“Good Brother Less,” she said. “A wedding feast is meant as a happy occasion, a festival—especially where the bride is a beautiful young queen—but I have some foreboding. What might go wrong in the days ahead?”
“Oh, there will be a good deal of intrigue,” he said coolly, “but that is to be expected in court circles. My own land—have no doubt of that—would revel to see the Land of Two Queens overcome by sadness and dissent. I see the hint of some sending—from the past—or pretending to be from the past. It is a vision, a face in a glass—perhaps a portrait. Bring this notion of mine to Princess Merigaun herself, if this is convenient.”
He brushed the crumbs from his robe and stood. They talked a little longer—Gael tried not to show the anxiety she felt at the old man’s words. She drew Ebony away from the sweet grass, made ready again, and mounted up. They bade farewell, and she gave Brother Less a smart salute. Then she rode on at a trot through the Adderneck pass, marking the carved stones along the way. The narrowest part of the way was old and dark; Ebony hated the place, and she let him canter through.
Then, suddenly, she was out upon the plains in bright sunshine. A broad road lay straight ahead; heading north and off to the east was an older road leading to ancient Radroch Keep, upon the plain. Tall oak trees grew not far from its gates, planted in pairs so close they had grown together over the years and joined, like wrestling, leaf-covered giants. Gael urged Ebony to keep up a good pace and rode on, as she had been instructed, beyond old Radroch, to the town of Folgry. Before she came to the gates of the town, all hung with garlands of white flowers, a rider wearing the same colors she wore, the sea colors of Pendark, came riding out to meet her. She made out that the horse was grey, though all the caparison that shrouded it made it hard even to tell the creature’s color.
She breathed deeply, thought of her dear love Tomas and of all her family and friends at the Holywell, and prayed to the Goddess to lift her spirits. The rider drew rein. It was a man, past middle age, with a neat brown beard streaked with grey and thick shoulder-length hair under his plumed riding hat. He carried no marks of rank, but she believed she knew what this must mean. As they came close, she drew rein and saluted smartly.
“Maddoc,” she said. “Joining the Pendark Escort.”
“Captain Maddoc,” he nodded. “I am Lemaine. Have you ridden far? Is your horse fresh?”
She took a chance of getting things wrong and replied:
“Yes, we are quite fresh, m’lord.”
“That is a splendid black you have there,” said Lord Lemaine. “Bred in Mel’Nir?”
“Ebony was bred in the Southland,” she replied, “where I served the Lord of Pfolben.”
“I’ll have the gift box, I think, Captain,” he said, “and we’ll ride into the town a little way.”
Gael, a little reluctant, let the jewel box show itself in the special carrying place on the front of her saddle. The lord urged his old grey charger closer so she could hand over the precious gift.
“Shall I mount the banner, my lord?” she asked.
“No—no,” said Lemaine. “Simply ride ahead.”
She set off at a decent walking pace and rode in through the flower-decked gates of Folgry. Escort duty—when had it last been light hearted for her? She thought of the time when she rode proudly through the lands of Aghiras before Blayn of Pfolben, glorying in her young lord’s beauty and his seeming matchless grace. Such innocent days—they seemed so long departed, though it was not yet one full turn of the seasons since she had trod on the Burnt Lands’ sand!
Adrift in these musings, she paid little heed to the lie of the land around her, but presently, as they crossed a wide strip of greensward inside the gates, there was a hail from the right—a kedran in the now-familiar Pendark garb was riding toward them on a bay.
The second officer sent to meet her was a sturdy woman. Past forty, Gael decided, and she wore stars of rank that were somewhat rare. A guerdon general, retired from her regimental duties. Gael saluted and said her name.
“Annwyn Sallis,” said the general in return, cracking a smile.
“Handed over the last of the presents, Captain? Good. Shall we go? Have to report back to the Grand Array before too long! We’ll take the Festal Way across the plain to the left”
“General,” said Gael. “I must raise the banner!”
