Rolf Beck sat down with them, and he was indeed a genial host, but Gael felt that what was played out here was somehow critically important to him.
“Tomas knows I value news of certain kinds,” he said. “It has to do with old battles, old treachery, old enemies. Anything that comes from the Chameln lands—certain intelligence out of the noble houses of Lien.”
Gael said hesitantly, looking at Tomas:
“Should we talk of Mistress Hestrem?”
Tomas shook his head from side to side—she noticed again his thick and shining dark hair—then said slowly:
“Well, I have undertaken some work—the purchase of rare books, for instance—for Lord Auric Barry of Chantry in Lien in the past, and he always pays well. But I must say his two companions who came with him into Mel’Nir were intriguers, creatures of the half-world. First this Tully, the bodyguard, then that proud beauty, Yolanda Hestrem.”
“I will not judge her harshly,” Gael said. “She could be called a courtesan, or perhaps an adventuress, a woman who lives by her wits. She is very accomplished and can be a pleasant companion. She has the common touch. It seems that she must be Lord Auric’s mistress, but perhaps this is too simple. An important task for her must simply be to gather information. She is Auric’s spy, his agent. She comes out of Eildon.”
“Note it all down for my own scrolls, good Tomas,” said Rolf Beck.
Then he smiled at Gael and added:
“I am delighted to have you winter in our house, Captain Maddoc! Welcome to the Swan!”
Her ring still sparkled and flashed below the tabletop; the host moved away smiling, but she had a strong impression of seriousness, even sadness, about this jovial-looking man. She murmured some of this to Tomas as they finished their wine. He nodded wisely and cast a glance back into the taproom. The crowd was thinning a little. Some of the lodgers were going to stay up much longer, not to royster but simply to read and scribble and argue.
“Come,” said Tomas. “Let me show you to your fine tower room!”
Their eyes met, and she was shy, felt herself blushing. But when she raised her eyes, Tomas was flushed too and a little awkward. He went to the bar again, paid part of their score, she guessed, and came back with a flagon of the golden wine.
Her room in the east tower was indeed spacious and fine, with a fire in the grate behind a metal guard. Two mullioned windows looked out over the city of Lort, to the west, then, up a little winding stair, there was a small tower room with a balcony. They went up and gazed out through the night at Nightwood and the inland sea, the Dannermere.
Tomas had pointed out his own two rooms on the way to the east tower. They sat by her fire and drank more of the golden wine. She reported her conversation with Forbian Flink in the stable.
“Of course!” cried Tomas. “He’ll do much for a captain from Coombe, his master Yorath’s old hunting ground!”
“Will you take his offer, then?” she asked warily. “Did you get me to winter over at the Swan because I belong in your collections of strange tales?” She thought of the Hallows, and wondered again if she could trust him with this part of her story.
But Tomas Giraud only smiled slowly.
“Yes,” he said. “I will certainly take his offer! We will spend the winter writing up your Journey to the Burnt Lands. Flink the Scribe knows more secrets than the Moon Sisters—he will say no word out of place. But that is not why I asked you to be my winter guest …”
She looked at him again, and he set his goblet down upon the stones of the hearth.
“I have a great desire to lie with you,” he said, reaching out a hand to her. His voice was a little roughened with his feelings. “I think you know that …”
They stood up now, very close, and she felt her heart pound and wound her arms about his neck. Their kisses were long and deep.
“Winter,” she whispered, against his neck. “Winter at the Swan!”
Tomas inquired in his scholarly way about the tale that kedran, battlemaids, knew of certain herbs. She laughed and brought out the pouch from her saddlebag with the rolled pellets of a substance called Kedran Shield or Maid’s Friend. There were thick curtains round the wide, warm bed, but they left them partly open, to watch the firelight.
II
The winter was mild, with only light snow flurries at the time of the Winter Feast, which Beck, the innkeeper, celebrated in the manner of the Chameln Lands. There was a mighty Winter Man, a scribe of Mel’Nir called Gereth, in a robe covered in pine and tannen twigs, and a headdress of gilded branches like antlers and a gilded mask. He was an older fellow, a fatherly partner for lovely Zarah Beck as the Green Woman, the Goddess in her forest dress. The young scribe apprentice Hannes Trun was the Moonchild; he rode a white pony that drew in a tall fir tree on a sleigh, together with sweetmeats and gifts for all.
