The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “Praise the Goddess, you are here, Gael Maddoc!” said Druda Strawn. “I do not come to this vigil—I am a town officer, so Culain tells me.”

  At his side, Jehane dipped Gael a worried nod, confirming the Druda’s words—but then her irrepressible spirit rose again. “I will ride with you!” cried Jehane. Gael saw that she wore the badges of a captain in the Sword Lilies. “I’ll be your standard bearer! Kedran together will show honor to their old comrade.”

  “Take my lance then, dear comrade!” Gael called to Jehane. “It has a banner for Coombe!”

  “Gael and Tomas,” said the Druda, holding up his hand in blessing. “I am sending you both into a strange encounter with the heirs of Ardven. Bring me back a thorough report!”

  There was a fine, improved road winding down to Ardven. Gael saw at last how Culain Raillie had had the mansion rebuilt, as part of the beautification of Coombe. Now the Cresset Burn flowed in a new channel, held back by flood walls, and there were gardens behind the tall house. It had all its tall chimneys again, glazed windows with good shutters, and some half-timbering on the upper floor, in the manner of Lien. Gael recalled the time not long past when she had sat with Old Murrin in the cold above the flood waters and heard marvelous tales of the old kedran’s life in the wide world.

  There were more people than she expected waiting in the new courtyard, keeping a vigil. When they entered, with Jehane leading the way, there was a reaction—a voice cried:

  “A banner for Coombe!”

  But another voice answered, “Maddocs all come up in the world!” and yet another, “Incomers from the Long Burn!” Then a voice she recognized cried out loudly, “Give a hail for the brave Wanderer, summoned to the bedside of her old comrade, and for our own Sword Lily, brave Jehane!”

  The hail was given, a decorous form of a cheer for the sad occasion, and then there was a chant, so sweet and sad it could hardly be called squint-singing:

  Here come kedran,

  One brave and one fair,

  To stand by an old companion.

  Kedran and kern,

  Those who yet may ride home:

  Bring voice to all ears of this action!

  Shim Rhodd and Bress Maddoc, large as life in their uniforms for the Westlings, with ensign sashes, came to greet their cart.

  “Sister, Tomas, we’ll see you to the door!” grinned Bress. “Greetings, Captain Vey!”

  The watchers were not quite silent; they murmured, and sometimes a voice was raised, then hushed. A groom in the Ardven colors, grey and crimson, took Vey’s horse to the stableyard, and another drove the cart. Bress took charge of Bran as Gael stepped up to the wide porch before the door, with Jehane at her side. There were windows and fretted stonework, full of watchers inside the house—but no one opened the doors.

  Jehane rapped with the lance a second time, and there came the sound of drawn bolts. A big man in livery stood framed within the doorway. The spacious hall at the base of the fine staircase was filled with as many as twenty men, all strangers, some of them out of livery, finely dressed, others in guard uniform, like a fighting force. All stood back as the door was opened and stared at the two kedran.

  “Greetings in sad time,” said Gael to the big man. “May I speak to your master?”

  “What’s your errand, kedran?” he asked.

  “We have come to sit vigil beside our old comrade, Captain Emeris Murrin.”

  Among the watchers a young boy said, “Captain? Captain? Old Aunt Captain?” and laughed aloud. Gael was shocked and angry; Tomas spoke up behind her.

  “Is your master Oweyn Murrin of Balbank there, please?”

  “Not sure,” was the answer.

  At the landing where the stairs divided, Gael saw a woman in a long, pale healer’s cloak, holding towels. It was her mother; she beckoned them. Gael took the lance from Jehane and said loudly:

  “We will go in!”

  She rapped gently on the paving stones, and the tip of her lance held a blue spark; then at a whispered word or two, her shield encompassed Jehane. Gael looked at Tomas, who shook his head, unsmiling, and stepped back, indicating that he would not join them. The tall steward gave a great rumbling laugh, with some fear and unbelief in it. Gael, losing patience, jerked the tip of her lance and he fell backward on the polished wooden floor. She marched in with Jehane, and they stepped over his legs.

  The new heirs and their servants cried out at this simple act of magic. As they reached the middle of the stairs, a loud voice called:

  “You there! Captain Maddoc!”

