The Wanderer by Cherry Wilder, Katya Reimann

From the Publisher

Cherry Wilder's The Rulers of Hylor series established a detailed and intricate fantasy world. Katya Riemann completed and polished this last Hylor novel, a tale of warring kingdoms, treacherous advisers and generational conflicts, set in a world of rich physical beauty, vibrant life and a realism leavened with occasional and startling magic.
Gael Maddoc, the child of struggling peasants, leaps at the chance when she is offered training as a kedran, a mounted soldier. She wins glory bringing her charges home safe across a huge desert, seeking aid from the Shee. But the Shee--the dwindling Fair Folk--then recruit her for their own purposes. Her nascent magical talents and her resourcefulness show her to be the Wanderer, a legendary figure for whom they've been waiting

Publishers Weekly

Full of cosmic drama and grand enchantments, the late Wilder's last Hylor novel, completed by Reimann (Wind from a Foreign Sky), addresses the same morally and philosophically complex issues of gender, society and self-learning that lifted earlier volumes in the Rulers of Hylor series (A Princess of the Chameln, etc.) above the common run of fantasies. The ambitious daughter of a peasant family struggling in a land of poverty, Gael Maddoc eagerly trains as a mounted soldier when offered the opportunity. She wins the respect of her rank after guiding betrayed charges across an enormous desert. Receiving council from the Shee (aka the Fair Folk), Gael is soon submerged in ancient intrigue. The plot gathers momentum when it becomes clear that she's the legendary, long-awaited Wanderer, "the chosen servant of the light folk." The authors' sparing use of magic helps highlight a naturalistic world of warring kingdoms, treachery and political conflict. Fans of both pastoral and hard-edged fantasy should be well satisfied. Agent, Jim Frenkel. (May 19) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Young Gael Maddoc gladly accepts the chance to become a mounted soldier, rising above her peasant upbringing. Her early deeds earn her the favor of the Fair Folk, who recognize in her the coming of a legend-that of the Wanderer. Maddoc comes to represent hope for the dwindling "Shee" in a world of warring armies and cold-hearted political machinations. Completed by Reiman (Wind from a Foreign Sky), this final Hylor novel by the late Wilder features a strong female protagonist whose resourcefulness and sense of honor make her a welcome addition to the roster of women fantasy heroes. A good choice for most fantasy collections. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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On these occasions, the Maddocs cleaned the grotto and set greenery about and readied the ancient urns for flowers, brought by the village wives. There was a small dark place, a cave, hidden within the passage to the grotto—across the spring, and too far a step for those unfamiliar with the water’s course. Gael took Bress there to hide and watch all that went on. They knew it was dangerous—Maddoc was not a harsh man but he might have given them the flat of his hand if he had found them there.
When Bress was a big lad of eight, ten, he stood with the rest of the people, but Gael, growing tall, awkward, and shy, still kept watch from her hiding place. She told her mother that she must stand guard to see that no one stole the sacred stone cups or the ancient urns but in fact it was because she liked to be there. The place was full of magic. One winter at the beginning of the feast days, after she had seen the small gathering of worshippers leave the grotto, she heard a sound close by. A piece of stone fell down beside her feet where she sat curled up. Investigating further, she discovered a sort of shelf, natural but bearing signs of ancient chisel work, from where the stone had fallen. The stone left a square hole in the wall and inside there was a metal casket, a small thing, no bigger than a thick slice of bread. She snatched it up, tucked it inside the slack of her tunic—for she would not wear a gown and shawl—and took it home to the storeroom where she was allowed to sleep in winter.
There, in the first pale light of dawn, Gael opened the grey metal casket and found an ancient parchment, folded small, and covered with writing and strangedrawings. There was nothing else but a small leather pouch at the bottom of the casket—inside was a joined loop of fine silvery chain. She slipped it over her head but took it off again, returning it to the pouch. The casket and its contents she hid far away under the sacks of winter vegetables. She tried to think no more of the casket—she had hoped for some gold to give her father.
On the night of the Winter Feast, when even the Maddocs made shift to celebrate a little by the fireside, she brought out the chain and gave it to her mother, saying she had found it under a stone before the grotto, which was very nearly the truth. This was the year that Maddoc had made Bress a bow and arrows and there were sweet honeycakes after the rabbit stew.
One person had a care for such poor folk as they, and it was the village priest, Druda Kilian Strawn. He knew they were as needy as the wandering tinkers and the mad old men who lived in the woods. Winter and summer he came to them, reminding them that a feast day was coming so they would accept his gifts. He brought bacon, rabbits, woven stuff, and bundles of tailings from the fleece so that Mother Maddoc could spin them up.
The Druda was a tall bony fellow with a lank braid of black hair streaked with grey. He was middle-aged, a few years older than Maddoc. He came and went in all the cottages round about. Men admired him because he had been a soldier and served with the men of Mel’Nir during the Great King’s War, in the sad days of civil strife when opposing war-leaders’ men had torn apart the country. Women talked freely to him because he had been married. He was widowed of a fair young wife from Banlo Strand down by the sea, a woman whom he had wed after the war, and the touch of that coastal life had held close on him, in his faraway gaze. “Druda” was a title jealously reserved, but Kilian Strawn was not a distant celibate, like those of the priestly colleges in far-off Eildon. He was a Guardian, so-called, from the Holy Grove by Tuana, the old Chyrian capital, and deeptrained in Chyrian ways.
