Ullin and Robby walked down the road alongside the river wall, bearing north toward the bridge. The sun was full up, nearing midmorning, and the day's heat was growing. All of the shops and houses along this part of Passdale faced the road and river, and here and there along the wall stood massive poplars, their leaves shooshing in the unsteady breeze with a rain-like patter. The market stands were already up, and a few were busy. People were coming and going at the potter's place and already there was a short line at the barber's next door. The waterwheel at the mill steadily creaked and groaned a short distance away. As they crossed a small stone bridge where a stream flowed into the river, the mill came into view, nestled up against the hill where the stream jumped down from rock to ledge on the hill behind and then onto the long sluice that spilled over the wheel. A few farmers passed, coming from various parts of Barley, their carts laden with melons and squash, corn and sweet peppers.
They walked silently for a while, Robby wanting to ask so much, but he was unable to decide which question to ask first. Just as he had worked his nerve up to ask about Ullin's commission, a large dog broke from a nearby house and ran up, barking at Ullin's horse. Ullin made a sudden feint at the dog and said some words Robby could not understand. The dog sprang backwards on its haunches, then turned and trotted off. The horse, meanwhile, seemed not in the least perturbed.
"What is your horse's name?" Robby asked, completely forgetting his intended line of questions.
"Anerath," Ullin said. "That means Water Prancer in the Common Tongue."
"Anerath," Robby repeated. "He's a fine-looking horse."
"A fine friend, he is, too." Ullin smiled reaching to pat Anerath's shoulder.
"Is Anerath's name from the Ancient Speech?"
"Aye, one of those still used in the Westlands. Vanara, mostly, but also around Duinnor."
"Do you speak the Ancient Speech?"
"Surely, when needs," he looked at Robby. "It is my own native tongue, though few in these parts outside of Tallinvale still use it."
"I guess I don't know what you mean, Ullin," Robby said. "I thought you were from around here."
"Yes and no. My father was born in Vanara, the land of our grandmother, in the west. That is where your mother was born, too. Our grandfather brought his family back into the Eastlands to his ancestral lands many years ago, and I was born in Tallinvale, southwest of here. When I was young, my own father left to serve Duinnor. So, in my time, I left, too, to serve the King as he did. That is our way, for the law says the eldest male of every Named House must serve the King of Duinnor until released."
Robby shook his head. "So you are my mother's brother's son. My cousin. She talks very little about her family. But then, I have not asked as much as I probably should have, either. Sometimes I think my parents are complete strangers, so little do I seem to know about them. And what I learn is so often by accident or else in bits and pieces. I never seem to get the whole story."
Ullin laughed.
"So it always is!" he said. "I, too, have thought that of my parents. But I suppose all parents are thought of in that way by their children. And, yet, perhaps we know more than we can say about our parents, even while our parents say less than they know."
"Maybe," Robby thought about that for a moment. The road followed a bend in the river where the bridge came into sight. It was a suspension bridge, of sorts, with two tall stone pillars at each end between which ran a wood-decked roadway. Over the pillars ran huge cables of rope anchored along the sides of each approach and fanning out downward in the middle of the bridge to support the trusses that held up the deck. The pillars stood nearly four stories tall, allowing the bridge they supported to be high enough over the river so that boats could pass underneath. The water was fairly shallow, only a fathom at most, but it ran swiftly along these narrows, and there were a few old gray rocks that jutted up from the river bottom to break the surface, their mossy tops a soft perch for the turtles basking there.
