“It is a puzzle,” Gwil continued, turning to Gael. “Think of this—someone in Eildon has set up this pretender, paid for the portrait, perhaps schooled or instructed the fellow. What better cover for this portrait than a family sitting in a great house? Chion Am Varr paints Lady Thus and So, but also paints the Lost Prince, so-called.
“Before this morning of your arrival, I have been through the four nearest mansions,” said Gwil. “There is always a need for a fortune teller or a seller of fancy goods among the servants of these houses.”
“Do we have any promising candidates then?” asked Gael.
“One or two,” he grinned. “Do you not have some sort of copy of the famous portrait, sent to the new-wed queen?”
“You first,” said Gael, bringing out a large folded parchment.
“There was a tale in one country house of the Paldo clan, the Knightly Hunters,” said Gwil, “of a man from the Pendark lands who worked over the summer and had his portrait done by Chion Am Varr for an inn sign, somewhere in the south.”
“And the other?”
“There is a young man who has a herb garden not far from Oakhill. He joined in the Summer Pageant several years past—though not this most recent year—because he bore a likeness to Shennazar himself. To Sham Am Zor, the Summer’s King—a handsome, golden-haired man.”
“But now he has grown old,” said Gael. Something in Gwil’s description—she knew this must be the man from the painting that had been sent to the Chameln court.
She unfolded the copy Emyas Bill had done from memory and dusted with tinted chalks here and there to give a hint of the man’s coloring. They all gazed at the sketch, and Gwil Cluny said softly:
“Yes, it could be a match for Dan Royl, the herb gardener,” said Gwil. “It was always held that his name is a kind of stage name, from his days playing Shennazar.”
“The first part of his name is the Chameln word for a king or queen,” Gael said softly. “If this man is indeed our Lost Prince, he has not done so much to hide himself.”
“So where is this royal fellow?” asked Hadrik. “Gone yet? Away learning his story?”
“I can hardly believe …” Gwil Cluny frowned. “From what little I have seen, in some ways he might be a good man, in others not. I think he is still there, over at Thornlee Herb Farm.”
“Remember what I asked,” said Gael, “about the tenure of the land, here at Oakhill.”
“Eildon tenure is a maze,” said Gwil. “All the land belongs by custom to the three princely families, Tramarn, Paldo and Pendark, and to the seven Eorls and the Barons. There are adjustments of tenure by deed, marriage, and inheritance. There are a few earlier rights still recognized and some later changes, as when land comes ‘under the cowl’—into the possession of the priestly colleges of the Druda and the white sisters, the Dagdaren. The very place we were speaking of—Thornlee and the countryside round about—is ‘under the cowl,’ and it is worked by tenant farmers, including Master Dan Royl. There is a steward who lives not far away and watches over all the priestly land in the name of the college.”
“Tomorrow is a testing day,” said Amarah. “First we meet Master Chion at Shennazar, but then it is the Pageant and we see more of Oakhill.”
“The Pageant now,” said Mev Arun craftily, “fancy dress and merriment. Any chance we could get out of these clothes?”
“You know my plan,” said Gael. “Forgive me, sisters, but at some time during this parade, I will slip away with our Captain Hadrik. We will meet Gwil Cluny and prowl about a certain herb garden. I can’t prowl in a gown.”
“I have an idea,” put in Ensign Imala. “Don’t you ladies have riding habits?”
The idea was welcomed—the habits had trews under a wide buttoned skirt that could be thrown back or removed. Hadrik knew of a livery stable and suggested a ride on the downs after the pageant: the kedran missed their horses, missed riding.
The carriage drove to the west, through the city, crossing handsome bridges over tributary streams—Waybrook, Falconet—of the great river Laun. The district of Oakhill was northwest of the fine Tramarn estates—they were not well tended; parts of the gardens near the mansion were overgrown. Prince Gwalchai, great-nephew of Ross, the Priest-King, was held to be the last of his line.
