“I’ll do that, sweetheart!” said the guard with a grin. “Just cut across to the lodge there, find the duty officer …”
They went slowly on their way, through hurrying crowds of soldiers and others—servants, market women, scullions, and cooks with their heads covered. Above them on all sides now were the towering walls of Hackestell central keep, built all of pinkish stone from the quarries northwest of Krail, with darker bands of greystone from the south by Rift Kyrie.
“Great Goddess!” breathed Jehane. She, as well as Gael, had heard tale of the fortress’s prison cells. “How have we come to this, Gael Maddoc?”
“A pity,” echoed Gael, speaking just as low, “a pity if we have such an adventure because some rogues attack the lord!”
They got down, trying not to be overawed, showed their token to a stableboy who led away their horses and pointed the way to the lodge. Inside there were more than a dozen members of the garrison; they kept up a little murmur of teasing talk until the duty officer saw the token. He waved it and gave them both a smart salute, said his name, Captain Treem, and summoned yet another ensign for their guide. There was silence as they went out and the young ensign led them into the keep under the great iron wargate.
“Godfire!” he said, on the stairs. “This is a terrible business—did you see the bastards?”
“We chased them!” admitted Gael. “Others went after them through the town—were they caught?”
“Not yet—we’ve heard all sorts of tales.” He chattered on, said his name was Stivven, and asked their names. They kept on up the wide winding stair with its old wooden banisters, rising up on the left side of the keep within the thickness of its outer wall. Outside, through a narrow window, they saw the afternoon sunlight shining on the high ground and a wind moving the tops of the trees.
So they came to the private hearth, where witnesses were to be heard. Stivven left them at the door with a salute. It was surely not so for Jehane, but for Gael this was the finest room she had ever been in. There were rich hangings on the walls and a bank of fresh green leaves filling the hearth and the settles were padded with bright red leather. The room was empty—Jehane touched Gael’s arm and led her behind an arrangement of painted screens near the door. There was a place to wash, with mirrors and a privy, thickly curtained. They each took turns keeping watch while the other removed her tunic and made a soldier’s ablutions. Towels and vials of lavender water made Gael feel giddy with luxury. She combed up her hair, in its new short kedran cut. She a little regretted the loss of her thick red braids, but a quick look in one of the fine silver mirrors told her she was no plainer than before. Jehane would have to look fair for them both … They heard movement in the chamber and came out from behind the screens, carrying their riding caps.
Five orderlies were bringing in food and arranging it on a long trestle that had been set up along the western wall. There was an older man, one of the lord’s servants, and again the young ensign, Stivven. He said their names as witnesses, and the older man looked at them keenly and pointed to a settle, with a table before it.
“Fetch yourselves food and ale,” he said gently. “Sit there.”
They went to the food table and were served with hot meat, buttered bread, salad greens, and a cloth each to wipe their hands. Did they each have knives? Yes. The boy would bring them their ale. So they took their places and ate as daintily as they might. Presently two civilians were shown in, and Gael recognized the tall old man who had spoken up for them outside the fortress. He stood about with the men and drank a goblet of wine. After a moment he caught sight of them and exclaimed:
“Yes, by heaven! There they are! The two young kedran—they saw it all!”
He came across to their table and bowed and bade them not to get up.
“Mentle,” he said, “I am Huw Mentle, Reeve of Hackestell Village. I’m glad they brought you here to bear witness!”
“Good Sir,” asked Gael, “were the men captured after they went down that alley?”
“No, they were not!” he said. “Not even the Sword Lilies could find them! And there was something strange in that …”
The doors were opened, and Obrist Wellach led in Duro of Val’Nur, along with a pale, striking fellow in a black scholar’s gown. They were followed by two Sword Lilies. Jehane nudged Gael, recognizing the pair who had halted them. Then there came a notably handsome young man, finely dressed in blue—Gael took him for one of the courtiers who had walked with Lord Knaar and his sons. There were some others, servants of Val’Nur and soldiers of the garrison.
There was movement at once as the room was rearranged for the hearing. The obrist spoke up, saying what would be done.
