The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “Goddess bless me,” she said softly, knowing this at least for truth: “That this weapon come to my hand for peace, and not for the making of war.”

  II

  Gwil Cluny rode in two days later, come late afternoon, on a fine warm day followed by storm clouds, the last of the summer weather. He was followed by a cart that bore his new bride, his pretty young cousin, Lyse, who had once served as tiring woman to Lady Malm, back in those heady days after Silverlode. He had come to serve at New Tulach, brought all his household with him, but also he bore great news:

  “The Council has met in the Eastern Rift—Keddar has been chosen Lord of the Eastmark!”

  Tomas looked at Gael, half amazed, as if to say “it has begun!” And truly, this was a matter of amazement. Mel’Nir, the land so long unbalanced between its marches, East, West, and South—and now, within just days of the Hallow’s recovery, already this happy portent!

  “This has been long in the planning,” said Gael, taking Gwil’s hands in greeting, for she did not want to lay too much of this good fortune to the simple matter of her hand upon the Krac’Duar. “I heard talk of it last winter. But it is great good news!”

  “Keddar is a good man,” said Gwil. “The documents and patents, even as I speak, are being sent to King Gol at the Palace Fortress.”

  “He’ll do better than Huarik the Boar, or Corvin, his Wilding son!” Tomas smiled.

  “Come,” said Gael to Gwil. “You must see the great house, for all within is cleaned and new. By the Goddess’s good graces, there will be a happy home here.”

  They turned to go inside. Yet, before the closing of the great door, she chanced to glance to the west. There she saw that great palaces of cloud had reared up over distant King’s Bank, far away, and below the High Plateau’s heights. She shivered. The trouble Merrin Treyes had foretold for King’s Bank had not yet appeared; Yolanda Hestrem’s warning back in Eildon had yet to come to pass. She hoped these ominous clouds were not a warning, and sent up a prayer.

  The clouds outside continued to thicken as the day came to its closing, followed, just after dusk, by strange torrential rains, such as were seen more commonly in coastal towns like Coombe, not up on the high ground. Then, at night, there came a dark-clad rider, riding in terror along the great avenue of elms. Her horse was foundered, blowing its breath in agony as it sank down before Tulach’s great door. The servants brought this rider to the Great Hall; Gael and Tomas descended, hastily pulling on their clothes.

  It was the lovely woman-child Zarah Beck, the innkeeper’s daughter from the Swan, half-dead with cold and exhaustion. At first, she could not talk. The Widow Menn brought her a warm posset, wine, then stronger liquor. The last loosened her tongue, and then tears began to fall.

  “Danger has come from King’s Bank,” pretty Zarah at last brought out, hardly above a whisper, “and gods alone know how many precious souls are in danger, by Goldgrave!”

  “Tell us, Zarah,” Gael said, leaning in to better hear. “Who is now at Goldgrave? Is your good father there?”

  “He was,” Zarah replied, weeping, “but now he has gone closer to the border. Brother Robard the Carrahill Tutor is there, among the battle sites, with three young scholars.”

  “This is bad news,” said Gael. She thought of Brother Robard, so lean and sharp, and many happy nights at the Swan, with Robard and Terza, passing a scholar’s jokes, sharing good wine.

  “O Captain Maddoc,” cried Zarah, gathering her breath. “You have not heard the worst of all, the names of Brother Robard’s callants: They are Till and Tomas Am Chiel, the sons of Princess Merilla Am Zor, in the Chameln lands. They are with their younger cousin, Prince Gerd Am Zor, the brother and the heir of Tanit Am Zor, the new-wed Queen!”

  Gael took it in, and understood. This again must be Sebald’s doing, the feared blow against Mel’Nir, combined with one against the Chameln, as chance brought that land’s young heirs within range of a fast-acting strike. This action must be completed before Degan of Keddar had taken on the full mantle of Eastmark’s charge, perhaps with the intention of sending the marches of Mel’Nir, East and West, spinning back out of balance. For the King’s Bank lay between the Eastmark and the West, touched also by the smaller Dannermark, where King Gol held the titles. There would be much laying of blame, much arguing, which march of Mel’Nir must hold responsibility for allowing such a raid its success.