The pair seemed a little impatient with this punctilio, but Gael, despite their superior rank, ignored them, knowing it to be her right. It was a matter of dismounting, taking her lance from its carrying sling, then threading the long pennant for the Fishers, carried by Lord Lemaine. The spring breeze caught it well as they turned in good order and went out of the gates of Folgry. The Festal Way was beautiful, decorated along its whole length with white flowers, planted in tubs or in beds on the roadside, twined in long garlands overhead. Men and women were still working on the long display—they waved and cheered as the three riders went by.
Gael Maddoc, looking to left and right, beyond the white flowers, understood at last the nature of the Chameln, the vastness of the plains, the scattered groves of trees, the rolling hills and distant mountains. She thought of that distant work camp in the wild northeast where an old man, a hero, still lived and labored. She had come out of the realm of the ancient King Gol of Mel’Nir, and now she was in the same country as his trueborn son!
Behind her, General Sallis and Lord Lemaine rode side by side and kept up a lively commentary not only on the countryside but on groups of liveried servants and escort troops and the finer folk whom they served. Now they were in sight of Chernak New Town, a large town, unwalled and spreading. Gael knew and now was informed again, by Lord Lemaine, that the place had first grown up to house the builders of Chernak Palace, constructed at the whim of the one they called Summer’s King, Sham Am Zor. General Sallis had the tale that the town reeve and his council had petitioned the young queen for a change of name. King’s Town, was it? Or Summer Town? At any rate Queen Tanit had refused the request. Now the general called directions, and they swung past the town and came to a great field below the royal gardens, which rose up in tiers, crowned on the heights with the long, glistening windows of the palace.
The broad meadow was like a new town itself, with three groups of pavilions, structures between a tent and a longhouse, bearing the crests of the orders of Eildon. The general pointed out that Gael had a place allotted in the Pendark pavilion. They walked their horses slowly across the field, crowded with visitors and with hucksters selling food and tokens of the wedding. They were hailed and saluted by other men and women in the colors of the Fishers. Gael saw the pavilions of the Hunters and wondered if Lord and Lady Malm might be among the wedding guests. Well, thank the Goddess, they would have their own Eildon escort this time!
“Let us go first to the Gift Treasury,” said Lord Lemaine. “This Moon of Erris weighs upon me. You can lead up the paved path at the end of the lower terrace, Captain.”
As they passed along toward this white path, Gael thought of Sir Hugh McLlyr’s gift for the Princess Merigaun. She felt sure that if she mentioned it, her companions would quietly take it from her and deliver it in private to the Princess in some fine room, away in the palace. Yet she longed to behold Merigaun, one of the Lyreth, the sea folk; it might be better to hand the gift over in person. Who could say it was not her duty to do this? She thought then of the warning, the warning from Brother Less, and his particular wish that his words should be brought to Merigaun Pendark, and she decided to keep her peace.
The Gift Treasury was a solid stone building—perhaps a storehouse for the gardeners in winter. Now it was decorated, like everything else, but also guarded with a muster of fierce kerns from the northern tribes. It stood at the extreme western edge of the palace grounds, and there were marvelous vistas in every direction. Fountains were playing—behind a screen of trees, there was a lake with swimmers; the glazed windows on the wings and towers of the palace were flung wide and glistened as they caught
the sun.
“Is it the finest palace you have seen, Captain?” inquired Lord Lemaine, smiling.
Gael was conscious she had indeed gazed with wonder.
“It is very fine, m’Lord,” she replied. “I think it is in the style of Lien, where I have never traveled. But I have seen fine palaces of a different sort, in other lands.”
“What, in Eildon?” asked General Sallis.
“In the Burnt Lands, General.”
There was a burst of shouting, wild cries, from the dark building behind them, the Gift Treasury. From some door that Gael could not see, in the east, burst a rout of the footguards, tribesmen in leather bucklers and fur hats. They were wrestling and shouting, trying to seize and hold three men in curious tight fitting green trews and short jackets. These fellows were very nimble; the shortest one, not more than a boy, carried a hank of bright green rope. Now, as his comrades raced away across the lawns, this boy fell, and the guards began to beat him with the handles of their spears.