In sacred Tuana, now overgrown and faded—Mel’Nir’s overlords distrusted magic and did what they could to discourage the old folkways—there had been always three priestesses, holy virgins, the Lady of the Grove and her two Maidens, who ruled the hearth and saw to the care of women. Then there were the warrior priests, the Guardians. In old times they had lived among the people and advised the chieftains in their councils. Kilian Strawn was of this old strain, perhaps among the last so trained.
Gael Maddoc trusted Druda Strawn so much that at last she brought out the ancient parchment she had kept hidden and told him she had found it by the Holywell. He unfolded it at night by the fire in their small cot and laughed with delight.
“See here!” he cried. “It is a map of Coombe!”
They looked, and when it was laid on a settle the right way round they all could see it—there was the road through the village, there was the Holy-well marked with a sacred kell. There also were the crossroads. North and south were the twin fortresses: Hackestell, which still belonged to their liege lord, Knaar of Val’Nur, and Lowestell, which remained in the hands of Lord Pfolben, ruler of the Southland. There were words written in the ancient Chyrian tongue, and when the Druda, half teasing, helped Gael to sound them out, a strange thing happened: there came a glowing upon the parchment, and just for one moment, the outline of a great cup, with double handles.
Gael laughed, she was so frightened. “Is it Taran’s Kelch?” she asked, for that cup was a great Chyrian treasure and occupied a place of pride in many of the old stories Shivorn had told her.
The Druda looked at her, and his gaze was uncomfortably sharp. “Who is to say it is not?” he said softly, and then Gael was embarrassed, for the cup was a thing of legend, and she thought he must be teasing her. “By your leave, I will take this paper away with me, and study it.”
Then Druda Strawn did a strange thing. He brought out a box of polished wood, his writing case, and he taught Gael Maddoc straightaway to write her name, first on the parchment of the map itself and then on a sheet of thinner stuff, writing paper, from his case. “One day you will need to know this,” he told her, and again she was frightened. For all she knew, there had never been a Maddoc before her who had needed to know how to write.
* * *
When spring was upon them in the new year Druda Strawn came by on his old mare. Gael Maddoc was on the hill above the croft, breaking stone. The Druda came over the crest of their hill as Maddoc and his daughter ploughed the hillside.
“Your daughter wields that hand plough well enough!” he said.
Maddoc agreed, mopping his brow, and they watched her urging the simple furrow maker up toward them.
“What age is your daughter?” asked the Druda.
“The boy, our Bress, is thirteen,” said Maddoc, “so she will be seventeen.”
“I have a plan,” said Druda Strawn, “that will be pleasing to the Goddess.”
He explained it to the family at their hearthside. Gael Maddoc blushed to feel herself the center of attention, then her heart beat faster as the priest told of his plan. She, Gael, would go into training with the Summer Riders, and become a kedran after one year, when she was of age. This would not just be preparation for the Westmark’s required military training: she would train to be a true battlemaid, perhaps even be selected to join the muster for Coombe’s liege lord’s house. The family’s back taxes would be written off; the boy, Bress, could be spared from military service until he was turned sixteen, ready for his summer training.
Gael did not look at her parents but spoke up, mastering her shyness. Yes, she would do it, she said eagerly. Her mother looked out into the yard where Bress was drawing water from the well and echoed her daughter’s words. If the Druda believed Gael could be made into a kedran…
Rab Maddoc was more hesitant. The Maddocs had ever performed their training for the Westmark, but never in living memory had they gone for soldiers. Their croft held the Holywell, perhaps few came there now, but the Maddocs were yet its guardians…Shivorn gave her husband a sharp look, a look that had a little of stomach hunger in its sharpness. “The girl is willing,” she told him. “Besides, Bress will stay with us still—think on that!” Rab Maddoc shook his head and sighed, but after that he kept quiet and did not give further voice to his protest.
At the Plantation in Krail, the golden city of the Westmark, their liege lord, Knaar of Val’Nur, kept and maintained the Westlings, three hundred warriors recruited from the Chyrian lands. Lord Knaar, though aging, was a restless man, and these three hundred were his pride. Knaar’s father before him had held fast against the outrages of Mel’Nir’s tyrant, Ghanor the so-called Great King, but now, in the peace of Ghanor’s son, Good King Gol, Knaar was treaty-bound to maintain his house’s army at this diminished strength. But those three hundred! A family with even one kern or kedran in the Lord of the Westmark’s service was lifted out of poverty.
Gone for a kedran in Knaar’s service—it was a golden dream. More practically speaking, the Melniros were a martial race, and if a kedran was not accepted into Knaar’s army…well, there were many lordly households throughout Val’Nur and beyond where a battlemaid could find good service.
A chance at training for one such as Gael was something to seize upon and not let go.
 
II
 
Now began the happiest time at Coombe that Gael Maddoc could ever remember. Before the Elmmoon came, and the fullness of summer, Maddoc taught his daughter to handle a bow and the Druda taught her to ride his tall old mare. On the croft they had not even a donkey, but as a child she had once or twice been “given a ride” on a horse. Now riding and horses were to be her life. She was fond of Friya, the priest’s patient old mare, but she dreamed of other horses, more spirited. There would be a special horse, maybe, to understand and love.