  “See that Ebony is prepared,” she called to Hurlas as she strode across the Great Hall and upstairs toward her chambers. “Prepare my weapons.”

  For Mel’Nir’s honor, she would ride out with the Lance, she would bring succor to these Chameln Princes—all four, she thought. For if “Rolf Beck” had reached the young princes to give warning, the time must surely have come to share the good innkeep’s secret with all the world.

  “Will you ride with me tonight, Tomas?” she asked, as she fumbled within their room, making ready. He had come to stand, silent, by the door, his hand upon the good dog Bran’s great head.

  “I will come,” he said softly, “if you would have me by you.”

  “I need your steady head,” she told him. “We must make our way to the border, and I am not sure what we will find. I will not make war on these poor folk of Lien,” she said, pulling on her riding gauntlets. “They are pawns in a cruel master’s game. This raid—it is ill planned, but those poor soldiers are not the ones who made the decision to act. Tomas, my heart, it is time to teach this Brother Sebald a lesson—and it is not the lesson of punishing violence the Great Mother taught him when he sent his men to violate her Well.”

  No—she would not have him arm himself—only a sturdy staff, to keep a man at distance, should this prove necessary. Then they were outside in the blessed cantreyn where Gael had started so many journeys, only this time it was the Krac’Duar, the Black Lance, that she held up to call the magic.

  “The Gods go with you!” cried Gwil Cluny, and it was a cry taken up by the entire house of Tulach as Gael and Tomas, mounted on their horses—Zarah Beck riding pillion, her arms clenched tightly about Tomas’s waist—were taken by the spell.

  They made landing in a rain-drenched wood amid a flash of powerful lightning and a resounding thunder peal—Gael was not quite sure that this was not caused by her spell. Rain poured down in a dark torrent through the frail roof of leaves overhead as the two horses from Tulach and their riders made their appearance, and the mist of their arrival was torn apart by the wet. Gael saw before her a dark line of soldiers, of fighting men spread among the trees; the miserable prisoners’ cart, drawn by a pair of unhappy looking ponies, heads bent down beneath the downpour, lay directly before her, surrounded by guardsmen. She would not repeat the horrible melee of the Holywell: even before the mists of the spell had cleared, she raised again the Krac’Duar, calling the Stillstand. The Lance’s power was both sweet and harsh, strong, yet with this casting, she felt herself completely in control; it was not like the terrible magic set upon her by the Ruith Nighean that night at the Holywell. With this weapon in her hand, it was but a small matter to shield Tomas and her-self, the horses, Zarah; then all that was needful was to step within the circle, open the shutter at the back of the prison cart and count the men within, all uninterrupted as the guardsmen lay in postures frozen around them.

  Five of the guards who had escaped the Stillstand’s first effects—no six—threw themselves within the charmed circle in the short time it took to make that count, and were instantly trapped; those who remained outside saw the effect, hesitated. There was much calling and crying among the force: here a raid that had gone forward with such high success was of a sudden disrupted. The Lienish force had been hieing homeward in great good soldiers’ humor despite the rain; self-congratulation was in the air; now all that was gone, set awry, and this by just one woman and her companions on a single second horse.

  Gael Maddoc spoke up in a voice clear and proud, once again raising the Black Lance. “It has been given to me in good under
standing that Lord Vane, the Governor of King’s Bank, is a moderate man. Whoever sent you here today—accept that your mission has failed. Fall back upon the good governor’s mercy, beg his pity, say you were sent unwilling into Mel’Nir—Lien’s good neighbor—on an errand, successfully consummated, that could only have brought our two nations to a bloody and unneedful war. For you indeed have not succeeded here today because I will not allow it, and I am the Wanderer, the last gift of the Shee to all good Hylor’s lands, and I will not see war and ravages visited upon our nations where the power lies in my hands to hold this back!”

