The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “Ay, he is dangerous.” Nhenir spoke at last. “As dangerous, if not more so, than the herald he warned you against. ”

  Malian paused, one hand on the flap. “What else have you discerned about him?”

  “Very little.” The helm’s mindvoice was soft. “Except that he was interested in the heralds—and even more so in Maister Carick. Have a care, Heir of Night.”

  “Vague as always,” Malian said, a little tartly, although she was grinning wryly as she jumped down from the wagon.

  “You look cheerful,” Audin said.

  “Of course he’s cheerful,” said Raher. “We’re finally going to see the towers of Caer Argent today.”

  Malian joined the circle of newly made Normarch knights and took the bowl that Girvase handed her, blowing on the porridge to cool it. It was six weeks now since they had left the old fort, with the dark earth of the grave mounds scarring the green ground, and ridden back to Normarch—and three weeks since those going to Caer Argent had begun their journey south. The Summer’s Eve survivors had ridden close together throughout, as the Northern March gave way to the Land Marks and then the inner Wards that surrounded Caer Argent.

  They were all, Malian knew, keenly aware of the invisible gaps in their company, the places where Arn and Guyon, Gille and Tibalt, should have ridden, or sprawled beside them on the grass. Everyone was beginning to laugh more readily now, and the silence that had lain beneath even mundane conversations—about each day’s route, or finding better feed for their horses—had begun to fill up with the anticipation of Midsummer and the tourney. Yet still, the underlying reserve was there.

  They will get over it in time, Malian thought, drawing on her childhood in a fighting keep. Or get used to it anyway, if they are set to keeping the peace along Emer’s fractious borders and more of their fellowship are lost—but she did not like the darkness of that thought and pushed it away as she took her first mouthful of porridge. She had been pleased to find Maister Carick still included as one of their number, even if Kalan remained guarded behind Hamar’s open, cheerful manner.

  “You forget,” he said now, grinning at Raher, “that Maister Carro’s no raw Marcher lad like you. He’s from the great River city of Ar, which must be two or three times Caer Argent’s size.”

  “I’m always glad to see any new place, though,” Malian replied, keeping the peace. She looked around with a cartographer’s eye. “And this is pretty country, much gentler than the Northern March.”

  “The inner Wards have been peaceful for a long time,” Audin said, “even compared to the Land Marks. But only the Marches are true wild country now.”

  The silence that had been with them since Summer’s Eve flowed in again, and Malian guessed that all their thoughts, like hers, had flown back to The Leas and their defense of the crumbling fort. Because of those events, Lord Falk had decided that he could not leave with the March so full of fear and unrest, and so the Normarch company had been escorted south to Bonamark, then traveled on with the Marklord’s retinue. Ghiselaine and her companions had been swept into Lady Bonamark’s orbit, riding at the front of the cavalcade and sleeping in a large, richly furnished pavilion at the center of the camp. And since neither Ser Bartrand nor Ser Rannart could be spared from the Northern March either, Raven had been sent along as captain of the tourney company.

  At the time, Malian had thought that might be as much because he was the only Summer’s Eve survivor amongst the experienced Normarch knights—and wondered how he would manage the more formal etiquette of inner Emer. But she had to admit that he had done a faultless job so far. She could see him now, making his way back from the predawn briefing with Lord Bonamark’s captain, in which the day’s route and the cavalcade’s order of march would have been laid out.

  “The main Bonamark company will push to reach the city tonight,” Raven told them when he reached the fire. “But after events in the north, Lord Falk asked that Countess Ghiselaine’s safety not be risked in the press of Caer Argent’s streets—and Lord Bonamark agrees that’s wise. So those competing in the tourney will turn aside at Argenthithe and escort Lady Bonamark and Countess Ghiselaine to Lord Tenneward’s lodge. The ladies will spend the night there and complete the journey to the city by barge tomorrow, while the rest of us cross the Argenthithe bridge to the tourney ground.”

  The young knights exchanged glances, and Malian saw their realization that now the old Normarch company was truly breaking up. In reality, the process had begun before they left, with many of the new-made knights, as well as damosels such as Brania and her friends, choosing to return to their family homes instead of venturing Caer Argent. Another effect of Summer’s Eve—but this parting had a greater sense of finality.