The training of potential Westling recruits was a great matter for all the towns and villages in the Chyrian lands of Mel’Nir. Recruits were drawn from Tuana, faded now but still almost a city, and from the thriving port at Banlo Strand and the villages around Coombe, on the edge of the High Ground. It was not always possible to raise “a full muster” of five hundred for Knaar to chose from—this was peacetime, the weather and the harvests were always uncertain. Coombe, one of the oldest villages on the coast, was very poor, but it kept up its proud tradition, remembering the Westmark’s great hero, General Yorath, who, while camped in Coombe, had summoned the first muster of the Westlings for Valko Firehammer, Lord Knaar’s famous father.
The war had been a terrible thing for Mel’Nir: Ghanor, the so-called Great King, had been a power-mad monster, a warring king who thrust the borders of Mel’Nir outward until the sad day when his excesses collapsed the country inward on itself. Men like the Westmark’s war-leader, Valko Firehammer of Val’Nur, held loyal at first, then turned against their king when it became clear Ghanor was mad: he conspired against the families of his war-leaders; for fear of prophecy, he had his own grandchildren set to the sword. Infamously, at the field of Silverlode, he arranged for the treacherous murder of all those his heated mind had come to believe were set against him. The land had need of great heroes to turn the tide against such a tyrant—and Yorath, who had called the muster at Coombe, had been first among the men to stand against him.
Mel’Nir was quiet now, but Val’Nur’s honor was still remembered in the little villages. Coombe always sent its full share of the muster, or near to it.
Young men and women, ready to serve as kerns or kedran, came from round about to do their early training under Druda Strawn or under Sergeant Helm Rhodd, younger brother of Rhodd the Innkeeper. On a certain day at the beginning of summer Bress cried out from the yard and Gael, dressed already as a kedran in a brown tunic and green trunkhose, was ready for the great adventure.
Fast approaching from the village was a tall dark girl on a beautiful roan horse. She led another saddled horse, a brown mare with one white foot. This was Jehane Vey, daughter of a wealthy farmer, down toward the forest hamlet of Veyna. She was granddaughter of the old wise-woman, Fion Allrada. Gael had spoken to her at the house of Druda Strawn and was glad there was another kedran in training. And yes, a training horse would come from Veyna—and some other mounts, mainly ponies, would be found for the young men.
In fact it seemed to Gael that Druda Strawn had some notion of propriety—perhaps he had known Jehane would stand forth and had had an eye out for another kedran wench to bear her company. There were ten young men in this Green Muster, as it was called, and another ten seniors who had already ridden out on a forest ride to Lowestell, under the leadership of Sergeant Rhodd.
“So here is Ivy!” cried Jehane, as the Maddoc family shyly gaped.
Gael ran out and took the bridle, spoke to the brown mare, tightened the girth and stowed her gear in the saddlebags. Then she mounted up and laughed aloud with pleasure.
“Oh, Comrade Jehane,” she said happily. “This is the morning of the world!”
Jehane smiled her agreement, and Gael knew they would be friends despite the great gulf (for so it seemed then to Gael) in their estates.
Mother Maddoc sent out Bress with two stirrup cups of apple wine and pieces of hot oatcake. Jehane laughed with young Bress and called out her thanks. The two new battlemaids raised their two ash staves—their training weapons—and rode off down to the crossroads.
To their right, across rough grazing land, with trees lining the roadside, the road ran due south to the fortress of Lowestell, on the border of the Southland. To the left the road wound down through the best land near Coombe, with market gardens and smaller roads leading off to Veyna and other forest hamlets. But the high road went on toward the twin fortress of Hackestell, still in the hands of Val’Nur since it was seized by Yorath Duaring and that first great muster of Chyrian folk. Ahead of the two riders the road went straight and climbed the High Ground, the great plateau, where the Eilif lords of the Shee, the fairy race, were said to linger in the mist.
“Well, by the Goddess,” said Jehane, “here come two young Eilif lords…”
Gael laughed as two men on shaggy ponies came down from the edge of the High Ground. She did not recognize them, but Jehane named them as the Naylor twins, from a farm on the way to the southern fortress. They came up and exchanged names, Barun and Leem Naylor; they were much alike, but Leem had a scar that crossed his left cheek.
“You’re a long way from home!” said Jehane.
“We took a ride up to the high ground,” said Leem, “to test the ponies!”
“By Star,” said Barun boldly, “proud kedran wenches are always getting the best mounts!”
“We need them the most!” put in Gael. “You’ll be on foot, Kern Barun, when we join the Westlings!”
He cringed away from her on his shaggy grey pony, pretending to be afraid.
“Look alive!” said Jehane. “Here comes the main force!”
A large muster were riding down from Coombe, already at the boundary wall opposite Holywell Croft. Druda Strawn led the way and they all met together there at the crossroads. There were a few shouted greetings from the young men to the two kedran and Gael was surprised at how many of them she knew. There was Prys Oghal, the reeve’s son, whom she had always liked, and that was surely Bretlow, third son of Vigo the Smith. He was a “giant warrior,” a Melniro in the classic form, topping seven feet and broad besides. He rode a war horse with plumed hooves. His two brothers were already officers at the Plantation, in Krail city, the great barracks where the Westlings made their home. Then there was a tall, pale boy whom she knew but could not place—she had a chance to ask Jehane, who identified him as Nate Gemman, whose father had a kind of permanent market stall—a shop, he called it—behind the reeve’s house.
“Fancy that long lump, kedran?” whispered Jehane.
