She went about her duties with a good grace and shared the excitements of the other kedran and the house servants as the time drew near. She had schooled herself to make no plans, to forget, from day to day, that she had ever had any other life but this; she would willingly have quelled her own dreams. Yet she was unable to do this, and every few nights she was tumbled into some childish drama of recognition and rescue, bound up with the coming of the princes. They loomed up in her dreams, she spoke familiarly with them, begged an army or an armory of magic. Prince Ross took her by the hand, and she flew with him through the air, high over the land of Athron and over the mountain peaks and came to Achamar. There below two figures waited, and when she flew down she saw that they were her father and mother, grown older, just as they might have done. She woke in tears and prayed to dream no more.
Then at last it was autumn; the maples burned blood-red across the downs and in the copses of Athron. The princes, those dream figures, those puppets, on whom so much expectation centered, as if they were wish-dolls hung on the Carach trees, were coming indeed. On the very morning of their coming, Aidris came without warning into a strange place. She had an adventure.
Chapter Five
The muster hall was full: on this day everyone had an early breakfast. Everyone was notably well turned out; the place reeked of soft soap and linseed oil. Aidris had spent hours on her boots; the man-at-arms across the table cursed and dabbed when he spattered honey-curd on his tunic. Grey Company was one of five that had prime escort duty, due at the crossroads at two hours before noon by the garden dial, the barracks bell and Master Niall’s clock in the tower of the north wing.
Towards the end of breakfast, Megan Brock came in wearing strip mail and the new officers’ surcoat, her two lieutenants just as fine. She flicked a cool eye over the whole troop and bade them good morning but did not walk to her place.
“I need a pair of swift riders,” she said. “No stripes or special placing . . .”
Aidris kept her eyes on her plate, but she had a feeling in the pit of her stomach as if she knew where the dice would fall.
“Venn! And you too, Cash; your dapple is newly shod.”
Ortwen murmured wearily, “What in the name of hot horseapples . . .”
They sprang out from their benches and saluted.
“Come outside,” said Captain Brock. “I’ll tell you the tale.”
In the stableyard she squinted up at the clear sky and said, “First botch of the day, my dears, and it won’t be the last. The watch at Garth Mill have gone over the hill some way. We get no signal.”
On the conical cap of the silo by the barn there was a signal tree with colored flags; two kedran watched from the hoist platform. News of the approaching cavalcades would be sent from the mill, two miles away, when they received signals from the crossroads.
“That is Sergeant Wray at the old mill, Captain,” said Ortwen.
“And the young kern, Simmen,” said Megan Brock. “Steady enough, both of them. Can’t think what has gone wrong. We have time in hand, but not much. Ride to the old mill, send up the green flag ‘On duty,’ find out what is with those two rascals. Venn, you must press on to the crossroads and see that all is well, tell them about the hitch.”
Telavel and the dapple-grey gelding Robin, Ortwen’s pride and joy, were groomed and plaited to a fare-thee-well, both in fine fettle. Now they would lose their gloss long before the ceremonial ride. Both girls mounted up, grumbling, and flung off out of the yard, down the stately avenue of linden trees. The watch at the gate parted as they came through and took the road to Garth.
“You think the sergeant is drunk?” shouted Aidris.
“Naw . . . not he!” Ortwen called back.
They rode very fast on the perfect, newly cobbled road. The very hedges had been barbered for the royal visitors; the fields and trees were a picture. They drew rein at another watchpost, a kedran company on this near side of the village, doing nothing but watch the road to see that no hay wagon was taken out, no flock of geese toddled over the road at the wrong moment. In Athron, thought Aidris, they had no need to guard against anything else. The village pump and the houses were decorated with flowers and autumn leaves. A boy on a ladder was polishing the sign of the Bull Inn.
The company on watch had put their horses to graze on the banks of the Tanbrook. The sergeant and her ensign leaned on the bridge rail.
“What now?” asked Sergeant Clough.
