Tazlo cried out, “I struck for your honor, sire! I killed a spy!”
It was as if he hoped to wring a few angry words from Sharn Am Zor. The king gazed at the young man from the north with a mild and pitying look that stung much more than his old harshness. Tazlo turned and ran off across the snow. In two moons the old land dispute flared up and was at last decided. The king insisted upon a division of the lands, a notably fair decision approved by all but the Aroshen.
Aidris the Queen was puzzled and displeased at first by the tale of Nerriot, musician and spy. As Sharn tried to tell the story at her fireside, she recalled a scene years past when she had sent the two pretenders, Raff Raiz and Taranelda, off into the snowy night to freedom and had spoken of the mercy of the Goddess. Surely this was what had been shown to Nerriot, the master musician? He had been tolerated for his great gifts and kept from doing too much harm. Yet at the heart of the affair there seemed to be a hint of the fear that she hated: the fear of Rosmer, the night-flyer, the eater of souls.
Sharn had spoken of his children and of his nephew Till Am Chiel, who had done so bravely when Nerriot was struck down. Aidris could sigh for a time when her children were still so young; now she had a son full grown, almost a man, fourteen years old and taller than his father. The palace of the Firn was the home of striplings and growing girls, from the wild beauty Imelda Kerrick, of marriageable age, to the green-eyed Princess Micha, shy and woman-shaped at thirteen. Huon Kerrick, barely a year older than Prince Sasko, started climbing out of the palace at night and sporting a red scarf and a broad-brimmed hat. Countess Sabeth wept; Gerr, his father, stormed; and Aidris let her power be felt. The kedran of the garrison fell upon The Sun tavern, rounded by the Salamanders with scant regard for their high estate, and let them taste a day and a night of the dungeons of the South Hall, unused since the Protectorate.
Before the winter ended, there was another strange death in this season of leave-taking. The watch heard shouting upon the ringroad: Jalmar Raiz and his son Pinga, the greddle, were walking by and saw the lanterns. A frail old man, dressed as a steward or house servant of the better sort, was hammering upon a house door. The healer recognized the old man.
“Surely it is the old ballad-maker,” he said to his son, “the old fellow who serves the Countess Am Panget.”
“His name is Lett!” piped Pinga. “And that is the house of the old countess.”
Jalmar Raiz pushed through the small crowd and addressed the wild-eyed old man, who was shouting in the old speech.
“Master Lett, what is it? Where is your mistress?”
The old man drew breath and told the tale. He had been awaiting the countess in her southern manor, but she had not come. All her servants had come on to the manor house, and all the baggage.
“My lady was promised an escort from her eastern cousins . . .” panted Lett.
“The house is deserted,” said Raiz. “Perhaps the countess has taken another way.”
“Good Master Raiz, I fear she is within!”
The watch had the doors open now, and old Lett ran in, followed by Jalmar Raiz. They called softly, and no one answered. In the torchlight the rooms were disordered. At last the two men came to an upper room, to the bedchamber of the old countess. There she sat in her chair, her eyes wide open; she had been dead for many days. The chamber was icy cold; snow had drifted in through a broken pane. The jewel boxes lay scattered empty about the room; the rings had been stripped from the old woman’s fingers, and the brilliants torn from her earlobes. Of her two beloved wards—Derda, the Starry Maid, and young Ilmar of Inchevin—there was no sign.
CHAPTER X
THE HUNTING OF THE DARK
The summer of the year 1184 was long and hot; by the time of the Elm Moon, the alarms of the winter were burned away, almost forgotten. From his apartments at Chernak New Palace, Sharn Am Zor beheld the wide, decorous expanse of the formal gardens, descending beyond the stone balustrades first to the long walk, then to the south lawn. Further south upon the plain, a whole town had grown up, first to build, then to serve and maintain the new palace.
Sharn was a creature of habit, but at the same time he loved surprises. The day must not run just so; or if it did, the king welcomed a diversion. One morning in the Elm Moon he was enjoying a leisurely breakfast with his queen and their good friends the Denwicks in the garden room of Queen Lorn’s apartments. The royal children and Hal Denwick came by, ready to set out beyond the palace grounds to collect herbs and simples: the “holiday task” of Princess Tanit.
