Tomas had a serious way with him. Gael found herself sharply aware of the deep tone of his voice and the way his thick dark hair fell over his broad forehead. He seemed pleased to seek out her company; yet somehow he was not like Jazeel or Lady Hestrem, who, despite their pleasantness as companions, had sought for information through rather than of her.
“Pearl of Andine is unmarried,” he said, “and occupies the family home, Cannford Old House, in the center of the Rift. Some say this lady, Mistress Pearl, is the most beautiful of the three sisters. She is a teacher to the daughters of the Rift Lords. She is a healer, and it has always been rumored that she is versed in magic.”
“I felt sure you would know!” said Gael, smiling. “How would one learn magic, Tomas? Yes, I know I have had to learn a smattering of the art for this ‘Silverlode Incident’ But I wonder how anyone, even a lady of a landowning family, could truly become an adept.”
“First requirement,” he said cheerfully, “is another adept, a teacher. That could be a member of the fairy race, or a half-Shee, like the O’Quoins. The story is that Lady Pearl went into Eildon for several years as a young girl, in the aftermath of the Great King’s War.”
Presently Gwil Cluny came in: the carriage from Silverlode was ready, with its own greys hitched up. Lord Malm had asked the day before if this was war booty from the Boar’s Lair, but Wennle had explained that it was not. After consultation with Gael, the steward had returned a certain amount of silver to Huarikson’s trooper, who had brought back the horses—as payment for the simple carriage and the two greys. A bargain, certainly, and an offer the Boar could not refuse, but the Malms’ party, to Gael’s mind, had come in peace and did not gather booty:
Up above, on the gallery, Wennle and Lyse began moving out the Malms’ baggage and bringing it down the stairs. Gael, a little disappointed that there would be no chance for her to tender her respects to the third of Strett’s daughters, indeed disappointed that Lady Perrine, unlike the Lady Annhad, had not singled her out and reached out to her, went into her own small room under the stairs and fetched her saddlebags and her lance. Where was destiny in this? But then Tomas the scribe drew her down to sit at the table again, and she was of sudden brought to the moment.
“Gael—Gael Maddoc,” he said with sudden urgency. “You will leave ahead of us. Lord Auric will take some time for his talk with Keddar. You have said that your service with the Malms lasts only until you bring them safely to the king’s court—the Palace Fortress.”
“Then I am at liberty again,” said Gael, “until the spring.”
It seemed a long time until her next meeting with the Shee; she must journey to the village of Aird in the Willowmoon and there wait for instruction.
“Winter over in the city of Lort!” said Tomas. “Let me secure you a good room in the Swan Inn, with our Landlord Rolf Beck, together with his family. There are scribes, like myself—you will have good talk, old tales, sweet music, games of Battle …”
“Yes,” she said, feeling a rush of warmth and friendship. “Yes, I will do it, Tomas! The Swan Inn?”
“By the ancient Ox Gate.”
Then it was time for Lord and Lady Malm to descend the stairs, the old lord going ahead and reaching a hand up to his wife. Gael, standing at attention with her lance and banner at the foot of the stairs, thought she had never seen Mortrice of Malm looking more sensible. His bluster had all gone. He returned her salute with a smile:
“Meddoc! Ready for the road?”
“All ready, m’lord!”
Everyone had come to see the Malms take their leave: Mistress Cluny and all the extra help came from the kitchens. Lord Auric stood up and spread his hands, beckoning the Malms to his table. Mistress Hestrem, a fine lutanist, played her sweet music.
“Too short a meeting with such illustrious company!” said Lord Auric. “Let us send you all safely on your way to the king’s court!”
His smile was sincere and charming: he could command all the world to be happy. Lady Malm beamed and nodded:
“We are all in good heart for the last part of the journey!” she said.
“Permit me to present to you …” continued young Auric.
Lord and Lady Malm were presented to Keddar of Keddar Grove—one day, perhaps, Keddar, Lord of the Eastmark, returning the Marches of Mel’Nir to their proper balance. It was no more than a brief exchange of greetings: Lord Malm tossed off a stirrup cup.