She was a black-visaged, wiry veteran who liked a quiet life.
“Captain’s greeting,” said Aidris, “and have you seen or heard anything of the watch at the old mill?”
“Wray and Simmen?” rasped the sergeant. “Not a whisker!”
Everyone craned and peered in the direction of the mill, just visible upstream behind the poplar trees. Ortwen and Aidris rode on. They came first to the handsome new mill of sand-colored stone, built in a curve of the Tanbrook. The wheel was still at this hour, and the sky reflected in the millpond.
Aidris paused at the wide bridge and said, “Shall we raise the miller?”
Ortwen shook her head.
“If old Wray is lying there drunk, best we tend to him . . . gives the troop a bad name.”
So they rode on past more slowly and came to a narrow footbridge over the rushing stream, in the shadow of the old mill.
It was set back from the stream on a little rise, and it was a windmill, an enormous building, taller than the poplar trees. With its gaunt tower and broken sails above the bulging lower storey of buttressed grey stone, it looked like the hulk of a giant ship stranded in the meadows. They could see, high up, the signal frame, empty of flags.
“Did they bring horses?” asked Ortwen.
Aidris did not know. The men-at-arms were not a cavlary troop like the kedran. They did not own horses, but Kerrick Hall ran a string of “house nags” for their use. The reason for Ortwen’s question was plain enough: hoofprints in the soft earth by the footbridge. Yet no horses were to be seen tethered by the mill or grazing in its meadow. Ortwen got down and led Robin a little way along the banks of the stream, looking towards the next bridge.
Aidris gazed up at the frowning old mill and felt a twinge of her own particular unrest.
“The sergeant and young Simmen might have been attacked . . . set upon!” she said.
“Why for?” growled Ortwen, just as uneasy.
“This mill is the only watch-post that covers both roads,” said Aidris. “Some others might want to know when the princes were coming.”
“What? To do them ill?” said Ortwen. “Truly, I can’t believe it. You’ve been too long in the Chameln lands among the wild folk. Will you go in and stir up those lazy beggars, or will I?”
Aidris might have walked Telavel over the footbridge, but she thought twice. She got down, walked across and pressed into the cool grass of the river meadow, tangled with buttercups. She called, “Holla the old mill! Sergeant Wray! Are you there?”
No voice replied, but there came from the mill a desolate sound, a clattering of old timber stirred by the wind. Aidris felt how very cold she was, standing in shadow in the damp grass. Something moved inside the mill; a window, high up, went light, then dark again. She cried out, louder than before:
“Sergeant Wray! Kern Simmen! Come out. . . . Captain’s orders!”
There was a faint vibration, a rumbling, just within her hearing; the mill’s huge broken sails moved a notch, no more. She saw the rank grasses growing at the base of the mill bend slowly down as if a wave of air were sweeping towards her over the meadow. She turned and ran through the clinging grass and tumbled onto the bridge again. Ortwen met her halfway, palefaced; they fell against each other.
“Dear Goddess!” breathed Ortwen, “Are you . . .”
“The place is bewitched,” said Aidris.
“You were gone!” said Ortwen. “You were vanished away like a scrap of morning mist. I thought I was losing my wits.”
“Have you heard
of such a thing before?”
“Never! The magic here is kind as the Carach trees. But I don’t like this . . .”
“It could be some evil working,” said Aidris.
She looked about quickly and seized upon an old peeled willow wand that lay in the grass beside the bridge.
“Here,” she said, “some child’s fishing pole. Throw it!”
When Ortwen looked puzzled, she explained.
“Throw it as far as you can into the meadow, to the place where I was standing.”
“How do I know where that was?” cried Ortwen.
She took up a stance, made a run into the middle of the bridge and flung the rod like a javelin. It flew in a fine high curve, began to descend, then bent oddly, wavering before their eyes like a stick plunged into water. It was gone. They could see the mill and the meadow, shadowed but unruffled, but the willow wand had vanished.
