The Summer's King (28 page)

Taranelda buys her bacon and a goose for the Feast Days from the stall of a man who calls himself Hunter. Has she seen him before? Clean-shaven, sandy hair streaked with grey, a look of the forest about him. He speaks little, but she could swear that he has a Lienish accent. Hazard should take a look at the man. Taranelda stands still, holding her market basket, and is engulfed by a wave of despair.

Hazard has been examined by the healers Jalmar Raiz and Gradja Am Gilyan. Several things may contribute to his blindness: years of reading and writing by candlelight; a period of darkness and privation in the Wells; a brainsickness of the kind that takes away the use of a healthy limb; a magic spell of unusual power. Any or all of these things may be at work. Hazard looked his last upon the world one summer morning in Balufir, in a boat rowing out to the
Caria Rose
. A master magician, his enemy, stood upon the dock.

Now in an upper room of Hazard's warm house, Sharn Am Zor sits down with his old friend. He reads back a chapter of that long, fine mock-heroic work “The Tale of Shennazar,” a devastating picture of the courts of Eildon. He drinks mulled wine and peels roasted chestnuts for Hazard. The blind poet and the king gossip and laugh and conspire harmlessly together.

They seldom speak of Rosmer. Hazard has been expressly forbidden the use of spells, charms, potions, for their working cannot be calculated. Sharn Am Zor, seeing the vizier's grand design take shape, how this piece of territory, then that, is added to the Mark of Lien, has some hope that their enemy may be sated and release his hold upon his victims.

Word comes in the new year that Ghanor, the Great King of Mel'Nir, is dead. The old tyrant, wounded on the battlefield, has lingered for many moons in his Palace Fortress. Now Gol, the new king of Mel'Nir, has made a truce with Knaar of Val'Nur, the young lord of the Westmark. By the time the snows have melted, the whole continent of Hylor is at peace.

The brigand Rugal has drawn back into the northeastern mountains. Bajan Am Nuresh, returned from the northern tribes, has no disputes to report. Even the quarrelsome Aroshen of the mountain feoff of Vedan, Tazlo's folk, are peaceful. The Daindru have ridden out together to the Turmut, two years past, and will ride out again in three years.

In the spring, in the Willowmoon, Aidris Am Firn makes a progress through the central highlands to the city of Nevgrod. The royal children and the children of the court, those who saw the rising of the tree, go with her and continue on to spend the summer at Zerrah. Nursemaids, cooks, pages crowd into the wagons and carriages, along with mountains of linen.

It is easy on such a bothersome journey for Jalmar Raiz, the queen's healer, to slip away southwards. It will be given out, if necessary, that he has gone into Athron, to fetch herbs and simples. Even Sharn Am Zor does not know exactly where the healer is going, and he does not wish to know. He fears that this great secret, the hidden presence of Guenna of Lien, in some magic retreat, might be plucked from his brain while he sleeps.

The king is wary of spies, and observes the folk at the courts of the Daindru very carefully. The one person he has come to suspect seems harmless enough and easily diverted. This is part of Hazard's teaching.

First the king asks, “What should be done with a spy?”

And Hazard replies, laughing, “Oh a spy should be encouraged!”

“What do you mean?”

“The spy should be given plenty of freedom, watched most cautiously, fed harmless information . . .”

“And then?”

“The spy may be turned around, made into your own spy, or else arrested and imprisoned.”

These wintry conversations with the blind poet are ended with the approach of spring. It is time for Sharn Am Zor to ride out with his queen to Chernak Hall, to go hawking again in the long valley; soon it will be warm enough for swimming. Above all, it is time to visit the site of Chernak New Palace. An army of men and women have made camp upon the plain: stone masons, bricklayers, laborers and their families. Building is going on everywhere; Denwick builds on his estate beyond the Hain; Seyl has his own hall at North Hodd on the road to Dechar.

Jevon Seyl, heir of an ancient line, numbers among his ancestors Holy Matten, the prophet of Inokoi, the Lame God, as well as many noble men and women of Lien who ran more true to type. His ancestral land, the rich province of Hodd in the northeast corner of Lien, has come gradually into the power of the state. Seyl's widowed mother, Lady Bergit, has no more than the old manor house and its park. Like Denzil of Denwick, a younger son with few prospects, Seyl has done better to throw in his lot entirely with King Sharn, his close friend and cousin, and found his own dynasty in the Chameln lands. For Seyl, at first sight a courtier, shows more and more the makings of a man of judgment, a chancellor for his king.

