“Nollister’s daughter,” said Sharn. “Yes, I heard it from Mack Dahl himself.”
“They said Tramarn would have the princess, as if it were well-known,” said Tazlo. “Then I turned and rode off, for they had not seen me. I came clear across the wood again and stood behind a great oak and saw where Tramarn lay sleeping in a grove. Sire, for your honor, I felt a sudden rage at the prince. I picked up a large stone and hurled it at him as he lay sleeping. The power of the wood turned it aside. Tramarn woke, and his kedran rode after me, out of a brake. I rode away as swiftly as I could, and brushed against the hornet’s nest. One hornet pursued me, stung me dreadfully, drove me out of the wood. I came flying down the cliff path to the place where you found me.”
“You must be mad!” said the king, furiously angry. “You sully my honor instead of upholding it. You desecrate the Sacred Wood!”
Sharn Am Zor sprang up and left the tavern, full of his royal rage. When Tazlo had paid their score, they rode on, both silent. As the sun went down behind the hills, directly in their path, they met a shepherd driving his flock to the fold.
“Ask him where the road leads!” ordered Sharn.
The man, who was sturdy and old, with a fringe of white beard, took some time to understand Tazlo’s question, but his answer was plain. The road led to Gwanlevan, the Pendark fortress. They remained standing in the dying light as the shepherd and his dogs passed over the way, following the flock.
“My King!” cried Tazlo, full of his old hope and spirit. “My King, it is your destiny! It is a sign that all is not lost. Oh my King, forgive me for that rash act in the wood . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said the king. “I forgive you. Come let us make haste.”
He still could not admit to Tazlo that all was lost indeed. Yet he did feel that it was his destiny to go to Gwanlevan. Perhaps he would meet the family on better terms, drink wine with old Kilnan. He envied Tazlo his experiences in the Sacred Wood: the air full of voices, the power of the Goddess breathing from every leaf. He was a brandhul, he reasoned, and immune to magic, as he had often boasted at home in Achamar. The vigil and the talk with the High Druda, Gwion Goldenhand, had brought him to the edge of some experience, to some magical threshold that he could not cross.
So they rode on through the long twilight and came between low hills crowned with ash trees, their leaves green-gold for the spring. They saw a gleam of water before them and rode on through a tract of dark, reedy country, empty of any farms or villages. As the moon rose, they came to the edge of a lake.
Gwanlevan Fortress was an island in the midst of the lake, a dark and forbidding pile. No banners could be seen, and only a few feeble lights burned high in the towers. Sharn saw a line of low dunes at the western end of the lake, and when he pushed through the reeds and tasted the lake water it was brackish. The seashore lay beyond the dunes, and sea water flowed into the lake. They could see no jetty on this part of the lake shore, but there was a causeway that might lead to one.
“We must go to the north, by that causeway, my King,” said Tazlo.
“No,” said Sharn.
They both spoke in whispers. The lake, the island keep, the spreading tract of barren land by the sea, all silvered in the light of the moon, had cast a spell upon them.
“How will we come in?” asked Tazlo. “We must find a boat.”
Sharn looked about, and in the moonlight, bright as day, he saw a stunted tree by the lake shore. When he came to it, he found that the ground nearby was firm and dry underfoot. A low branch of the tree had been used as a hitching rail, there was even a hollowed place full of fresh water for a drinking trough.
“Bring the horses,” he called softly.
When Tazlo came up, the king said to him, “I must go alone into Gwanlevan. Stay here and make camp for the night. There is grass and fresh water for the horses. I will send a boat for you if we are to lodge at the fortress.”
Tazlo began a vain protest. He could not let the king go alone. How would he come into the place? The two young men argued furiously in whispers, then Sharn Am Zor strode back through the reeds to the margin of the lake. He stripped off all his clothes, wrapped them into a long bundle with his magic cloak and slung it across his body. He waded into the water, which was cold but not icy cold as the waters of the Chameln lands could be. He set off swimming with firm strokes. Halfway across, he rolled on his back, floating, and saw Tazlo standing anxiously in the moonlight. He waved briefly and swam on, enjoying the water, which was warm now and buoyant.
