“I will not fail you, Master Oghal!”
“Finish your breakfast,” he said wearily, “I must send off a reckoning.”
He bustled away, and she heard him climbing stairs. Presently Ronna Oghal came in and sat down to table. She was a handsome girl, about the same age as Gael, with dark eyes and fine brown hair under her coif.
“I must thank you, Gael Maddoc,” she said in a soft light voice, “for helping Bretlow—my poor Bretlow Smith.”
“How is he doing?” asked Gael.
“A little better,” said Ronna. “But his arm is still lame. Oh Goddess, what is this bane come upon him? Do you know? Is it this wicked Erian magic—or some other sickness?”
“Truly, I cannot tell,” said Gael. “I believe he should keep on with his treatment at the Holywell …”
“Should we find a true adept?” whispered Ronna. “A Magician or a Wise Woman?”
“I did hear of one thing,” Gael said, hesitating. “I read it in a book of old tales that Druda Strawn gave me at the Winter Feast, years past, to help my reading.”
“Tell me …” pleaded Ronna, “or maybe send the book to me to read …”
“Perhaps I should do that,” said Gael, feeling herself blush a little. “There was this warrior roused from a spell when his sweetheart—held him close!”
Ronna understood at once. They both heard her father, the reeve, returning. Ronna stood up, gathering dishes on to her tray, and said:
“Why yes, send me that book, if you please, Captain!”
“I’m ready, Captain Maddoc,” said Reeve Oghal. “We’ll seek the dragon’s lair!”
The inn and the inn yard were unusually still. A decent pack horse from Rhodd’s own stable stood ready and a passable charger, for the lord, from Vigo Smith’s stable; two riding hacks for the lady and the servant were being brought from the Long Burn Farm. There was whispering in the hallway; Rhodd, the innkeeper, was comforting a weeping maidservant. He was a handsome man, a veteran of the Westlings and a widower. The gossips said that only gold pleased him more than the love of women. He nodded briefly to the reeve and took Gael by the hand, smiling.
“By the Goddess,” he said, still keeping his voice down. “Is this our little Maddoc?”
“We’ll go in,” said Reeve Oghal curtly. “Will their man say our names or will you?”
“The man’s upstairs seeing to the baggage,” said Rhodd. “Come along.”
He stepped up, knocked on the door of his best room, where the recruiting officers were entertained and the tax gatherers, and, in summer, the hunting parties. As he announced Reeve Oghal, a voice cut him short.
“We have been waiting!”
The reeve hitched at the belt of his tunic and went in with Gael at his heels. Lord Malm stood before the fire, a tall, ruddy-faced old man, broadly built and made broader by his robe of padded grey velvet trimmed with squirrel fur. His lady, somewhat younger, sat at the oaken table. She wore a thick, furred surcoat over green brocade and on her head a hood, peaked like a house gable, that showed her hair, smooth golden brown. They were both notably clear skinned, fair and well fed. But their faces were almost deformed by impatience and disgust for the situation in which they found themselves.
“Lord,” said Oghal, bowing. “The horses will be ready shortly and I have a kedran captain for your guide. May I present …”
“No,” said the lord. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not meeting this woman, I’m hiring her services.”
As the poor reeve stood openmouthed, Gael stepped into the midst of the chamber, stood to attention, and saluted. The Eildon lord paced all around her, where she stood, and put his face next to hers. His breath reeked of mint leaves.
“Name and rank!” he cried, just below the level of a parade-ground shout.
Gael did not flinch; she rapped out her reply, included her unit She stared into the middle distance and remembered her foolish thoughts of the magic kingdom.
“Maddoc!” said Lord Malm.
His Eildon accent thinned it to Meddoc.
“Served in a household regiment?”
“Yes my lord!”
“Ridden escort duty?”
“Yes my lord, and personal escort service to the Lord Blayn, Heir of Pfolben!”