“He deals with our croft, is all,” Gael said, grinning. “We sell him oatcake and he has my mother make up green pickles and straw dolls for his Da’s ‘shop.’”
Tall Nate knew her too, it seemed—he was waving and smiling; his legs were so long they almost reached the ground on either side of his piebald pony.
“By heaven, where did the Druda get these ponies!” said Gael.
“Have a care,” grinned Jehane. “My father sent up the whole herd of them, with no charge!”
Druda Strawn raised his voice and called the Green Muster to order; he got down from his mare and spoke in a strong voice that carried far. He called for good sense, good manners, for spirit to learn, for strength and good heart and the ability to follow orders.
“Today is a special day, a special summer day—who knows its name? Yes, Kern Oghal? Tell us all!”
Then the reeve’s son rode forth on his grey pony and spoke up:
“Sir, it is Foundation Day for Hackestell Fortress. It was built or at least put in its present shape by Duro the Fox, Lord of the Westmark, father of the great Valko Firehammer and grandfather of Lord Knaar, our present liege!”
“Excellent!” cried Druda Strawn. He looked up to the sky where the summer sun was not yet overhead. “There is a ceremony today at Hackestell—the Lord Knaar will be there in person. We will ride down to the fortress to pay our respects. Lead off, Kedran Vey, Kedran Maddoc!”
They rode off down the highroad in fair order—a pony kicked up its heels and unseated one of the lads. The girls—kedran now—took it slowly, nervous at first to find themselves at the head of this great green troop, then they began to trot, and it worked well enough. Jehane complimented Gael for a natural-born rider. On they went, through the bright summer green of the roadside, with farmed plots all around and stalls with fruit under the trees. A tall dark fellow called Egon Baran, mounted on another heavy charger from the Smithy, rode up beside Jehane and spoke companionably, but Druda Strawn shouted an order to hold their ranks and he went back again.
They reached the fortress before the sun was right overhead. Already a crowd was gathering to greet their liege lord. A village had grown up before the outer wards of Hackestell to serve the men of the garrison, and it seemed everyone had come out to make the greeting. The fortress officers and their men had turned out in fine dress uniforms, brown and gold with short tunics and tan boots. They held back the crowd at wicker barriers, twined with leaves and flowers. A broad path, held open by these battening boards, led way through the village from its outskirts to the fortress’s very gate. The opposite way, in a field below the village (and well clear of the highroad), the kedran could glimpse something that might have been a great cotton tent, a pavilion. Above it waved a pennant for the house of Val’Nur, showing a brown hill with a fork of lightning, one of their emblems.
The Druda rode up and spoke with an officer to get his recruits a good place. Bretlow Smith and Egon Baran, looking so fine on their massive chargers, were led over the ceremonial pathway to a prominent position in the west by the fortress gates. The remainder of the trainees from Coombe, with their scruffy ponies, were only allowed up to the barrier near the road they had taken. All of the lads got down and tethered their mounts to a hitching rail near a trough. From there they could edge into the growing crowd where the barrier came near the outer wards of Hackestell. The kedran, at a glance from the Druda, kept in their saddles and held their places at the corner where the wide ceremonial pathway turned toward the fortress.
They had not waited long when a trumpet sounded by the white pavilion. As the procession moved outward toward Hackestell’s gates, the crowd began to cheer. First to come into view were men in black tabards marked with a bird’s head; they carried pikes. These were Krail’s Palace Guard, the Eagles, successors to a fierce Free Company. After them came the lord himself, Knaar of Val’Nur, walking with his sons Thilon and Duro and the nobles of his court.
Gael had seen a very few noblemen and -women before, and then only at ceremonies by the sacred spring or riding out from Coombe to hunt or to make a progress to the Southland. She saw now that Lord Knaar was an old man and not very tall, by no means one of Mel’Nir’s giant warriors. Yet he was very strong and fit, he shone with power; his shoulder-length hair was brownish grey, like his beard. He was magnificently dressed in a knee-length robe of cloth of gold, over a white tunic. He wore no dress sword but carried his plumed hat by the brim, working it up and down as he walked, as if it helped him along.
The sons of Knaar were fair, handsome men; Thilon, the heir of Val’Nur and the Westmark, was not so tall as his brother. After this princely party came a group of men and women, finely dressed, from Krail as well as locals. Jehane knew the ordering of the procession and said these would be some of the wives and parents of the garrison and other such dignitaries. Then they spied those who made up the end of the procession and could hardly keep from smiling. Ten tall kedran upon splendid horses, white, grey, dapple-grey: on their dark grey tabards was blazoned the device of a lily in white and gold. These were the far-famed Sword Lilies, the elite troop of the Plantation, the barracks of Val’Nur.
The procession came to a halt before the gates of Hackestell. A trumpet from within answered the trumpet sounding from without, and the gates were flung open. The first of the Eagles marched in; behind them Lord Knaar strolled along more leisurely with his sons, looking keenly about him and acknowledging the cheers. He stopped to speak to a group of women, merchants’ wives and their children, who held up posies. The lord smiled and took the flowers, passing them behind him to the hands of a guard and an older counselor.
A dark flash, like lightning, struck at Gael, deep behind her eyes, forcing her to turn. She took in at once a movement, a glint of metal in the crowd; she uttered a cry and gripped Jehane’s arm. Thrusting forward on Ivy, the brown mare, she pushed aside the wicker barrier and shouted to the guard: “Ware! Danger!”