Robby knew the story of the New Passbarley Bridge, as was its proper name. Not many years ago, the bridge was no more than legend, for only the great stone pillars survived from the ancient days when the river wall was constructed. There was once a city here along the river, it was said, the wall built both to protect the city against flood as well as a structure to build wharves from. In those days, the river was higher and deeper, and legend had it that boats came up from the sea as far as here, where they loaded and unloaded trade goods. That was long ago, and whoever did those things had long since left, and the old town fell into ruin. But after five centuries, people began to increase in these parts again, and some of the present houses, like his own, were built on old foundations. When Robby's father started his business in Passdale as a young man from the county, he tried to have goods from farms across the river brought over by ferry, but the ferryman's price made business profitless. He was not the only one being gouged by the ferrymen up and down the Bentwide, so he ran for mayor of Passdale and won. In that position, Mr. Ribbon worked feverishly with key folk from Barley and Passdale to get the old bridge rebuilt, raising funds, organizing labor, and even directing some of the construction work. When it opened at last, it put the ferryman out of business, but it created a flourishing trade between Barley and Passdale, uniting the two sides of the county that the river divided. It was in no small part due to that feat that Mr. Ribbon held the respect of people far and wide. The people of Passdale, as a way of gratitude, granted him the title "Mayor Barleyman" for he was the first outsider ever to be mayor, and the Barley folk named him honorary "Sheriff of Twobanks." It was much due to Robigor Ribbon that the goodwill that now existed between Passdale and Barley came to be, but, as his modest father liked to say, "Friendship is easy when it puts somethin' in yer purse." It had been years since Mr. Ribbon had given up the post of mayor, but he was still often fondly referred to by his former title. And it was true that Ribbon's efforts paid handsomely, not only for his own business interests, but for most folks around. "Amazin'," Mr. Ribbon was also fond of saying, "what a little bridge here an' thar will do!"
"So, Ullin, do you know the King?" Robby asked. "I mean, have you ever met him?"
"No, I have never seen the King, and those few that have say the vision of him is one of beauty and fright. When he goes forth from the High Tower, which he seldom does these days, all bow their heads or avert their eyes from him lest their dreams be filled with disturbances and their sleep filled with a terrible restlessness. They say woe unto he who fixes a steady gaze upon him, for madness will surely follow."
"I've only ever heard of him as 'the King.' But what is he called? What is his name?"
"He is known by different names to different peoples. Some call him Culfinor, meaning Lonely One. In Altoria he is known as Halassir, which is to say Vision King." Ullin stopped for a moment to adjust Anerath's straps and cinches and to check again the tightness of the belts holding the saddlebags. "The wild Northmen call him in their tongue 'snowstorm,' because their legends have it that he first appeared out of a great blizzard in the days before the stars of Behemoth shone and while mists still lay upon the world." Ullin gave Anerath a good pat and the three moved on.
"But no one knows his right name, nor whence he truly came, and it is said that whoever learns the name of the King will slay him and take his place as our sovereign, whether for better or worse. It has been that way for five kings before. Our present ruler is the Sixth Unknown King to sit on the throne of Duinnor."
"Oh!" Robby raised his eyebrows at the mystery of it all. By now they were on the bridge approach and the roadway changed from hard-packed dirt to flat stones leading to the bridge. "Mr. Broadweed, our schoolmaster, taught us that the King has ruled for more than five hundred years."
"Aye, he has reigned longer than any before him. This is the year five hundred and thirty-eight of his rule over the Seven Realms."
"And you work for him? For the King?" Robby asked. "He sent you here?"
"The King has many servants and
counselors and lords who do his bidding. I am a Kingsman, a soldier of Duinnor, but I am also in service to Prince Toliss of Duinnor, who oversees the King's Post. It is through him that I received the Post Commission. I am what is called a Special Rider, since I do not ride only one route back and forth, over and over, as most Post Riders do. Instead, I go wide and far, delivering special dispatches and important letters, often to or from important persons. This journey is but another errand."
"Important persons? Like Ashlord?"
"Yes. And others."
Robby tapped his shoulder bag, and asked, "Are these from the King?"
Ullin smiled. "No. Not this time. But all letters and dispatches carried by Kingsmen Post Riders are to be treated as though they are to or from the King himself. With urgency and with care."
