The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  They rode cross-country, for they wished to avoid scrutiny. Gael gained in flashes a sense of a well-ordered, thickly-populated land, with elegant houses of the gentlefolk nestled among the trees, and wide estates. Still, for one who had been raised in Mel’Nir, it seemed a small, heavily-burdened place. They passed an astonishing number of punishment places, tucked back away on quiet lanes and within lonely fields. In one place, they passed a pair of blackened stakes, and she knew that women accused of using magic—nothing more than this!—had been burned there.

  At Fountainfields, they reached the forest enclave’s long boundary wall, made of mellow, golden red brick. They rode along beside this wall for more than a mile, through unkempt brush—Gael could hardly imagine the labor that had been lavished upon this barrier, and all to keep a parcel of deer from running wild—the wall was surely too low to deter a determined poacher. Finally they reached an old, neglected-looking door, and Garvis of Grays had the key. Inside was a broken-down row of coops for pheasants and other game birds, disused and fallen into ruin, along with a pair of wicker pens, overgrown with grass and empty, where the red roe deer were fattened in season and brought to fawn. Passing these pens, they went on through the woods, immaculately cleared and maintained; Gael saw why old Garvis had scoffed at her reluctance to bring Ebony, her fears that in this magical chase he would fall and harm himself on “uneven ground.” Even the low-hanging branches were trimmed, to prevent fast riders from coming to injury; all around, the ground had been smoothed and shaped; she could not tell what was nature and what was artifice.

  Lord Garvis was intimately familiar with this forest; of course, he had hunted there through all his youth, probably right up until the terrible spring when Rosmer had conspired to have his family, his lovely sister, murdered. He led them through a maze of planted glens and then up to a little table of sheltered high ground, under an enormous spreading oak. If all went well, Lord Auric would bring the prince’s party along the open vale beneath: they would call the spell, ride down and overtake them, cull young Matten away from his people, and then give him chase, hunting the young prince through to the completion of the spell, the grove ceremony.

  While they were waiting, Guendolin napped with her head in her father’s lap. Garvis of Grays stroked her rough hair—Gael saw in him a terrible fear that his daughter would somehow fall sacrifice to this Haunting. He dearly wished to send her home, but he could not quite bring himself to do it. This showed the extent of the terrible hope he lay on the Haunting’s success, made Gael afraid in her turn. She would have brooded on this further, but Hunter spoke up—perhaps he recognized the turn of her thoughts—diverted her with some questions about the Chameln. He had lived some years in Achamar and was curious to learn about this recent wedding of Tanit and the Eildon count. And Aidris, the Witch-Queen? Did she still have her wits about her? Morning passed away to afternoon. It was almost twilight when they heard the first horn, still far away, but coming swiftly to them.

  They leapt up and drew together on the crown of the hill. Gael had the Fleece in her hands: she held it to the center of their circle, and they all caught hold of its folds. They had to go carefully, for this was not a call to the Dark Huntress, but to the Mother, for her Blessing. Gael and Lady Guendolin spoke aloud the intonation, then they all went hastily and mounted up. Gael uncouched the Lance from its traveling straps. She could not keep it in the bands if they were going to gallop. All four of the adult riders cast anxious looks at Guendolin, they could not help themselves, but the girl’s eyes were only for the head of the vale, where the first of the princely hunt’s riders would make their appearance.

  A movement came—no horse, but a magnificent stag, delicate legged, its sides heaving. Foam streamed from its lips, its eyes rolled in terror. The poor animal was lagging—its end was near. Three lanky deerhounds followed, then a bunched pack of heavier hounds, then the grand cavalcade of the courtly Lienish hunters, tightly bunched together. Lord Garvis moved his horse forward, the signal that he had seen Lord Auric and Prince Matten among this crowd; at this cue, Gael raised, brought down her lance—pale blue fire spread, encircled them. She felt a tearing, somehow familiar, yet distinct, then there were streaks of light all around them, and it was as though they had entered the current of a swift-moving stream, and it was pulling them forward. As Ebony began to move, as she pressed him down the hill, she sensed she was only half riding in this dark plain, down this dark hill. There was a strange flowing lightness all around her; the trees, the stones of the hill, and, then, even the riders of the prince’s hunt seemed to stream and fade away.

