“There is another Carach,” she pointed out, “very close to the Wildrode lands. Suppose I went on at once to that place in the dawn and waited until dusk, surveying the territory?”
Luran agreed that this would do very well. He seemed ironical, as if this was a typical ploy of the dark folk, but Gael could not ask him how one of the Shee might behave.
There was a certain urgency about her mission, and there was always secrecy. If anyone asked questions, she could say she was riding to the nearby town of Hatch.
“Erran’s Eve, the spring festival in Athron, has passed,” said Luran. “But there is a tourney between spring and summer in this town. You may give it out that you are going there for training, as many knights and kedran do. Or you might say you are riding to consult a Shaman in the Black Plains, beyond the northern border of Athron.”
Gael asked for a name she might give for her liege or names for herself and her home.
“Just as before, in your first happy task,” said Luran. “Give your true name and your home village of Coombe. Say that you serve at the Halfway House and ride escort for travelers.”
He summoned by rapping on the tabletop a thin tablet of dark wood on a silver chain, which he handed to Gael. It lay on her hand very lightly and reached from the base of her palm almost to the tips of her fingers. The words for the lifting of the curse were written out fair in Chyrian and the common speech on one side of the tablet. There were small drawings of the appropriate gestures to be used with the words.
Luran took her carefully through the ritual, then for the first time he smiled, turned the tablet over, and rubbed his thumb across the smooth dark wood. He handed it to Gael, and it had become a kind of mirror. She saw first of all the chamber where Myrruad lay in her golden bed, surrounded by the last of the Shee. Now Ethain gave the ailing Fionar her drink again, from the jade goblet Then Gael beheld a certain place in the great hall of Tulach, a kind of inglenook by the eastern hearth, where Sir Hugh was seated, playing a solitary game of Battle. The ancient knight became aware of her watching and uttered a word of greeting. Luran indicated that she should thumb the wood as he had done, and the picture was gone at once.
“We have absolute trust,” said Luran, “but the dark world is full of chance and strange turns of fate—you can use this device to call upon us.” Then he added with a half smile:
“With this tablet you can summon whoever you will—if you know the room in which they stand. They will behold you in a mirror or perhaps a pane of glass …”
It was afternoon, and she had her instructions; Luran went away. Without asking leave, she took Bran down into the wild gardens of Tulach and walked with him until evening. Then, after their supper, she spent time going over the ritual to remove the curse. Gael was beginning to feel lonely and bereft, not exactly fearful, at the prospect of flying off alone, with only Ebony for a companion.
Tomas was never far from her thoughts, and she knew she would try to speak with him in his room at the Swan. Now she thought wistfully of the gallant company of the Witch-Hounds, who had done so well at Silverlode. Yet she told herself that these were foolish thoughts—this was not only a soft duty but a worthy mission, to remove the curse from this family, members of the dark folk as she was herself, for all that they were of a noble house.
Then she and Bran went to her room again; she sent up a prayer for Fion Myrruad, going into the sunset. She slept soundly as before, but her dreams were of Coombe, clear as day, the house by the Holywell, and the grotto itself, with its flowing basin, lit by a single shaft of moonlight from above.
She awoke to a room lit with candles. Mistress Menn, the housekeeper, had just flung back the hangings at a window, to show the first streaks of dawn in the sky. Ethain stood beside the bed with food and drink to break Gael’s fast. She wore a white robe and draperies of black and green, colors of mourning.
“It is finished,” she said. “You must be on your way to Athron.”
“Fion Ethain,” whispered Gael. “I must wish you comfort in your sorrow.”
“You are a good child,” said Ethain with a sad smile.
Bran the poor dark dog was led away as before, with sorrowful glances at Gael Maddoc. The old woman helped her dress—there were new clothes in solemn dark greens and blues, not in the Pendark wave patterns—and told of the food and drink in her saddlebags. Gael went down into the courtyard, as before, and the steward, Hurlas, led her to the blessed round of grass, the cantreyn of Tulach, where a groom held Ebony. While the horse was laden, she wondered if she must set up her magic flight without further farewell.