Hardly thinking of the risks, she rushed headlong into the crowd, just behind the group of women and children. Village folk, their faces dark with fear, pushed out of her path as she urged her horse forward, shouting to clear the way. Jehane came behind her, and then suddenly they were hard up against the two men, the two assassins, as they bore down upon the Lord of the Westmark.
They were big men, one older than the other. The older man’s green cowl had fallen back, showing his strong features, his thick dark brows. The younger man wore a curious close-fitting hood, brown-black, a knitted hood. Both attackers pressed on desperately, though it was clear that the two kedran were coming for them. The older man held a long spear with a broad gleaming blade, and the other had a short sword.
Gael struck the older man in the throat with her ash staff, drew back and beat him across the head. By now the crowd had seen what was going on and two men seized the spear wielder and wrestled him to the ground.
The danger was not over—the young man went lunging through the shrieking women and almost came to Knaar, who was dragged aside, at last, by his Eagle guards and his sons. Jehane had held on with the pursuit, and the younger assassin suddenly relinquished his attempt. He lifted his sword to heaven and came back; he uttered words in a strange tongue and went among those holding his companion. Incredibly, he was able to drag him away, and they both fled into a narrow street. The villagers gave chase, and Gael would have gone too, when her bridle was seized and two lances were crossed before her…
“Halt, girl!” ordered an ensign of the Sword Lilies. “Declare yourself!”
“Maddoc, of Coombe!” Gael gasped out. “They went down that alley—the assassins…”
“There!” cried the second Sword Lily, as big and hard faced and angry as her comrade. “Says assassin, dares to say assassin, does she! You’re a prisoner, now, let fall that staff…”
The villagers added to the confusion—an old woman with a big voice cried out that she had been pushed aside by the horses.
“Rode us down!” she shrieked.
A tall older man said: “No, good Mother, they were after the two armed men! The two men who went to attack the Lord Knaar!”
“Quiet!” roared the ensign. “Get back, all of you!”
“Ensign,” begged Jehane, drawing in closer. “I pray you, send one of your troops after those two bandits! I swear they tried to attack the lord…”
At last the ensign summoned two more Lilies from the bunch, and they pushed through the thickening crowd and sent their white horses hurtling down the alleyway.
“I still don’t know you gals,” she said angrily. “Where d’ye ride?”
“We are new recruits from Coombe,” said Gael. “We are training with Druda Strawn.”
“So that’s it,” said the ensign, still frowning. “Names?”
They gave their names and were ordered to turn their horses and get out of the way. The other kedran pointed with her lance and drew her dapple-grey skillfully aside. So Maddoc and Vey rode back to their old position. The barrier had been set upright, Lord Knaar and his closest followers had gone; the Eagles patrolled before the gates of Hackestell with lances at the ready A young man on foot, wearing a striped yellow-and-grey tunic, came through the soldiers, together with a high-ranking guard officer. Gael noted the officer’s crown and star—an obrist of the guard.
“There!” said the young man in the stripes. It was Knaar’s younger son. “The two kedran wenches, the red and the black. They saw it all—went after those rogues!”
“Well, kedran!” said the obrist, staring up at them. “You heard Hem Duro—what shall we call you?”
They gave their names smartly, and the prince of Val’Nur smiled at them.
“Training with the Chyrian priest, I’ll be bound,” said the obrist, knowingly. “Aha, they’re all brave hearts in Coombe!”
“Kedran Maddoc, Kedran Vey,” said Duro of Val’Nur, “Obrist Wellach will have you brought into Hackestell. The duty officers will see to your horses and bring you to the private hearth beside the commander’s quarters. I will be there soon to question certain witnesses about this attempt on my father’s life.”
They saluted and went round the barrier. The obrist called to another guardsman to lead them in and handed up to Jehane a duty pledge, a strap of leather with a silver badge on it, showing his own seal and marks of rank. So they rode through the wide gates into the outer wards and the guardsman pointed the way ahead across the inner bailey.
“Good Ensign,” said Gael, to the guardsman by the door, “we have been given this duty call—pray you bring word to Druda Strawn, the leader of the Coombe training muster, to say where his kedran have gone!”
“I’ll do that, sweetheart!” said the guard with a grin. “Just cut across to the lodge there, find the duty officer…”
They went slowly on their way, through hurrying crowds of soldiers and others—servants, market women, scullions, and cooks with their heads covered. Above them on all sides now were the towering walls of Hackestell central keep, built all of pinkish stone from the quarries northwest of Krail, with darker bands of greystone from the south by Rift Kyrie.
“Great Goddess!” breathed Jehane. She, as well as Gael, had heard tale of the fortress’s prison cells. “How have we come to this, Gael Maddoc?”
“A pity,” echoed Gael, speaking just as low, “a pity if we have such an adventure because some rogues attack the lord!”
They got down, trying not to be overawed, showed their token to a stable-boy who led away their horses and pointed the way to the lodge. Inside there were more than a dozen members of the garrison; they kept up a little murmur of teasing talk until the duty officer saw the token. He waved it and gave them both a smart salute, said his name, Captain Treem, and summoned yet another ensign for their guide. There was silence as they went out and the young ensign led them into the keep under the great iron wargate.
“Godfire!” he said, on the stairs. “This is a terrible business—did you see the bastards?”
“We chased them!” admitted Gael. “Others went after them through the town—were they caught?”