Gael Maddoc, standing well back from the nobles, was glad she had no part in this palaver. She felt a profound uneasiness in the presence of Lord Auric and trusted him very little. Even as she readied herself for the departure, she was trying to give Tomas Giraud some kind of magical protection against the wiles of this handsome lord—silently repeating a protective spell in his name: part of her new, small arsenal of magic.
Out in the yard, Gael thought of the first leave-taking from Coombe, the beginning of the journey. This time the Malms were good as gold in the carriage from Silverlode—it was not half so elegant as Lord Auric’s equipage, but it was as comfortable. Lyse, the waiting maid, rode with the Malms. Now Gael, on Ebony, and Wennle, on his same horse from Coombe, led off; Gwil Cluny, as coachman, swung the greys out of the inn yard to a few cheers. They took to a good road that led them past the Green Fort, a sacred place of the Shee; it was a fair, warm autumn day, not long after noon.
Before they had joined the King’s Way, north of Silverlode, Wennle said to Gael Maddoc:
“Captain, I have remembered something!”
“Yes, Master Wennle?”
“This young man, Auric Barry—he is not entirely unfamiliar to me. I saw him—years past—in Eildon. He was then a page, in service to the envoy sent from the Lienish court.”
It could hardly surprise her that Lord Auric was so highly placed in Lien; still, this information made it all the more strange to her that he had traveled all this distance into Mel’Nir’s rough interior.
Now they were on the King’s Way, and it was not so rough and wild as the way they had passed. The party made a halt at a look out, and all gazed down from the western rim of the plateau. They could look back to the south at the fortress of Hackestell, manned by the soldiery of Val’Nur. Near at hand, they could see the river Demmis. It sprang up in the Bens of Deme, on the steep sides of the high ground, and made its way across the plain to flow through the golden city of Krail, where Knaar, Lord of the Westmark, would not hear of magic.
At the first waystation, there was a kedran company of good King Gol’s royal garrison—the unit called Golden Ash—who helped travelers. Then, before Goldgrave, there was another inn, a smaller version of the Halfway House, new since the time that Gael had ridden through with Druda Strawn and the other recruits. Here Gwil Cluny changed the carriage horses, leaving the good greys from Silverlode to be collected on his return.
The Malms and their party had time to take their ease and enjoy the autumn beauty of the high ground. Gael was busy with her charts and maps, including a new map, printed in the Lienish fashion, the gift of Tomas the scribe. She saw the way that led to the west, to the village of Aird, home of many half-Shee. Near it there existed on its own magical plane the fair palace of Tulach, where she had been received by the Eilif ladies and lords.
So at last they came to the town of Goldgrave, where gold and precious metals had been taken from the surrounding land in the early years of the Farfaring. Goldgrave, once abandoned like Silverlode, was now a market town with a tannery and a mill, standing on the western edge of the great plateau. It was famous now for battles during the Great King’s War.
Rooms were taken at a renowned hostelry, the Heroes of Goldgrave. The travelers had been nine days on the road, but only one long day more would bring them to the Palace Fortress of King Gol. Lady Malm had prepared letters and, now a courier was found to ride at once to the court and bring the news of her arrival to Princess Elwina. So the party rested, like old campaigners, at the Heroes, talking of the dangers they had passed.
On the third morning, there was a commotion in the inn yard. Gael, having her breakfast, looked out and sent Lyse to wake the Malms at once. An escort troop of the royal guard, with the prancing horse of the Duarings upon their golden tabards, had just arrived. She sprang up and went out to greet the officer—Captain Hem Carra, a lord’s son indeed, suitable for the Malms’ escort. He was a giant warrior with golden hair tied in a knot and a certain cool, almost languid manner she later learned to associate with the men of the king’s court.
“Trouble on the journey, Captain Maddoc?” he asked, raising a golden eyebrow. “B-brigands?”
“Things were put in order,” said Gael.
“And before that, a shipwreck, in the wild Chyrian Lands?”
“Well, not quite,” smiled Gael. “Wild Chyrians like myself would call it a ship beached by a storm.
“But, indeed,” she added, “Lord and Lady Malm have not had an easy journey.”