But then she saw the steward and the groom looking up at the balcony, just above the great hall. Luran stood there and old Sir Hugh. Luran made gestures, showing that she should mount up; the spring morning was cold, she was glad of her cloak. A few long pale rays from the newly risen sun crossed the grass. When she was in position, with her lance slung on her right and Ebony facing to the northwest, the magic circle was set down around them. As the mist rose, the clear voices of the two Ru-aden could be heard bidding her farewell; then Gael and Ebony were being transported to Athron.
It was the longest journey she and Ebony had yet made, but it passed swiftly, like a dream. They set down lightly, still shrouded in the magic mist, upon a patch of soft grass on the chosen hilltop, behind two slender young poplar trees, green for the spring. The hilltop was deserted—Gael rode out from behind the poplars and beheld the Carach tree.
It soared up in the midst of its circle of clipped grass, beautiful as any tree she had ever seen: golden ash, oak, sea-oak, the tall elms of Pfolben and the tamarisk groves, the shimmering water-willows of the Burnt Lands. It was forty feet high, with a straight trunk of whitish green and a rounded shape that was the very pattern of a tree in a tapestry or ancient book. Its leaves were large, almost five-fingered, of a dazzling green gold; she fancied it was alert, listening, and it radiated serene power.
She rode around the low black wooden fence that enclosed the Carach and dismounted, whispering to Ebony to stand firm. He was docile and began to nibble the Athron grass. She was eager to take in more of the river below the hill and the bright town of Wennsford, but she knew she must first pay her respects to the noble tree. She went back, stepped over the railing, and knelt at the tree’s base.
“Blessed Carach,” she said in a low voice. “You will know I have come to this fair land of Athron on an errand of mercy. My name is Gael Maddoc.”
Then there was a whispering among all the leaves over her head, and the tree replied:
“Wanderer—the chosen servant of the light folk …”
The voice was low and deep, like the purring of a huge cat.
“Return here …” said the Carach tree. “Will you return from Wildrode?”
“Yes,” said Gael, surprised, “I could return.”
The Carach spoke no more; its presence had been withdrawn. All at once, four of the new leaves fell down before her from a lower bough. Knowing the Carach never shed its leaves lightly, she gathered them up, then went back to Ebony and tucked them safely away, in among the saddlebags.
Down below, the river flowed round the base of the hill, silver in the early morning sunlight. The town of Wennsford was small and compact, with the remains of a town wall. There was a tall stone keep with two towers built into the northeast corner of this wall.
The wooden houses were gabled with roofs red and brown, and there was more than one building half of stone; there seemed to be a statue in the town square. Gael drew out her sailor’s glass from Seph-el-Ara and saw it was the figure of a woman in a flowing gown, her hair bound round her head. She guessed that this might be Elfridda of Wenns, who had ruled her own domain and fostered Veelian, the daughter of Fion Myrruad
She did not delay but mounted up again, in case people from the town came to visit their sacred grove. Gael cast a last glance down at the river haven and the wharf, where a vessel lay at anchor. It was a small, solid vessel, finer than
a trader but not the pleasure boat of a noble. Above its furled grey sail was an azure banner with the device of a silver swan—it was a ship out of Lien.
Then she brought Ebony to the place behind the young poplar trees, concentrated firmly, and set down the magic circle with the point of her lance. The mist swirled about them; they were carried to the northwest and soon descended beside a second Carach.
It was later in the day now, and Gael was wary, letting the curtain of magic mist linger while she peered through the rifts at a new grove of trees, a new part of the Athron countryside. She sent the mist away and rode out from behind a clump of gnarled oaks. The land was farmed, with a sheepfold, a good number of sheep grazing, and, far to the south, a few cottages. She looked to the northwest, and the land changed; it was wild, with sparse green among dry tussocks. This was the edge of the lands of Wildrode.