  She turned her head, and there surely was the new heir himself—Oweyn Murrin, the nephew of old Emeris Murrin, son of her brother, who had remained in Balbank after it was purchased by Lien. It was said that the Melniros who chose to stay had been fairly treated by the authorities in King’s Bank, the rulers of Lien. There was a name for them, Aldmen, or simply Alders. It had become a title: Aldman Murrin was tall and well built, a brown-haired man, tanned by the sun; he did indeed bear a strong family likeness to Emeris Murrin.

  “This is my house!” he said loudly. “I will have no magic, no witchwork here! It is not my custom!”

  Gael held his gaze.

  “We will sit vigil by our old comrade Emeris Murrin,” she said firmly. “This vigil at a deathbed is a custom here in Coombe. The folk outside are keeping vigil as well. But we—we must go up.”

  Jehane was already at the landing; they both continued up to Shivorn Maddoc and followed her. There were a few jeers from the Aldman and his followers. So they came at last into what was surely the last vestige of that upper room where Gael had spoken with Old Murrin years past. There was new plaster on the walls; a rough tapestry covered the old door to the alcove where the old woman had in past days stored her accoutrements of battle. The captain herself lay on a pallet bed, propped up on pillows, and the late summer light shone in through a new window.

  Gael was nearly at the bedside when she saw that the large room was filled with all the women of the household. In the furthest corner, to her left, there were strangers, quietly sipping Kaffee or tea. One was finely dressed, the wife, perhaps, of Oweyn Murrin, and she had two female attendants. On the floor there sat two young girls, probably kitchen maids. Then there were two other women, unknown to Gael. From the woven patterns of their dress, she knew they came from Rift Kyrie. These two must be the child of Captain Murrin’s sister and the housekeeper, Matilda. Of all the faces, only this last pair bore the mark of sorrow.

  “What is this?” she said to her mother in a low voice. “Where are the men of the house?”

  “It is a King’s Bank custom,” said Mother Maddoc. “Men and women do not sit together.”

  Gael joined Jehane, who was already in a chair beside the bed. She looked into the face of Emeris Murrin and felt nothing but a helpless love and admiration for a proud spirit.

  “Dear comrades …”

  It was a breathy whisper.

  “Hush,” said Gael. “We are here …”

  “Content …” the halting voice continued. “Ylla—my dear Ylla waits in the golden fields—”

  From below there came the sound of raised voices, shouting, and laughter. A heavy door slammed. Gael felt a surge of anger for the heir from King’s Bank. Old Murrin said, her eyes fixed on Gael:

  “A word for the Wanderer …”

  Gael bent closer.

  “Take the banners,” came the halting voice. “There is a message …”

  The old woman caught her breath, and Mother Maddoc came with a cup of water. After a few sips, Murrin’s breathing changed. Her frail body arched up from the pillows; a strange sound grew in her throat. She turned toward the lighted window, showing the gardens, the Cresset Burn. Gael and Jehane held her up; then she was gone.

  A heavy silence spread through the room; the cousin from Rift Kyrie began to weep softly and was comforted by the housekeeper. The women from Balbank set down their Kaffee cups. Shivorn Maddoc made a sign of blessing and re
moved the pillows. Then she drew up a pale sheet and covered the body of Emeris Murrin.

  “Help me, girls,” she said. “We’ll move the pallet into this room for lying out.”

  The lying-out room was the cool alcove behind the tapestry. Here, also, lay Emeris Murrin’s belongings, in an untidy jumble, as though her room had been all quickly cleared to make way for those sitting vigil. Gael’s mother pulled the tapestry flap down, leaving them in partial dark, but also making them some privacy as she opened the old woman’s clothing. On a sudden thought, Jehane asked:

  “What has become of Oona, the grey cat?”

  “Gone to the gold fields that await all good mousers,” said Mother Maddoc. “She was sixteen years old. Lies under an ash tree down in the gardens.”

  “Mam,” Gael asked. “Where are Murrin’s treasures—I mean her wall banners, from old time? She charged me to keep them safe.”