Besides the ten men of the escort, there was a new carriage, with a coachman and two liveried servants up behind. Princess Elwina had sent a waiting woman to attend Lady Malm. There was a great fuss and bustle of preparation; the Malms came down in tremendous spirits. When all the baggage had been stowed, Wennle paid off Gwil Cluny and Lyse. Their service had ended. They would drive the old carriage back to the Halfway House, leading the last horse from Coombe, Wennle’s own bay; the steward would ride with the coachman.
The old lord, standing in the inn’s finest room, looked much as Gael had first seen him, in his fur-trimmed gown. Lady Malm stood by the window, where she could gaze at her escort of giant warriors forming up in their splendid uniforms. A new young waiting woman was helping with her traveling cloak.
“Well, well, Meddoc!” cried Mortrice of Malm. “End of the journey for you—now we have a proper escort at last! Wish ye well, Captain …”
Gael would hardly admit to herself that with the arrival of the royal escort the Malms had simply “changed back”; they had returned to the world they wished to inhabit. Now Mortrice of Malm had failed some test that Gael could hardly put into words. What understanding could be expected from this stiff old Eildon lord? She had been handsomely paid off by Wennle as long ago as the Halfway House. She said firmly:
“If it please your lordship, I will ride along behind. My duty is not ended until you and your lady come to the Palace Fortress.”
“As you will,” he said, with a wave of his hand.
Gael gave him her best salute, then bowed and bade farewell. Lady Malm turned from the window, and Gael had a moment of hope. The proud noblewoman who had summoned her from the dungeon in Silverlode would remember and make all well. But Lady Malm simply nodded her golden head, accepting the kedran captain’s last bow kindly enough.
The procession went out of Goldgrave at dawn and came down from the high ground into fair hill country with clear streams in the valleys. They passed an old ruined tower alone on a hilltop and continued up and down on the King’s Way. The pace was fast—at noon they were already climbing up to the city of Lort. Gael rode alone behind the Malms’ carriage, keeping a good length from the two men in livery on their hard seats. She stared to the east and saw in the distance ranks of dark trees. This was the enchanted forest of Nightwood, where Yorath Duaring had roamed as a boy.
The procession thundered into Lort through the southern gate; they were awaited in another inn called the Good King Gol. The Malms were taken up to their chambers, but only for food and a short rest. Captain Carra, who always took care to give Captain Maddoc a seat at his own table, explained that the visitors would be brought straight on.
“We will have them to the palace this evening,” he said. “How is your horse, Captain Maddoc?”
“Ebony is doing well,” she said. “He is as tough as a camel!”
They talked then of the Burnt Lands and the Royal Hunt—yes, Prince Kirris Paldo had been along, the brother of Princess Elwina. Then, since Captain Carra must know Lort pretty well, Gael ventured to ask him the way to the Swan Inn, where she planned to pass the winter.
“Aha!” said Mihal Carra. “That place is a scribes’ pit, an ink bottle! Do you not know what they cook up in the Swan, Maddoc my friend?”
Gael laughed and shook her head.
“Why, the blessed scrolls!” he said, in a stage whisper. “A nest of archivists live at the Swan and work on The Book of the Farfaring, the Dathsa, the Scroll of Vil, and the so-called New Chronicles.”
“Well, I did not believe the scrolls were God given,” she said, “but I thought of greybeard scholars working in the Palace Fortress itself …”
“The actual writing is done here in the city at the Old Almshouse,” he said airily, “and the scribes come in all shapes and sizes.”
“Hem Carra,” asked Gael, “do you know anyone who works on the scrolls?”
She felt sure she knew one scribe already who did.
“Yes,” said Carra. “An old fellow called Brother Robard—a former tutor in Carrahall, my father’s house. He is a military expert and still comes to the King’s Longhouse to lecture the young ensigns. The rest of the time he works on the Scroll of Vil, the most warlike of the scrolls.”
“I’ll keep a look out for him,” said Gael.
“One does hear tell of royal persons lending a hand—and of female scribes!”
“What next!” she grinned.