It is fitting that he should travel into Lien as an envoy from Achamar to the court at Balufir. His mission is to greet the Markgraf Kelen in the name of the Daindru and express concern about the succession. He sets out on this small and peaceful progress with his wife Iliane, quantities of fine clothes, gifts of jewels for the Markgrafin and an escort of guardsmen and kedran. So it is that the Daindru have an excellent witness to a cruel episode in the history of the Mark of Lien.

II

Seyl arrives in early spring and finds all as fresh and fine as ever in Balufir, with no unusual tension at the court. Between Kelen and fair Zaramund there is not so much a coolness as the kind of resignation that grows between those long married. The Markgraf makes discreet visits to his new love, Fideth of Wirth, but she is never seen at court. On the other hand, the Lord Merl of Grays and his three sons are going about at court in great spirits. Some would say that they are proud and overbearing, at least the lord himself and his heir, Dermat. It is clear that they have a hold over Kelen and his vizier, Rosmer. Zaramund will not be put aside. Iliane Seyl, who has a gift for intrigue, comes upon a very strange rumor. Rosmer has a new candidate for the succession, a young man shut up in a tower, a giant of a fellow not quite in his right wits. In the middle of the Willowmoon, the court sets out on its annual progress through the countryside and comes to Nesbath to take the waters.

The old town on the Dannermere, at the confluence of the two rivers, has a dreamlike beauty. Its wide streets, lined with linden trees, are filled with summer villas of pale stone. A wide promontory spreads out into the inland sea; shoals of pleasure craft complete the vistas of Nesbath as they move past on the endless blue.

The Birchmoon passes, unusually warm; all the roses come into bloom before the Villa Pearl, the royal residence. There are displays of fireworks. There is a regatta, somewhat marred by lack of wind. The prize is carried off by Dermat, the Heir of Grays, in his magnificent new sailing boat, the ketch
Huntress
.

Untroubled, Jevon Seyl observes the summer pleasures of the Lienish court. Privately, he and Iliane admit, at last, that these fine folk have become boring. Achamar, at the end of the world, now suits the Seyls better; there is more to do. Iliane misses her two little children, Jevon and Ishbel, now with their nursemaids at Zerrah; even the flattering attentions of the young men have begun to cloy.

Seyl has an interesting encounter with the Lord of Grays on the terrace of the Villa Pearl, typically at dawn after a nightlong revel. They drink kaffee and watch the sun rise over the inland sea. Lord Merl, in an elaborate wig, the latest mode, and a bewildering effulgence of brocade and jewels, has taken off his highheeled shoes to cool his aching feet upon the tiles. Jevon Seyl, dreadfully sober, realizes that the old lord is asking for the support of the Daindru. A compact, an alliance. Some firm agreement over the succession, with the implication that Zaramund, daughter of Grays, will never be put aside. Seyl agrees that this treatment of the Markgrafin would indeed offend King Sharn and Queen Aidris. As for the succession, he will not be drawn.

Some days later Seyl and his lady accept one of the rare invitations from Rosmer. The vizier has requisitioned an old villa near the northern tip of the promontory; he keeps somewhat apart from the rest of the court. The day is called Swan Greeting, traditionally the beginning of summer. There will be a procession to the harbor, and the Markgraf's grand barge will sail to the floating pavilion, an artificial island anchored in the Dannermere.

Rosmer has invited a most select company to see the festival; the Seyls meet Zelline of Grays, Duchess of Chantry, Hal, Duke of Denwick and his red-haired consort from Balbank, and merry old Lord Trench, a local dignitary who happens to be Iliane's uncle. From the upper balcony of this villa there is a perfect view of the dusty, white tree-lined street, the small harbor for pleasure boats and the wide sweep of the inland sea. The company moves continually between the dark chamber, its old-fashioned oaken table set with dainties, for Rosmer has an excellent cook, and the bright balcony.

Rosmer pays particular attention to Jevon Seyl, who believes he is being sounded out over his recent talk with the Lord of Grays. The two men walk in the lovely untended garden, and Rosmer confides that the villa is the property of the Raiz family. He admits, slyly, that Jalmar Raiz might not take kindly to his tenancy.