  “Why they’re here, in this press,” said her mother. “These things will be stored, I think …”

  Gael shook her head. “I’ll take the banners out—under my cloak, maybe, or vanished some way.”

  They went swiftly to the dark cupboard and sorted through the cloths kept there. There were four banners—Gael had only remembered three—one in a cloth cover, to protect its gold and silver thread. The last, brown and silver, was the banner for Krail that Murrin had had from Yorath Duaring, at the first muster of the Westlings. Gael and Jehane folded them beneath their cloaks, tying the laces around their necks.

  Shivorn Maddoc gave instructions:

  “Go and pay your respects to the good folk from Rift Kyrie. Send Matilda to help me here. Then speak in private to Mistress Murrin, if you can.”

  In the bright room, the new Mistress Murrin and her women had all covered their heads with scarves. The Balbank women were arrayed by the narrow windows now, looking down into the gardens and pointing into the grounds of their new domain. The two kedran were greeted by a fresh-faced young woman, the niece, Rieva, from Rift Kyrie, and by the good Matilda. They whispered together while the women at the windows talked aloud and laughed.

  “I’ll go to help your mother, Captain,” said Matilda.

  “Oh Goddess,” said young Rieva. “Balbank must be a strange place. Do you see those head scarves? I thought they wore them for mourning—but no, it is their law and custom. They must cover their heads because they are women—lest the men who see them are defiled.”

  “Say rather that King’s Bank is a strange place,” sighed Gael. “These are the customs of the Kingdom of Lien!”

  She approached the women at the window and the new Lady of Ardven House, Mistress Murrin, turned to confront her. She was a handsome blond woman, about forty years old, and her manner was indeed very strange. She took a harsh, high tone with Gael from the first, but had little tricks of a prescribed modesty: covering her mouth when she spoke, plucking the scarf across her face and over her hair, even covering the tips of her fingers with her sleeves.

  “Mistress Murrin,” said Gael. “May I ask what funeral services are planned for my comrade, Captain Murrin?”

  “We could bring her forth, kedran,” came the reply. “If you wanted her. Ask that healing woman who attended her.”

  “The healer is Shivorn Maddoc of the Holywell, my mother,” said Gael. “Our family have served Ardven House for generations. In the last years we have cared for Emeris Murrin, who is well-beloved in Coombe.”

  “What do you seek?” the blond woman asked coldly. “Some kind of reward or payment for your services?”

  “By the Goddess, no!” said Gael, raising her voice. “I seek respect for a member of your family, your husband’s kin, even if you do worship the Lame God! Even if you have been enslaved by this life hatred that rules in the Kingdom of Lien! Remember, you are not in Lien now!”

  “You defile my house!” snapped Mistress Murrin, dropping her hands from her face. “With your foul kedran dress and your bold speech and your vile magic! I am only a humble Altwyf of Balbank, but I know how you would fare in King’s Bank!”

  “You are not in King’s Bank now,” said Gael grimly, a little regretting her outburst. “But if you do not wish to bring your kin to burial with the honors she has earned, I will arrange that officers of Coombe will come and take Emeris Murrin for her funeral rites. Your husband will be informed.”

  She went down the stairs, leaving the Mistress of Ardven whispering angrily with her women. Rieva—the poor girl was this woman’s cousin by marriage now—went with Matilda to assist Shivorn Maddoc; Jehane and Gael went quickly out of the house. The front doors were wide open and the hallway was empty except for one house servant, who pointed to the open door, to bid them get out. After they went, the doors were shut and bolted.

  The word of Murrin’s passing had been given, and those who kept vigil were drifting away. Gael could not tell who the hecklers were who had jeered at the name Maddoc, and at the Wanderer. There were Bress and Shim standing by the cart, which had been brought from the stable along with Captain Vey’s horse. Now Bran the dog came down from the cart and ran to greet her.

  “Where is Tomas?” she asked.

  “In the house,” said Bress. “He went to parley with Oweyn Murrin.”

  There was a long trestle table set up in the courtyard by the Coombe wives; it was usual for food and drink to be brought and also sent out of the house, but this had not been done today. She and Jehane went and helped themselves to barley water in a stone cooler and trout-fish pasties.

  “Will Tomas get sense from these people?” asked Jehane.