  There were cries around her of rage—these must be Aldmen, carefully chosen, who could only find outrage at being so spoken by a kedran. But Gael only brought down her lance—there was no cantreyn, no blessed round here, only magic, powerful and direct. The mist shrouded all, and they were gone: cart and horses together, and nothing was left, save for guardsmen still frozen within the Stillstand’s hold.

  The young men came up from their stupor, gasping; Zarah Beck, reunited with her father, embraced him, weeping, in the shadows at the back of the cart. They had come away from the raiding party to the cantreyn near by the Adderneck, where Gael had one time before landed, on her journey to the Royal Chameln wedding. She was not sure why she had chosen this place: the little corner where the lands of the Chameln, Mel’Nir, and Lien all came together at the Dannermere’s edge.

  It was not raining here: the night lay calm and peaceful around them, with a settled feel, as though perhaps an hour had passed since hard rainfall. They were uncomfortably close by the Lienish border, but the ride from here toward Lort was an easy one, along the Nesbath Road, and they needed only pass across the bridge at the confluence of the Ringist and the Bal to be securely on the road to safety.

  Brother Robard was the quickest of those rescued to make his recovery—he was excited to see Tomas, asked many questions, one scholar to another, seeking to gain full comprehension of all points of the action that had just gone forward. Gael almost smiled to hear him posit the possible strategies, the likely source, of those soldiers who had ambushed him and his highborn pupils. Not for nothing was Robard renowned as an expert in military affairs.

  “Unlucky venture for the man who planned this!” he said meditatively. “It must have been pressed forward in secret—how else? Now, without hostages—royal hostages—these raiders will have started a wave of trouble that will be a long time settling. Balbank—King’s Bank—holds three distinct areas of command, and large forces split between them. The Governor’s household men; the Brondland regiments; and, near at hand, the Border Regiments, often associated with the Brotherhood. In all the confusion—for our Melniros soldiers will certainly rally against them, we saw three villages burned, upon the retreat—these forces of Balbank will set upon each other like suspicious dogs, each blaming the other for provoking such an unwelcome fight! It will need a strong hand come down from Balufir, from the King’s own court, to settle them. But with Kelen so lowly …”

  “Your Highness,” Gael turned to the young Gerd Am Zor, known in his own land as a Seer. She wondered what he was making of all this uproar, whether he might have had time to glance within “Rolf Beck’s” mind, to see what had brought the good innkeeper of the Swan running to bring warning, to see why this man had proved so loyal to the Chameln at this crisis moment … By Gerd’s expression, the glances and keen attention he was giving to Brother Robard’s words, she guessed not. “There is little time for talk here,” she told the prince. “We must go along the road—a few hours riding, and we will come to Nesbath town, where we will find you and your cousins good sanctuary. I am afraid you must make do with your current contrivance—” The closed prison cart was worse than inconvenient, but what could be done about that? “We must move swiftly, I would see you—all of you—safely home before this night ends.”

  She turned her horse within the small light of the cart’s single lamp—Robard, for the first time, caught sight of the great black lance. Recognizing the weapon at once, he could not contain a cry of sheer joy, excitement:

  “It has come again!” he cried. “It has come again!”

  The young princes wanted an explanation—Gael looked at her own Tomas in dismay. She was tired—the long lift of the cart, as well as the horses, without the aid of a cantreyn at one end, had taken much from her. Besides, she was not certain that the recovery of the Krac’Duar was meant to be widely known. The sacred Hallows—it was not for nothing they were called “Secrets.” They were not toys for political games; they were the gods’ gifts to Hylor, not intended for any one person’s aggrandizement. “Dear Brother Robard,” she called, rushing to interrupt him before he spoke the Lance’s name, its history. “It is just as you have said. Much indeed has been found this night.” Here would be a diversion indeed: she called a bright blue light to the Lance’s tip, illuminating in one quick moment all whom she had saved, princes, scribe, and innkeeper together.