There had been a sad time after the Tramarn prince, when young, married Princess Moinagh Pendark, courted by so many, including King Sharn Am Zor. Moinagh became wayward after the birth of a daughter and ran off with the child to join the Children of the Sea, her mother’s kin. Gwalchai lived many years alone and now had gone to a distant strand in the northwest, where he sat watching the sea. The story was a melancholy one. Remembering the dowager princess, Merigaun Pendark, Moinagh’s mother, Gael could only wonder what that gentle lady had made of her daughter’s wildness, and guess that her tender feelings toward her nephew, Liam Greddaer of Greddach, owed some of their strength to that earlier abandonment by her own child.
She shook herself, staring out over Prince Gwalchai’s hills. As a child in Coombe, she would never have believed she would come to know so much of these princely lives—so much so that she could share and almost feel their sadness and their pain, their hopes and joys. Fine fate for the crofter’s girl of the Holywell!
She touched for a moment the cool gold band upon her upper arm—Lord Luran’s gift—and wondered again at his change of heart, allowing—nay encouraging—her to come here. The metal of the bracer held an unnatural chill; Lady Annhad’s ring confirmed that strong magic ran within. She had sensed in Luran’s manners that something in this matter was not for Gael yet to be told—a touch of dread went through her, but her trust was in the Shee. Luran must have some reason for keeping the Shee’s purpose hidden. Something to protect the delicate Fionnar, perhaps, or frail old Sir Hugh.
Up ahead, there was a bustle of preparation in the streets and in four great pavilions where the carnival floats were being assembled. The three visitors and their kedran attendant stepped down from the carriage behind the grandstand, where their seats were waiting. Captain Hadrik stayed with the carriage, and the women went off in the direction of Shennazar.
Oakhill was a fine place, open and fresh with much greenery and wide streets decorated for the Pageant. Gael felt the morning sun on her face and looked up at the hill itself, crowned with a ring of great oak trees. The bright shops and stalls recalled the market near Goldgrave where, years past now, she had spent her reward from Hem Duro on gifts for the Winter Feast. The Shennazar art workshop had a golden sign and beautiful things laid out for sale behind its mullioned glass panes. They stepped inside and were greeted by a young man, who led them up and up the broad stairs to a room full of light.
A woman in a kind of kedran dress led “Mistress Amarah Habrin,” the chosen bride of a rich Danasken Lord, into a tiring room, where both the lady and her attendants were put to rights Then they came out, and there was the Master Painter holding out his hands to Amarah and smiling. Chion Am Varr was not much over thirty, a good-looking, brown-haired fellow, muscular and strong but well covered with flesh. He wore Chameln dress, with the sleeves of his fine summer tunic rolled up.
He led them first to a wall in the workroom full of portraits and painted groups; the light was adjusted to perfectly illuminate this grouping.
“Now, what can we choose?” cried Chion. “Where will you sit—indoors or out? I believe you would do well, Mistress Amarah, in this plain setting, with flowers in the urns and your two ladies one up, one down.”
There was a man with his wife and their young son in the painting upon the wall, and the background was a simple hanging, half-covering a window. They passed into another well-line room, and there was the setting they had just seen, even to the curtain and the window behind it, showing the clear blue sky and a branch of apple tree, white with blossom. They took their places on the chair and the velvet settle and looked at them selves in a large wall mirror while Chion and his assistants moved them about, adjusted their lim
bs and skirts, made chalk marks. The master painter discussed the colors of the gowns they were to wear—no, of course, no riding habits. Then, with an appointment for the next day, they went on their way—the Pageant was beginning.
As they made their way back to their grandstand seats, Amarah was cast down by the role they were all playing. Chion did not seem a bad fellow, yet he was not going to get his fee. Was it certain that he was involved in this Lost Prince charade?
“Yes,” said Gael. “He is. The best we can say for him is that he is an artist who does not understand intrigue, who has this great love for light and color and so on.”
“You are tender hearted,” said Mev Arun to Amarah. “Remember how it will end. You will fall ill, and he will receive quit fee.”
