“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.”
Gael looked to Brother Less. “Do you give yourself to this?”
The old man nodded. “The young lord speaks truth. But truly, it will be a great danger to you to take up this task, for you must come with us into Lien, and alone, unaccompanied by any companion. Also, you should know, in Lien we do not have so many
cantreyns,
to bring you safely home again.”
Tomas and Gael exchanged a look. Gael thought of how she had itched to find her destiny, how impatient she had been with Lord Luran of the Shee when he had not set her tasks of any great peril. “You need to tell me a little more,” she said to Brother Less. “Tell me more, or I will not come.”
“We know you are the
Wanderer,
” said Brother Less. “Come with us, I pray, and we will tell you the story of how Lien lost its
Hallow
, and yet might come to be healed.”
Gael looked again at Tomas. She did not want to leave him—she did not want to carry the Krac’Duar into Lien, where it could be lost with her, lost again to Mel’Nir, if she undertook this “dangerous task” and failed. Less saw where her glance had fallen, then saw in his own turn the Black Lance. Like Robard,
he immediately recognized this weapon, and his eyes widened. He cast a sideways glance to Lord Auric but did not further speak, either in encouragement or in additional caution.
In his silent understanding of her quandary, Gael made her decision. “I must go,” she said to Tomas. “This is not a choice.” She gestured to the prison cart. “Take them fast as you can to safety.”
“My beloved wife,” he answered. “Take all good care. For you must know you are taking my heart with you, and I will be wanting it back.” She saw, this time, that he was not so willing that she should ride out, that in this venture, his acceptance of her calling was a strain for him. Yet still they both understood that she must go.
She drew Ebony to his side, and they violently, sweetly kissed, until the foul ponies startled and broke their embrace apart.
“Blasted animals!” said Gael. Before she further lost her composure, she turned away. “I am ready,” she told Lord Auric.
“Brother Less will give you the picture.”
Gael saw it in her mind: the perfect cantreyn field. The clipped grass, rolled flat, was dappled with white flowers underneath the dull silver light of the new moon. “I see it,” she said.
Casting only one final glance to Tomas, sitting proud upon his seat in the new beginning drizzle of the rain, she lowered the lance and took them there.
THE HAUNTING OF THE GROVE
Light flooded in through pretty mullioned windows. Gael, rising
from her comfortable bed to look out—two straw mattresses and a down feather one atop—saw she had come to still another magic place. She was looking across bright yellow autumn fields to a rushing, mist-covered river—she knew from her arrival last night, this was the Ringist—and across the water, the sky was sullen, full of rain. Here, the weather was a matter of craft: it was autumn, yet summer lingered, and pale morning sunshine glinted upon the grass.
This was Erinhall. It had been the famous Markgrafin Guenna of Lien’s private retreat, the place she had made for herself, hidden from the world, in her stand against the Archmage Rosmer, the man who had stolen the heart and mind of her only son, had set him upon the path to Kingship. Once this had been a hunting lodge, standing within the Great Border Forest of the Chameln, overlooking the river boundary. It had passed to a Lienish lord in payment of a debt … and then Guenna had claimed it.
Gael understood a little more than she had the night before: Guenna, from her deathbed, had passed this hidden place to
Garvis Merl, Lord of Grays. This Garvis—Tomas had spoken of him once, but never explained all the details. He was brother to Zaramund, Kelen’s first wife, whom Rosmer had ordered murdered, that Kelen be freed to marry the young and then biddable Fideth. Rosmer had intended the death of all of the Grays, for they were Lien’s most powerful lords—but he had missed when he struck at Garvis, the youngest of old Lord Merl’s sons. Gone into hiding, Lord Garvis had at first lived the life of a desperate man, an outlaw; now, for more than fifteen years, he had been master of this safe place of retreat, riding out, along with his Green Riders, when opportunity came, on secret ventures to fight against those who had usurped his rights. Rosmer had been the first enemy of Garvis of Grays; now Garvis fought the Brown Brotherhood in Rosmer’s place. Brother Less, Lord Auric of Chantry—these were the public face for Lien’s reform. Meantime, Erinhall had become the secret heart of Lien’s resistance to the Followers of the Lame God at Balufir court.
Gael pulled on her outer clothes—some servant had taken them away and brushed and cleaned them in the night—and went out to find her hosts. Erinhall’s main hall was pleasant, painted in friendly colors; there were flowers and autumn leaves arranged in the long fireplace. A woman sat waiting in a chair that had been moved to catch the sun; otherwise, the room was empty. Catching sight of her visitor, she stood and gave her welcome.
“We are grateful you have come, Gael Maddoc. You bring us fresh hope.”