  Ebony was thundering downward through this pale blue shadowland; ahead, she saw white faces turned to them, as if seen through water. The movement of their attack had finally caught the hunting party’s attention. At the point of a little group, she saw a slender young man on a beautiful white and grey horse. He wore a brown tabard of rough cloth over a silken shirt in blue and white; he pulled round his horse’s head without realizing what he was doing as he turned toward the distraction. Now the animal almost stumbled, skewing sideways through the other riders. Gael turned Ebony’s head to track this man’s tail—this was surely Matten of Lien, the man they must ride down for the grove-ceremony.

  His eyes, even at this distance, seemed to meet hers, and in that moment quarry and hunters took a bond. Gael and her party, riding the stream of pale blue light, were moving faster than mortal steeds could ride, and as they came up toward him, Prince Matten’s horse, too, fell into the stream, gained a preternatural quickness, slipped away, rode involuntarily out and away from his companions. Gael had a flashing glance at the royal hunting party as she rode through them and beyond—she saw Lord Auric, who would be left behind after all because he was not in the spell, then at his side she glimpsed two familiar faces, one golden-haired and sun-touched, one dark-haired and pale—just a flash, then they were gone—but her startlement was so great she would almost have pulled Ebony up, save that for the spell, there was no stopping him.

  Dannell Royl; Devon Bray the Adept. What were they doing here? Had the poor pretender out of Eildon been forced upon this hunt, that he might glean some last courtly polish before being sent out among the Chameln? Even within the swift flow of the Haunting, Gael felt a stab of dread for this poor lost pawn. What was happening in Mel’Nir? Was the news already spread abroad that the Chameln’s Lost Prince was at last found, would be brought home? Gwil Cluny had brought the Pretender’s Journal safely to Nightwood and the house of Vanna Am Taarn. Surely Tomas would make the story known to Gerd Am Zor and his family; surely measures would be taken to protect this poor forsaken bastard of the Zor, trapped within Lien’s web.

  Streams of blue mist dragged past her. She was moving faster than the mist itself, closing in on the young prince—he kept glancing back to her over his shoulder; perhaps he did not know this was the worst thing he could do if he truly desired to outrun her. Garvis of Grays, Hunter, Tully—she could not hear their horses, would not look back herself to see where they had gone. The only one who had kept pace was young Guendolin, bent light as a feather over her short horse’s neck—Stryder was a Chameln grey, and fleet of foot—urging him forward with her voice.

  They chased the prince on and on—if all this was enclosed in the Fountainfields wall; Gael could hardly conceal her amazement at the distance. She could see the prince’s steed was tiring—if all had gone as planned, Lord Auric would have delayed Matten in taking his remount; this horse should have been tired even before they’d come charging down the hill.

  As their pace began to slow, the mist broke into swirling currents, trammelling them back toward the dark world. They were in a part of the park that was populated with ancient trees. The prince turned his horse sharply—he knew where he was. Perhaps he was trying for guile rather than sheer unthinking flight, but it was too late—his pretty mare was done. She stumbled, Prince Matten gave an angry cry, half-jumped, half-fell, to the turf. He had to go back to his ho
rse for his sword, then he pulled it free of the saddle strap and slapped her away.

  Gael, reining in Ebony, remained mounted, scanning the territory. They had come to rest in a verdant glade—not that any part of Fountainfields was not green and well-tended!—but autumn here seemed held a little in abeyance. A premonition came to her: this glade might prove witness to more than the expected effects of the Haunting. She prayed she would retain control, not lose possession to some unexpected great coil of power, power that might rake the young prince ungently, as well as all those around him. Behind the prince, there was a little pool, almost perfectly round; it was overgrown with moss and flowering plants, withered a little from the fall’s first cold nights. An age-patinaed dipper tied to a rough length of twine stood nearby, perched on a rooted staff by the water’s edge.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked the prince.

  “You have been described to me.” His voice was steady, though his face was white with fear. “You are the kedran Wanderer from the Chyrian Coast.”