Captain Carra had a writing case fetched and drew a sketch map on the back of one of Gael’s charts, showing the way to the Ox Gate. She sighed inwardly for her own lack of various skills—her writing lagged behind her reading. But she thought comfortably of lessons in the wintertime at the Swan Inn, of learning from Tomas Giraud and his fellow archivists who worked on the scrolls—learning from those who made the records of Mel’Nir’s history.
So, at the fourth hour after noon, the procession formed up for the last time—the Malms were rested, as well as the horses, and the guard had been very moderate at lunch. They rode out in good heart, and Gael, bringing up the rear, saw that Lort was a spreading town, filled with new buildings in a handsome Lienish style. It was not so much of a city as Pfolben or Aghiras or even, by repute, Krail in the Westmark, but it was a pleasant place. Down a long vista of houses and public buildings in yellow stone, she glimpsed the mighty Ox Gate, built in old time, before the Farfaring.
Beyond the northern gate, the King’s Way was wider than ever and marked out with fine avenues of trees. The weather had altered a little, giving way to fine sun-showers coming in from the east The escort went up one more hill, and there before her Gael beheld the end of the Malms’ journey. There, spread out like a picture from the scrolls, was the inland sea, the Dannermere. Directly ahead, amid an array of gardens and flowering trees, there rose the walls and towers and bastions of the Palace Fortress of the Kings of Mel’Nir.
Gael Maddoc could see the way the procession must take, even to the open gates at the end of the last avenue. She beheld men and women of every degree going about near the gates and could make out a group of ladies and lords who might be waiting to receive the Malms.
She considered her two charges—how she had thought to speak to them, bid farewell, at the last inn, the Good King Gol, but had simply lacked courage. She wanted the Malms to remain in her memory as more or less humane and thoughtful, in the end. Deliberately, she reined in her horse on the crest of this last hill and let the fine gold carriage draw away. The two “runners” mounted behind waved to her, and, as she lifted a hand in salute, a curtain of misty rain blew across from the east, hiding the escort and the carriage from view. Her duty had ended; she had brought the Lord Malm and his lady to the king’s court.
Suddenly the afternoon sun came shining through the misty rain and, a magnificent rainbow sprang up, arching over the green hills; the procession passed under its mighty arch. Gael Maddoc was not alone on her hilltop—they stood all about her. There was Sir Hugh McLlyr, mounted upon a tall grey horse; Ebony shied away from this wraith. There w
ere Myrruad and Ylmiane, seated in a small bronze carriage, drawn by two more ghost greys, while the Lady Ethain was mounted upon a real horse, a dainty roan. Luran stood in the grass by the roadside, with the great dog Bran on a leash.
“Well done!” cried Sir Hugh of the Fishers in a ringing tone. “Well done, Captain Maddoc! You have brought these poor dark folk to the king’s court!”
Then all the ladies of the Shee applauded and cheered, like a peal of sweet bells.
“Corvin Huarikson has come to heel,” said Luran. “All in all a rescue most skillfully carried forward!”
Gael could only nod and smile, like an old lady of the Shee. She felt tears on her face among the soft raindrops.
Appendix 904 (Marvels and Wonders, witnessed and unwitnessed) of that compendium of ancient writings in Chyrian and other tongues known as The Book of Sooth or, more commonly, THE DATHSA:
Then, as Lord Mortrice of Malm, knight of the Hunters, and his Lady Malveena were brought to the Court of King Gol of Mel’Nir, their servants and the men of the escort cried out loudly The escort and the royal coach were halted, and all looked back the way they had come. There upon the brow of the last hill, under the arch of a mighty rainbow, there was a tall kedran upon a black horse. Horse and rider were outlined in golden fire. There were those who understood that this person, whose name was known, the woman who had saved the Malms from a cruel fate, was none other than THE WANDERER And this was made clear to all by the figures of five or six lords and ladies, Ruadan and Fionnar together, of the Eilif race, the Shee. This was the largest showing of the Bright Folk since the days of Ankar Duaring, the so-called Wizard King, father of Ghanor, the so-called Great King, and grandsire of Good King GoL There they stood on the hilltop, bearing witness to the deeds of their true servant …
CHAPTER IX
THE SWAN IN WINTER
The Wanderer Page 20