  “The journey by river will be pleasanter anyway,” Audin said at last.

  “I believe that consideration weighed with Lady Bonamark,” Raven replied, with a flicker of humor.

  “Besides,” Raher put in, “to most in Caer Argent, Ghiselaine’s still Ormondian—a traditional enemy. Her first appearance needs to be a grand one, not covered in sweat and dust.”

  Which just went to show, Malian thought, that even Raher could see to the heart of a matter sometimes. “And then,” he continued cheerfully, “they’ll fall in love with her beauty, just like we all did, and she’ll be their Fair Maid of Emer in no time at all.”

  But still, Malian reflected, carefully not looking at Audin, blind to what lay beneath his nose.

  “Raher is a brute,” Kalan’s mindvoice observed, and she had to prevent herself from giving the tiniest of nods, aware that Raven was looking her way. She scraped the last of the porridge from her bowl and stood up with the rest of their small company, moving to smother the fire and gather equipment together. Throughout the camp the Bonamark retainers were doing the same, as they had every morning of the journey south, so that the cavalcade was on the road with the sun.

  The countryside they rode through was a far cry from the emptiness of the Northern March. Whitewashed homes, some roofed with deep thatch and others with lichened tiles, were dotted amongst fields divided by neat hedgerows. Each house had its garden and orchard, and Malian frequently saw the curved sails of a windmill in the distance. Every other crossroads boasted a smithy or an inn, sure signs of prosperity, and the whole great valley of the Tenne, from the Bonamark border to the river Argent, was as fertile and peaceful as the River lands.

  Despite their early start, the roads quickly filled up with country people going to market, as well as merchant caravans and the retinues of Emerian nobility, all on their way to the capital for Midsummer. The ragged folk, tramps and tinkers and beggars with their bowls held out, were pushed to the sides of the road, and the dust rose in clouds as the day warmed. Malian tied a dampened cloth over her mouth and nose and pitied those who must go on foot or eat the dust of the larger cavalcades.

  “It’s always like this at Midsummer.” Audin had his hat brim pulled low to protect his eyes. “The sun is fierce and the roads dry—but you can’t keep people away from Caer Argent, not with the Duke’s fair and the tourney happening together, plus Imuln’s festival falling on Midsummer itself. Every inn in the city will be overflowing, so we’re lucky Lord Falk buys a campsite in the tourney ground every year. And after the tournament’s over we can go to his town house, which is close by the court.”

  Malian blotted at the sweat and dust on her face. “I hear that people come from all over the southern lands for the fair.”

  “And the tournament. That’s why so many new-made knights want to ride in this competition. To do well here can make a knight’s future.”

  She nodded. “Although you will serve your uncle, as a matter of course?”

  “So it doesn’t matter as much for me as for the others, is that what you mean?” Audin grimaced. “Except that because I’m the Duke’s nephew it’s important that I show I can stand on my own. Not to win a place, but to be respected in the one I’ll hold.”

  It would be th
e same on the Wall, Malian knew. The Earldoms might be hereditary, but the Nine Houses still needed to have confidence in those who led them. More than one Earl and Heir in the Derai’s long history had been put aside, either bloodily or quietly, when their House would no longer follow them.

  “We’ve all talked about it,” Audin continued, “and agreed that we’ll ride as a company in the melee. That’s our best chance of staying together afterward, rather than having to accept individual places with either the Duke or other lords.”

  Malian wondered what part Kalan had played in these discussions, but Audin was shading his eyes to study a jostle of riders up ahead. “Lathayrans,” he said, gazing along the western arm of the crossroads they were approaching. “And Allerion knights behind them. All heading for the tourney, no doubt.”

  Malian shaded her eyes as well, keen to catch her first glimpse of riders from the turbulent country to the south and west of Emer. The Lathayrans were said to be distant kin to the Hill people of northern Emer—and equally prone to feuding amongst themselves. Unlike the Hill people, they tended to serve as mercenaries beyond their own lands. Their light cavalry and horse archers, according to Shadow Band intelligence, were found throughout the southern realms.