“How d’ye happen to be in this wild, forsaken place, Captain?”
“On my long leave, my lord.”
“You live here?”
“At Maddoc’s croft, by Holywell, my lord.”
He turned on his heel, clasped his hands behind his back, and bent toward his lady.
“Malveen, my heart,” he said gently. “What do you think? Seems sound enough.”
“I could ask for better,” drawled Lady Malm. “Are we not in Mel’Nir? Where are the giant warriors?”
The reeve began to speak, but she waved a white hand at him and said:
“Let the Captain answer!”
“My lady,” said Gael, “the nearest garrison of the Westmark is at Hackestell Fortress, twenty miles away.”
“We must journey with all possible speed,” said the lady, twisting her hands together. “We must come to the king’s court. We have been cast away …”
“My lady,” said Gael, hoping the reeve would keep silent. “We might arrange an escort of cavalrymen from Hackestell. They serve Knaar of Val’Nur, Lord of the Westmark.”
Lord and Lady Malm exchanged a long look. Plainly, they had no wish for an escort of Val’Nur’s troops.
“Get on,” said the lord. “The captain will guide us. We must ride within the hour. Speak to the steward about our quartering!”
“The matter of payment …” murmured Reeve Oghal.
“Speak to the steward, man!” said Lord Malm.
He turned his back on them. They went out and found Rhodd drinking his best wine in his own parlor with the third member of the party. Master Wennle, the steward, was a thin elderly man whose faded brown eyes missed nothing. He did not bargain with Rhodd or with Reeve Oghal but opened a writing case of polished wood and noted all the expenses in a little parchment book. At last, Rhodd and the reeve went to see to horses and provisions.
“Captain,” said Wennle, “tell me plainly, is this a dangerous journey?”
“No,” said Gael. “The roads are good. The waystations provide shelter. The storms of autumn hardly reach the high ground.”
“I cannot understand why there are no garrisons in all that wild region, the High Plateau.”
“Master Wennle,” she said, “have you not been told that it is the last home of the Shee, the fairy folk? It has always been treated as some kind of neutral ground. Long ago there were mining towns, Goldgrave and Silverlode, before the precious metals and jewels gave out and those towns became empty places, ghosts. Armies have marched and fought on the high ground, there are roads for travelers now, and Goldgrave is rebuilt, but a garrison would be seen as a provocation of the Shee and of the war-leaders or the king.”
“Eildon folk,” said Wennle with a smile, “are all cousins to the Shee. It accounts for their wayward behavior.”
“Master Wennle, can you tell me the reason for this journey?”
“No,” he said stiffly. “It is not my place. Put your question to Lady Malm when she knows you better.”
“I think that will never be,” sighed Gael. “The lady would rather have giant warriors as her escort.”
“Captain Maddoc,” said the steward, “were you never afraid? Can you imagine how it might be … cast away in a strange country?”
Gael bent her head, thinking of the endless sands.
“Yes, Master Wennle,” she said humbly. “I will do my best to serve your masters well.”
“Now the problem of fresh horses,” said Wennle. “What was it that the reeve suggested?”
“If there are no horses at the Halfway House,” said Gael, “we might hire them from Nordlin, in the Great Eastern Rift. It is no more than twenty miles from the great inn to this valley. Yet if these horses we have a
re strong, I think we would do better to let them rest up and go the whole journey. We are not riding as couriers, Master Wennle. I for one will not change my mount.”
The innyard was full of activity all of a sudden. The sun had come out for the first time in many days and the hay piles steamed. The two horses from the Long Burn Farm were sleek and strong, and there was a lady saddle besides, but Wennle assured the reeve that Lady Malm would ride astride. As she went about checking girths, Gael Maddoc was drawn aside by a tall man with his face muffled. When Culain Raillie lowered his plaid, his eyes held a wild look.
“Gael Maddoc,” he said, “help me as a friend. Who are these Eildon folk?”
“Lord Malm and his lady,” she said.