By now they were just before the bridge entrance gate, and they waited for a farmer riding his oxcart to pass through. The bridge tender in his box halfway across craned his neck out this way and the other, looking for traffic. Deeming it clear, he pulled on a certain rope which by a system of pulleys, levers, and counterweights lowered a "Do Not Cross" sign on the far side entrance and lifted a "Cross Over" sign above Ullin and Robby. They mounted the ramp and up onto the bridge-way, which was just wide enough for one cart, or three horses side by side. Robby walked on in front with Ullin behind. As the stone ramp gave way to the wooden deck of the bridge, Anerath's hooves clopped warmly behind the pair. When they neared the middle, they could see for miles into the croplands of Barley, ahead and back just over the low hills of Passdale to the pastures and woods and higher hills beyond. The sun glistened on the flowing water below and a breeze picked up and stiffened. Ullin nodded to the southeast.
"Looks like we'll be having some weather soon."
Robby squinted his eyes against the sunlight. Just barely above the horizon was a dark line from north to south.
"G'mornin', Master Ribbon," the bridge tender called out from his box as they passed by.
"Good morning, Mr. Arbuckle," Robby waved.
"How's yer mum an' pop?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Off to Barley?"
"An errand," Robby said.
"Surely. An' yer friend's got him a mighty fine lookin' horse, he has."
"The finest that ever crossed this bridge, I'll warrant!" Ullin shot back.
"Eh? That be a Westerman if I ever heard one. Might that be Miss Mirabella's brother?"
"You mistake me for my father, Mr. Nosey," Ullin teased. "An' the last time you did that, you nearly died of faint."
"Oh, yeah," Arbuckle scratched the back of his head. "Ye pop's been de—, er, I mean, he ain't no more with us, er, beg yer honor's pardon."
Ullin laughed as they moved out of earshot of the muddled geezer.
"He's a funny old kook. Must be a hundred by now," Robby said.
"More like two, if you ask me," Ullin chuckled.
"What was he going on about? What was that about your father not being around?"
"My father has been dead for many years."
"Oh," Robby blushed, feeling completely stupid. "I think I was supposed to know that. I just forgot. I am sorry."
"You know," Ullin said, glancing at Robby, "sometimes I forget, too. Even though I promised I never would."
They remained silent the rest of the way off the bridge. Robby was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed by all of the new things he had heard today. And the day was still in its morning.
"If all goes well, I'll pass back through here in about two months," Ullin suddenly said. "I hope I'll see you then. I regret missing you the last few times I came through. But each time you were at your letters, or else it was so late at night I didn't want Mira to wake you."
Ullin stopped and Robby realized they were at the crossroads where they must part. Robby's way ran straight away east from the bridge. Ullin's road ran north and east.
"Wouldn't it be easier for you to take the north road back on the other side of the river?" Robby asked.
"I would have to pass the long way around Lake Halgaeth, and I haven't the time. I must go along the lake's south shore and cross over Heneil's Wall, then northeast through Forest Mistwarren."
Robby understood that he was making for the coast and would bear steadily north and east until at his journey's end.
"They say the forest is dangerous," Robby suggested.
"I have been through it many times. It holds no more danger than Barley does," Ullin said, "and less than I have come through from the West."
He checked the saddle and straps one last time and then said to Robby, "Take care along with you to Tulith Attis. And give my regrets to Ashlord when you make your delivery."
"I will," Robby replied gripping Ullin's hand. "And you take care, too."
"Always."
Ullin nodded and shook Robby's hand. He mounted Anerath and reined him around. The horse, patient and docile until now, suddenly seemed eager, his hooves clicking urgently to bear his rider away.
"Then, farewell!"
Horse with rider sprang away.
"Farewell," Robby cried out after them, but Anerath and Ullin were passing away faster than Robby could have imagined possible. Only then did Robby wonder at the extreme urgency of Ullin's errand. Suddenly, he dug into his bag and pulled out the parcel. Panic briefly gripped him, and he felt he was part of the urgency, though he could not explain why he felt that way. But he did not want to let Ullin down. Relieved that he had not already lost the parcel, he put it at the bottom of the shoulder bag and tightly tied down the flap. He pulled the strap over his head and across his shoulder and headed off.