Gael gave a cry to the general, as if to ask her leave, but already she was urging Ebony across the grass to the mêlée. She cried out for the guards to halt and backed up her cry with a single, focused working—a mere whiff of the Stillstand but enough to tumble a pair of guards onto their backs.
“Hold!” she cried. “Don’t kill the boy! What has he done?”
The officer, whose rank she could not read, cried out:
“Is he from the Pendarks of Eildon? Is that it, Captain?”
His grasp of the common speech was good, his accent strange.
“No,” she said, panting. “But hold a moment—allow him to declare himself!”
The boy scrambled up painfully, holding his left side; there was blood on his face.
“Captain—save me from these wild men!” he said clearly. “Look where my brothers are returning. We are the acrobats, the Fareos, and we came with the Athron guests!”
Sure enough, the two older men in green were returning across the lawns.
“Ach!” The officer of the guard cursed under his breath in another speech. “It’s a mistake,” he said, in the common tongue. “We found them coming through a side entrance, took them for robbers. There’s a mort of fine treasures in the Gift House.”
“If the boy could be brought to a healer,” said Gael. “My name is Gael Maddoc—”
“I’m Han Harka of the Durgashen, chief of this troop, Fer-rad’s Own.” He returned her salute, showing white teeth under his dark moustachios. “We’ve been sent from Dan Aidris Am Firn for this special duty to the Daindru.” Dan, she remembered as he spoke, was the Chameln style of address for their rulers.
“Chief Harka,” she said, “I’ll see that the boy is taken care off. Do you see two high-ranking Pendark officers yonder? They truly have a rich gift to deposit in the Treasure House. They would value an escort!”
“At Pendark’s service, then!” said Harka.
He rounded up the men who had run out with him, sent five back to the side entry, then marched smartly down the slope of greensward with the remaining seven. She saw the escort collect Lord Lemaine and General Sallis, then approach the entry to the Gift Treasury.
The two elder Fareos were lithe and well muscled. They had brushed off their brother and were feeling him for broken bones. The second eldest was the spokesman: he gave their names as Tane, Trim, and the youngest, Tell. He thanked the good captain for saving the boy. He assured her that the Athron guests had a healer and a healer’s tent to serve their people. She watched them climb up toward the eastern wing of the palace. The boy was riding on Tane’s shoulders.
She was conscious of an emptiness, a glibness about this exchange; it was as if one rode among an army of other troops, hardly known to each other. There was no spirit of welcome, of expectation—she thought again of the Royal Hunt of the Lakes of Dawn in the Burnt Lands and the joyous spirit that had prevailed, despite all that afterward went wrong there.
She saw that the guards had escorted her companions right into the Treasury. She was tempted to seize this moment and ride off alone to the palace—search for the Princess of Pendark or perhaps for the headquarters of the palace guard, for some kind of soldier’s mess and a stable where she could groom Ebony. Instead, she rode dutifully down again to the entry of the Gift Treasury, that frowning box of dressed stone, and waited for the officers of Eildon to return and meet her. Remembering the day she and the other Kestrels had laid the treasures of the Burnt Lands before Lord Maurik, defiant and proud as they declared their resurrection, she felt a pang of emotion, something like grief, that the gift of the Shee, the Moon of Erris, had been taken from her hands so ungratefully, as such a simple matter of course. Where was the hand of destiny upon her in this?
The Pendark officers reemerged presently with four of the palace kedran, who assisted at the display of precious gifts. Lemaine was in high good humor, noting that the Pendark gifts from Prince Beren and Princess Nairne were very fine, and assuring Gael that the gift from Princess Merigaun also took pride of place—yes, this last was how he described the Eilif lords’ lovely necklace! General Sallis passed a scolding remark about the captain’s interference with the guards’ duty.
There was a silvery trumpet call from the palace, echoed by the strange hooting sounds of the wooden trumpets of the Firn—it was the changing of the watch. Gael and her companions had been riding for hours without rest or refreshment. It was time for their watch to change too.
