The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  He paused and smiled a little and said:

  “You will know, of course, why my mother and I chose Coombe …”

  “Yes, I know that too,” said Gael quietly. “You were seeking out the Holywell, where the sacred Cup could be put under the protection of the Goddess …”

  “And so it must be!” cried Culain.

  “Yes, and it will all be done before witnesses!” echoed Gael Maddoc. “I do not come alone but with a scribe from the scrolls—my betrothed, Tomas Giraud. He knows how the ceremony must be done—and seen by all those who can see it, magically, and set down in the scrolls for a memorial!”

  “Goddess be praised,” whispered Culain. “I have—I have not known how to properly reveal and share my burden. Is this known to your present masters—to the Eilif folk?”

  “They await my word,” Gael said. “Even in their darkening days upon this soil, the Cup’s recovery will be a joy to them. I will go now and consult with Druda Strawn—he will surely know the best time for the ceremony to be performed in the sacred cavern!”

  “Oh, this is surely part of Coombe’s Blessing!” said Culain Raillie. “I know you and your betrothed will have planned to stay at the Holywell House—but pray, do us a greater service! I offer you the Long Burn Farm for your home, as long as you care to stay!”

  “If you need us,” said Gael. “It is a fine house!”

  “I keep some trusty kedran and kerns at the Long Burn, to guard the treasure,” said Culain, and she thought he smiled a little.

  “I must tell this all to the Druda,” she said. “Though I feel he may know the truth already.”

  “Bless you for a true friend, Gael Maddoc …”

  “You have brought a blessing to Coombe,” she said. “The greatest blessing since Coombe began—greater even than the founding of the Westlings by Yorath Duaring!”

  She sent congratulations to Culain’s mother, now Mistress Rhodd, and led Bran down the stairs. She still felt very strange in this new, prosperous town of Coombe, but the sight of Druda Strawn’s house, beyond the new smithy and the livery stable, reassured her. It had changed very little: under the great oak tree, green for the spring, there was a table inlaid with a Battle board, like the one at Holywell croft. She divined suddenly that her father, Rab Maddoc, had made this table—a gift for the Druda who had given them so much over the years.

  Bran went bounding suddenly into the yard, and she called him sharply to heel—but not before a large black and white cat had sprung up from the grass and climbed the tree. Druda Strawn came to the door of his aged cottage, and he was smiling, touched by the blessing of Coombe:

  “Ah—you know it all, Gael Maddoc!” he cried, spreading his arms and gesturing with the staff he carried. “A source of great magic …”

  “My dog has sent your cat up the tree,” she said. “You never had a cat before, Druda!”

  “Oh but I did,” he said softly, as they took their places at the new table. “We had cats when we were first wed, my dear wife and I, after the Great King’s War. Perhaps I have let myself remember that happy time …”

  “Druda,” she reached out her hands to him, “my true love, Tomas Giraud, the scribe, is here with me, and we have been offered the Long Burn Farm while we are in Coombe. I have spoken freely with Culain Raillie, whom I hold for an honest man and a good Chyrian. All that is left for Coombe and its sacred treasure is a ceremony at the Holywell, for all the lands of Hylor to behold and know …”

  “Oh, it will be done!” he said, smiling. “I have already rehearsed the form of this Unveiling. But it was for the Wanderer to confront Master Culain, not an aging village priest …”

  He broke off and looked into her face.

  “But child, you are still troubled …”

  She shook her head, not knowing why any foreboding had fallen upon her. “I can hope that so much good fortune will not corrupt the good folk of Coombe, after years of simple living—and some years of hardship …”

  “I believe that they will remain like themselves,” he said, seriously.

  “Did you hear of the Witchfinder of Lien?” she asked timidly. “And of the rescue in which I played a part—the old woman in Athron?”

  “Yes, I have heard of this bold deed,” said Druda Strawn, with a taut smile of approval.

  “It may have cost me the trust and good opinion of the light folk …” said Gael.

  She gave a deep sigh, and it was echoed strangely by the dog, Bran, who uttered a whimpering howl and moved close to her.