  “If you know I am the Wanderer,” she said, “you must also know it is nothing for me to call the Stillstand, the Grand Bewitchment. You are frightened, I am sure, but you are also a prince, and I will offer you a choice. I have come here today for a single purpose, and it is not to harm you. Shall I cast the Stillstand, or will you give me your word of honor, and accept what I am here to do?”

  “You dare not call the spell,” said Prince Matten. “There are witchfinders all around—even now they will be closing in. Call your spell, and they will surely find us.”

  “Is that your choice?” Gael raised the Black Lance.

  “No,” the prince said, shivering. Someone must have told him of the Stillstand, the awful helplessness; he could not bear the thought. “I will submit. This I swear on the Goddess, the Great Mother, and all who serve her.”

  “Don’t trust him!” cried Guendolin, coming down from her horse, half-frantic. “To one such as him, the Mother is only the foul Marsh-Hag! What would it cost his honor, for him to cross such a pledge? Make him swear to something else, to something he believes in!”

  Gael stared at the young prince, deeply met his eyes. In his face, she could see a shadow of the manly handsomeness that molded the striking features of Dannell Royl, the sensitive brow of Gerd Am Zor, even a curve of cheek she had seen in the young giant of the east, Chawn Yorathson. Here was an uncomfortable choice. She slipped down from Ebony, came toward him, the Lance still in her hand. “Let us drink on your words,” she said, catching up the dipper by the pool.

  “I will take your Blessing,” said Matten, bowing. Gael felt a heady rush of surprise, understanding all at once what he was asking from her: this was a ceremony she knew from her life at the Holywell, a Blessing called from the Goddess to sanctify a pledge. She had not expected this; perhaps no one bred outside of Coombe would have known what to do …

  The scene by the Aldwell of Lady Race was like something from an ancient picture: the beautiful boy, hooded by the shining white fleece, held the young virgin’s hands, pressed his brow gently to her breast, and called aloud the blessings to the Goddess. Then the tall, fire-haired kedran gently drew him away. She splashed a last dipperful of Blessed Water from the Aldwell about his face and shoulders, then she directed the virgin to take the Fleece and mount up upon her pony. Then last, the tall kedran herself sprang to her tall black horse, ready to make the final blessing. The steed stamped, in fiery temper, but the Wanderer took him firm in hand, turned to the Prince of Lien, and lowered her Lance to touch his shoulders.

  “Today the Mother has made you a King, a truer King, than any created by force and guile. Return to Balufir, and rule peacefully.” These ancient Chyrian words contained great force, though no one here but the Wanderer herself could comprehend their meaning.

  It was all like a scene in a sacred book: then came a cry of rage, almost of agony, and swift arrows. The first struck the Wanderer in the back; it tore across a shoulderblade and did not lodge; the second, hastily aimed, took the child Guendolin in the arm, piercing the muscle through, for she wore no armor. But something was wrong—though the tall kedran was the least wounded of the pair, it was the Wanderer who cried out and slumped forward on the saddle, the great black lance dropping from her hand.

  “Devon! Devon!” Prince Matten cried, as two horses crashed into view from between the trees. “What have you done?”

  The young adept went straightway pale; he had heard the horror in his prince’s voice. He had hunted all through the woods for his beloved liege, forcing the big man on the other horse along with him; now he dropped the hasty noose he had slung about this man’s neck, jumped down from his own saddle, shaken, seemingly not believing he had found his master whole, unblemished—and in such a rage! “My lord,” he said, almost weeping. “I hardly thought to find you well.”

  “How can I be well?” said the prince, tearing away. “What have you done?” He stared at the bow in Devon Bray’s hands. “That is my bow,” he said, amazed, though he knew Devon Bray had carried this weapon for him, strapped to his saddle. “It is my arrows you have used …”

  The big, handsome man, still up on his foaming horse, was shaking his head. Matten saw it was the Eildon Pretender, and once more he did not understand. “What have you done?” he asked again.

  “It was the Skelow,” said Dannell Royl. “The Wanderer’s Bane. It was on the arrow’s tip.”