“We will attend the princess, then,” said General Sallis, dismissing her. “You won’t be required until the morning call, Captain, when the Eildon orders bring in the bridegroom before the Hall of Mirrors.”
Gael saluted unenthusiastically and watched them ride up the lawn toward the east wing. She turned aside with some relief and went on down to the Pendark pavilion on the fields below. The sun was casting long shadows through the trees, and the place had the familiar air of a camp. There were spacious stable tents; kedran and kerns went about their duties. She handed Ebony over to a young groom and was directed to the half of the pavilion that housed the kedran. She tramped in wearily; the light within the pavilion was blue green, as if they were all under the sea, like the Lyreth folk. After a trip to the wash place, she went to quarters. There was some kind of bustle running ahead of her—when she entered the big chamber, there were some twenty Pendark kedran, clustered together, smiling.
“Captain Maddoc?” an ensign spoke up. “We know who you are!” Another kedran took Gael’s saddlebags and a third her lance.
“We know how it was in the Burnt Lands!”
Then the ranks parted, and there stood two tall kedran, one with dark hair, a captain, and one a red-headed ensign.
“By the Goddess!” breathed Gael. “Kerry-Red and Kerry-Black!”
“We changed our duty, Captain!” said Kerry-Black. “And Ensign Dirck—remember him?—is with us in the Pendark lands”
Then the old companions all embraced, and the others cheered and laughed, and Gael Maddoc began to think that a wedding duty might be a happy time after all.
II
The grand array of the wedding guests flowed over the lower lawns and rose up to the palace like a silver tide. The Falconers, of Eildon were first, led by their patron, Eorl Leffert, for their former patron, Prince Ross, was now the Priest-King, far away in holy seclusion. Next came the powerful order of the Hunters, led by Prince Borss Paldo, then the order of the Fishers, led by Prince Beren and his bride, daughter of one of the seven eorls. Only Prince Borss and his son Kirris were mounted—the Falconers and the Pendarks, including the ageless beauty Princess Merigaun, walked over the greensward Princes and nobles from other lands walked with the orders of Eildon. King Gol of Mel’Nir and his queen, Nimoné, rode in a small bronze open carriage, drawn by two Chameln grey horses. Prince Joris and his consort, Princess Imelda Am Kerrick, came from Athron, and from the distant Southland came Hem Blayn of Pfolben and his new wife, Ella of Wier, in Rift Kyrie. The kedran escorts ha
d left their horses down in the pavilions, all but a few who were chosen to stand behind the array.
When all had settled to rest, music sounded—harps and flutes and sweet voices came from the palace itself. In a wide crescent of the lawn, covered with splendid carpets, doors opened. From the eastern door came the young queen, beautiful as the morning, her long dark hair unbound, reaching past the waist of her white and blue gown. A necklace of graduated blue white stones, uncut but highly polished, sparkled upon her neck, seeming to draw all light in toward her. From the western door came the bridegroom, tall, handsome, his hair also dark; he strode out smiling, and cheers sounded from the whole array. Count Liam extended his hand and walked toward his bride—Tanit Am Zor reached out and took his hand. They stood at arm’s length, and at last the queen smiled. It was as if the sun had come out.
On a balcony just above the young pair stood the old queen, Aidris Am Firn, straight and regal, in Chameln dress: white doeskin breeches and a long tunic of white velvet, thickly embroidered in gold. On her right was Prince Sasko, Heir of the Firn, and his consort, Danu Rema Am Nuresh; on her left was a tall stately woman in a blue robe, the dowager, Lorn Am Zor, mother of the reigning queen. Beside Danu Lorn stood a young man, well built but not tall—this was Prince Gerd Am Zor, her son, the queen’s younger brother. He was of considerable interest at the court because it was rumored he was a Seer, born full of natural magic. If this were true, he might have heard the sad thoughts of Aidris, the Old Queen, herself gifted in this way: “So many dead, so many gone from us! O Bajan, my love, O Sharn … O Sabeth, my friend … O Jalmar and Pinga—true servants—O Hazard, great minstrel …”
The Wanderer Page 27