This was Mayrose, the wife of Garvis Merl of Grays, and elder sister to Fideth, Lien’s Queen. She was a plain, angular woman, a little past middle age, with a face coppery and lined from days of riding in the sun and wind, and brassy greying hair, half-hidden beneath a sort of coif. But her eyes were full of light, and this was not the light of magic: it was the light of love, of life, and Gael could see that Lady Mayrose had given everything, since the day Zaramund of Lien had been murdered, along other family members of the Grays, and Fideth of Wirth had risen to replace her; Mayrose had given
everything
to
try to right this wrong, to bring light and hope to Lien’s people. She was not at all as Gael pictured a fine lady of Lien; instead of silks and tight velvet lacing, she wore a plain—if finely made—leather tunic over a loose rustic skirt. Now she was not speaking at all to charm Gael, or impress her. This was not the “common touch” Gael had seen so many fine lords display, it was a simplicity of manners almost poignant for its humility. The life of a reforming outlaw could not be an easy one; there was little that Mayrose took for granted.
“I do not know why you have called me,” Gael answered, trying to keep her words short. “But one such as Brother Less holds my admiration and respect. If he would venture out on such a night to beg my aid, I knew I had to answer.”
“It was an effort for him.” Lady Mayrose said, candid but not unfriendly. “But I think it soothed his heart to accompany those who brought our pleas to you. Besides … he is ever the questing scholar, and cannot resist a chance to see history made.”
Laughter on the lawn outside interrupted them. Gael glanced out the window. In the garden were four beautiful children, wearing white. The tallest, a brown-haired boy, was carrying the youngest, golden-haired, on his shoulders; two other sisters were laughing, making a playful battle over a basket of fresh-cut flowers. At first Gael thought these children must belong to the Lady of Grays. Then she looked again—something was wrong; the flowers overflowing the basket were bluebells, white myrtle, snow-stars … the fair blossoms of spring. What she saw was out of season …
“They will always be here,” Lady Mayrose said gently, coming to stand behind her. “And see—who comes behind them.”
There was a woman of middle height, with flowing black brown hair, threaded through with strings of pearls. Her gown glittered as if green light was trapped within its folds; her face bore an ageless beauty, neither old nor young. Then Gael knew without being told: these were a vision of Guenna of Lien and her children: Kelen, Hedris, Aravel, and little Elvédegran.
“They are less than wraiths,” said Lady Mayrose. “Bright memories of a happy time.”
“Why have you brought me here?” Gael asked.
The Lady of Grays smiled. “My good men—see how bravely they have left us, to talk women’s matters over between ourselves—for these are a woman’s matters of which we must speak. Pray you, Gael Maddoc, be seated. I have a story for you.”
Gael found a chair, positioned it where she could still see the children, the woman their lady mother. So much history lay before her: those two young girls, with their bluebells—they would marry the Daindru Kings, Firn and Zor, enjoy at least for a time happy married life—until the spider-vizier Rosmer crept forward again to claim them. Little Elvédegran, the youngest, would die before her seventeenth year, giving Yorath Duaring life. The boy—his fate would prove the worst of all, for in his weakness, the lovely life of Lien, its poetry, music, and magic, would fall under a shadow.
“She was a loving mother,” said Gael, watching the Markgrafin smooth her daughters’ hair.
“And later she would become a powerful sorceress,” said Lady Mayrose. “We have been here more than fifteen years, from the time of Guenna’s passing. In that time, little has faded of the magic she left behind her.”
“Her existence here was well ordered.”
“Yes, though she lived always with deep regrets.” Lady Mayrose again and took her sun-filled seat. There was a tall wooden box, almost large enough for a linen-press, by this chair’s side. Leaning over her chair arm, she ran her fingers over this chest’s darkly polished lid. “She had loved Zaramund; she never could accept what had been done so Fideth could take her place. Yet by her life’s end, when King Kelen’s son—his heir—was almost five years old, she began to recognize, belatedly, she had another grandchild. She had failed Kelen—then she died, bitterly certain that she had also failed young Matten, and Lien as well, for her lovely swans—they had flown to other nests, and none would be coming home again.”
“I have heard tale that the young prince has stood stubborn against the Brown Brothers,” said Gael.
“That is true,” said Lady Mayrose, “but because of an old decision Guenna made, he lacks an essential protection.”
She made a movement with her hands, then she was holding a folded piece of white stuff. The ring on Gael’s hand leapt to life—so simple as this, there was the Hallow of Lien, the missing Fleece.
“What is this story you would tell me?” Gael asked, as the lady unfolded the ancient skin for her visitor to examine. This Fleece, like the Cup, the Lance, had on first glance a worn appearance. There was faded, indecipherable script branded into the leather around its outer edge, and the wool had long since rubbed bare in the places where it had been folded. Yet the time-softened skin retained still a tremendous power, a warmth, a soothing … She remembered where she had seen just such a blanket before: it had been the most treasured possession of Lady Malm, brought from Eildon to serve her when she came as midwife to Princess Elwina of Mel’Nir.