“Two great nobles? Here in Coombe?”
“Stand here and you will see them ride out,” she said.
“What escort do they have?”
“Only myself,” she said, “and their steward. They are bound for Lort, and in a hurry.”
He relaxed a little and smiled his mirthless smile.
“Good traveling, then! … I hope the gold they have paid is good,” he added, “whoever they may be.”
“They are the Malms,” she said, wondering at his concern. “Bound for Lort. Depend upon it!”
“Well, I wish you a safe journey.”
Her name was called, and she went to help with the packhorse. Culain Raillie slipped away, did not even stay to see his horses ridden off.
Vigo the Smith came from the forge with a lance, nicely balanced and newly tipped, on which the steward threaded a banner for the knightly order of the Hunters of Eildon, with their device, a silver bow. The yard had been cleared, but the street was lined with people as though the Westlings were mustering.
Lord Malm came and complained loud and long about the horses, then about the saddles. Lady Malm had changed her clothes … it struck Gael that she could hardly do this by herself, that a kedran might have to do duty as a lady’s maid.
Now the lady wore a riding habit, with green breeches under a flowing brown skirt and a shaped jacket, trimmed with fur. She sat her horse well, without complaint, but she asked, angrily, why her lord was mounted on an old nag while the kedran guide rode a fine charger.
None of the Coombe folk would answer her; Gael pretended not to hear; the steward leaned across and explained: the black charger was Captain Maddoc’s own property. At last Lord Malm looked over the small party and gave a shout of “Meddoc!” He waved his hand to her, she raised the banner and led the way.
They rode slowly through the village. Among the thin, hoarse cheering, she heard the lads, Bress and Shim, singing, in Chyrian, nother jaunting verse to their song:
Who is that lord
With the shining face?
Is it King Nud, the Lord of the Lake?
Or is it a drunken tinker?
She saw Druda Strawn standing by an oak sapling where the road led downhill. He waved a sprig of the sacred plant, Mistel, that grew with the oaks, and gave them a blessing for the journey.
At the foot of the rise there was water across the road in pools, reflecting the pale color of the sky. On their right lay the roads to the south, with a distant view of Lowestell. The fortress stood out stark and grey against the trees of the Southwold; to the left the road led down through orchards to flooded fields that reached all the way to Hackestell. There was the boundary wall and a crofter and his wife, waving proudly … she dipped her lance to her father and mother. Then they were right down, upon the plain, almost at the crossroads.
Hackestell was visible to the north, with water spreading out before it like a moat. Ahead was the first stretch of “new road,” leading directly to the cliffs of the High Plateau. Gael Maddoc spoke up as a guide should do, crying out the landmarks and calling the way they must ride. The small party of riders pressed on, and well before midday they were climbing upward.
The road was broad and comfortable, cut into the cliff in long rising tiers, shored up with stonework. There was a perceptible improvement in everyone’s spirits as they came closer to the lip of the plateau. Gael thought back with sweet regret to the innocent days of the Summer Riders; the lord and his lady talked together and laughed aloud. First Wennle sang a song in a sweet cracked voice, then Malm cried out:
“Captain, give us a wild folk song for this desolate place!”
“My lord,” said Gael, “I can do no better than a riding song from the Southland …”
So she lifted up her voice, which was tuneful enough, and sang a verse that came into her head.
In Pfolben fields I saw a maiden,
She sang this song while she harvested the grain,
“Ride on, dear heart, ride on the whole world over,
Ride home to me in Pfolben fields again!”
Lady Malm laughed again, and the lord persuaded his wife to raise up her own voice.
“Well, let us have a catch,” she said. “I will begin, then Wennle, then the kedran.”
It was an old song, and with one or two false starts they were able to sing it well.
Birds sing in spring,
Sweet sweet the nightingale and tawny owl …
“Hush!” said Lady Malm as Gael’s last note died away.