  “Have no fear,” said Druda Strawn, softly. He looked up at the door of his cottage: Luran strode out into the small yard. He wore a grey tunic with a russet hood thrown back; his jewels were very fine. She thought of the first time he appeared to her at the fireside in the Halfway House and of the difference between the light folk and the dark.

  “It is as you said, Gael Maddoc,” he said with a half smile. “I cannot disapprove of what you have discovered in Coombe.”

  Bran whimpered again and Luran bent toward him.

  “Foolish fellow!” he said. “No, I have not come to take you back to Tulach! You are Maddoc’s dog now!”

  Gael soothed Bran and said the same things, and he seemed to understand. The black and white cat took the opportunity to descend the oak tree and march into the cottage.

  “In two days we have the new moon,” said Druda Strawn, “and at the next turning of the moon it is the Young Men’s Month, the Elmmoon; and this is when the ceremony must take place at the Holywell. Tomas Giraud has the exact way of it from the scrolls, and some noble guests will wish to attend, I am sure. I believe Lord Luran will honor us with his presence.”

  It was a time of preparation and excitement. To be sure, Mother Maddoc fussed a little when Tomas and Gael moved into Long Burn Farm two mornings later, but she saw the honor of it. Mistress Raillie, now Mistress Rhodd, was still her good friend, and she had often visited the Long Burn. So Gael and Tomas rode out with Bran two hours before noon; it was another perfect day, spring shading into summer. They crossed twice over the burn and looked down upon the Maidens, the standing stones, in their everlasting dance for the nymph Taran.

  They passed below Ardven house—Gael was warmed to see the fresh stone facing on the main building, the gay pennants rapping in the breeze, and on through the red rolling hills until the turning for Long Burn. As they came toward the Railles’ handsome stone house, there seemed to be movement, but when they came into the yard, it was empty and quiet. They got down, and Gael went up to the great door and knocked loudly with the end of her lance. Suddenly there was the sound of shouting, singing, someone played a bag-pipe—grooms rushed out of the stables. There upon the doorstep, crying out her welcome, were a sturdy kedran captain and a dark ensign, Mev Arun and Amarah, Gael’s true companions from her four years’ service in the Kestrel Company of Pfolben, in the Southland.

  So often during her journeys, Gael had dreamed that these good friends had come to her door or that she rode with them again; now the dream was truth. More than that, Mev Arun cried out that there was another old comrade, a captain of the kern guard from Lowestell—and there stood Hadrik, who had traveled with her through the Burnt Lands. Then they all embraced, and she and Tomas were taken into the house. The housekeeper welcomed them, and Gael remembered her as Bethne, who had served Mistress Raillie as a maidservant when she first came to visit the Long Burn Farm.

  Appendix 903 (Gatherings and Ceremonies, fully witnessed) as recorded in The Book of Sooth, also called The DATHSA.

  At this time, on the Chyrian coast of Mel’Nir, in the town of Coombe, an ancient treasure, recovered and brought home to its native shore, was held up and shown to the Goddess and to the Gods of the Far Faring and to the people, in a rare ceremony known as The Unveiling. This was done at the Holywell, within its sacred cavern and in the precinct of the Goddess, and a priest, Druda Kilian Strawn, together with an old woman of Tuana, known as Aroneth, the last surviving priestess from the Sa
cred Grove in the old Chyrian capital, performed the ritual. Six young maids of Coombe, in raiment of white and yellow, assisted in the ceremony.

  The treasure, enclosed in a gilded chest, was carried to the Holywell from the Long Burn Farm, beyond the village, by an honor guard of kerns and kedran; the way was lined with citizens cheering and crying out and waving lilies and branches of green willow.

  Inside the cavern, the ceremony was witnessed by the Reeve of Coombe Leem Oghal and the Town Fiscal, Culain Raillie, by Emeris Murrin, the chatelaine of Ardven Old House, together with Rab and Shivorn Maddoc, keepers of the Holywell, and their daughter, Captain Gael Maddoc, a freelance kedran who had done service for Coombe village. Other honored guests at The Unveiling included Captain Hadrik of the guard and kedran Captain Arun from duty in Lowestell Fortress at the Southwold border, with other members of Kestrel Company, serving the house of Pfolben. A nobleman from Lien, Lord Auric Barry, was also present, having conveyed to this ceremony a great scribe, now well advanced in years, Brother Less, the chaplain of the Dowager Duchess of Chantry.