The children were permitted to join their parents at table and drink kaffee, which was not good for them, heavily laced with milk. Presently there came a distant trumpet call, which no one could read; a guessing game followed, but only little Gerd guessed right.
“By the moon!” said Zilly. “It is Seyl! What brings him from the Danmar?”
“I hope it is nothing bad,” said Danu Lorn.
Jevon Seyl, who came in without ceremony, had a fierce look as he handed a packet of letters to the king.
“We live in stirring times, my King.”
So the king quickly scanned the letters, which came from Countess Barr, taking the waters at Nesbath and doing a little newsgathering for the Daindru. In a swift action by the newly formed army, the Mark of Lien had added the coastal state of Cayl to its territory. The time being adjudged to be right, new patents of nobility had been wrung from the courts of Eildon: Lien was proclaimed a kingdom. Kelen Vauguens was king, his son a prince; he would be crowned in autumn, together with Fideth, his beloved young queen. The grand design was complete.
There was excitement in this and a certain finality, as if such news must come. Hal Denwick, a handsome boy, nearly ten years old, asked a question, “Why must the Markgraf Kelen and Aunt Fideth be king and queen?”
The grownups smiled and looked from one to another. Tanit who found the question vaguely shocking listened wide-eyed.
“Some would say it is good to hold high rank, old son,” said Zilly. “Question of prestige, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Sharn Am Zor. “Uncle Kelen wants his estate to measure up to the crowned heads round about.”
“More than that, Sire,” said Seyl. “He will make clear that the Kingdom of Lien is larger and more important than the old Mark of Lien, Ydillian’s Pledge, between the two rivers.”
“Ah, it is my sister’s doing!” cried Lady Veldis softly. “I am sure she will have a crown for her son!”
“Yes,” agreed Queen Lorn. “King Matten of Lien—it sounds well. I hope the poor boy is equal to his task and has good advisers.”
“It is unsettling,” said Sharn Am Zor. “Can kingship be plucked from the air? Is it a matter of an Eildon parchment?”
“Hope a copy was made in Eildon!” said Zilly with unexpected wit.
Everyone laughed aloud at the notion of Kelen’s patents of nobility changing upon the page as Eildon edicts were wont to do.
Tanit put in primly, “Kings and queens . . . the Daindru . . . have their right from the Goddess!”
“Yes!” said Seyl. “The princess has shown us another truth. I warrant that King Kelen deems his right to come from Inokoi, the Lord of Light. A new kingdom, a new religion.”
“Too much remains the same,” grumbled Sharn. “The architect of the new kingdom, the gatherer of all this territory, is still Rosmer.”
“Hush,” said Lorn. “You will spoil your breakfast.”
Presently Tanit persuaded her father to walk to the end of the palace grounds with the party of herb-gatherers, and the Denwicks went along. Only Queen Lorn remained with Jevon Seyl, pouring him another bowl of kaffee.
“Alas,” he said. “No one has a word to say for Cayl, that poor neglected place. What did it have but a few ports and market towns, a few bumpkin lords . . .”
“I think of the people there,” said Danu Lorn, “and hope they have not suffered.”
“There was a certain interest in Cayl,”
said Seyl, “though I am not sure I would point it out to the king.”
“Tell me, good Jevon.. . .”
“It had no ruler,” he replied. “No overlord. It was governed by a council of free towns where lords and commons sat together. Could men live without kings and queens, I wonder? Could they form some kind of commonwealth and make shift to govern themselves?”
The neighbors of Lien were more wary than ever. Only Athron had an intact natural barrier to divide it from the new kingdom: the mountains that rose between Athron and Cayl. Lien had spread out beyond the Bal into Mel’Nir and had a small foothold over the Ringist in the Adz. The new king’s ambition, it was rumored, embraced not only land but water. King Kelen would claim half of the inland sea as his own and dispute the fishing and the pearling rights.