He came to the fortress and paddled round a sheer black cliff, topped by ancient masonry, until he came to an old weedy stair. He scrambled up—it was slippery and dangerous—and stood at last upon the island, in a rocky niche of the outer wall of the keep. Listening for sounds of life, he dressed himself again and donned the magic cloak, which had kept his clothes dry. He climbed easily to the top of the wall and peered over.
He looked down into an ancient garden with fruit trees, full of blossom, trained against the walls. The keep rose up, old, frowning and unlit, yet with some noise of servants in the distance. At the end of the garden was a plain stone building with a round arched doorway and a wooden roof. It reminded him of a granary in Achamar, but a light burned inside and he decided it might be a chapel to the Goddess. He slipped down easily into the garden; no dogs barked; no men at arms came running. Following a white path edged with seashells, he came to the open door of the chapel and it swung wider without a sound to let him enter.
He came without warning into vastness. Gusts of sweet sound, half-heard, and waves of light cast him down and brought him to his knees on the stone floor. The very stones trembled, floating in the void, and voices spoke, but he had not the power to raise his head. He strove to do so, almost breathless, and beheld, far off, a figure clothed all in light who was three figures: three women, and all were one. It was the Princess Merigaun, transformed, full of power and radiance. Her voice came to him as many voices, and the question they asked was put in many different ways. “What is he?” “Is this man dark or light?” “Who is come to us?” and at last, in a whisper at his ear: “Who are you?”
He strove to answer, but no sound came. He shut his eyes against the light and made a mighty effort.
“I am Sharn Am Zor!”
And again, raising himself up a little; “I am Sharn Am Zor, who shares the double throne.”
And a third time, as the voices began to mock and chide; “I am the king of the Chameln lands!”
A single voice rang like a bell:
“Are you a king?”
Then he crossed the threshold of his quest and saw into his life, as a man and as a king, afterwards he could not explain, even to those he loved, how this was done or what he saw except to say that it was like a dream. A cruel dream full of faces, a tapestry woven of bright and dark threads, a masque of kings, of one king, Sharn Am Zor. Old fear and hatred began to overwhelm his proud spirit; all his defenses were stripped away leaving only a frightened boy. Another voice spoke.
“Enough, Merigaun! Let him alone!”
“Who speaks in this holy place?” rang the voice of Merigaun.
Sharn raised his head, and the world was with him again. What he saw was still as strange as his dream, the revelation of his own life. He lay upon the floor of the chapel; Merigaun stood by the altar, and to his right the stone wall shone like a dark mirror. A woman in a glittering robe and crowned with light was to be seen in this mirror, and he knew her before she spoke her name.
“I am Guenna of Lien!”
“Sister,” said Merigaun, “Is it you? Have you such power?”
“It has been granted to me. I have learned my art in secret, the art that you have through your birth. I am a mortal woman, the Eildon blood of the Vauguens is thinned with years in Lien. I risk much to come here, to show myself as whole and sound and versed in magic. Yet I must speak for this child, for Sharn Am Zor, my daughter’s son.”
“Will you say that h
e is a true king?”
“Not yet,” replied Guenna, “but he has suffered much at the hands of our old enemy. Having seen into his life, Sharn will learn to be a man and a king.”
Her calm faith sustained him. He felt that it was more, much more than King Sharn, the arrogant, wrong-headed, impatient, shadow king, deserved.
“Grandmother,” he said, feeling hot tears upon his cheeks, hearing his own hoarse, altered voice, “Grandmother, I swear that I . . .”
Her image wavered.
“Sharn Kelen,” whispered Guenna, “my dearest child . . .”
“Oh stay!”
He came to his feet, held out his hands, but the image faded, and Sharn could not stand. He groped his way to a stone bench in the shadowy chapel, and Merigaun was beside him, holding a stone cup of cool water to his lips.
“The Markgrafin spoke of an enemy,” she said.
He looked up at her fearfully, but her glory had faded. She was the Princess Merigaun Pendark, no longer the avatar of the Goddess of the Priestess of the Moon.