  Prince Gerd Am Zor, yes, he was a powerful Seer, she could almost see the touch of the Sight running through him—he was puzzled—she could see that reflected on his handsome face. Then he flinched as though he had been struck, turned, and met “Rolf Beck’s” eye. “You,” he said, in a voice filled with shock. “You are Carel—my Uncle Carel Am Zor. I never thought to cast my eyes on you.”

  “In you go,” said Gael, chivying them briskly within the cart. “All this can be discussed later—talk amongst yourselves, if you must. For now, we must start moving.”

  Then she truly did grin, patting Ebony’s neck and casting a teasing look at Tomas.

  Chameln lands, it would seem, had recovered their Lost Prince.

  Tomas grinned in his own turn, and climbed into the front seat of the cart. “That was unkindly done,” he said, but she could tell he was amused.

  “Perhaps you will talk to Brother Robard for me,” she said. “Can he keep my secret? I am hoping that he will.” Tomas’s Valko was tied to the tail of the cart, and then she moved Ebony up by the cart’s front. Tomas clucked to the ponies, and they began moving.

  They could hear voices in the back of the cart, but they were not—so far—angry ones.

  “Had you guessed?” Gael asked her husband.

  “About our good innkeeper? I had. But there was so much talk that Prince Carel had betrayed his brother, betrayed the King … knowing ‘Rolf Beck,’ I could hardly think this could be true; then again, come this Thornmoon, it will be fifteen years since King Sharn Am Zor’s death. A man can greatly change between the ages of twenty-five and forty—particularly one who regrets a betrayal, his own actions.”

  “If I did not wish us swiftly safe in Nesbath town, I would give much to be inside that cart!” said Gael. Yet they could not risk picking up the pace too precipitously, lest it prove too much for the ponies.

  Ahead lay the great stone bridge across the river confluence. There were guard posts at either end, manned by Melniros. As they came within hail, Gael felt a pang of nerves, even as she gave the call. Would the guards stop them? Would they allow them passage, so late and strangely come through the night? The guards emerged from their little hut, bringing a light. Then it was with unspeakable relief that she saw their broad open faces, crowned with ruddy gold hair—here were true sons of Mel’Nir! Surely they would be allowed to pass on, unhindered.

  “Whither bound?” the watch-leader called. “And what your names and business?” Gael let Tomas answer: he gave his name and Brother Robard’s, did not name their “pupils,” though he gave them number. This was an acceptable explanation to the bridge guards—news of the Balbank raid had yet to reach them; they had no reason to be suspicious. Gael gathered from a few words they let drop: on past nights the Scribes of Lort had treated them to stranger visitations than this!

  The cart rumbled across the stone of the bridge—it was an impressive piece of engineering, all told, built to withstand the seasonal flooding of the mighty rivers. A center span was wood; it could be swung
aside to allow tall vessels passage. Just beyond, Gael caught sight of a small cluster of hooded figures, standing as if waiting, against the side of the bridge. Surely the bridge-guards should have warned them of this presence …

  “Tomas!” she cried out, a low warning.

  He pulled up the ponies, startled, as the trio of figures—men, two tall and strong, the third thinner and frail—stepped into their path.

  “Well met, Gael Maddoc, Tomas Giraud,” said their leader, throwing back his hood. It was Auric Barry, together with his henchman, Captain Tully—accompanying them, most surprising of all, was Brother Less, his old bones shivering in the chill of the wet autumn night.

  “How did you come here?” Gael said coolly, reaching to unstrap the Krac’Duar from its traveling bands.

  “Stay your hand, Wanderer,” said Tully. “Allow my master first to speak.”

  “Speak then,” said Gael. “For we are in a pressing hurry, and we have no time to talk.”

  “The road from here to Nesbath is clear,” said Lord Auric. “I can swear this upon all Hylor’s Gods: We have not come to slow that part of your mission. Rather, I have come to beg your mercy, your mercy upon Lien, and beg that you will lend yourself to an act of dangerous charity, but one that will prove a boon true to Lien and to all Hylor’s lands, if it can be successfully carried forward.”