Within their wide boundaries, however, the Chameln lands were still at peace, though there was a feeling abroad that the peace was fragile; it might be broken. Perhaps the summer days, perfect, hot, without even the relief of a thunderstorm created this anxiety. The king spent time with Tanit, working upon her holiday task. The expeditions in search of feverherb, sourwort, nightshade, lissmenil, led beyond the lakes and gardens of the palace.
Towards the end of the Oakmoon, after her birthday feast, a high point of every summer, Tanit came home one afternoon from riding with her brother. They had left their horses and were kicking stones on the long walk. Above them, half hidden by the spray from the fountains, they glimpsed their father and mother, side by side, leaning upon the balustrade. Tanit was about to run and call, but Gerd tugged at her arm.
“Something has happened!” he said.
They came to the next staircase and went up slowly, peering through the balusters. At the top they were gathered up by Lady Denwick; she drew them aside murmuring of a messenger out of Lien. A knot of courtiers in their fine summer clothes stood by the blazing beds of redsage and wind-flowers. Far away the king leant upon the balustrade, and Queen Lorn stood very close with a protective hand upon his shoulder.
“Is somebody dead?” whispered Tanit. “Is King Kelen dead, or anyone of his family?”
She remembered just in time that Lady Veldis was sister to the new queen.
“No,” said Veldis of Denwick, distracted. “No one from the court. The messenger was a house servant of the Duchess of Chantry.”
Her voice shook.
“The messenger was sent directly to Dan Sharn, here in the gardens . . . for a surprise.”
The king was suffering front the greatest surprise of his life; for Sharn Am Zor it was as if the sun whirled in the heavens. Queen Lorn had run to him, hearing the name Chantry, the name of his mother’s chief attendant. She saw the blood drain from his face as he recognized Zelline’s fair round script. She drew him aside to a stone bench while he broke the seals of the package and read what was written. He uttered a cry; then he could not speak.
Lorn took the letters from his lap and read them. Zelline, Duchess of Chantry, had written with wild informality in violet ink, her words eating up a whole pink page from a lady’s writing case.
Sharn, my dear friend!
You may hear in some roundabout way, as news travels between Balufir and Achamar these days, that your lady mother, Queen Aravel, has been removed from Swangard to the royal manor of Alldene.
It is generally believed that her condition has worsened, and indeed the poor lady is in weak health. But the truth concerning the queen is wondrous and strange and can no longer be kept from her family. A change began to show itself some five years past and continues to this hour. Please read this letter that I send to you and share the joy and thanksgiving of all who attend the queen.
Your true friend and servant,
Zelline Chantry
The second letter, with a plain red seal, was written on a large sheet of parchment, ruled with faint lines like a child’s copybook. The handwriting was very even and round, with no blots or crossings out, as if the letter had been copied several times to make it perfect:
To the High and Mighty King, Sharn Am Zor, who shared the double throne.
My Dearest Son,
I write this at Alldene, in my old chamber, which I shared long ago with my dear sister Elvédegran. The room has hardly changed, only the world outside has changed amazingly, and the woman I see reflected in the windowpanes has changed out of all recognition. My true servants will not let me have a looking glass, but I will prevail on them.
I have wakened from a long, evil dream, and I truly believe that I will not fall into this dream again. A cloud has been lifted from my mind and spirit so that my nurses speak of a miracle. There are new gods worshipped here in Lien. I hope I will not offend good Brother Less, the house priest of the Duchess of Chantry, if I say that I firmly believe this is a miracle of the Goddess.
At the royal prison of Swangard there was a young man, Yorath Duaring, who is for me a great part of the miracle. He is believed by all to be Elvédegran’s own son, now grown to manhood. He made his escape from captivity and had a thought for the poor wretch who shared the tower with him, for his mother’s sister. He possessed a healing medicine of great and magical power, and he sent it to me by this same Brother Less. It has restored my reason.
What can I say to you, my dearest son, after so long?
What can I say to Merilla, my sweet girl, and Carel, my baby. The children I knew and loved so well even in my darkest hours have long gone, but so it is with all children. I joy to hear that you are all well. I am proud to know that you are king, long since, having held to your right as your poor father would have wished. Commend me to all those I once loved and send me news of all my family.