They settled into the stands with Hadrik just as the firs wheeled platforms came by, to gusty cheers. There were the Hunters, the Falconers, and the Fishers, the princely houses of Eildon, and the scenes on the floats were teasing, full of foolery. Old Borss Paldo was a boozy old prince with his coronet askew; Princess Merigaun was a sorceress with a wand that turned stones into sweetmeats, which her servants threw at the crowd. Then, on the Falconer’s tower were strange messengers: an old man, a woman, and a young man dressed as a bird, serving the Eorl Leffert, the patron of the order. A Mermaid, swinging overhead in a golden net—Princess Moinagh, with a little merchild in her arms—a bold reference to the house of Tramarn, family of the Priest-King. To the party out of Mel’Nir, it was almost overwhelming. In Eildon there was no disposition against the use of magic: half the pageantry figures they saw, the sweetmeats that had showed as stone—these were cloaked with glittering illusions, magic, borne as lightly as the decorations of crepe or gauze that were worn by many in the crowd.
In the second group of scenes, there came that year’s Shennazar, “The Summer’s King,” handsome and golden-haired; clad in golden armor, carrying a great black bow. At his side rode a beautiful dark girl, wearing a crown, and her handsome partner—the king’s daughter, the new-wed Queen Tanit and her new husband Count Liam.
Then there came a group of riders—knights, kedran, a pair of lovers sharing a single saddle, three dwarfs together on another—were they Tulgai from the border forests over the sea? The scene had passed before any among their little group could decide.
“By the Goddess!” cried Mev Arun. “Gael, look there!”
They laughed and cheered. The party of riders was led by: a tall kedran with a mop of bright red hair and the banner mounted on her lance proclaimed The Wanderer.
“Time I took to the saddle,” said Gael, disturbed. Eildon was indeed a land more than passing strange, glutted upon magic. How else could whisper of her own doings have reached these shores?
She left the stand with Hadrik, and he led the way to a park; there were two horses being held by a groom from the livery stable. Gael stripped off the skirt of her riding habit and laid it with her cloak across the back of her saddle. She kept her long wig, tied back, and the smart, blue green riding cap that went with the habit. She carried no lance but wore instead her longsword, slung on a baldric. Gwil had procured her a nice, neat-footed brown mare called Sparrow, while Hadrik’s mount was a big black steed who made her pine for Ebony. Was he getting good exercise at the Long Burn Farm?
They rode out of Oakhill and followed the high road, which they had traced carefully on their guide maps to Lindriss. The bright sun was darkened now and then by patches of mist in the valleys between the hills. There, some way to the west, was the great Paldo fortress. Gael told Hadrik of the wedding at Chernak New Palace and of the princes and nobles who had been there; along with her happy meeting with Kerry-Red, Kerry-Black, and their other old comrade from the desert, Ensign Dirck.
Yes, admitted Nils Hadrik, he had it in mind to quit Pfolben with his sweetheart, who served Lady Annhad, and take service in Eildon, in the Pendark lands, as the others had done. In Pfolben, Lord Maurik was ailing. Some said Blayn seemed to have settled since his marriage, but Hadrik thought him still a little swine, whatever the Southlanders’ hopes. And, yes, who should visit Pfolben in a trading galley from Seph-el-Ara, but a certain rich merchant—barely beginning to grow his first moustaches! It was Ali el Bakim, formerly a camel boy who came upon a troop of magic women warriors in the Burnt Lands’ shifting sands. He had asked after Gael, and they told him what news they could, and he sent his love and duty.
“There lies the way,” said Gael, looking ahead, even as she smiled at these memories.
They turned off the highroad and rode east, through a village, until they saw the herb farm of Dan Royl. A country fellow in a pancake hat was strolling along the farm boundary, and, yes, it was Gwil Cluny.
“Our man is there,” said Gwil, coming up to them, “and I believe he is alone except for his cat and his dog. He talks to them and a little to himself.”
The farmhouse was old and solid, finer even than the Long Burn Farm. Gwil bade them leave the horses in a grove of willows by a stream and approach on foot with woven baskets, as if they came to buy herbs. At the beginning of the path that led up the hill, Gael was warned sharply by her ring; there was magic all around the house and in the garden.
“Is it a spell?” asked Gwil, “or do we have guards here?”
“Maybe guards as well,” said Gael, “and the spell is far stronger than a mere working to keep thieves out of the gardens.”
“How would it be,” asked Hadrik, “if Master Gwil here went a longer way round and checked the back of the house?”
