The Summer's King (25 page)

“So Rosmer was there, too!” said the king.

“Master Rosmer observed the warrior Yorath,” continued Nerriot, “and afterwards I heard him speaking to the war lord of Krail, Valko Val'Nur. Master Rosmer swore that Yorath was of the line of the Duarings, the bastard son of Prince Gol.”

“That was all he saw?” The king laughed. “If that were all, this big fellow would not interest us. The tale I heard placed him much closer to Lien and to the Daindru. He is the child of fair Elvédegran, the youngest swan of Lien, my mother's sister. Therefore he is Prince Gol's true-born son. Is this not so, Captain Mazura?”

“I believe it,” said the Captain solemnly. “I will call Yorath my friend, my boyhood friend of one summer. Perhaps we should not bandy his parentage about.”

Sharn Am Zor seemed eager to talk, but he fell silent and presently he sent away the officers, the musician and all who were on deck so that he was alone with Raff Mazura. They talked of Yorath and of Hagnild Raiz, Mazura's uncle, the Healer at the court of Ghanor of Mel'Nir, who had spirited away a marked child of the Duarings.

Then the king sat silent again, staring at the waves, and came out of his thoughts to say, “What have you to say of Rosmer?”

Mazura wrinkled his brow and stared into the gathering darkness.

“Once I thought him an intriguer, puffed up and overrated,” he said, “but now I know his power. He is cruel, a monster of cruelty. I hope some champion will arise to rid the world of this evil creature.”

Sharn Am Zor gave a sigh.

“Once I thought I might be that champion,” he said. “I hoped to take revenge for the suffering of my poor mother. But I am unlucky, my feats of arms or of magic will never be equal to the task.”

“He is well guarded,” said Raff Mazura, “and has his spies throughout the courts of Hylor.”

“In Achamar?” asked the king, and answered his own question. “Why not there, too. I must look about.”

The king and the captain drank a round of schnapps, and Raff Mazura said: “King Sharn, you have offered payment for this passage over the western sea. I will take no gold from you if you will grant me a boon.”

“What then?”

“We will anchor at Larkdel in five days, and your wounded champions and the sick men of the escort can be cared for at Wirth Hall and at the Hermitage of the Brothers. I think you planned to escort Prince Ragnafarr and his people across Lien to the border forest.”

“I had thought of this,” said the king.

“I humbly beg you to go a little further in your travels. Cross over one of the mountain passes into Athron and visit Robillan Hazard at the Owl and Kettle Inn on the outskirts of Varda.”

“Why yes,” said Sharn, “yes, it is a fine idea. I might have come to it myself.”

Then, glimpsing a strange expression on the captain's face, he asked anxiously, “Is he sick? Short of money? Does it go ill with my old friend after this cursed imprisonment?”

“I have been sworn to secrecy,” said Mazura. “I can only send you to him, Majesty. He may not thank me even for this.”

The king's fleet came to Larkdel again, and all those in need of healing were kindly received. Zilly of Denwick, already improved in health, came to the arms of his lady, Veldis; and Gerr of Zerrah also went to the manor house. Sharn Am Zor stood for the first time before a crowd of folk, gentle and simple, who had seen him sail off proudly, who had expected him to succeed. The ruin of his enterprise was plain for all to see, but no one had changed towards him. The Wirth family were full of sympathy. Sir Berndt cast off his Falconer's tunic and swore aloud, saying he would have no truck with Eildon if they handled the King of the Chameln, that fine young man, so ill.

The travelers still had far to go. The two caravels, the
Caria Rose
and the
Nixie
, sailed on towards Balufir with all those Chameln men fit to travel, save only four men of the escort and the king himself. Sharn Am Zor insisted upon traveling light; he would take no valet. Prickett stayed in the Hermitage to care for poor Yuri and bring him home with the other men sick of “Eildon fever” when they were well. Tazlo Am Ahrosh, under protest, agreed to go on to the Danmar and ride as courier straight to Aidris the Queen, in Achamar, to bring her the king's letters. The king sent more letters to Seyl of Hodd. He pondered a little and sent a very brief letter, together with the topaz ring that he had received in the Sacred Wood from the King of the Isles. The letter went to Lorn Gilyan, the Heir of Chernak.