  “Except Jhaine,” Audin said, when she asked. “The Jhainarians are horsemen beyond compare and say they have no need of Lathayrans to swell their ranks.”

  “What you really mean,” Kalan drawled from behind them, “is that Jhainarians are xenophobes with little love for those beyond their borders. Besides, they’re mercenaries themselves: Jhainarian auxiliaries are among the Shah of Ishnapur’s elite.”

  “One in seven,” Audin agreed. “Or that’s the story—that every seventh Jhainarian child is given to the legions that serve the Shah.”

  “That sounds like a tribute,” Malian said. The others looked surprised, but then most of them nodded.

  Raven, a few horse lengths ahead, turned in his saddle. “Think about it from Jhaine’s point of view,” he suggested. “The country is mostly plains and they’ve borders with Ishnapur, Lathayra, southern Aralorn, and Emer. A tribute could be worthwhile to buy peace with their largest neighbor and a strong military alliance to deter the others from war.” He shrugged his mailed shoulders. “Besides, although it may have been a straight-out tribute once, back in the dark years, now I think Ishnapur obtains equal benefit from having a stable northern border.”

  Malian let her horse move up alongside his as their cavalcade halted to let the two smaller companies pass through the crossroads first. The Lathayrans’ faces were dour beneath conical, fur-trimmed helmets and they all sported long moustaches trailing down to clean-shaven chins. Malian supposed they must have armor in their packs, just as the Normarch party did in the wagons, but for now the visitors wore loose coats of leather and wool, and trousers tucked into knee-high boots. All bore swords, some with straight blades but others curved; white most carried bows and long, slender lances.

  “They hunt wild beasts with those lances,” Raven said, “always from horseback.”

  “You’ve been there?” Malian asked. “To Lathayra?”

  Raven nodded. “It’s a wild, bloody realm, just as Emer used to be before the Sondargent dukes began to impose their peace. I’ve also soldiered with Lathayran companies-for-hire in other places.”

  The Allerion company, a strong showing of heavy cavalry and longbowmen, was passing now, and two knights turned off to speak with Lord Bonamark and his captain. “The truce of Midsummer prevails,” Raven said, “but Lord Allerion will have waited until the Lathyarans came though before dispatching his own people.”

  “To make sure it prevails,” Girvase murmured. Unlike Raher, he did not grin, and Malian remembered that he was Ar-Allerion and so kin to the Marklord.

  Lord Bonamark let the Allerion knights’ dust die down before giving the word to proceed, but there was still too much traffic and Malian had to dampen and retie her face covering every other hour. “Mud in winter, dust in summer,” Ado said, shrugging, but Malian sighed for the paved Main Road that ran the length of the River, and envied Ghiselaine and her companions who would complete the rest of the journey by water.

  They first glimpsed Caer Argent in the late afternoon, sunshine flashing off the city’s famous spires as they emerged from an avenue of oak trees that spanned the road. The river flashed, too, a broad ribbon that bent across the Argent vale, bisecting a tapestry of orchards and fields, villages and great houses, that merged gradually into the haze of city roofs. “The ducal palace and Imuln’s temple are on an island that was the original Caer Argent,” Audin explained, “although the city’s expanded to either side now. Mostly to this side, because of Maraval forest to the west, but the tourney and fair grounds are on the Maraval side. That’s why it makes sense for us to cross at Argenthithe, rather than going through the city.”

  The day was beginning to cool before the ladies left the main cavalcade, accompanied by a small escort of knights-at-arms and the Bonamark and Normarch tourney companies. Malian could see Ghiselaine up ahead now, her back spear straight, as it had been all the way south from Normarch, with Alianor and Ilaise riding to either side. Ilaise turned to wave as they entered the poplar-lined avenue that led to the river, but Alianor was drooping, and Malian guessed that with a recently healed wound she was finding the riding hard.