  The most august personage of all was hardly to be beheld, yet near the spring, in a niche of the cavern’s wall, stood Luran of Clonagh, an Eilif lord of the Shee, come down from Tulach Hearth for the ceremony.

  When the time came, the golden chest was opened and the treasure brought forth, and the Priestess Aroneth held it up above the holy spring and drew aside its veil of fine black gauze. It was seen to be a tall goblet of metal, decorated in ancient style, dull looking at first but then shining with an inward light. Rays of the sun came through the fretted roof of the cavern and blazed upon the sacred Vessel. Then Druda Strawn cried out in a strong voice, saying that this was Taran’s Kelch, a bowl of plenty for the Chyrian lands and for all the lands of Mel’Nir. It had been stolen away, but now it had been brought home. So all the folk of all the Lands of Hylor and the Lands Below the World must know that it was in its rightful place again, here at the Holywell.

  Tomas Giraud has writ this, Scribe of Lort, in the year of Farfaring 355.

  “ … who will come next?” said Gael. “An army of wraiths from Lake Nimnothal?”

  Tomas was changing his boots. They had settled most comfortably into the largest bedroom of the Long Burn Farm. This was the celebration night, which promised to be a long one. Gael’s old comrades, Mev Arun and Amarah, were in the second parlor with Hadrik and some kern officers; Bran the dog sat with them. Soon they would all ride out to Coombe, where there was dancing in the streets.

  Yet there was more afoot. Gael held onto Tomas and said:

  “You understand that I must make this journey into Eildon?” Auric Barry had not come to Coombe just to witness the unveiling ceremony—though it was true that there were not many who would not have found themselves deeply moved by that ceremony, not to say impressed by its parade of magic. He had come to propose a journey into Eildon—there had been new letters from this supposed “Lost Prince” of the Chameln, with private details from Carel and his brother Sham’s early days as exiles in Lien. Now even Queen Aidris was intrigued—and Auric Barry all the more concerned, for these letters were either proof of the Lost Prince’s true identity, or evidence that some Lien-man had provided this information, was taking part in what could only be meant for a sad betrayal. The Wanderer could go where folk of the Chameln—and one so noted as Auric Barry of Lien—could not, perhaps she could find out, at least, the conspirators who had set this “Lost Prince” on the road to Achamar City.

  Gael did not know why—but the Shee had agreed that it was right for her to go. Luran had even given her a band, a heavy gold bracer she was to wear on her upper arm over her sleeve, and bid her fast and safe travel.

  “Truly,” Tomas said. “I believe you are the one to uncover these answers—and you have your old comrades to help with the work.” Hadrick, Mev Arun, and Amarah would be accompanying her—good plain Melniro folk with no connection to Lien, nor to the Chameln either. Also Gwil Cluny, called down from the High Plateau—though his heritage, being half-Shee, was not quite so a plain one! “How does Druda Strawn go with arranging the boat?”

  “His wife’s people own the great inn, Strandgard, with its own anchorage, at Banlo. Between them, he and Culain Raillie have a vessel of the right kind waiting. My father will drive us there in a cart from Long Burn Farm—he has some business on the coast, so it will not be inconvenient for him.”

  “Three young women, traveling to Eildon,” grinned Tomas. “I’d like to see the three of you in skirts …”

  “We will have our portraits painted,” she said primly, “at Shennazar, in Oakhill, in the city of Lindriss—on—the—Laun!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A VOYAGE TO EILDON

  As their vessel, a sturdy cog called Banlo Hope, moved carefully under the tall white cliffs on the final leg of the approach to Eildon, they saw men and women in strange clothes working upon the precipitous paths above them. The land was the same as anywhere else; but no, it was not. There was a softness to the wind that brushed their sails here, curious effects of mist and sunlight, sparking off the white face of the rock. The skipper was a young man from the Strandgard anchorage called Alun Treyn, and they carried Hadrik, who knew sailing, and another Kestrel, Imala, Amarah’s friend. Eildon, Captain Treyn told them, ever presented this face of shining light and dancing mist; it was like no other country.