The second Carach was as handsome and serene as the first, yet with its own character. When she had dismounted, she went to pay her respects, hiding a disrespectful thought—paying homage to a tree, again, what next? Then, before she could step into the tree’s enclosure, a voice said loudly:
“Great Goddess—where did you spring from, kedran?”
An old man, a shepherd with a crook and a thick cloak down to his heels, had come from behind a hedge on the other side of the Carach.
“I will kneel before the Carach tree, Master Shepherd,” she said mildly.
“What land do you come from?” he asked.
“From the Chyrian coast of Mel’Nir,” she said, “but I have traveled a little, as a kedran.”
She drew out her sailor’s glass and looked through it toward the Ettling Hills, to the northeast.
“What is the way to the town of Hatch, good sir?”
“Ah, so you are going to the Tourney!” he said. “There is a high road leading past the Aulthill Keep yonder.”
She found it easily and handed the old man the glass.
“It is plain to see!” she said.
He was delighted and looked all over the place—to his sheepfold, up to the sky, out to his sheep in the pasture.
“There now!” he said. “I thought Athron had plenty of magic!”
“Well, I do not hold this glass for magic,” she grinned. “It is a kind of instrument made for far seeing, as eyeglasses are made for scholars.”
“True. True,” said the old man. “Thank ye kindly. My name is Dutten, Old Nal Dutten—would you care to come back to the fold with me and share a bite to eat with me and my lads?”
“Thank you most kindly, Master Dutten,” she said, retrieving her glass. “My name is Gael Maddoc. I hope you will not take it ill if I stay here with my good horse Ebony: he has been a bit colicky. I have food, and I thought to rest now in the shade yonder and eat a bite and go on later in the day.”
“Fine, fine!” he said. “And good luck at the Tourney!”
“Master Dutten,” said Gael. “What is that old keep toward the east?”
“Ah,” said the old man, shaking his head. “That is Wildrode Hall. Some say it is an accursed spot, best avoided. Certainly no place for travelers.”
“Accursed?” echoed Gael. “Does anyone live in that dark pile?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “The poor old knight tarries there still, with one or two of his followers.”
They took leave of each other, and she watched him return to the sheepfold, which had a kind of longhouse beside it, with a smoking chimney. Before anything else, she did kneel before the second Carach tree.
“Wanderer,” purred the new tree. “You bring us a blessing. When will it be done?”
“Early evening,” she said. “Just as the dusk comes down.”
She went back to Ebony, and together they settled comfortably in the place behind the gnarled oaks. Gael warmed some food for herself in a small fire she made in a circle of stones, and she gave Ebony some oats, his favorite food. By the position of the sun, she believed it was a little after noon. She was sleepy, although not much had been done. She removed his saddle and bridle and suggested to Ebony that he take the order to lie down. The big black horse gave a whinny of pleasure and lay down at once in the soft grass. Soon they both fell fast asleep.
II
The evening was cool and beautiful, with the first stars to be seen in the northern sky. The bulk of the old keep came nearer. Gael had her gauntlets off; her magic ring gave off a strange dark glitter as they closed in on Wildrode. She had seen riders on the highroad to Hatch in the distance but passed no one else. The setting sun, at her back, was reddening the sky in long streaks, which might have been a shepherd’s good omen.
Wildrode Hall was a massive old keep, built all of stone that had darkened with age; its walls and buttresses and towers were streaked with damp and overgrown with mosses. It looked like the lair of a robber baron from some fanciful tale in the scrolls of Mel’Nir. Gael had never seen such a place inhabited by a family—it recalled Hackestell Fortress more than anything else.
The keep faced northwest, so she rode a little further until she was not a hundred yards from the main entry. The portcullis was raised and rusted in place; a broad path swept right up to the main doors, and a gateway between had fallen down. There was an air of sadness and neglect about the place, although the grass had been cut in a few places. The faintest glow of light, perhaps a reflection of the fading day, was to be seen in a high turret.