Borne on the wind from overhead, there came a few sweet notes of the catch repeated.
“An echo, my lady,” said Wennle. “Is it not, Captain?”
“I hope so,” said Gael.
They rode on for the last hundred yards in silence and came over the crest of the road. What they saw took their breath away and kept them silent for a time. There was no sign of any living creature; the riders stood now upon a piece of higher ground, as on the lip of a great bowl, and the plateau spread out before them. It was a mighty plain, red or sandy in places, with a few stunted trees close at hand, tussock grass and dark scrubby bushes. It was afternoon and there was rain in the wind, but the weather was still holding. Cloud shadows moved over the plateau, purple and grey. Off to the east, at the descent into the Great Eastern Rift, there was mist, and mist further to the south by Rift Kyrie. Gael looked to the Larch Road in the west, where she had climbed up with the Summer Riders coming from Hackestell with Druda Strawn. She saw that they were not quite alone: one horseman, two, maybe a third were slowly descending to the flooded plains. Now those distant riders were hidden by a few larch trees.
Directly ahead, down the dark ribbon of the road, was the first waystation, a square house of yellow stone, after the fashion of Mel’Nir. It was about ten miles away, though distances were hard to judge. A little south of the waystation rose a tall standing stone, the Black Menhir.
Gael tried to prepare the travelers for the first night of the journey.
“My lord,” she said, “the first waystation yonder is called Rieth’s Rest, for the Prince of Mel’Nir, the King’s nephew, who camped here as a child on his way to the king’s court.”
“Hear that, my love?” cried Lord Malm. “It is a good omen!”
“My lord,” said Gael, “presently I will ride on ahead and get the fire lit.”
Lady Malm at once reined in her horse and cried out in temper:
“Is there no one there? Is that what you are saying, kedran? No servants? No hot water? No beds?”
“No servants, my lady,” said Gael. “The house is clean and fire is laid and there are straw palliasses for travelers. Water can be heated. It is the custom to leave food or drink in the store coffer for the next travelers. We have good provisions.”
“And is it so all the way over this plateau?” demanded the lord.
“No, the Halfway House is like a true large inn,” said Gael. “We will reach it tomorrow night if we ride early.”
She rode off at last and came to Rieth’s Rest, which to her own eyes looked snug enough, even welcoming. She got the fire to burn, swept the hearth, shook up the beds, even before she saw to Ebony in the stable.
The Malms came in and complained and at the same time said they must mak
e the best of things. Wennle consulted with Gael over the evening meal: they stewed a chicken with onions and herbs and barley. There was plenty of applejack, and it mellowed Lord Malm a little. He took himself off to the larger chamber and soon could be heard snoring although it was an early hour. When Lady Malm rose up from her place by the fire, Gael said timidly:
“My lady, may I be helpful as a tiring woman?”
The lady looked at her with undisguised disgust.
“I hope you have washed your hands,” she said.
There were forty leather buttons on the back of the noblewoman’s riding habit. Gael came back to the fire and said to the steward:
“Will you sleep by the fire, Master Wennle?”
“No, Captain,” he said. “Thank you kindly. I will read in my book a little by this candle then later try to sleep. Pray take the place by the fire.”
She banked the fire and lay down upon the straw-padded settle, wrapped in her cloak. The way before them seemed very long and far removed from a quest. She slept and dreamed a confused happy dream of her old friends in Kestrel company riding up to the door of Rieth’s Rest and greeting her.
The sight of the High Plateau at dawn next day, as she rapidly went from one task to another, was enough to cheer her. As she saw to the horses the whole eastern boundary of the plain and the rift valleys were shrouded in golden mist. Then they were all on the road again before the sun was up, and they saw it rise, burning over the cliffs by the distant Eastmark. In mid morning of a clear autumn day they came toward a crossroads, and first Gael, then the other travelers, saw two horsemen waiting in the meager shade of a thorn tree.
The Wanderer Page 13