A Princess of the Chameln

by Cherry Wilder

  “You call them freshwater crawlers,” said Aidris at supper. “What are the other kind? From the sea?”

  It turned out that she was the only one who had not seen the sea. Loeke, more surly and cross than ever, admitted that he had travelled once to Cayl and Port Cayl, south of Athron. Sabeth told one of her romances of a trip in a pleasure boat, down the Ringist, the smaller river that bordered Lien in the north as the Bal did in the south.

  I will see the sea, thought Aidris, trying to imagine the boundless ocean, wider than the Danmar. I will go in exile to see the ocean.

  Sabeth sang a chanty, a sailors’ song, and would not sing certain verses because they were too gross.

  “Oh, sing away,” said Aidris, who hated her coyness. “I know the kedran songs and those from the stableyard.”

  “Those are songs of kedran love. . . .” said Sabeth.

  “Are sailors so different?” asked Aidris.

  Sabeth laughed aloud, and Loeke cursed them both into silence. He started up and prowled round the camp, listening again. For the first time Aidris fancied she did hear something: voices in the distance, a crackling of underbrush. She slept uneasily and woke once to hear Loeke and Sabeth quarrelling in the tent they shared. Next day the weather broke for the first time, and they pressed on through dripping branches that arched across the trail.

  The eight days were past, this was the twelfth, and they seemed to be as far from the border as ever. They came to a place where the trail crossed a wider path and without warning ran straight up against another party of travellers. There was a small wagon like a pedlar’s cart, with a fabulous beast painted upon the black side panels. Aidris took in three others besides the man driving the wagon: a middle-aged woman in a foot mantle, astride a sorrel pony; two mounted men in brown, full armed. One of these two was the leader; he challenged them boldly.

  “Bound for the Wulfental?”

  He had a scar that lifted the corner of his mouth and grey hair straggling from under his bronze helmet. Loeke gave a gruff assent, and the man rapped out more questions.

  “Seen the Melniros? The big troopers? So far back?”

  Then the man on the wagon passed a word to the woman who passed it in turn to the leader. Aidris felt her whole body grow cold. The man on the wagon was bearded, he wore a soft hat with a dagged tail and a pheasant’s feather, but she knew him. It was Jalmar Raiz the Healer. She wondered if his two sons were crouched inside the wagon, if he would suddenly denounce her.

  “I’m Hulth, woodcutter,” said the leader. “These are my people and I know them.”

  Ric Loeke answered in his gruff way.

  “We’ve nothing to hide. I’m Loeke, forest guide out of Vigrund.”

  He nudged Sabeth to speak up.

  “I am a daughter of the house of Delbin,” she said loftily, from the depths of her green hood. “Mistress Delbin of Lien, travelling to Varda.”

  “Kedran Venn, travelling to Varda,” said Aidris, who had worked out her false name long before.

  Her voice sounded strained and unnatural. The bearded man gave no sign; she began to have doubts, to think she must be mistaken.

  “The Melniros have driven out the Chameln rulers,” said Hulth suddenly. “They comb the forest for a certain royal lady . . . a good price on her head.”

  Aidris tightened her grip on Telavel’s rein, ready to make a run for it. Ric Loeke was solid as a rock.

  “Let ’em fight their own battles,” he said. “You and I, friend woodcutter, do the best we can. Can you spare me a bit to drink?”

  Hulth turned down his mouth, but Loeke persisted.

  “Just for myself,” he said. “Surely your ‘woodcutting,’ down in the Adz, has yielded a few good logs!”

  Aidris understood. Hulth and his party were not woodcutters at all but illicit miners. The Adze, a wedge of territory, bordering on Lien, had silver and precious stones in its hills. Grumbling, Hulth went to the back of the wagon; Loeke passed over some coin and two leather flasks to be filled.

  She kept her eyes down. Then when they were ready to ride off, she found the second horseman at her side, tall and muscular, his face swathed below his helmet. His eyes were a sad dark blue; it was Raff Raiz.

  “Go well, kedran!” His voice was muffled.

  She was past before there was time to smile. She felt a pang of regret and wished that he was her travelling companion. She turned and waved, and he waved back as the other cavalcade began to move on.