“A deadly enemy,” said Sharn, “and he has lived in Gwanlevan. It is Rosmer, the vizier of my uncle Kelen, the Markgraf of Lien.”
“I will say his true name,” said Merigaun. “He is Ross Demergue, born within the fortress, child of a young kedran in the service of the house of Pendark and of Prince Ross Tramarn, now become the priest-king.”
“I know his name,” said Sharn. “He has done great harm to my grandmother.”
“And to you?”
“Yes,” he said. “He set me on to come to Eildon and sue for the hand of your daughter. He did it so that he might increase the territory of his master. Lien will have the working of my land pledge. But do not think that he is to blame for my coming. I was warned of all the pitfalls of Eildon, even the Messengers of the Falconers tried to dissuade me. There is a wise man in Achamar, called Jalmar Raiz, and he told me plainly all that I had to fear and that I would never be granted the hand of the Princess Moinagh. I would not hear them. I know that the House of Pendark could do nothing to warn me.”
“The Prince of Tramarn is the favored suitor,” said Merigaun. “You came in vain.”
“No,” whispered Sharn. “It was an ill-starred journey. I have brought injury on two of my closest companions, and I have wasted the substance of my kingdom. Still I have had this revelation, this vision that will surely work to the good of the Chameln lands. And believe me, Lady Merigaun, it was fine to see your daughter, for she is a rare jewel. I will always remember her.”
“You do not know all,” said Merigaun gently. “Tramarn is a noble youth, but Moinagh is no ordinary bride.”
She laid a hand on Sharn’s shoulder and turned about until he looked again at the wall where Guenna’s image had appeared. As she spoke, the wall became a mirror again, and he beheld the wild seashore just beyond the lake of Gwanlevan. Dawn was breaking.
“You will have seen that I have no voice in the Councils of Eildon,” said Merigaun. “I am set apart from the rulers and their courts. It is a fault to have no magic here, and it is a fault to have too much. I am of the Shee. My father was a Lyreth lord, living in the depths of the ocean, far from mortal men, just as the Eilif lords have withdrawn to the High Plateau, in the land of Mel’Nir. My mother was a daughter of a knight of the Fishers, who lived not far from here. I share her heritage. The land is my home, and it is the home of my son Beren. Yet some live between earth and water . . .”
They watched the little waves running up the white sands. From among the rocks came a bevy of young girls; their hair and the skin of their bodies was tinged with green. As they danced upon the sands, leaving the prints of webbed toes, Sharn caught his breath, for the eerie strangeness and the beauty of the dancers. The loveliest of all was Moinagh.
A dolphin leaped in the bay, and dark shapes slithered down from the distant rocks. Not only seals but the selkin, the sealwives, with soft arms and women’s breasts. Moinagh cried out in greeting. She led the way into the sea, plunged into the waves with her Lyreth companions, and he saw, by Merigaun’s magic, how they swam deep down where even the bravest mortal swimmer could not follow.
“There may be other suitors,” said Merigaun, as the vision faded. “The Kings of the Sea, the Lyreth. Moinagh is still a child; one day she will choose.”
For an instant Sharn was filled with longing. To live in the ocean, to swim untiring in the silver flood, to share the nature of the sea creatures . . .
“The sea,” he said. “The kingdom of the sea . . .”
“What will you do, Sharn Am Zor?”
He returned to land. He was new born; he hardly knew himself. He must bring all that had passed into some sort of order in his head.
“I will go home,” he said. “I will go home now, at once. I pray that my two friends Denzil and Gerr are recovered from the injuries they received and that the men of my guard are holding together in the city of Lindriss.”
“Your way will not be smooth,” said Merigaun softly. “You are breaking the ritual of the quest.”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” said Sharn. “Why is this rule set down? Why should those on a quest hold themselves far from the city for two long moons?”
Merigaun smiled.
“There are certain grounds for this rule,” she said, “although the Council holds to the ritual blindly without remembering the grounds. Those on a quest serve the Goddess and are no longer governed by the ties of court and family. Also, it was an old health measure. Those on a quest were feared as plague carriers who did not become ill themelves but brought sickness to others.”