Captain-General Britt, standing on the bridge of the
Caria Rose
with Tazlo as the king stood on the dock waving them farewell, shook his head in wonder.

“He is a changed man,” said Britt.

Tazlo Am Ahrosh scowled and bit his lip, but he could not deny that his master had changed. The ship's trumpet sounded, and the king exchanged a last salute with Captain Mazura as the caravel set sail up the wide river.

II

Sharn Am Zor chose a steady bay from the Larkdel stable and set out riding across the Mark of Lien. By his side rode Prince Ragnafarr of the Tulgai, dressed as a prince, in Chameln breeches and tunic, and mounted upon a black pony. His companions Orombek, Theranak and Lillfor rode before the men of the escort. The countryside was at its most beautiful; this was the rich summer country of which Hazard wrote and other poets of Lien. The early roses were coming out.

More than once in the woods of Lien the travelers found a pool and swam and sunned themselves. As Sharn Am Zor swam in the river depths he thought of Moinagh, child of the sea; as he lay in the grass, he remembered the river fields at Alldene, his companions Jevon Seyl and Iliane. O lost, elusive Moinagh, O lost foolish Iliane. He had been continent for too long. Yet he still had hopes of love and fulfillment. He looked into his grandmother's scrying stone, hoping to find the answer to a certain question he meant to ask, but the stone was dark all through the journey.

The party crossed the Ringist on a stone bridge from the town of Athory and entered the Adz, riding through that part of the mining lands that surrounded the Silverbirch Mine. Sharn saw all about him his subjects whose land would be governed in the future by the Mark of Lien. There was no word in the land pledge of men and women, only of land.

In Corth, the largest town of the region, the folk recognized their king, wondering, then cheering; the word flew through the streets. Sharn was received at once by the reeve, an old and leathery individual called Baskin, and sat down with him alone. The king admitted his failure, his loss of the land; an agreement must be made with Lien. The folk could stay or go; those who chose to leave the district—though there was no saying that Lienish rule would be harsh—would be resettled at the king's expense.

Baskin the Reeve heard him out and comforted the young king. It was a trick, an Eildon trick and a Lienish one, he burst out, to come to the Silverbirch. He would say no word till all was arranged, but he knew the folk; many would stay, but some might take the chance to resettle. Mining was a hard task, and the younger men fretted under its yoke. So the king, taking comfort from the Reeve of Corth, allowed himself and Prince Ragnafarr to be given a feast on that summer evening in the town square.

The journey continued, and they came this time to Orobin, on the fringes of the worked-out lands of the Adz. Now it was time for Ragnafarr to stand forth and parley with a new reeve. The seizure of his person some eight years past was not known in the town. Mother Riddisal was dead, but what of her grandsons? A movement at the back of the puzzled crowd was quickly halted, and the eldest of the Riddisal boys was dragged forth. The third grandson tried to steal away, but he was caught, too; only one had left the town years before.

Prince Ragnafarr dealt out swift justice with the help of the Reeve. The waste ground above the town where the old woman's cottage still stood must be cleared and ploughed by the Riddisals and made ready for planting. In the following spring, tree seedlings would be planted; the Tulgai would bring them to the edges of the forest. Slips or cuttings from the townsfolk of Orobin would be welcome in the New Woods, to be planted in the name of the Goddess, who had spared Ragnafarr and his companions.

It might be thought that there was nothing left for Prince Ragnafarr but to go into the forest with his friends, taking to the high trails. But the Prince of the Tulgai excused himself to Sharn Am Zor; he too was honor bound in this place and would hold to a certain ritual. So the party rode on, sticking to the highroad that led northwards across the great border forest to the town of Vigrund. Nights upon the road they camped in well-used clearings beside the highway; a host of unseen watchers went with them all the way, by day and by night. At last they turned up a well-made road leading to the Wulfental Pass and came about mid-morning to the hospice of the Brown Brothers.

It was exactly as Aidris the Queen had described it to her cousin Sharn. There was the perfect round tarn and the bathhouse in a wide green meadow and the sturdy wooden bridge over a ravine. The Brothers came out bowing low, delighted to see the king and his companions, overwhelmed by this great honor. Sharn was a little cool, recalling the harsh welcome given to Kedran Venn and the lovely Sabeth Delbin, traveling into exile.