  “Of course,” said Gael shortly. “For one thing he’s a man, not a defiled creature in kedran dress, and for another, he was born in Lien—his father was a known scribe there.”

  They waited for about another quarter hour. Then the doors were opened, and Tomas appeared with Oweyn, as friendly as you please. The two men shook hands. Murrin’s companions and his young son spoke farewell to Tomas. The party returned indoors, possibly to avoid the sight of Tomas driving off in the company of two kedran. Jehane unthreaded the banner for Coombe and gave it to Gael.

  “It might rest with our old comrade,” she said.

  The windows of the great house flashed in the lowering sun as the cart trundled down the track toward Cresset Burn.

  Tomas laid his hand on Gael’s arm. His face was tired, drawn. “That was difficult,” he said. “They were barely creatures of reason. I could hardly keep them to the point.” Gael saw then the hard line he must have walked, trying to see Emeris Murrin honored, and she laid her hand over his, some of her hard feelings passing.

  There was a short silence between them, and then Tomas asked her:

  “Did you mark the man who stood behind Ardven’s master, just as I came to you from the hall?”

  Gael had barely seen the man—tall, strong, she guessed an officer—so only shook her head.

  “That was Merrin Treyes,” Tomas said. “Aldman Murrin arrived in Coombe well supported. Treyes is his captain.” He gave Gael a steady look. “It is Treyes who makes the trouble for Cullain Raille.”

  “Why should he do such a thing? What could be his business in Coombe?” Gael twisted in her seat to look, but the front of the house was already out of sight.

  “I can hardly guess,” Tomas said. “Treyes is an Aldman, like the others, but the name is from a Lienish family. This said—his manners are more of old Lien than new. He has been courting young Bethne at Long Burn Farm. His manner, out of uniform, would seem to hold great charm for her.”

  Another turn in the road, and the stone circle, the Maidens, hove into view. Jehane dug in her heels and cantered her horse joyously out onto the verge.

  Gael sighed, turned her hand into Tomas’s, and for a moment closed her eyes. She hoped this Merrin Treyes would not be a frequent guest at the Long Burn while she and Tomas remained in residence.

  Emeris Murrin was buried two days later. A throng of people came to see her laid to rest. Her grave was
on the top of the hill behind Holywell House, the home of the Maddocs. There it was, the same hillside where Gael and her father had ploughed and coaxed a living out of the hard soil. It had shared in Coombe’s blessing and was more fertile and pleasant in these days. Druda Strawn and Master Rhodd, the innkeeper, together with half a dozen sturdy helpers, had called for the wooden sarg at the gates of Ardven House, and it was carried in procession on one of the roads round the hill. Gael and her mother brought holy water from the sacred spring. Others were buried here on the western side of the hill. Maddocs of old time and the children of Shivorn Maddoc who had not lived. So the Druda offered prayers, and everyone sang a farewell chant. Captain Murrin was left to look down upon her family mansion. There were tables set up in the courtyard of the Maddocs’s house for a good funeral feast, but Gael had no stomach for it. She was still distressed by the experience at Ardven with the new folk; she took the chance to slip away once the baked meats were served.

  Down in the grotto, in her old secret hiding place, she had placed the banners of Emeris Murrin. She had not had a chance to carry them home to the Long Burn to search for the mysterious message her old comrade had spoken of on her deathbed; now she simply gathered them up in a willow basket and carried them back up to the wake. She bade farewell to all the guests as soon as it was possible and mounted up outside in the roadway, upon Ebony. Tomas had Valko, his good roan; Bran the dog accepted a last tidbit and came trotting along behind.

  Tomas tried to cheer her, and this clear day, halfway through the Applemoon, the month of plenty, worked its own magic. The farmed hills about Coombe were unusually empty and quiet, with many of the folk up at Murrin’s funeral.

  “A puzzle,” said Tomas, who enjoyed puzzles. “Whose path crossed that of the Wanderer and of Emeris Murrin, so that a message was left with her?”

  They rode over the second bridge and looked at the standing stones, and Gael was struck by a sudden misgiving.

  “I think Taran has sent me a clue—”

  “Give it to me then, sweetheart!”