grasped the proffered hand. “I rejoice to see you in health. And who is this? Can it really be my kinsman?”
The man addressed grinned and moved his horse closer. “It is Cebastian, Sir, in the flesh.”
“You’ve grown into a real warrior who would be an asset to any kingdom. How can I persuade you to come to the Nordorn-Land?”
“You would have to speak to the Lord High Marshal, Count Lathrom. He regards Steuart as his right arm, and me as his left.”
“I remember Steuart. Able man. Count Lathrom, is it? Well, he’s deserved elevation to the peerage for a long time. And I do believe I will speak to him. Our own Lord High Marshal is accumulating years, and he has no real second. Surely Lathrom can spare you.”
“Sir.”
“And who is this?”
“Nikolos, once of Grattenbor, now of Åskar. Earl Royance’s King-at-Arms.” His left sleeve hung empty.
“This is a gratifying display of old friends’ meeting,” Royance said, “but it can be conducted in greater comfort—not to mention safety—inside Åskar Manor.”
“So shall it be.”
“Stay you in the midst of guards, my Ashen.”
She nodded. Gaurin guided his horse so that he rode beside Royance and the two men could talk. Typically, as the warriors they were, they rode in the van.
“I see that Cebastian’s men have seen service here,” the NordornKing observed.
“That they have, Sir, and recently. I would have been with them—”
“Except that your good lady wife objected,” Gaurin finished for him, smiling.
“She is quite formidable. I thought about unleashing her on the rebels. She would have sent them all packing inside an hour.”
At that, Gaurin laughed outright.
“Your husband, the NordornKing, is in good humor,” Cebastian said to Ashen. He had fallen back so that he rode beside her.
Where he can best guard me, Ashen thought. Things here must not be as tranquil as they appear on the surface. “The last time either of us saw you, you were a cadet, just past boyhood,”
Ashen said. “Now you are a grown man, even as Rohan is.”
“And how does Rohan, Madame?” Cebastian asked. “For such close friends as we have always been, I hear from him seldom.”
“I am his foster mother, and I hear from him no more often than you,” Ashen rejoined.
They continued to converse amiably, as did Gaurin and Royance, until Åskar Manor came into view.
“Ah, I see that the handsome Mjaurita has come out to greet us,” Royance observed. “She will have a feast already prepared if I know my wife—and I believe I do.”
Presently, the greetings having been given and the royal entourage shown to the places where they would stay while in Åskar, the Nordorners were called in to dinner by Jervin, Earl Royance’s Seneschal. There was plenty of room for all, as Royance’s Great Hall was large enough and ornate enough to rival that in the Castle of Fire and Ice.
“You are virtually a king in your own land,” Ashen noted as she washed her fingertips in the bowl of warm perfumed water and dried them on a linen napkin. “And the Countess Mjaurita a queen.”
Royance shrugged. “Just a few comforts for my old age,” he said. “And, of course, for my eternally youthful Countess.”
Mjaurita laughed. “My lord husband has a wily tongue. He flatters me incessantly.”
“No flattery, my dear,” Royance said, taking Mjaurita’s hand and kissing it. “Truth never is.”
“Fie,” Mjaurita rejoined, but laughingly.
“When shall we ride out and begin meeting the people of Åskar?” Gaurin asked. “I wish to show myself and the Nordorn-Queen to them, and also to begin distributing the King’s Penny.”
“Tomorrow, if you are not too tired,” Royance said.
“So shall it be.”
Then the diners gave themselves up to the pleasures of the feast. Royance and Mjaurita kept no permanent entertainer such as Tinka-Lillfot, but there was a troupe of jongleurs and acrobats early out on the road who performed dazzling feats of skill to the delight of all watching. In addition to having their share of the feast, as they were accustomed to do, the entertainers also received a purse heavy with coin and so they left to find beds in the stables, well satisfied.