Ragnafarr and his companions Theranak, Orombek and Lillfor went slowly across the green meadow towards the wooden bridge, the Litch Bridge of the Tulgai that crossed the Lylan, the River of Souls.

Sharn Am Zor went by the prince's side, and presently Ragnafarr said, “It is time, my King!”

The king and the prince embraced and bade each other farewell and promised that they would meet again before too many years had passed. As Sharn retreated a few steps, giving his hand to the little ones, the guardsmen and the brothers and the travelers from the Hermitage, all come to watch the strange ceremony, began to point and cry out. On the far side of the ravine stood a slight figure wearing a golden crown, with two or three others of his height. The edges of the forest teemed with the forest people; the trees were laden to their topmost boughs. The men and women of the Tulgai lifted up their voices in bird calls and ancient chants. Ragnafarr, their prince, walked over the bridge. He returned from the dead with his three companions and was received by Tagnaran, the Balg of the Tulgai, and taken back into the forest.

Sharn Am Zor stayed long enough to use the excellent bathhouse and to eat a meal at the hospice, then he pressed on over the Wulfental Pass into the land of Athron. There was a chill lurking in the narrow valley, even with the summer sun high overhead; they were all glad to come to the watch post that marked the border. A kedran captain came out and saluted.

“Will you let us pass into Athron, Captain?” asked the king, smiling. “I may say that I am a friend of Gerr of Kerrick if that will let me through.”

“By the Carach, sire,” said the captain, looking from one to the other, “I am sure you are his friend and a royal friend at that. I served Frieda, the Lady of Wenns, and I rode with the Morrigar, the Giant Killers.”

So the king, thinking of his cousin as she rode into exile, came to the top of the pass and looked down, as Aidris had done, upon the magic land of Athron. It was a bright and ordered countryside, beautiful, green, newly washed with a light rain. Yet Sharn had a pang of uneasiness; the scrying stone had come to life and stung him a little, so that he drew it out as he rode along. There was nothing to be seen but a sprig of rue in the world of the stone. As the party rode on towards Varda, they passed their first Carach tree and admired it, but the king would not get down and ask the tree's blessing. He quickened his pace on the good high road, and they came swiftly to the outskirts of the capital and to the Owl and Kettle Inn.

The host, a little bouncing man, came running into the yard.

“Good morrow lords!” he cried. “Have you come out of the Chameln lands? Welcome to Athron! You honor our house. I am your host, name of Polken.”

“Good Master Polken,” said Sharn Am Zor, “I thank you for the welcome. I think your inn is already honored. I have come to seek my friend Robillan Hazard.”

There was a low cry from the shadowy doorway of the inn. She came striding out into the yard, a slim, dark woman, almost a beauty, in an Athron gown of dark blue. She moved so well that one hardly saw the injury to her left side. Sharn Am Zor, dismounted now, stood over her without smiling. The innkeeper, too, had a strange look on his clown's face, all the smiles wiped away.

“Little Queen,” said Sharn Am Zor, “are you the one who writes for my friend?”

“I am called Taranelda,” she said. “I am in my right wits, King Sharn, no queen at all. What do you want with my poor Hazard?”

“He is my friend,” said the king. “I owe him a visit.”

“You were in Eildon,” said Taranelda, “with a fleet of ships and a troop of attendants . . .”

“Little Queen,” said Sharn, “I am still not betrothed. My enterprise has not prospered, but the magic kingdom has granted me some understanding. I returned with my followers on the caravel
Caria Rose
and the captain, Raff Mazura, bade me visit Hazard.”

“Ah, he swore an oath!” cried Taranelda.

“He did not break it,” said the king. “In the name of the Goddess, is Hazard very sick?”

“Come!” said Taranelda. “Follow me, Dan Sharn.”

She led him through a side door, past the staircase and the taproom and the noisy kitchens. They came to a sunny corridor, and at the end of it was a door that stood ajar. Taranelda, still with her stricken look, put a finger to her lips and pointed to the door. She gave the king a push.

Sharn Am Zor went on tiptoe down the corridor, fearful of what he might find and swung the door open wider so that he could step in. The room was full of sunlight and the scent of garden flowers. Hazard was seated at a table before the open casement; he looked so like himself, even to his old buff-colored waistcoat, that Sharn could barely keep from crying out his name.