The scribes and archivists at the Swan, Gael found, were diligent, not to say obsessed with their work and kept it up steadily all through the feast days. They were also the receivers of news of all kinds and were among the first to hear the joyful tidings from the Palace Fortress of Good King Gol that Princess Elwina Paldo, the fair young wife of Rieth, the King’s nephew, Heir of Mel’Nir, had been safely delivered of a son. There was much speculation among the genealogists at the Swan about the naming of the child, and when the names were given out as Kirris Rieth Elwin, it was agreed that the Duarings had taken a good moderate course, using names from all the royal families involved. Gael thought often of the Malms and their strange adventure in Mel’Nir and the part she had played in it. She was becoming restless in the confines of the inn and the town of Lort, in spite of the love she felt for Tomas and the lovemaking and the closeness they enjoyed.
Now she had told Tomas of the hallow-string, and even shown him; Tomas had been very excited and promised to bring pieces from the scrolls to her that had bearing on the lands’ ancient treasures, but little had come of this yet, though he had been able to confirm that, yes, the sixth Hallow was indeed the Fleece of Lien, just as she had guessed, and it too had been missing, from before the time Kelen of Lien had taken a king’s crown—indeed, it had been missing from the early years of the archmage Rosmer’s rise to power.
Since the weather continued mild, Tomas conspired with Forbian Flink, who did much of his copying in the room at the top of Gael’s tower. To satisfy Gael’s restlessness, they took her out riding soon after New Year, at the end of the Tannenmoon.
They came out of Lort not long after the winter sun rose; ahead lay the gardens of the Palace Fortress, and to the north there was a fine clear view all the way down to the banks of the River Bal—Mel’Nir’s border with the Kingdom of Lien. Far away to the west, between the river and the High Plateau, she caught a misty glimpse of the green hills that were the edge of King’s Bank—now the domain of the Kingdom of Lien, formerly Balbank of Mel’Nir. There was a border clearly marked around the Lienish lands, with trees and in places a wall or a barrier. Gael could see the guard posts where kedran were turned back, forbidden to enter the lands of Lien—unless perhaps they disguised themselves in skirts and wimples.
This morning, Forbian directed Gael toward the east. Ebony was glad of the exercise. Forbian rode before Tomas on his tall sorrel, called Valko. Almost at once Gael could guess where they were going.
“Nightwood!” she cried. “You tricksters! You are taking me to see General Yorath’s old haunts in the magic forest!”
Forbian laughed aloud, and Tomas reached out a hand to her. They had spoken of her admiration for the hero of the Chyrian coast.
“The life and death of General Yorath is a protected subject at the king’s court,” Tomas explained. “We know he was the legitimate son of Prince Gol, as our good King was known then, and Princess Elvédegran of Lien, but Yorath was indeed a ‘marked child’—his grandfather, Old Ghanor, the so-called Great King, would surely have had him killed because of his twisted shoulder. Hagnild, the healer at the court, saved the child’s life by spiri
ting him away. I am sure King Gol suffers pangs of regret—Yorath was his only child.”
“Would he have acknowledged Yorath as his heir?” asked Gael. “If our great General had not been driven over the cliffs at Selkray, protecting Knaar of Val’Nur, his brother in arms, during that ambush?”
“There is more to be known about Yorath’s death,” said Tomas. “The King attaches some blame or lack of care to the Lord of Val’Nur. Perhaps you have not heard this in the south, for the Chyrian Coast is guarded from much news by the Westmark Lords in Krail, but the true story is rumored to be part of the reason Knaar of Val’Nur has remained so quiet under Gol’s strictures, even twenty years following Yorath’s great sacrifice. The one who knows all is Forbian Flink, our copyist. Perhaps he will tell you.”
Gael was shocked, for she had been taught that General Yorath and Knaar of Val’Nur had been boon comrades, but when she looked at the dwarf, the little man simply shrugged and bowed his head, as if to say, “patience, and the story will unfold.” There was no comfort to be found in this; Tomas’s dark hints could only point to a hidden—ugly—truth.