  The weather in the Oakmoon had been splendid for sailing, and they’d been brought at a steady, good pace to the coast of old Eildon, where they passed their way beneath the tall white cliffs to the mouth of the great river Laun. The city of Lindriss, half-shrouded by drifts of magical mist and light, lay across the Laun’s ancient sprawling estuary, with its own character in every quarter: ancient, magical, bright and dark at once.

  Down in the largest cabin, the three adventurers primped and paraded before a long glass—Gael had made magic that turned one door of a press into a mirror. Wearing traditional female dress instead of kedran gear was a difficult and frustrating task for them—Gael had had some experience of loose robes from her happy hours with Tomas in their tower at the Swan, but never of ladies’ garb, tightly laced. The gowns they wore were simple but of fine quality—mostly the property of Culain Raillie’s mother, with a few culled from Mistress Oghal and her daughter, Ronna Smith, wife of Bretlow. Luckily, these were taller women, and their clothes fit even Gael well enough. There had been a problem with hair. Mev Arun simply added a dark brown tress to her own shoulder-length hair, drawn back. Amarah, who played the role of the Bride in their story, wore a longer black fall of hair woven into her own hair and covered with a veil.

  Gael, with a dashing kedran cut of distinctive red, had to wear a full wig, ordered over from Krail, and dressed by the personal maid of the new Mistress Rhodd. The color was well chosen, she supposed, a red gold, and Tomas had been kind when she tried it on. She hardly knew the woman in the glass—long hair she associated with her callow girl-child’s years, and she could not see herself as much improved. At least, all agreed, they passed well for three maidens of the Southland, dressed in well-cut gowns that bespoke a certain wealth. Dark blue, pale blue and white, pale gold and soft green; head coverings, cloaks if needed, shoes firmly heeled, of soft leather, over pale, thin trunk hose: they drew the line at stockings and garters. The hemlines of their gowns brushed the instep and bore a slight train at the back. Gael struggled not to curse as, again and again, she trod her train underfoot.

  Imala, their “attendant,” was allowed to keep her kedran dress, and they envied her. So they came at last to their mooring place and stepped daintily down the gangplank into the crowded, colorful port of Hythe. A carriage, surely—Hadrik and Imala let Captain Treyn brush aside the hawkers and the guides; the ladies were driven up and down the misty hills of the great city to an inn called the Stone Men. The sign showed a ring of tall grey figures, like standing stones, yet cleverly wrought by some ancient stonemason (or at least the signboard’s painter!) so
that each one had a special attitude, a hand lifted, a head turned, a striding step.

  Inside, the arrangements were noticeably quiet and respectable; the hostess curtsied and sent two wenches up the staircase to usher them into their rooms. They fell about and complained loudly in the large bedchamber, then joined Hadrik in their parlor, for cordials and a light repast.

  Word had been left with the hostess that a factor would ask for Captain Hadrik’s party. Sure enough, at the appointed hour, their prime helper in Eildon made his appearance—Gwil Cluny came to the door.

  “Don’t laugh, old comrade,” said Gael.

  “You look splendid,” he said, grinning. “I’ll tell my Mam how well long golden hair becomes our Wanderer.”

  She made him known to all the others; he accepted a tankard of the ale that Hadrik was drinking and made his report.

  “It is as we thought, the workshop of Chion Am Varr at Shennazar in Oakhill is busy, but a place can be gained with a little extra gold. They use a ‘school’ system, like Emyas Bill and many others—a portrait is drafted by the master, then finished by the assistants, save perhaps for details of the face and hands. A list of all those men and women who sat for their portraits can be obtained for more gold and by magic.”

  “And this pretender,” said Mev Arun, “surely he was not painted by anyone but this Master Chion himself.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Gwil. “That fact has narrowed our search. In the last two years, Chion Am Varr has done only seven private sittings. Most often he traveled to a noble house to do some notable among the gentry. Once, twice, he went off with his requisites, and perhaps one friend, as if it were a holiday.” He brought out a rough map of Eildon’s demesnes, to show the routes the painting master had taken.