“Master de Reece, head scribe of the house of Val’Nur, will be the questioner. This is not a court-martial, but all witnesses are asked to speak up plainly. There will be no penalties, no name taking, and no rewards.
“The good Master is a lay justice in Krail. We are fortunate indeed to have one so close at hand who knows how to conduct such a hearing.”
Behind, while Obrist Wellach spoke, Hem Duro was instructing two kerns where to place his chair, before the food table, facing the room. Despite his words outside the fort, it seemed, at least for now, that he was there to listen rather than to speak.
Two lesser scribes, one a young woman, settled at a special table to write down the proceedings. Then the obrist held up his hand for silence. Master de Reece stepped forward and spoke in clear ringing tones.
“We will not have the witnesses sworn just at first,” he said easily. “I will begin with the person who was closest to Lord Knaar—first gentleman of the bedchamber, Valent Harrad.”
The handsome young fellow in blue stood up and answered to his name. Yes, it was just as the procession turned to make the approach to the fortress. He was behind Lord Knaar, who turned aside to receive flowers from some country wives and their children. No, he had seen nothing amiss until two kedran came riding from the barriers and pushed into the crowd just beyond the women. And then? Yes, indeed, said young Harrad, tossing his long scented locks. He saw the attackers, two men in dark clothes, perhaps hunting dress. He saw that one had a great spear and came at the Lord Knaar, although the kedran would have prevented it.
“So the red-haired one struck him down!” he finished.
“Do you see this kedran?” inquired Master de Reece.
The young man’s gaze flicked over those present in the wide sunny room, and he pointed eagerly, smiled and nodded.
“There she is, Master de Reece, and her companion too …”
Gael held up her head and prayed for strength.
“Kedran?”
Master de Reece made a gesture; she stood up, saluted, and gave her name.
“Gael Maddoc, kedran recruit from Coombe village!”
She was echoed by Jehane springing up at her side:
“Jehane Vey, kedran recruit from Veyna!”
De Reece nodded to Huw Mentle, including him in the group of witnesses.
“Yes, Master Scribe,” said the old man, “I first saw the danger when these two brave kedran came through and held the two brigands. Some of our citizens from the garrison village came to their aid and took hold of one of the men. The younger of the two, in a close-fitting hood, held up his sword to heaven and made some incantation. Then the pair of them made off, and two of the lord’s escort, two Sword Lilies, came amongst us and ordered the kedran to declare themselves!”
Only one of the Sword Lilies, a fierce old captain called Lockie, told the tale from their side.
“Yes, Master de Reece,” she said in her hoarse voice, “we had not seen anything of an attack or an attacker. We did not recognize these two recruits.”
She gave Gael and Jehane a curt nod—it was recognition at last, and they acknowledged it thankfully.
“Now, was there a pursuit of these two men?” asked de Reece.
“There was,” said Captain Lockie. “Two of our troop went after them
and some citizens before. They had taken to a narrow alley called Oldwall that leads to the fields. The men were not found.”
“They had hidden themselves? Reached the fields?”
The captain was already embarrassed by the questions. Reeve Mentle signed to de Reece and spoke up seriously, looking at Hem Duro.
“I know that our noble Lord Knaar is no friend of such talk, but it must be said. That short street, Oldwall, is bare of any doorway or possible hiding place. The younger fugitive was heard speaking strange words. Hem Duro—your father’s attackers escaped with the help of magic!”
Duro gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“Yes,” he said. To everyone’s relief, he had taken no offense at the reeve’s uncomfortable disclosure. “My father does not encourage magicians. But magic is used all throughout the lands of Hylor. Two enemies of Val’Nur might be just the fellows to fight against us with such tricks!”
As he spoke, the trumpet call sounded below, and bells were rung. The obrist whispered something to the prince.
“What? Changing of the guard? Yes, of course, any with duty may leave. If Captain Lockie or her ensign could stay back a moment—I think we are come to the most important part of this whole affair: who were these men, to set themselves against my father?”