“Not yet—we’ve heard all sorts of tales.” He chattered on, said his name was Stivven, and asked their names. They kept on up the wide winding stair with its old wooden banisters, rising up on the left side of the keep within the thickness of its outer wall. Outside, through a narrow window, they saw the afternoon sunlight shining on the high ground and a wind moving the tops of the trees.
So they came to the private hearth, where witnesses were to be heard. Stivven left them at the door with a salute. It was surely not so for Jehane, but for Gael this was the finest room she had ever been in. There were rich hangings on the walls and a bank of fresh green leaves filling the hearth and the settles were padded with bright red leather. The room was empty—Jehane touched Gael’s arm and led her behind an arrangement of painted screens near the door. There was a place to wash, with mirrors and a privy, thickly curtained. They each took turns keeping watch while the other removed her tunic and made a soldier’s ablutions. Towels and vials of lavender water made Gael feel giddy with luxury. She combed up her hair, in its new short kedran cut. She a little regretted the loss of her thick red braids, but a quick look in one of the fine silver mirrors told her she was no plainer than before. Jehane would have to look fair for them both…They heard movement in the chamber and came out from behind the screens, carrying their riding caps.
Five orderlies were bringing in food and arranging it on a long trestle that had been set up along the western wall. There was an older man, one of the lord’s servants, and again the young ensign, Stivven. He said their names as witnesses, and the older man looked at them keenly and pointed to a settle, with a table before it.
“Fetch yourselves food and ale,” he said gently. “Sit there.”
They went to the food table and were served with hot meat, buttered bread, salad greens, and a cloth each to wipe their hands. Did they each have knives? Yes. The boy would bring them their ale. So they took their places and ate as daintily as they might. Presently two civilians were shown in, and Gael recognized the tall old man who had spoken up for them outside the fortress. He stood about with the men and drank a goblet of wine. After a moment he caught sight of them and exclaimed:
“Yes, by heaven! There they are! The two young kedran—they saw it all!”
He came across to their table and bowed and bade them not to get up.
“Mentle,” he said, “I am Huw Mentle, Reeve of Hackestell Village. I’m glad they brought you here to bear witness!”
“Good Sir,” asked Gael, “were the men captured after they went down that alley?”
“No, they were not!” he said. “Not even the Sword Lilies could find them! And there was something strange in that…”
The doors were opened, and Obrist Wellach led in Duro of Val’Nur, along with a pale, striking fellow in a black scholar’s gown. They were followed by two Sword Lilies. Jehane nudged Gael, recognizing the pair who had halted them. Then there came a notably handsome young man, finely dressed in blue—Gael took him for one of the courtiers who had walked with Lord Knaar and his sons. There were some others, servants of Val’Nur and soldiers of the garrison.
There was movement at once as the room was rearranged for the hearing. The obrist spoke up, saying what would be done.
“Master de Reece, head scribe of the house of Val’Nur, will be the questioner. This is not a court-martial, but all witnesses are asked to speak up plainly. There will be no penalties, no name taking, and no rewards.
“The good Master is a lay justice in Krail. We are fortunate indeed to have one so close at hand who knows how to conduct such a hearing.”
Behind, while Obrist Wellach spoke, Hem Duro was instructing two kerns where to place his chair, before the food table, facing the room. Despite his words outside the fort, it seemed, at least for now, that he was there to listen rather than to speak.
Two lesser scribes, one a young woman, settled at a special table to write down the proceedings. Then the obrist held up his hand for silence. Master de Reece stepped forward and spoke in clear ringing tones.
“We will not have the witnesses sworn just at first,” he said easily. “I will begin with the person who was closest to Lord Knaar—first gentleman of the bedchamber, Valent Harrad.”
The handsome young fellow in blue stood up and answered to his name. Yes, it was just as the procession turned to make the approach to the fortress. He was behind Lord Knaar, who turned aside to receive flowers from some country wives and their children. No, he had seen nothing amiss until two kedran came riding from the barriers and pushed into the crowd just beyond the women. And then? Yes, indeed, said young Harrad, tossing his long scented locks. He saw the attackers, two men in dark clothes, perhaps hunting dress. He saw that one had a great spear and came at the Lord Knaar, although the kedran would have prevented it.
“So the red-haired one struck him down!” he finished.
“Do you see this kedran?” inquired Master de Reece.
The young man’s gaze flicked over those present in the wide sunny room, and he pointed eagerly, smiled and nodded.
“There she is, Master de Reece, and her companion too…”
Gael held up her head and prayed for strength.
“Kedran?”
Master de Reece made a gesture; she stood up, saluted, and gave her name.
“Gael Maddoc, kedran recruit from Coombe village!”
She was echoed by Jehane springing up at her side:
“Jehane Vey, kedran recruit from Veyna!”
De Reece nodded to Huw Mentle, including him in the group of witnesses.
“Yes, Master Scribe,” said the old man, “I first saw the danger when these two brave kedran came through and held the two brigands. Some of our citizens from the garrison village came to their aid and took hold of one of the men. The younger of the two, in a close-fitting hood, held up his sword to heaven and made some incantation. Then the pair of them made off, and two of the lord’s escort, two Sword Lilies, came amongst us and ordered the kedran to declare themselves!”
Only one of the Sword Lilies, a fierce old captain called Lockie, told the tale from their side.
“Yes, Master de Reece,” she said in her hoarse voice, “we had not seen anything of an attack or an attacker. We did not recognize these two recruits.”