  Cicadas whirred and the poplar leaves rustled together although there was almost no breeze. Across the fields, Malian could see workers making their way home and towers of mellow stone rising above a low hill. She wondered what Lord Tenneward’s lodge would be like—and almost laughed out loud, a few minutes later, as the avenue ended in gates with stone lions, the entrance framing a house that looked larger than Normarch castle. The lodge was built of pale yellow stone, with tall windows and a creeper twining across its face. Stables and mews and kennels, all in the same yellow stone, were set on the far side of a wide graveled courtyard to the right of the house.

  “The Tenneward pier and the barges are on the far side of the lodge,” Audin said. He brushed at the layered dust on his jacket. “I take it we’re expected, although I don’t think Lord Tenneward’s here, since there’s no standard flying.”

  In the end it was Lord Tenneward’s steward, a graying, slightly built man of middle height, who greeted them. He bowed low to both Lady Bonamark and Ghiselaine, and pointed out the stables and storage barns to the captains, together with a guardhouse set off to one side. Jarna rubbed her sleeve across her forehead. “Rich,” she whispered.

  Ado nodded, looking around as though he expected the whole place to vanish in the shift between light and shadow. “And this is just a lodge.”

  “Welcome to Caer Argent,” Raven said dryly, before taking Ado, Jarna, and Kalan with him to stable the horses and secure the baggage wagons. The steward sent pages in Tenneward buff and russet to hold the ladies’ horses as they dismounted, then lift down the bags from behind their saddles. Grooms led the horses away afterward, following Raven and the others, but a great many retainers remained gathered in both hall and yard. Malian was puzzled by their numbers until Lady Bonamark began to mount the lodge steps, her hand resting on the arm of her escort captain. Audin stepped forward and extended his hand to Ghiselaine, who placed her fingers on his—and a low murmur ran through the gathered servants as they shifted forward like a wave, falling back again as Audin and Ghiselaine followed Lady Bonamark to the lodge door. The steward and the servants with him all bowed very low.

  Of course, Malian thought, waiting at the foot of the steps with the rest of the company: they all want to see their future duchess. She wondered what they would make of the reserved, almost stern young woman who had returned to Normarch after the ill-fated Summer’s Eve expedition—but if the Tennewarders saw anything amiss, they did not show it in face or gesture. Ilaise shifted slightly, and Malian saw that Alianor was leaning against her friend’s shoulder, her eyes closed.

  The steward smiled as he rose from his bo
w. “Countess,” he said. “Lord Hirluin has sent a gift for you—a welcome to Caer Argent.”

  Lady Bonamark’s dark, strongly marked brows lifted. “He did not come himself?”

  “No, my lady, although he is expected back from the Eastern March for the tourney. But he sends this welcome cup, as his pledge to the Countess of Ormond.”

  “A pretty gesture,” Lady Bonamark said approvingly. Audin’s smile looked a little stiff—but he was the Duke’s nephew and born to this game; no question that he knew how to play. Malian studied the young girl who was walking to meet Ghiselaine, a great cup held carefully in front of her. She looked a little like the steward and her dark hair was bound back by a silver ribbon. Her face was pale—with excitement, Malian guessed—and she kept her eyes lowered. The cup she bore was smooth yellow gold with a white-gold rim, the surface engraved with lilies and oak leaves twined together. A nice detail, Malian thought: he knows how to make a gesture anyway, this Hirluin.

  The girl sank down in the curtsey one makes to royalty, her lashes cast down against pale cheeks and her hands shaking a little as she extended the great chalice above her head. Ghiselaine was smiling as she drew off her travel-stained gloves, and a long ray from the sinking sun reached out and touched the cup. The gold shimmered in the burnished light, and Malian blinked against a dark afterdazzle as she caught the aroma of spiced wine: the heavy tang snatched at the back of her throat. Ghiselaine’s hands reached out, white and slender, to take their place on either side of the girl’s and lift the cup—and Malian hurtled up the lodge steps, knocking the vessel aside.

  “The cup is poisoned,” she said, as the Tenneward retainers cried out, and Girvase and Raher raced up the steps behind her. “And the wine,” she added, although those close enough could already see the spilled liquid eating into the stone steps. Even the glancing blow to the cup had eaten through Malian’s coat and shirtsleeve and into the leather armguard below. The girl remained kneeling, her dark head bowed forward.