“Very good,” said Gwil.
He ambled off, chewing a straw. Gael and Hadrik both had their shields up; they climbed the gentle slope, admiring the beds of thyme and sage, the pots of basil displayed before the greenhouses. On a terrace in the midst of the garden was an enormous garden god of some kind, in stone, with a vine that grew over him, surrounded by smaller figures.
They went into the yard through wide double gates with one side half open for customers, and took a comfortable brick path edged with lavender and rosemary and some low-growing border plants. In a shaded place under a lemon tree was a small water trough that had splashed upon the path. There on the red bricks were several large, misshapen footprints. Gardeners—or guards?
Everything went on like an ordinary visit—they came into a large open room with counters covered with potted herbs and dried sheaves. Far back under the house, there was a wide counter where a man and his wife served them cheerfully and helped them make their choice. The man was a veteran soldier with a game leg who spoke to Hadrik as an old comrade and said he had served in Lien and in the outer isles. He asked Gael if she might be a kedran, and she agreed that she was. It was friendly talk, not suspicious questioning—Hadrik mentioned the pageant. Gael paid in Eildon silver, and they carried out their baskets. They had seen no one else, and it was easy to walk around a corner to the back of the house, out of sight of the selling room. The back of the house was old but orderly, with its own small garden. Hadrik sat with their baskets in the shade of a yew; Gael tried the back door. It was open; she slipped through into the house.
There was a large hallway, dark at first. When her eyes were accustomed to the dim light, Gael saw a suit of armor—Shennazar’s carnival body armor, perhaps left over from Dan Royl’s participation in years past, complete with a plumed helmet and a golden lance. She tested the weapon, and it was firm and good, not a pageant property. The rooms nearby were open and empty—kitchen, dining room, all darkly paneled, unused, she would have said. Upstairs she heard the sound of a man’s voice.
“Bad cat!” he said fondly. “Oh, bad Auntie Parn! You too, Tazlo, old comrade—you’ve had enough of the mutton!”
A dog gave a sleepy bark. The man—Dan Royl, no doubt—went on talking to his friends; he fell into a kind of chant. It was a list of names: “Derda, Ilmar, Engist, Huw Kerrick, Old Inchevin, Lady Sarah, no, wrong, Lady Zarah. Aram Nerriot, good old Nerry, came from Wencaer, city of Wencaer in Eildon land … .”
It was almost too good to be true. Here was the pretender learning his lines, the names of those close to Prince Carel Am Zor. Then, from outside, there was a sudden blast of a hunting horn, and Hadrik uttered a loud cry. Gael felt for the sword at her side, then changed her mind and snatched up the lance, Shennazar’s golden lance. She charged out into the sunshine.
A man on a red roan charger was prodding at Hadrik with his own lance. The captain, protected by his shield, had rolled away from the attack. Gael muttered strengthening words and directed her lance at the rider. There was a familiar crackling in the air as the spell took hold: horse and rider were struck to the ground and remained in frozen attitudes. Gael rushed to check them both, while Hadrik scrambled up. They spoke in low voices—any others? No, nothing seen. The rider had ridden uphill, then suddenly blown a blast from the hunting horn slung across his chest and charged at Hadrik—at a man with his herb baskets, seated peacefully under the yew tree.
“He knew I was an observer, at least,” said Hadrik.
The horse was not harmed by the fall, so far as Gael could see; the man was a stranger, past forty, well dressed—a landowner more than a soldier. He bore no crest, but Gael opened his shirt to see if he bore an amulet, and there was a brass ear of wheat. Gael, for one hot, angry moment, almost let the man’s head fall hard on the flags; the man was a follower of Inokoi, the Lame God. She knew from Tomas that for the Brown Brotherhood, the holy wheat ear symbolized the six orders of creation—where farmworkers and handworkers, women and beasts, fell irredeemably into the lowest castes. But then there came a sharp pang of pain from the ring upon her finger—this wheat ear amulet was magic, some kind of collar or leash. Snapping the little piece of brass from its cord, she hid it away, safe within her tunic sleeve, then laid the man gently onto the flagstones.
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