Amidst a general movement, the room greatly emptied. Jehane and Gael remained by their settle as Master de Reece announced a break in the proceedings. There was time for the retiring room, and drinks of ale were passed around. When they all came together again, it was like a roundtable gathering; all the witnesses were seated, as well as de Reece and the scribes.
The ensign of the Sword Lilies was questioned first. She had seen two men running off. Yes, she had seen their faces. The men were tall, but she could not swear they were men of Mel’Nir. She thought one was older than the other. They wore trews or trunkhose and perhaps their cloaks were green. One had a close hood.
Reeve Mentle sat beside de Reece and gave his testimony directly and quietly to the scribes and it was taken down.
“Just so,” said Master de Reece. “So now it is the turn of the two recruits from Coombe.”
A glance passed between him and Hem Duro.
“Kedran Maddoc,” said Duro, his pleasant voice sharpening just a little, “what made you pursue these men? How did they first come to your notice?”
It was a question she had put to herself ever since the attack, and there was no answer that would serve but the truth.
“Highness,” she said, “I had some kind of foreshadowing. I suddenly knew that there was danger, there to my right among the crowd.”
“Have you ever practiced magic?” he pursued. “Do you know anyone, man or woman, who could be described as a magician?”
“No, Highness!” said Gael Maddoc firmly. “But we are Chyrian folk in the village of Coombe.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We have our own natural magic, from the Goddess.”
Hem Duro shook his head, as if to say “worse and worse.”
Jehane Vey spoke up:
“Highness, I am Jehane Vey, of the Forest Hall, in Veyna hamlet, and my granddam is Fion Allrada, a lady of the half-Shee. She is known for her wisdom and it might be called natural magic.”
Hem Duro turned to de Reece with a questioning look and the Head Scribe said evenly:
“This lady is known as a local wise woman, Highness …”
Duro, seeming satisfied, turned again to Gael Maddoc.
“And your family, Kedran?”
Gael had no hall to claim, and she found her cheeks burning at the form of the prince’s question. “My family have always lived at Holywell Croft, by deed and by custom, as our own Reeve Oghal would bear witness. We have the care of the holy well, in its sacred grotto.”
“The Well of Coombe,” de Reece interjected softly. “Yes, then this witch-sight you carry cannot be surprising. Your family bears an ancient troth.” He glanced at Hem Duro. “Older than Coombe itself, if truth be told.”
While Gael had heard some such tale told enough times in Coombe village, it came as some surprise to know that a scribe from so mighty—and distant—a city as Krail might share any knowledge of her family’s humble crofting.
“Do you know anything about the Westlings, Kedran Maddoc?” inquired Hem Duro.
“Yes, surely, Highness,” she replied eagerly, “I have been told this tale. Our great hero of Coombe village, General Yorath, raised the first muster of Chyrian folk to serve Val’Nur, during the Great King’s War. The siege of this same fortress, Hackestell, was broken by the Chyrian horde …”
“Who told you this tale?” he demanded.
“I did, Highness!” said a voice. “Pray you have mercy on my good recruits!”
Druda Strawn had come in silently. Now he walked forward and bowed to the prince. His sharp dark gaze took in the whole table round of witnesses and questioners. Gael Maddoc knew that she saw a man absolutely unafraid in this company.
“Of course,” said Hem Duro, dryly. “Druda Strawn, pray take your place here at my side. We are come to a most interesting part of this strange affair. Your two recruits must describe the two men who tried to attack my father.”
Jehane went first and although they had hardly spoken together of these things Gael found her description agreed almost perfectly with Gael’s own picture of the two assassins. Then it was her own turn. She might have wished herself in the midst of battle rather than speaking so long before this company. Yet she spoke up as clearly and truthfully as she could, for the honor of poor Coombe and for Druda Strawn, who had chosen her for a kedran.
“A hood … ?” queried de Reece. “The younger man wore this closely woven woolen hood?”
Gael screwed up her eyes in an effort to retrieve the scene.
“No Sir,” she said. “Not woven—it seemed to me that the hood was knitted. And I particularly noticed the color of the thick-spun thread. It must have come from a black sheep.”