Now Forbian had arranged this journey. Ahead lay the dark trees and thickets of ancient Nightwood, east of the Palace Fortress, with its own bit of coast on the shining waters of the Dannermere. They rode downhill from the city walls and went some way along a fine “King’s Road.” Then Forbian directed them into narrower roads on the fringes of the wood. They followed these broad, pleasant trails and came to a clearing with a dolmen of grey stone—two uprights and a crosspiece, like a lintel. Not far away grew a single tree, leafless now, but Gael knew it for a golden ash, one of the most beautiful of all trees. There was a grey stone, a tombstone, at the base of this tree.
“We must get down,” said Forbian, “and pay our respects …”
She exchanged a questioning glance with Tomas, who surely knew who had been buried in this place, but he only gave a sad smile and helped her dismount. On the stone there was a name carved in the common speech:
HAGNILD RAIZ HEALER
Gael drew a sobbing breath. Here lay the great Magician Hagnild, healer to the court of King Ghanor, who had spirited the child Yorath away and raised him secretly in Nightwood. On a patch of trimmed grass before the stone, there were smooth pebbles, clay dishes, birds and animals molded from clay or carved from wood or stone. These votive offerings had been left at the grave of this wise man with a prayer or a request, perhaps as dedication for a child or thanks for some blessing, some wish fulfilled.
She felt in the pocket of her tunic and found a good luck charm of her own, a plain, smooth pebble with a hole in it, a natural amulet that Bress had found on Banlo Strand. Stepping up to Hagnild’s grave, she laid her offering among the others.
She whispered: “When the spring comes, let me serve the light folk well and bravely! And bless as well my dear love Tomas Giraud, the scribe.”
This grave was set at the edge of a dense outcrop of Nightwood proper, and from here they had to go some way on foot, leading the two horses down the leafy road, Forbian still riding on the pommel of brown Valko’s saddle.
“I have heard,” said Tomas, “that Master Hagnild chose this place to be buried because it was halfway between the palace and his own house, deep in Nightwood. These were the two places where he did his work and lived out his life”
Presently they were able to mount up again and ride on to the village of Finnmarsh, which lay between Nightwood and the old marsh, its land mostly drained now and used for farming. There were houses clustered round a small alehouse, and there stood the old smithy, with its fine yard. Gael saw that the inn was called the Bear, and its sign showed a great grey bear of the sort that once roamed in all the forests of Mel’Nir. She remembered the words of red Luran, the Eilif lord: the last of these noble creatures had died when Yorath roamed Nightwood as a boy.
They rode into the yard of the smithy, where a sturdy, handsome woman was helping a soldier of the guard to mount his new-shod horse. A mighty man worked at the forge with two or three helpers, young men and women.
“A New Year Greeting, Mistress Finn!” cried Forbian, above the din of the forge.
“Why Master Flink—the year’s best to you too, my dear!” was the cheerful reply. “Can we serve your friends’ horses any way?”
Then Forbian did the honors, naming Gael and Tomas as scribes and travelers from the Swan’s winter sessions in Lort.
“Step in for a sup of mead with Uncle Dane!” said Mistress Finn.
As they dismounted, Gael took the opportunity to check Ebony’s shoes and have a small stone removed. Marta Finn, wife of Tam Finn, the smith, praised Ebony and found out his provenance in the Southland.
“I served as a Sword Lily, in far off Krail,” she said, “but my good man Tam Finn found me out on a visit to his uncle, Arn Swordmaker. I like the life better here.”
Gael was impressed. She thought of saying the name General Yorath, but decided to wait until Forbian spoke. They went into the handsome old house and were made welcome by servants and an old man, Uncle Dane, the eldest surviving son of Old Finn, the Smith, who had taught Yorath to fight as a young lad. He was pleased to talk of this hero, remembered him well, and he was led on by Forbian to tell of a great fight in the stableyard when Yorath and Old Finn defeated a bunch of Danasken mercenaries. An ambush it was, against Strett of Cloudhill and his wife, who fought boldly at her own lord’s heel as his esquire, by the Goddess.