  When they were out of earshot, Sabeth burst out indignantly, “Scar-faced brute, asking questions. And that fat woman in the foot mantle is no better than she should be. Serves them all with more than pease porridge.”

  Ric Loeke, after a pull at his new-filled flask, told her to hold her tongue.

  They came through a very long valley with the trail winding slowly upward. The camping place was like their very first because it was not far from a lake. The forest had changed: this glade was darker, even more beautiful, with young pointed spruce and gum pines tightly pressed in a circle. The lake was a mountain tarn, still and blue-black. At its rim Aidris found moss springing with star-shaped greenish flowers and runes of the Tulgai in white bird-lime on a black stone.

  “This is Tulna Lake,” said Ric Loeke, “the home water of the Tulgai. You may see them sailing in bark boats no bigger than cradles.”

  They were all in high spirits; dangers seemed to have been passed. She helped Sabeth cook up a stew of corned lamb and onions, more than they had eaten for several days. The fire blazed up, and Loeke, more cheerful, gave each girl a few sips of the new liquor. They sang songs together for the first time.

  “Listen to that!” said Loeke. “Wind getting up. We’ll have more rain tonight.”

  The wind played a new sound in the tops of the trees, but down below by the fire it was cosy as a round room. The smoke and sparks whirled upward, and overhead Aidris thought she could just make out the night sky and the stars.

  Sabeth, her cheeks rosy from the fire, combed out her hair and spread it over her shoulders like a bright mantle. She confided to Aidris, “I’m glad you came along. It would have been tedious . . .”

  “Your mother could not travel.”

  “She is not my mother,” said Sabeth, still confiding. “Oh, she is called Mother Lorse or Widow Lorse, and I called her that too. We have been together for four years, and she has taught me a good deal. But I am an orphan . . . my real parents were somewhat finer.”

  She gave Aidris a sharp look.

  “I know what you are thinking!” she said. “That old wish-dream of being a noble foundling. Every girl wishes to be a princess.”

  Aidris could only stare in astonishment.

  “Who would wish that?”

  Sabeth stroked back her fiery mantle of hair.

  “Anyone would want fine clothes and jewels,” she said. “Palaces and country houses to live in, noble companions, servants to command!”

  Aidris could not answer; she felt an emptiness, as if part of her soul had been stolen away. She went off to check the horses as she did every night, and when she returned, Sabeth had already gone to her tent. Ric Loeke had lost his customary scowl, the lines had gone out of his face.

  “Sit down again,” he said. “Drink one more sup. You are a brave lass, Dan Aidris, and bore yourself well today, with those diggers.”

  She sat down again, pleased to hear him so genial.

  “Have we far to go?” she asked. “Is this the Wulfental?”

  “Not far, not far,” he said. “I know the way, never fear. Know the forest like the palm of my hand. My old man would have had me for another huntsman, another royal huntsman, for the Zor.”

  She saw that he was drunk and had an urge to speak. She had seen many people who were tipsy or drunk, usually at feasts or banquets. They frightened her a little because they were “out of themselves.” She remembered, suddenly, that long ago, when she was very small, she had burst into tears when someone, a tall man, swept he
r into his arms and danced about with her. Then her mother came and told her to hush, not to be a silly goose.

  “A damned bad hunter . . .” rambled Ric Loeke, giving her a smile. “I would not be bound to him, Princess. A fool with horses, a fool with dogs, blind to a spoor and clumsy with his weapons, poor devil. He led my old man a rare dance in that bit of a Hain.”

  She realised he was talking about Esher Am Zor and was embarrassed, for the dead king and for Loeke, who might regret what he had said.

  “My uncle loved to hunt,” she said, trying not to sound stiff. “It is a pity he was no hand at it.”

  “You ride well,” said Loeke. “A princess . . . a little kedran maid of the Firn. A brave little lass. Come to be queen one day and the mother of royal children.”

  “I hope so.”

  She knew he was too familiar; he smiled and stared, with burning dark eyes. When his attention wandered for a moment, she gave a goodnight and went to her tent, glad to get away.