She gave Gael and Jehane a curt nod—it was recognition at last, and they acknowledged it thankfully.
“Now, was there a pursuit of these two men?” asked de Reece.
“There was,” said Captain Lockie. “Two of our troop went after them and some citizens before. They had taken to a narrow alley called Oldwall that leads to the fields. The men were not found.”
“They had hidden themselves? Reached the fields?”
The captain was already embarrassed by the questions. Reeve Mentle signed to de Reece and spoke up seriously, looking at Hem Duro.
“I know that our noble Lord Knaar is no friend of such talk, but it must be said. That short street, Oldwall, is bare of any doorway or possible hiding place. The younger fugitive was heard speaking strange words. Hem Duro—your father’s attackers escaped with the help of magic!”
Duro gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“Yes,” he said. To everyone’s relief, he had taken no offense at the reeve’s uncomfortable disclosure. “My father does not encourage magicians. But magic is used all throughout the lands of Hylor. Two enemies of Val’Nur might be just the fellows to fight against us with such tricks!”
As he spoke, the trumpet call sounded below, and bells were rung. The obrist whispered something to the prince.
“What? Changing of the guard? Yes, of course, any with duty may leave. If Captain Lockie or her ensign could stay back a moment—I think we are come to the most important part of this whole affair: who were these men, to set themselves against my father?”
Amidst a general movement, the room greatly emptied. Jehane and Gael remained by their settle as Master de Reece announced a break in the proceedings. There was time for the retiring room, and drinks of ale were passed around. When they all came together again, it was like a roundtable gathering; all the witnesses were seated, as well as de Reece and the scribes.
The ensign of the Sword Lilies was questioned first. She had seen two men running off. Yes, she had seen their faces. The men were tall, but she could not swear they were men of Mel’Nir. She thought one was older than the other. They wore trews or trunkhose and perhaps their cloaks were green. One had a close hood.
Reeve Mentle sat beside de Reece and gave his testimony directly and quietly to the scribes and it was taken down.
“Just so,” said Master de Reece. “So now it is the turn of the two recruits from Coombe.”
A glance passed between him and Hem Duro.
“Kedran Maddoc,” said Duro, his pleasant voice sharpening just a little, “what made you pursue these men? How did they first come to your notice?”
It was a question she had put to herself ever since the attack, and there was no answer that would serve but the truth.
“Highness,” she said, “I had some kind of foreshadowing. I suddenly knew that there was danger, there to my right among the crowd.”
“Have you ever practiced magic?” he pursued. “Do you know anyone, man or woman, who could be described as a magician?”
“No, Highness!” said Gael Maddoc firmly. “But we are Chyrian folk in the village of Coombe.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We have our own natural magic, from the Goddess.”
Hem Duro shook his head, as if to say “worse and worse.”
Jehane Vey spoke up:
“Highness, I am Jehane Vey, of the Forest Hall, in Veyna hamlet, and my granddam is Fion Allrada, a lady of the half-Shee. She is known for her wisdom and it might be called natural magic.”
Hem Duro turned to de Reece with a questioning look and the Head Scribe said evenly:
“This lady is known as a local wise woman, Highness…”
Duro, seeming satisfied, turned again to Gael Maddoc.
“And your family, Kedran?”
Gael had no hall to claim, and she found her cheeks burning at the form of the prince’s question. “My family have always lived at Holywell Croft, by deed and by custom, as our own Reeve Oghal would bear witness. We have the care of the holy well, in its sacred grotto.”
“The Well of Coombe,” de Reece interjected softly. “Yes, then this witch-sight you carry cannot be surprising. Your family bears an ancient troth.” He glanced at Hem Duro. “Older than Coombe itself, if truth be told.”
While Gael had heard some such tale told enough times in Coombe village, it came as some surprise to know that a scribe from so mighty—and distant—a city as Krail might share any knowledge of her family’s humble crofting.
“Do you know anything about the Westlings, Kedran Maddoc?” inquired Hem Duro.
“Yes, surely, Highness,” she replied eagerly, “I have been told this tale. Our great hero of Coombe village, General Yorath, raised the first muster of Chyrian folk to serve Val’Nur, during the Great King’s War. The siege of this same fortress, Hackestell, was broken by the Chyrian horde…”
“Who told you this tale?” he demanded.
“I did, Highness!” said a voice. “Pray you have mercy on my good recruits!”
Druda Strawn had come in silently. Now he walked forward and bowed to the prince. His sharp dark gaze took in the whole table round of witnesses and questioners. Gael Maddoc knew that she saw a man absolutely unafraid in this company.
“Of course,” said Hem Duro, dryly. “Druda Strawn, pray take your place here at my side. We are come to a most interesting part of this strange affair. Your two recruits must describe the two men who tried to attack my father.”
Jehane went first and although they had hardly spoken together of these things Gael found her description agreed almost perfectly with Gael’s own picture of the two assassins. Then it was her own turn. She might have wished herself in the midst of battle rather than speaking so long before this company. Yet she spoke up as clearly and truthfully as she could, for the honor of poor Coombe and for Druda Strawn, who had chosen her for a kedran.
“A hood…?” queried de Reece. “The younger man wore this closely woven woolen hood?”
Gael screwed up her eyes in an effort to retrieve the scene.