Chapter 2
A Simple Errand
Robby wondered at what sort of mission would require a Kingsman such as his cousin to ride Post. Surely the letters that Ullin carried were of far more importance than ordinary correspondence, so important that he could not trust them to strangers. As he walked up the hill away from the bridge, he imagined that perhaps great events stirred in the world and that he now participated in them, at least in some small way. His modest knowledge of the world hampered his speculation, but he thought that, surely, there were momentous things happening outside of Passdale and County Barley. Although the packet was small, the burden of it tugged oddly at his heart. It gave him a sense of importance, if for no other reason than to free Ullin to carry out the rest of his mysterious mission. Already he looked forward to seeing Ullin again, and perhaps learning more. But two months would be a long time to wait.
He passed by the houses of Barley, waving at some of the folk as he went, and then walked briskly on into the croplands as the road led away from the River Bentwide and gently sloped up a ridge of low hills. His way of steady marching was his habit, instilled by his father's training on many errands for the shop, and he had every confidence that his pace matched the importance of his delivery task. The breeze became gusty, and in the lulls the sun's heat felt good. Fields of second corn stood ripening, and a few farmers were out reaping early corn. As Robby advanced, the corn gave way to rows of beans and peppers, and, far off where the ridge ahead sloped down toward the river, Robby could plainly see the Saliley family's vineyards. Slowly upward he trudged until he reached the ridgeline, and there he stopped for a moment to adjust his shoulder strap and look around.
Behind him lay the shallow valley of the Peninflo, as the Bentwide was properly called. The bridge was plainly in sight as well as the poplars that lined the riverside road. The houses and shops of Passdale looked homely and friendly, and Robby could barely see the waterwheel turning. Behind them were patches of pastures and woodland rising up higher than he now stood. Off to the north, the Bentwide hooked back eastward, and in the distant west and northwest he could make out a light blue line of mountains, hazy and almost blending with the sky. Looking the other way, downstream past Passdale, the river bent away southward and was lost to view where it settled back into its southeastward course, running down its long journey to the sea. Robby
turned, faced into the wind, and saw in the southeast a black line of clouds slowly catching up with the sun. As he remembered Ullin saying that the weather was changing, he caught the unmistakable aroma of rain on the breeze. Determined to hurry on, he looked northward where the land was flatter, fields of barley giving way here and there to small streams thinly lined with trees before rising again in the distance. With a last glance southeastward and another tug on his shoulder strap, he set off down the hill.
On this side of the ridge the soil was drier but no less rich, and he saw many farmers and field laborers going about their business with more haste than was characteristic of them. Perhaps they, too, quickened their pace before the coming rain. Lesser roads and tracks led off left and right with fair frequency, and the folk he met seldom greeted him, though he was familiar to most of them. Though Robby nodded in his friendly manner, many simply eyed him curiously, wondering, perhaps, who he was out to collect from. Robby smiled, anyway, held his head up, and marched on, reminding himself that they were good people, and some were distant relatives, even. If need be, they would surely not deny him shelter if the storm broke on his way back.
He kept on at a good pace, turning mile into league, still pondering the business he carried in his bag and wondering what kind of man the recipient, Ashlord, would be. He remembered the gentleman's visits to the store, helping him find some spices one time, and selling a bit of oil to him on another occasion. He was a tall, lean fellow, penetrating dark eyes, dark skin, and long black hair and beard to match. He had worn a long, dark-blue cloak and carried an artfully twisted, walking stick.
Robby's thoughts suddenly changed when he came to a fork in the road where another path carried off southward. He paused, looking at an old abandoned farmhouse in the distance through the trees, remembering the last time he had been this way. That was well over a month ago while on an errand with his father, and it was not a pleasant outing. Finding a dead man, hanging from the rafters, can never be pleasant. A flash of memory—a gnawed and mangled body in the reeking and fly-infested gloom of the house, swinging from the rafter by the chain that wrapped his neck—gave Robby a shudder. He shook his head, not wanting to think about it right now, or ever again, and he resumed his purposeful stride eastward with renewed vigor.
The Bellringer Page 5