Forbian then asked: “Is Mistress Vanna in the brown house, Master Finn?”
“Oh yes,” said the old man, slyly. “Will ye take the captain from Coombe for a walk in the woods?”
Tomas explained softly to Gael: Mistress Vanna was a widowed daughter of Finn the Smith, who had cared for Hagnild in his latter years, after he left the service of the Palace Fortress. A young woman who was the cook gave Gael and Tomas fresh food to carry to the brown house: milk, greens, fruit, cooked ham, and fresh eggs. They went off with Forbian riding on the shoulders of Tomas, but the path was easy and well worn, so he often jumped down and skipped on ahead.
Nightwood was a moody place, with the ancient trees and the thickets between them dark in some places and almost shining with their own light in others. They went in silently, pretty deep, and heard only a few bird calls. The path faded, and then there was a brake of holly and other thorny trees, clear across the way. Forbian Flink ran up to this barrier, gestured, and uttered some password. Then there was, by magic, a path through the brake, with soft leaves and fronds in place of the thorns. Before them in a spacious clearing, roofed overhead by the forest, stood a brown house.
It was old but solid and reminded Gael of certain houses in Coombe, even her own home by the Holywell. Forbian Flink knocked politely at the heavy door and it was opened by a tall woman, perhaps fifty years of age, perhaps older. She exclaimed with pleasure at her visitor, and the little man presented his two friends to Mistress Vanna Am Taarn, Guardian of Hagnild’s House.
So they came into a warm brown room with a fire glowing gold and green on the broad hearth and two large cats, one striped grey brown, one golden and spotted like the skins of the leopard that Gael had seen in the Burnt Lands. There were settles covered in hides and on the wall some trophies—a shield, a bow—so that the place put her in mind a little of Old Emeris Murrin’s quarters in Ardven House by the Cresset Burn.
Mistress Vanna called her granddaughter, a young maid called Erith, and they were both very pleased at the fresh supplies brought along by Gael and Tomas. So they all sat down and Erith served them warmed applewine with spices and fruity bread for the winter season. There was talk straightaway of Yorath Duaring—it was almost a prepared speech that Vanna gave to visitors. Yes, here he had lived and grown and sat with Hagnild over the books and hunted in Nightwood with his friend, Arn, ninth child of Finn the Smith, who later became Am Swordmaker in Krail.
Then, as they had their cups refilled and took some excellent honeycakes, Forbian said sudd
enly:
“Do you hear or scry anything of the great wall that is being built in the land of the Inchevin, Mistress Vanna?”
“Indeed,” replied the wise woman, her brown eyes catching the firelight. “This wall has been well planned, and the far eastern border of the wide Chameln has never bean held stronger. Great leaders press ahead with the work!”
“I will go there in the spring,” said Forbian Flink. “My old comrade, Am Swordmaker, will come out of Krail to carry me.” The little man spoke these words with such conviction that Gael was quite astonished. She had heard only the faintest smatterings from Tomas of the wild tribes of the Eastern Chameln. She could only wonder that lame, town-bound Forbian should conceive such an expedition!
Tomas joined the conversation—the great wall was to keep back the wildest of the tribes, the Skivari and their like, who made brutal, bounty-seeking incursions into the Chameln lands, the realm of the two queens, the Daindru. The talk flowed freely, but Gael was more and more conscious of an undercurrent, something unspoken between Forbian and Vanna Am Taarn. At length, Vanna said directly to Gael:
“Captain Maddoc, I have heard from a friend in the palace that you rode escort to Lady Malm, the royal midwife, and her lord.”
“Yes,” said Gael. “Their ship was beached on Banlo Strand in the autumn gales, and the Malms came through to Coombe and traveled overland to the king’s court.”
“You are very discreet,” smiled the older woman. “There has been talk of a great adventure and a bold magical rescue, near the Halfway House.”
“I had good helpers!” said Gael. She smiled at Tomas and took his hand.
“I was among those rescued,” Tomas offered, “and I can bear witness to Gael’s courage, if she will not—such magical workings I never saw!”
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