“No Sir,” she said. “Not woven—it seemed to me that the hood was knitted. And I particularly noticed the color of the thick-spun thread. It must have come from a black sheep.”
There was a moment of complete silence around the table, then de Reece, Hem Duro, and young Valent all cried out at once, with oaths ranging from “By the Warriors!” to “Blood and Fire!” Druda Strawn gave a bark of laughter.
“Well said, Gael Maddoc!” he exclaimed. “And I charge all you gathered here to see that this is a tale I have not told. She uttered the words quite innocently.”
He gave Gael a smile and went on: “The Black Sheep are a band of rebellious souls who farm tracts of land and do their own magic. It is said they are refugees from the island of Eriu, formerly a feof of ancient Eildon, now held firm in the iron hand of the Kingdom of Lien.”
“Eildon? They have their magic of Eildon?” Gael spoke aloud in her surprise, impressed by the Druda’s erudition. Eildon-across-the-sea was old and its ways were strange. She had heard magic was much used there, but all spoke that it was magic of a glamor kind, a pretty—or treacherous—illusion played by the Priest-King’s court, deep opposed to the country-bound Chyrian style of magic. Even so, if these black sheep used magic, it was not surprising that they should find themselves Lienish castaways. From what little she knew, Lien, Mel’Nir’s neighbor to the north, was a kingdom where magic was held in even greater public distrust than in Knaar of Val’Nur’s domains.
“But in truth,” the Druda said softly, as he looked again toward the prince, “it seems to me that this use of magic, together with Gael Maddoc’s sighting of the knitted hood, is a blessed gift, for it tells us that the question here today is whether or no Knaar of Westmark has dealt fairly with some refugees living rough upon his own land, and does not, Goddess be thanked, touch anything greater. Wronged farmers are a safer enemy than a land whose gaze has slowly turned outward to its neighbors’ fields.”
Hem Duro’s eyes glittered dangerously, and he did not answer. For a moment Gael could not believe that the Druda had really aired a fear that Lien itself might have been responsible for today’s attack on Lord Knaar, but the prince’s next words left her with no doubt that she had properly understood the Druda’s meaning. “It is not fit that we should speak ungently of our northern neighbor,” Duro snapped. “Lien may have taken Mel’Nir’s fair Balbank into its own realm, but there its outward push has ended. Neither my father nor any of his kin will stand for such words to be spoken.”
Yet, whatever the diplomatic content of Duro’s words, a look of unhappy understanding flashed between the Druda and the prince. Gael could see a concern shared between them. De Reece shuffled his papers, interrupting with some small question. The moment of unease was past and gone.
And that was all the sense the kedran were able to get out of their long ordeal. No more questions were put to them, and this matter of Eriu, or perhaps of Lien, was not aired to them any further. Hem Duro and Master de Reece spoke together in quiet, and after a little time, they admitted Reeve Mentle and Druda Strawn to their council.
Valent Harrad was excused to return to Lord Knaar’s service.
Gael and Jehane sat together, whispering a little. Presently Captain Lockie of the Sword Lilies and Obrist Wellach returned from their duties and joined the conference. A few moments after, the captain haled the two recruits off to quarters. They were to sleep in Hackestell this night and return to their training in the morning.
They gathered up their saddlebags and their ash staves and followed the old kedran out of the private hearth. As they went toward the stairs, she looked about for a moment as if to be sure no one was watching and drew them aside, along the gallery.
“Hem Duro is a generous man,” she said. “Keep quiet about this.”
She drew out from a deep pocket in her tunic two bright twists of yellow cloth and handed them to Gael and Jehane.
“Silver!” said Captain Lockie. “Five silver shields each, fresh from the Royal Mint at Goldgrave!”
She held up a hand as they both whispered their thanks. “You both drew a strange duty this day,” she said. “Maybe with a bit of training you’ll be seen among the Westlings.”
The captain did not say “among the Sword Lilies.” They were a special troop, the lord’s escort. Gael could see how Lockie smiled at Jehane’s retort to this cautious approval—the tall girl was nettled, her pride was touched. In her own town of Veyna, great things were expected for Jehane—and Gael, knowing how easy Jehane Vey rode, her already easy manner as she spoke with their rough green troop, would not have gainsaid those happy expectations.
But this was for the future. For now, Jehane held her peace, and the captain led them through winding passages to the kitchens. A female cook had charge of them there. She took two thick, lighted candles and brought them into a stone room with stone shelves for beds. These were covered with sacks of thick straw and each had a thick plaid blanket. There was a place to wash and presently a girl in an apron brought them broth, bread, a bottle of ale, and a basket of apples.
This was a good supper. As they enjoyed it, Gael counted her bright silver coins with the shield of the royal arms of Mel’Nir and tied them up again in their cloth. She wondered aloud where the Sword Lilies would sleep. Jehane guessed that a few would remain in the fortress to guard Lord Knaar in his guest chamber, wherever that was. The rest, they decided, would have gone back to the Val’Nur pavilion.
There was a trumpet call and another peal of bells; they heard marching feet overhead. Through a high window they could see the stars and the fields. There was a heavy bar on the inside of their door, and they slid it into place before they went to bed. Gael’s nerves were still taut as a bowstring, but after a time she relaxed in the strange room and quickly fell asleep. She dreamed of men in outlandish long brown robes, herding black sheep before them.
 
Copyright © 2004 by Catherine Grimm, Louisa Grimm, and Katya Reimann

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The Wanderer

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