  As she was on the verge of sleep, all her fears held at bay, Ric Loeke crawled into her tent. He sprawled heavily across her body, and she was wide awake in a panic. Yet she could not believe he knew what he was doing; he had gone to the wrong tent. She struggled and pushed, not wanting to hurt him or to cry out too loudly. She whispered in furious embarrassment, calling him “Master Loeke,” telling him to go, go to the other tent. He held her tightly, thrust a knee between her legs, ran wet lips over her face. “Princess . . . a little virgin maid . . . a sweet vessel . . .”

  She became mad and terrified. She fought wildly, scratching, struggling in despair as she felt his strength. He panted, laughed a little; she was screaming aloud. Then he swung away, changing his grip, and she went out under the side of the small tent. She knelt on all fours, gasping, then ran towards the fire. Loeke came blundering out of the front of the tent. He caught her ankles, flinging her to the ground so hard that she was winded. Then he hauled her long underdrawers over her stockinged feet, past her knees.

  She tried to double up but he was on her again; she struck his eyes, his mouth; he held her shoulders against the ground. Her breath was still uncertain but she managed to cry out, louder and louder, until he hit her in the face. She felt a stone in her left hand and as he fumbled at his own breeches she beat at his temple, twisting and turning her lower body to forbid his entry.

  Sabeth was there, dragging at Loeke and crying out. She fastened on one of his arms and clung like a burr, finally wrenching him away. Aidris crawled, stumbled and ran off behind her own tent into the darkness. She was bruised and scratched and her ribs ached; she was dying of disgust and Shame. She thought of the sword in her tent; she thought of driving it between her ribs. Yet she was a virgin still.

  Voices from the camp increased her self-disgust; she had left Sabeth alone, coping with the monster. She hitched up her tattered drawers, smeared her tears away and went round the tent, ready to plunge in after her sword.

  Ric Loeke sat on the ground, and Sabeth was giving him a drink from her own silver cup. She saw Aidris and gestured behind Loeke’s back: keep out of sight. Sabeth’s face in the firelight was hard, softening only when she turned back towards Loeke, crooning, soothing his bleeding face with a kerchief.

  Aidris crawled into the tent again, shaking with pain and weariness. She sat in the bracken-smelling darkness and wished for death.

  After a long time, Sabeth came into the tent.

  “He’s off,” she said. “Sound asleep in the other tent.”

  Aidris began to weep. Sabeth flung back a flap of the tent to see her better.

  “Come,” she said, “come then . . .”

  She had the kerchief wrung out in water, and she unfolded Aidris like a child and wiped her face and her body.

  “Did he . . .?” she asked, almost matter-of-fact.

  “No,” said Aidris.

  Then the mystery of the thing overcame her and she clung to Sabeth, crying and questioning. Why would he? Why? She had done nothing. She had not been lewd or forward or overfriendly. He had given no warning. Why would he treat her so when he had sworn to bring her safely to Athron and knew her for . . . a maid.

  “Hush,” said Sabeth. “You did nothing. No one blames you, no one will ever know of it.”

  “But why?”

  “The new spirit was very strong. Loeke was drunk. It takes some men that way.”

  Aidris was conscious of many things that she could not say, which had some bearing on the mystery. Why would Loeke neglect his beautiful companion, his leman, and come to her? There could only be one reason: her royal blood. He was two-minded: a virgin princess was to be protected or to be used brutally, as if her royalty was a goad or a temptation.

  Sabeth brought her silver cup with water and spirit and ordered her to drink.

  “It has medicine in it. Mother Lorse gave me a sleeping powder—I fed it to Loeke. You must have some too; you must sleep sound.”

  Aidris lay down under her fur cloak still shuddering, still weary of her life.

  “I will stay here,” said Sabeth. “I wish we were come into Athron.”

  She lay down on the bracken under her own green cloak. They both heard light rain come down and the wind in the high tops of the trees.

  Aidris woke in broad daylight with Sabeth shaking her. She gave a cry as she remembered what had happened; Sabeth was pale-faced.

  “Loeke has gone. He is not in the tent.”

  Aidris swung up and looked out; Elster, the black gelding, was still tethered with the other horses.

  “He must be round about,” she said. “Has he gone to the lake to wash?”