“I must leave Eildon at once,” said Sharn. “I believe it is the right thing to do. I will follow the way to the end.”
“Come then, Sharn Am Zor,” said Merigaun.
She took his hand, and they walked out of the chapel into the light of the rising sun. There was a narrow gate in the wall of the fortress, and servants held it open. At the foot of the old stair there floated a round boat made of hides, a coracle. He said farewell, commending himself one last time to Moinagh, to Beren, to his Great-Uncle Kilnan. Merigaun held up her hand in blessing, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. It was as if the Goddess herself wept for him, for that sorry prince, Sharn Am Zor. He stepped into the boat, and before he could look about for an oar, it bore him swiftly across the waters of Gwanlevan to just that spot where he had entered them.
CHAPTER VII
THE RETURN
Tazlo lay sound asleep under the tree by the lake shore.
“Wake up!” said Sharn. “Come Tazlo, old son . . .”
The young man from the north squinted up at him, trying to wake quickly.
“Take your time,” said the king. “There is food in my magic boat yonder. I will fetch it.”
“My King, you look pale!”
“Tazlo,” said the king, “I cannot tell you all that has passed. I am a changed man. This is the morning of the world for me!”
“The princess?”
“I am no longer a suitor for the hand of the Princess Moinagh.”
“My King, what have they done to you?”
“I have seen the truth. The quest is over. Tazlo, let us eat a bite and quickly mount up. Good news, the best news: Tazlo, we are going home!”
Sharn smiled, gathering his energy. Tazlo stared at his liege, his face a mask of dismay.
“My King, you are honor bound! We cannot return for two moons!”
Sharn strode off to bring food from the coracle, with his esquire trailing after him, protesting, almost weeping. The disgrace! The loss of honor! The broken promises! The king remained resolutely cheerful and would not listen. At last, as they sat under the tree eating fruit from Gwanlevan, the king said seriously, “Tazlo, you have served as my esquire on this quest, but now I release you from this service. Will this please you? I have done ill by all the brave men who came with me to Eildon; I would make amends. If it offends your honor to break off at this point in your
personal quest, in and out of the Sacred Wood, then stay out the remaining two moons. I have gold; you carry my purse. Take what you need and come home when you choose.”
Tazlo was deeply astonished. He stopped with his apple halfway to his lips, staring at the rosy fruit as if it might contain poison. At last he shook his head.
“No, my King,” he said. “I will follow you.”
They mounted up on Blaze and Trueheart and rode out of the reedy country about Gwanlevan and found the high road to come to Lindriss from the west. In a day and a night of steady riding, they came within sight of the city. It swam upon the horizon like a mirage in the Burnt Lands. The king was eager and pleasant all the way, and Tazlo could think that this was the Sharn he knew of old, in the hunting field, perhaps. Yet he saw now and then traces of humility and sadness in his royal liege.
Between them they tried to calculate how many days they had been absent from the city. It was not so easy. Four days and four nights for the vigil in the White Tower, but then how long had been spent in the Sacred Wood. Sharn said it was only a day and a night, but Tazlo claimed that it was much longer. He recalled at least four days and four nights wandering the uncanny reaches of the wood, while perhaps the king lay in a charmed sleep by the brook where he met the King of the Isles. Then a further day’s ride to Gwanlevan and a night spent in the fortress by Sharn. Two days to reach the city. This all added up to ten or eleven days, bringing them to the end of the Birchmoon. After another night at an inn, they rode into Lindriss through the west gate, early in the morning, with a tide of market carts.
They were near the Pendark Court. The air was clear and bright, with no traces of magic mist, and they found their way to Sennick with no trouble. At one point Sharn was recognized and cheered as champion of the bow, the Archer King, Shennazar of Kemmelond. So they came at last to the dark tower. In answer to their shouts and cries, a few guardsmen looked out fearfully and some appeared upon the top of the tower. The drawbridge was lowered, and they rode into the courtyard to find a few men on duty with a drawn look.
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