There was a moment of complete silence around the table, then de Reece, Hem Duro, and young Valent all cried out at once, with oaths ranging from “By the Warriors!” to “Blood and Fire!” Druda Strawn gave a bark of laughter.
“Well said, Gael Maddoc!” he exclaimed. “And I charge all you gathered here to see that this is not a tale I have told. She uttered the words quite innocently.”
He gave Gael a smile and went on: “The Black Sheep are a band of rebellious souls who farm tracts of land and do their own magic. It is said they are refugees from the island of Eriu, formerly a feof of ancient Eildon, now held firm in the iron hand of the Kingdom of Lien.”
“Eildon? They have their magic of Eildon?” Gael spoke aloud in her surprise, impressed by the Druda’s erudition. Eildon-across-the-sea was old and its ways were strange. She had heard magic was much used there, but all spoke that it was magic of a glamor kind, a pretty—or treacherous—illusion played by the Priest-King’s court, deep opposed to the country-bound Chyrian style of magic. Even so, if these black sheep used magic, it was not surprising that they should find themselves Lienish castaways. From what little she knew, Lien, Mel’Nir’s neighbor to the north, was a kingdom where magic was held in even greater public distrust than in Knaar of Val’Nur’s domains.
“But in truth,” the Druda said softly, as he looked again toward the prince, “it seems to me that this use of magic, together with Gael Maddoc’s sighting of the knitted hood, is a blessed gift, for it tells us that the question here today is whether or no Knaar of Westmark has dealt fairly with some refugees living rough upon his own land, and does not, Goddess be thanked, touch anything greater. Wronged farmers are a safer enemy than a land whose gaze has slowly turned outward to its neighbors’ fields.”
Hem Duro’s eyes glittered dangerously, and he did not answer. For a moment Gael could not believe that the Druda had really aired a fear that Lien itself might have been responsible for today’s attack on Lord Knaar, but the prince’s next word
s left her with no doubt that she had properly understood the Druda’s meaning. “It is not fit that we should speak ungently of our northern neighbor,” Duro snapped. “Lien may have taken Mel’Nir’s fair Balbank into its own realm, but there its outward push has ended. Neither my father nor any of his kin will stand for such words to be spoken.”
Yet, whatever the diplomatic content of Duro’s words, a look of unhappy understanding flashed between the Druda and the prince. Gael could see a concern shared between them. De Reece shuffled his papers, interrupting with some small question. The moment of unease was past and gone.
And that was all the sense the kedran were able to get out of their long ordeal. No more questions were put to them, and this matter of Eriu, or perhaps of Lien, was not aired to them any further. Hem Duro and Master de Reece spoke together in quiet, and after a little time, they admitted Reeve Mentle and Druda Strawn to their council.
Valent Harrad was excused to return to Lord Knaar’s service.
Gael and Jehane sat together, whispering a little. Presently Captain Lockie of the Sword Lilies and Obrist Wellach returned from their duties and joined the conference. A few moments after, the captain haled the two recruits off to quarters. They were to sleep in Hackestell this night and return to their training in the morning.
They gathered up their saddlebags and their ash staves and followed the old kedran out of the private hearth. As they went toward the stairs, she looked about for a moment as if to be sure no one was watching and drew them aside, along the gallery.
“Hem Duro is a generous man,” she said. “Keep quiet about this.”
She drew out from a deep pocket in her tunic two bright twists of yellow cloth and handed them to Gael and Jehane.
“Silver!” said Captain Lockie. “Five silver shields each, fresh from the Royal Mint at Goldgrave!”
She held up a hand as they both whispered their thanks. “You both drew a strange duty this day,” she said. “Maybe with a bit of training you’ll be seen among the Westlings.”
The captain did not say “among the Sword Lilies.” They were a special troop, the lord’s escort. Gael could see how Lockie smiled at Jehane’s retort to this cautious approval—the tall girl was nettled, her pride was touched. In her own town of Veyna, great things were expected for Jehane—and Gael, knowing how easy Jehane Vey rode, her already easy manner as she spoke with their rough green troop, would not have gainsaid those happy expectations.
The Wanderer Page 3