“Jalmar Raiz has certain gifts, I will allow,” he remarks, smiling, “but his brother, Hagnild Raiz: there is a master of his craft.”

He adds cryptically, “I had proof, living proof, of Hagnild's magic, and the fellow slipped through my fingers. For a Duaring, he was unusually clever. Gone . . . gone . . . swum over the Bal, I don't doubt, back home to Mel'Nir.”

He pauses by the sundial and checks a large pocket watch. Overhead the sky is cloudless; it is exactly midday. Rosmer has changed his black scholar's robe for one of olive-green; he wears a soft falling ruff without starch. He begins to complain of the Lord of Grays, a tyrant, holding the realm of Lien to ransom for a few paltry debts. Jevon Seyl puts in a word at last: the Daindru are concerned by rumors about the succession.

“Have no fear,” says Rosmer gently, with his sidelong look. “The Markgrafin Zaramund will never be put aside.”

They are hailed from the balcony by golden-haired Zelline and Iliane with dark ringlets tumbling over her smooth shoulders. The procession is approaching, the ladies cry, the refreshments have been served.

Seyl has racked his brains ever since as to the exact sequence of events. What can he recall? The chamber, dark after the sunlight, the marvellous wine. Rosmer certainly is absent for minutes at a time but always returns unruffled. On the balcony the Duchess of Denwick gives her hearty laugh. The procession is made up of decorated carriages drawn by young men dressed as birds, animals and trees. It is pretty enough but badly organized, full of amusing mistakes.

There is a lengthy pause in the proceedings while the royal barge is made ready. Beside it at the wharf is moored the
Huntress
, also hung with garlands. The Markgraf Kelen can be seen striding about on the deck of his barge, all in white with a red hat. Zaramund, his consort, is wearing blue; the ladies agree that it suits her. The sky is no longer cloudless. Seyl remembers a breeze that blows in his face, a south wind? A west wind?

The royal barge begins to move, poled by sturdy boatmen, and then sticks fast. Denwick's footman is sent running to the harbor to find out the cause of the delay. Even before the man comes running back, Iliane points to the
Huntress
, which has always been ready to sail. Now Zaramund may be seen going aboard her brother's new boat, together with a lady-in-waiting.

The footman reports that the royal barge is unseaworthy; it has sprung a leak and is filling with water. The Markgraf is angry with his sailing master, and he has refused to sail with the
Huntress
, in the company of his wife's relatives. Zaramund has saved the day, saved the ceremony by going alone. There is a good deal of mischievous amusement on the balcony when this tale is told.

Meantime the
Huntress
speeds out into the inland sea, spreading her painted sails, drawing in her wake long flower garlands in honor of Swan Greeting. The floating pavilion shimmers in the haze of early afternoon about two miles from shore. The wind is blowing strongly now, a warm wind that comes in gusts. When the
Huntress
rounds the pavilion, rockets are fired, white and green.

Seyl, seeing that the traditional cruise will be completed very quickly in the sailing boat, goes indoors to replenish his glass. The room is stifling; old Lord Trench sits in a corner singing to himself. Rosmer comes from the direction of the stairs, a tapestry lifts as he passes. They stand together at the end of the table, Rosmer with his cuffs turned back, his hands clasped, nothing up his sleeves. Out on the balcony Iliane begins to scream loudly.

Jevon Seyl races out again, overturning a chair as he goes. Iliane goes on screaming until Mechtild of Denwick slaps her face briskly; Denwick is leaning perilously over the balcony shouting for his servants. Zelline stands very still, then when Seyl comes to her side, raises her hand and points.

The Dannermere has been whipped up into grey foam-crested wavelets. Where the
Huntress
sailed, close hauled upon a jibe, there is a depression in the water, a patch of turbulence. There is a streak of red that Seyl recognizes with horror as the long masthead pennant. As he watches, this too is drawn under into the waters of the inland sea.

There is hideous confusion on the wharf below; a tangle of small craft attempt to go to the rescue. Seyl sees two boatmen from the royal barge plunge into the water and begin swimming. The floating pavilion appears to have slipped its mooring in the squall and is canted crazily in the water with the few servants who let off the rockets clinging to its deck. Seyl turns his head and sees Rosmer still with his hands clasped standing on the balcony. His face is expressionless.