Commend me as well to Queen Aidris Am Firn, child of my dear sister, Hedris. I fear that I used her ill, years past, when I first fell into my sickness.
I am not strong, dearest Sharn, and I do not know how long I will be spared to ravel up the threads of my life.
Do not grieve for me if we never meet again in this world.
Praise the Goddess who has given me these days of peace and accept a mother’s blessing.
The signature was bold and steady: Aravel.
Sharn Am Zor walked stiffly to the balustrade and leaned upon it. When Lorn followed him, holding the letters, she found that he was weeping. Tears coursed down his pale cheeks, but he uttered no sound.
So they stood there together for a long time, and at last the king said, “I must tell Merilla and Carel.”
“Will you write to them?” asked Lorn.
The king’s sister was spending the summer with her family at Chiel Hall, her home in the east; his brother was at North Hodd, choosing a new horse from Seyl’s stud.
“No,” said Sharn. “Carel comes to Greybear Lodge with me. I will tell him on the way, and after the hunting we will visit Merilla.”
He smiled at his wife and kissed her cheek, then beckoned the nearest servant, a page who came running up.
“Danu Lorn will walk with me to the clipped yew trees. We will take refreshment there, and the children may come to us after supper.”
The setting sun made the windows of the east wing light up in rows. Lorn and Sharn walked slowly towards the dark shapes of the yew trees, which stood like sentinels about an oval lawn with marble benches.
“I was an ill-governed boy,” said Sharn Am Zor, remembering. “None of my mother’s women or the guard officers could restrain me. I saw too much. I saw that my mother was distracted. A scene of violence—I cannot remember all of it—her hands were bound and the fingers bandaged, for she bit them until the blood came. I saw my father’s pain, heard my mother’s voice, so untuned and shrill. I have told you something of this before; it was winter, a bad time in winter. The snow lay thick, and there were snow houses in the palace grounds. I was seized with a great sorrow and despair. I did not wish to live.”
“Sharn, you were a child!”
“No, wait,” said the king. “I went out into the night, stole out into the cold and cl
imbed the fence. I crossed a ditch full of snow and lay down beneath the Skelow tree. Yet it did not harm me. Perhaps it knew me for a brandhul, its own kin. I woke up in the morning disappointed, feeling a warmth under the ground, coming from the tree’s roots. An old gardener, he is long dead, leaped over the fence and dragged me away. His hands came out in a rash, but I was unharmed by the Skelow and the freezing night.”
“Who knows of this?” asked Lorn.
“Merilla might know,” said the king. “Some of the servants. My father knew, of course, and to cheer me he took me on that first expedition to Greybear Lodge. Now I have lived to this hour, to learn that my mother has been miraculously healed. The ways of the Goddess are strange to mortal men.”
On the first day of the Hazelmoon, the harvest month, Sharn Am Zor rode off to North Hodd with an escort of guardsmen. It was the hottest summer for a hundred years; the grass of the plain was burned brown; a few wells had dried up, and the shepherds brought their flocks to better-watered pastures—to oases such as Chernak New Town and North Hodd. The king started off very early in the morning while it was still dark. The children were allowed to get up in their nightgowns to bid him farewell.
As they stood in the stable yard with their mother watching the dark shapes of the horses and their riders go jingling off down the broad avenue of half-grown linden trees, the young prince, Gerd Am Zor, burst into tears. Queen Lorn looked at her son in surprise. He was seven years old, tall and well-built for his age, with a thatch of blond hair, bleached almost white by the summer sun. Gerd was overshadowed by his sister, beautiful and lively. Now he wept in the stableyard and would not be comforted. Neither Lorn nor Tanit nor the servants could get any sense out of him, unless it was that Papa and Redwing should not go away.
The king remained at North Hodd only two days. He paid his respects to Seyl and Iliane and rode out again with his brother. Carel had chosen a brown stallion named Ayvid, four years old, spirited but well-schooled. Captain Kogor and Lieutenant Dann, two veteran soldiers, made up the hunting party, together with Yuri, the king’s younger body-servant.
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