“This is intended for a swaddling cloth?” she asked, tentative.
Lady Mayrose nodded. “This Hallowed Fleece has served to swaddle every Markgraf and Markgrafin of Lien from time of old. It was brought out of Eildon by those who founded the Mark of Lien, so distant in the past now. It holds a great healing magic, from the Goddess. A babe swaddled in this ancient cover will earn a great destiny: a ruler’s destiny, a ruler-consort’s destiny—not, of course, the same thing as a happy life. The women who first vested it with this power, even this piece’s name—all this is lost to us.
“But Guenna left to us at least this sad history in her archive: when she was brought to bed with her firstborn, Kelen, the birth was hard, and the young Markgrafin fell into a deathly fever. The child himself—he was born so healthy and fair, he was given in haste to the milchwomen, while within the birthing chamber, a great struggle was made to preserve Guenna’s life. Edgar of Pendark—he loved his beautiful young wife. When it became clear that she was dying, he insisted that the healers use the Fleece to bring succor to his lady—the babe would do well enough without such cover. Even so, Guenna lay in a fever dream for weeks … and Kelen was never brought to the Fleece.
“Hedris, Aravel, Elvédegran after them—Guenna’s daughters
were all wrapped within this precious Hallow, they all received its blessing—but never Kelen. Back in those sweet days, when all the children were young, it was not obvious this was a grievous error. It was only much later, when Edgar himself was long dead, and Kelen fell so easily prey to Rosmer’s blandishments, did the great error became apparent, for it has always been Kelen’s
counselors
who have ruled Lien, never Kelen. When the full extent of Rosmer’s power became plain, and the last of her daughters was gone from Lien, the Markgrafin fled—and she took the Fleece with her when she retreated to Erinhall: it was a woman’s piece; she would not leave it to Rosmer or to Kelen.”
“And so Matten also has missed his chance for the Fleece’s Blessing,” said Gael, filled with a deep sadness. She had seen the return of the Chyrian Cup, the Lance of Mel’Nir; already she saw how prosperity returned to these hard-pressed lands as these sacred Hallows again found their place. But the Fleece … she rubbed the worn softness of its wool gently between her hands. Surely Lien must wait another generation before the Fleece could be restored, before the shadow of the Brotherhood’s rule could be swept back.
But Lady Mayrose was shaking her head. “Not so. There is a spell that might yet bring Matten to the Fleece’s Blessing. Guenna left many writings. She researched deeply the Fleece’s history, and knew it had not always passed smoothly from one ruler of Lien to the next. There is a spell, not practiced now for upward of a hundred years. It is called the
Haunting of the Grove.
Once there were many who might have performed this spell, but over time much knowledge has been dispersed. Now this magic can only be performed by one born to a certain destiny. Only by one such as yourself, Gael Maddoc, who balances great forces of magic and power within, and this is why we have called you here: to ask you if you will attempt to perform this
Haunting
.”
Gael could tell by the lady’s tone that the spell must be a fearful thing, and dangerous. But it was what she was here to do—this was why she had left Tomas, left the young princes of the Chameln, alone on the dark Nesbath road. She nodded her head. Yes, she would do it.
The lady allowed herself only the smallest of smiles. Gael could not be sure Mayrose was gladdened by her answer. She must have given some sign; it was only moments before Lord Auric came to the door, accompanied by two young girls—yes,
these
deep-tanned hooligans were Lady Mayrose’s children, and not those pale beautiful creatures out in the garden. They were Zarah Beck’s age, perhaps a year or so younger. Not twins, but born so close together, they had not even a year apart in their ages.
The elder—heir to all the fortunes of the Grays, to all those wide lands and power, should the Lord of Grays ever return from an outlaw’s exile to retrieve them—was trothed to Auric Barry. Gael hemmed, for with this news, much was made plain to her—although she was much impressed by Lord Auric’s gentle manners with this child, and clearly the girl herself adored him in her turn. Neither sister could be called beautiful—they had inherited their mother’s plain face, her brassy dark hair, but Gael could see in them the life, the intense spirit, that brought so much animation, so much
vitality
, to their mother. She wondered if this had been a family trait, shared by Mayrose’s sister Fideth, the trait that had drawn Kelen of Lien to her.
“You have chosen to play a dangerous game,” she breathed to Lord Auric, when they passed one another in a lull of privacy.
“This is no game,” he answered. From his air of suppressed excitement, she could see he was not entirely speaking the truth, though perhaps he did not choose to know himself so well that he was aware of this. “It does not matter if it takes years—certainly it will be years before Lady Ellain and I can marry. Brother Less thinks it will be years beyond that for balance in Lien to be truly restored. But his Followers of Truth—the reformed Brotherhood—it must prevail in the end.”