“Yet it is there,” said Aidris. “I believe it is there, sticking in the grass, only we cannot see it.”
“By dang,” said Ortwen, “you are worse than Niall Kerrick with his kite-flying and stargazing. What shall we do? Run back to Brock, the old badger, and tell her the place is bewitched?”
“I’m going to raise the miller,” said Aidris. “This may be some ancient witch-hold.”
She ran back down the road, with Ortwen after her. A young lad was watching them from the bridge of the new mill.
“Are you the miller’s son?” she asked.
He nodded, gulped.
“I’m Dickon Mora. This is Mora’s Mill.”
“Do you own the old mill yonder?”
“It stands on our land,” said the boy uneasily. “What’s with the place?”
“We think it is bewitched,” she said.
The boy stared even harder, but he took it in quickly.
“I’ll fetch Gran!”
He came back with a stout old woman wiping her hands on her apron. She fixed Aidris and Ortwen with a very knowing gaze; her eyes were a clear brown, like brook water. She heard the tale of the mill and the two men-at-arms.
“I knew the old mill was set up for a watch tower,” she said slowly. “Were your two fellas there after nightfall?”
“Did you see them go by?” asked Ortwen. “Riding, maybe?”
“Horses went by in the night!” the boy Dickon piped up.
“Good mother,” said Aidris, “what ails the old mill after nightfall?”
The old woman sighed.
“The old mill had a fetch,” she said, “long ago before the Carach returned. More than twenty years ago, when Garth was a poor and needy place and Kerrick Hall the home of a poor knight, Dhalin Gerr.”
“Was it your mill, Mother Mora?” asked Ortwen. “Did you work it?”
“Goddess forbid!” she replied. “It was a ruin even then. Garth had no mill, and folk hardly believed in the fetch because our magic had not returned.”
“Would it do harm, this fetch?” asked Aidris. “We must lay it and soon.”
“Easy said, Kedran,” the old woman answered slyly, “but they do say . . .”
She turned to the gaping lad and said abruptly, “Dickon, get in and see if I turned the damper on the stove.”
When the boy had gone she said, “A virgin would do it better than most.”
She looked the pair of them up and down for no more than a few pulse beats and then said, “You two are maids. Walk in boldly. I’ll give you a pinch of protection.”
Ortwen grinned in embarrassment and shuffled her boots on the path. Aidris saw that she was afraid.
“I will go,” said Aidris. “I wear a powerful amulet.”
The old woman looked at her more keenly than ever and felt under her apron for a pocket, hanging from her belt along with keys and scissors. She drew out a little twist of cloth.
“Put that up your sleeve, child,” she said, “there . . . next the skin. That’s right.”
They walked back to the footbridge, all three, and the boy Dickon came out of the mill kitchen again and followed them. Nothing had changed; the morning sun had not penetrated the shadows about the looming mill. The grey and the dapple-grey, Telavel and Robin, cropped grass beside the footbridge. Ortwen shuddered.
“Venn,” she said, “you can’t go in there . . .”
“I will,” said Aidris. “I have been in worse places. Wait here and watch and fetch the captain if I do not return by the time the sun is over the third poplar tree. Fetch the captain and Niall of Kerrick, he knows about such things.”
“Take a weapon,” said Ortwen, “a staff!”
“No!” said Mother Mora. “Go in peace. Don’t eat or drink anything while you’re there. Bring nothing away with you . . . except the two fellas, that is.”
Aidris went to the center of the bridge and drew out her grandmother’s scrying stone. It had a sparkle of life round the frame.
“Keep me safe from harm,” she said. “See where I go.”
She let the blue stone hang down on the front of her tunic and strode boldly over the bridge into the meadow again. She could see the marks in the tangled grass where she had walked the first time. She walked on, and there was the willow wand that Ortwen had thrown. She plucked it up out of the soft ground and called aloud, as she had done before, “Sergeant Wray! Kern Simmen! Come out!”