She felt a certain shyness now and was unwilling to begin her task, to break the silence of the dusk. Yet the dusk was not completely noiseless—birds were calling; somewhere a dog barked. She thought she glimpsed a movement under an old oak growing against a buttress tree and called softly:
“In the name of the Goddess—come forth from Wildrode Keep!”
Now she was sure a dark figure stood beneath the tree. Gael knew she must delay no further—perhaps those left in the hall might be unfriendly. She raised her lance in the first sign of the ritual, standing before the ancient keep like a Knight Questor. As she spoke the first words, a call for attention, she and Ebony were outlined in a glimmer of bluish light.
At once there was a loud cry: a tall old man came staggering from beneath the tree and stood upon the path. Gael could see that he wore a knightly surcoat and supported himself with a lance bearing a tattered pennant.
“Is it you?” cried the aged knight. “Is it you, Jessamy, my dear heart, my true companion … ?”
“Good Sir knight,” said Gael, “I am the servant of the Eilif Lords of the Shee! Pray you hear what I must speak!”
“Ah Goddess!” cried the old knight, “I thought—I thought—a kedran, all ringed with light? Good Kedran—what will the Shee with the poor Wilds of Wildrode …?”
He came closer, and she saw that he had ragged white elf locks and wore a white patch over his left eye.
“If there is any bad working, any ill fortune,” he boomed, “let it fall upon myself alone and not on any others of my house. I am Jared Wild of Wildrode, and I will bear anything the Shee may send upon me!”
Gael knew that she must go on, she could not explain or comfort the old gentleman. She flung up her arms, holding high the lance in her right, then with the magic tablet to prompt her in her left hand, she cried out the first lines for the lifting of the curse, in Chyrian and then in the common speech:
“In the name of Fion Myrruad, who set down the bane and bann, let all be lifted from the Wilds of Wildrode, wherever they be, in all the lands of Hylor and the Lands Below the World. Tulach will bless and no longer curse this ancient house! Now will come light instead of dark, life instead of death, no marriages will be accursed, no children of this house! So shall it be!”
Then she made three passes with the lance, first toward the keep itself, then to the right and left, holding the lance flat and moving it in a sweeping motion as she had been instructed. Before she was done with this, there was that crackling in the air overhead. It came lower and was almost like chords of music played upon a lute, waves
of sound passing over the fields and hills, over the grey keep and its buildings. It echoed away behind the hall into all the distant reaches of the lands of Wildrode, even to the mountains that divided Athron from the Chameln lands, the realm of the Two Queens.
“Kedran,” whispered Sir Jared, “what have you done?”
“Oh, be of good cheer, Sir Knight,” said Gael. “I have fulfilled my task—the Curse is lifted from your house.”
“Oh heaven and earth!” It was a cry of anguish as well as relief.
The old man slumped down on to a crumbling wall beside the path, and his body was racked with shuddering sobs. There were voices now, and lights. To left and right, torches bobbed in the fresh darkness: a young lad came running, and an older woman who set her torch in the ground and comforted Sir Jared.
“Kedran!” cried the boy. “Who are you? What has happened? What was that sound in the air?”
“Have no fear,” said Gael, getting down from her horse at last. “My name is Gael Maddoc. I have come to do a service for Sir Jared and for all in Wildrode Hall. You may truly be of good cheer.”
“A service?” the boy echoed. “Tell me, then! I am Abel Roon, and this is my mother, Mistress Neva Roon, and our family has served the Wilds for many years …”
“I will tell you,” said Gael. “I have lifted the curse from the Wilds of Wildrode in the name of the Eilif lords of the Shee, the light folk, and first of all in the name of Fion Myrruad, who has passed into the sunset.”
“It is the truth,” said Sir Jared, who was quiet again. “Pray you, good Captain—Maddoc was it?—step into our poor hall and sit a moment by our fire. Abel here will see to your fine horse—our stable is well kept.”
Then Mistress Roon came forward and clasped Gael’s hand.
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