  Devon went deathly pale. “She was going to kill you,” he whispered. “I used the brandhul man to come to you, to cut a path through the spell and follow. Then, when I saw the lowering lance … Sebald—” he said, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Sebald told me—”

  They would have spoken further words, harshly, but there came more crashing through the woods. “Father!” called Guendolin. She was almost dropping from the shock of her pain.

  The Lord of Grays galloped into the clearing, pulled up his horse, took stock. Not for nothing had he led the Green Riders, the hidden outlaws, for fifteen years. He read every face within the glade, decided what needed to be done.

  “You there!” He told the prince and his adept companion. “We have done all we can for you! Away with you!”

  He shouldered them aside and pulled his daughter onto his own saddle. And then—then, Garvis of Grays did not hesitate. Pulling the Fleece from between his child’s chilled fingers, he rode to wrap it tightly around the Wanderer’s shoulders. Tully he sent to recover the Lance, and Hunter to the great horse Ebony’s other side, to hold the Wanderer up in her saddle. All settled, he turned them to make way from the glade, to ride the green roads to safety.

  But before they could depart, Dannell Royl pushed his horse in front of Garvis of Grays’ steed, boldly spoke. “You must take me with you,” he said. “For I am brandhul, and a master of herbs, and something of a healer. I alone in all the world can keep the Wanderer with us.”

  Garvis glanced to his daughter, pale with pain, and then back to this man, unknown to him. “You can come,” he said. “But only if you can keep with us through the woods. We will not wait for you.”

  Then they were gone, and all that remained within the quiet of the glade were the young prince, his companion, and the Aldwell’s serene waters.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THORNMOON

  In their friendly tower rooms, Gael and Tomas relaxed over a good supper and joked about being an old married pair. Dark days of shadow had passed from them. Gael would always bear the Skelow’s mark, a jagged scar across the back of her shoulders. A young girl had lost her arm that Gael Maddoc might live: Garvis of Grays, Lady Mayrose, the Keepers of the Fleece of Lien: all had been put to a terrible choice. Even then, without special healing knowledge held by Dannell Royl, the sacrifice of their youngest child’s arm might not have been sufficient to save her.

  There had been many, many days of sorrow and pain; now that sorrow was spent, Gael was returned home. She had lost much flesh, her clothes hung loosely from her tall f
rame, but she was in Tomas’s arms again—she had rejoined him.

  It was already Thornmoon, the Moon of Sacrifice, the last of autumn—Gael had lost more than a month to the poison of the Skelow, the black tree. Tomas filled her cup with golden wine, kissed her on the mouth. A rumor had come and gone that the Swan would be closing. Rolf Beck—for the Prince Carel Am Zor still answered to that name—would winter in the Chameln lands, but the scribe’s refuge he had created in the Swan was also his life, and he intended to keep it going.

  Across the room, hung on the wall, were dress clothes for Gael, brought over from Tulach. An invitation had come: tomorrow, Gael would give it answer. For her action on the border, the rescue of the Chameln’s princes, King Gol had commanded her appearance at the Palace Fortress.

  Tomas and Gael lay together in the welcoming bed, speculating about this invitation.

  “The public statement concerning the princes—that will surely not be all of it,” Tomas said. “It has long been the word that Gol will abdicate—pass the kingship on to Rieth, his sister Fadola’s son. But this line is not direct—now that the Krac’D-uar is recovered, perhaps our goodly king has heard word of this and wishes you to sanctify his choice.”

  “What do we hear of Rieth’s young wife and her little son?” she asked, troubled in her mind that the Black Lance might be commanded to such a purpose, as though it were merely a formal stamp of approval, nothing greater in it. Yet how could she say no to her own king if he asked her such a thing? “It proved a hard task to bring Lady Malm to her duty as a royal midwife. But I found you, my dear, as a reward.”

  “The little prince, Kirris, is already walking—a true Duaring, as they say. Just nine months old, and already hardy and strong on his feet. His grandfather is dead—old Baudril Sholt. He gave up his name for his wife Fadola’s child—Rieth has always been called Duaring, for the succession. Some day I would like to hear Lord Yorath’s account of the Bloody Banquet of Silverlode—his meeting with Fadola and Sholt. Did he really believe they were innocent of old Ghanor’s murderous plot?”