Then there was that same windy clatter inside the mill, and the sails moved a notch, no more. Aidris looked back over her shoulder and found that the bridge had gone. There was only a shimmering veil in the air, like the sun dazzling on dewdrops. She thought, I am in another world, like the world of the scrying stone.
She took a few more steps towards the mill and saw the rank grasses flattened, the wind-wave rolling towards her over the grass. She braced herself, spreading her arms wide, and when the wave broke over her it was warm, a wave of warm air that stung and prickled. It drew up her hair into points and struck sparks from her belt buckle.
“Let me pass!” she cried. “I come in peace!”
There was a familiar sound, but in that place it made her jump. A horse nickered and came trotting eagerly round the side of the mill. She saw at once that it was no wraith, no nightmare, but a dainty live roan, a thoroughbred of the Athron stock, which had come from the high plateau of Mel’Nir.
“Wheesht,” she said gently. “Come up then . . .”
She held out a hand and the tame, lovely creature came to her, tossing her mane.
“Who brought you here?” whispered Aidris.
She brought out of her pocket a piece of carrot that she had been saving for Telavel. She thought of the old woman’s words about eating and drinking in a magic place. Did it apply to horses? This one had surely been eating the grass. It was a little lonely and nervous, waiting for its mistress or master, but neither bewitched nor wildly afraid. The mare’s bridle was of patterned leather, elaborately scalloped; the saddle and girth were picked out with gold.
“What can you tell me?” she said to the mare. “Who left you here and went into the mill?”
Aidris looked at the doorway of the mill nearest her, a gaping black hole with grass growing over the threshold. She stroked the roan mare’s warm neck one last time, turned away and laid her hand on the scrying stone.
“I will go in!” she said.
She pushed through the tall stalks of fennel and nightshade and crossed the threshold. She saw nothing at first; the place smelled dry, hot and old. Then as her sight cleared, she saw the ancient structure towering up all around her, an immense empty shell with only broken beams and a gaping pit at her feet to show where the machinery of the mill had once stood. There was a stairway that clung to the wall and rooms or the remains of rooms, with the flooring ripped away. Sunlight came in through gaps and chinks in the timberwork.
Aidris found she was stifling; there was a sudden reek of boiled hide and bones, a whiff of the knacker’s yard. She became aware of a movement in the pit at her feet; it was full of liquid, a sea of hot foulness, boiling up.
She tried to call the sergeant again, and her voice was stifled in her chest. She ran left to the stairway, the ground slippery under her feet. The first few steps were of stone. She looked back and saw a black tide bubble up out of the pit and follow her on the stairs. She could look down into a thick, oozy blackness, very hot, with green-skinned bubbles that rose and burst slowly, giving off a vile stink.
She climbed on the wooden stairs now, and for a moment her perception altered. She was high on the other wall of the mill, she was a spider in its web, an owl in one of the old owl nests, watching a kedran in a white and green tunic climb the zigzag stair that clung to the mill wall. Still the kedran climbed, and she, Aidris, felt a very cold and unearthly fear. She felt the presence of the fetch, the thing that lived in the old mill. It was like a seed beginning to grow, a flame springing up in the ashes of a fire. While she was divided from her own body, the fetch might come between, and she would remain cast out, a lost thing, howling upon the wind.
She made a great effort and was on the stairs again crying out loudly, “Sergeant Wray!”
The mill took her voice and broke it into a score of echoes; she came to the first landing of the stair. She could look down now and see that the pit was dry and full of weeds, with a lighter patch, perhaps an old sack, off in a corner. The mill creaked and groaned through all its timbers. There was a tumbling and thundering, the sound of voices shouting, the grinding of stone on stone, all the sounds of the mill in its heyday. Then, as these sounds faded, she caught a faint, groaning cry from above, in the dome of the mill where the flooring was almost intact.
Once again something brushed at her mind as if trying to be known.
“Fetch,” she said aloud, “spirit, let me bring them out. Give them back. You cannot harm me!”
A Princess of the Chameln Page 14