  “I looked down the path,” said Sabeth, “but he is not to be seen. Then as I came back into camp I thought I saw something among the trees . . .”

  “What was it?”

  Aidris reached for the sword, which lay unsheathed.

  “A fairy,” said Sabeth, her face crumpling with tears. “A little dark thing. I am so afraid.”

  “Oh, it is one of the Tulgai,” said Aidris. “They are nothing to fear, truly. I will go to the lake and wash. Make up the fire . . . Loeke will come back.”

  Aidris took fresh clothes and took her sword. She went down the path wrapped in her cloak. She was sore and stiff and dared not think of what had passed. She did not wish to see Ric Loeke again and wondered how they could travel together after what he had done. She went along the lake shore a little beyond the place where the path ended and washed as thoroughly as she could in the icy water of the tarn. She climbed shivering into her leather breeches and her tunic.

  It had rained heavily in the night; now the sky was clear, but there was a stiff wind blowing. It whipped up small black billows on the lake and tore among the pines by the shore. Aidris had one instant of foreboding, like the tolling of a bell. As she turned back towards the camp, she saw a dark trough in the leaves beside the path . . . on her way down it had been hidden by a sapling. She stepped warily across the damp ground: a pit had opened. It was a hunting-fall of the Tulgai, cunningly roofed with leaves and boughs. She looked in and knew what she would find.

  Ric Loeke lay at the bottom of the pit, his face deep in muddy water. Aidris looked up and saw Sabeth at the top of the path, peering fearfully.

  “Come here!” she called.

  She leaped down into the pit, heaving at the stiffened limbs, lifting up the damp head. Sabeth looked down and gave a glad cry.

  “He is dead,” said Aidris. “He fell into the trap and could not get up again.”

  Loeke’s eyes were glazed, a froth of bubbles oozed from his nostrils. He was cold, and his arms and legs were stiffening against the sides of the pit. Aidris climbed out and sat in the leaves. She felt a black wave of nausea and guilt; she had wished the man dead, and now he lay at her feet. She wondered then if this was all some evil working pursuing her, as it had done all her life.

  Sabeth had gone down into the pit. Now she dragged herself out and fell into a passion of weeping. Aidris p
ut her arms around her, but she would not be comforted.

  “Was he your sweetheart?” asked Aidris helplessly.

  “He was our guide!” cried Sabeth. “We are lost. He is dead, and we are lost in the forest!”

  Then Aidris felt a deep loss, a real regret for this useless death. Ric Loeke had known the forest; he had guided them well, as he had guided other travellers. Now there was no one to mourn for him; he was gone in a breath, in a few gulps of fiery spirit, one drunken night among many. They would come out of the forest, she felt certain of it, but he would never wake.

  She helped Sabeth back to the camp. The fire had come up again, and they ate a little dried fruit and drank water. Aidris watered the horses and gave them some oats; she packed her own saddlebags and folded her tent as best she could, then went into the other tent and brought out Loeke’s saddlebags and the sealed pouch and took them to Sabeth, by the fire.

  Sabeth was more composed; she gave Aidris a very sharp look.

  “The money,” she said. “His treasure.”

  “What did he tell you about this journey?” asked Aidris.

  It was one of the moments when she was ready to tell all. She had almost trusted Sabeth or expected her to guess the truth a hundred times.

  “He was bringing a treasure into Athron,” said Sabeth with a queer light in her eyes.

  “And about myself?”

  “Why, that you are going to some Varda merchant’s house to be trained as a kedran.”

  Aidris was more deeply puzzled than ever. Loeke had kept his oath; he had told nothing to Sabeth. Perhaps he disregarded her as a mere singing-girl, or distrusted her. Perhaps he had talked, and Sabeth had simply not grasped the truth.

  “The treasure in the pouch belongs to my house,” said Aidris. “It is my keep, in Varda. I am forced to go there because of the warriors of Mel’Nir; our family is loyal to the rulers of the Chameln.”

  Whatever she thought of this, Aidris could see that Sabeth only half-believed the information about Loeke’s treasure.

  “Who can deny us the money?” she asked. “Did your people pay him to guide you?”