The Summer's King (34 page)

He exchanged a warning glance with the king. His question was answered. The three dark riders threw back their hoods and spurred forward: a shock-headed young man, Ilmar of Inchevin; his sister, Derda, in white Chameln dress; and their father, Lord Inchevin. He was a fearsome sight, very pale with wild hair, his inflamed eyes glittering under matted brows. When the king saw the mad old lord, like Tazlo more than a hundred miles from his own territory, he knew what must be played out, here upon the plain. He was delivered into the hands of his enemies.

Derda, the Starry Maid, spoke up first in her clear mincing voice. “Prince Carel Am Zor, will you not say that the king has changed?”

Carel had followed the whole encounter in a state of bewilderment, breathless, looking first at Tazlo, then at the king. He had, although he did not know it, the power to lessen the danger to his brother, to gain some breathing space. He hesitated, staring at the king. He gave the same nervous laugh as his brother, fascinated by the sublime unreason of the thing.

He said loudly, “Changed? Yes, I suppose . . .”

Tazlo plunged in again.

“The true king is dead! This Eildon spirit came to me out of an old water fortress called Gwanlevan and it goes about in his image. I doubted him at that moment. He had no sense of honor. We came out of Eildon in disgrace. We came in the caravel of the Pretender, the False Sharn from Dechar who struck at the king's right. Was this my old liege and master?”

“No king!” croaked Inchevin. “No king but a mischievous spirit out of Eildon!”

“Uncle!” said the king sharply. “Was it a spirit who recalled the Inchevin to court and gave them gold?”

“Yes,” said the mad lord, nodding his head. “Yes, yes, you did all this. You must appease us.”

“Father,” said Derda. “We must honor the true prince, Carel Am Zor.”

“So we must!” breathed Inchevin. “My royal lord, mount up and ride with my daughter. Come to us!”

“Hey boy!” cried Ilmar suddenly. “Hey Salamander! Come to horse!”

Derda lifted a hand and removed a clasp so that her golden hair flowed over her shoulders. Her arms were bare, and her tunic of fine linen showed the swelling curve of her breasts.

“Come, my dear lord,” she said. “Ride out with me.”

Carel flushed, looked at the ground and made no move. As a temptress the Starry Maid was awkward and cold.

Tazlo Am Ahrosh said, “Carel, you must come. For your honor!”

The king tried to catch his brother's eye and draw him closer.

“Go along with them!” he ordered, as low as he could. “They will not harm you. Save yourself!”

“Hey, hey secrets!” hooted young Ilmar. “Speak up, false king. Will you poison our true prince with your lying talk?”

Kogor and Engist were drawn again and roared out in protest. The king stood up at last.

“Carel!” he said loudly. “Ride out with the Inchevin. They will not harm you. Do you see what is played out here?”

Carel stared at his brother and shook his head.

“No. . . . No, I . . .”

“It is treason!” said Sharn Am Zor. “It is a clumsy attempt to seize the throne of the Zor. They will put me and my children aside with this weak-brained notion of an Eildon imposter. You will inherit, wedded to the lady Derda.”

“But I am not . . .” faltered Carel.

The king came to his brother's side.

“No!” he said, low and fierce. “You are not the heir. They have taken me, they will try to take Merilla and her children. Ride with them. Save yourself. Warn the Chiel.”

Prince Carel sprang away from his brother and mounted Ayvid. For an instant it seemed that he might ride off alone, southwards or to the river. His horse was as fast as any there and he rode well. He might have drawn off some of the lurking horsemen in pursuit. Instead he walked Ayvid round the valley to the north. Derda came to his side, smiling, and so did young Ilmar; the three young people rode off together. Carel's words came back to those left behind.

“What will they do to my brother?”

The king laughed sadly. Then the three riders were out of earshot. Inchevin raised his hand. Captain Kogor drew his sword and almost came to horse before he was struck down. Engist, who had almost lost his king once before, flew into a sort of god-rage. He hurled a lump of rock at Tazlo and caught him in the shoulder. He flew at a man on foot and attacked him with a hunting knife.

“Mount up, my king!” he shouted.

Sharn grappled with the swordsman who had killed Kogor. Engist gave a choking cry and fell back across the table stone with an arrow in his breast. Two men on foot had seized the king, but he flung them off and came to Engist. He knelt down, cradling the old man in his arms. Engist breathed the name of his king once and died, blood pouring from his mouth. Sharn Am Zor rose up slowly wiping his hands on his tunic. He stared at the men at arms, and some could not meet his eyes.

“Hear me!” he said. “You are all lost men! Tazlo! Inchevin! Your lives are forfeit from this hour!”

Then he was seized and his arms pinioned.

“Show yourself!” said Tazlo Am Ahrosh. “Take your true shape!”

“You must be sure that I have no other shape!” said the king.

“Tell us your true name, spirit!” said Lord Inchevin.

“You know it well!” said the king. “I am Sharn Am Zor, and I hold to my right!”

Yuri woke from a long dream of the lands below the world. Black men and women linked arms, chanting and stamping on the packed earth. It was night in his dream; suddenly a wailing cry arose, and he knew that it meant danger. He was wide awake in his pallet bed in the storeroom of the hunting lodge. It was late, almost noon by the pattern of the sunlight on the wall. Two men were outside the lodge, strangers, walking their horses. The sense of danger was overpowering. Yuri seized his breeches and boots; he crept on all fours to the south window of the storeroom. The wooden shutters were unfastened; he went out over the sill and lay in the long grass.

The men strode into the lodge and went from room to room. He watched them from behind a shutter: strange men at arms, grim-faced men. One man said, “. . .
if it is the king . . .
” The other had a blood-stained green scarf wrapped around his right forearm; it was Engist's neckerchief from his hunting dress. The men took nothing from the lodge; he heard them go into the thatched lean-to, which served as a stable and as a mews for the king's hawks. There was only one horse in the stable: his own Chameln grey. Presently there were shouts and cursing, then the men laughed. The great hillfalcon soared up over the lodge and across the river: the men were setting free the king's hawks. Yuri did not wait to see any more; he stole from tree to tree until he was out of sight of the lodge. There he dressed himself and ran headlong down the track to Chiel Hall. He ran by day and by night, hardly resting, and on the second day he met Lieutenant Dann and old Réo returning to the lodge. When they heard his story, Dann returned with Yuri to Chiel Hall to raise the alarm; old Réo rode on with his dog to scout about and find out what he could.

The conspirators and their prisoner rode to the north. For Sharn this was the worst of all, a dull agony of mind and body. At first his hands were bound behind him so that he fell to the ground from Redwing's back several times; then his hands were bound in front so that he could steady himself. He was swathed in a stifling black cloak and hood; he could not see the way; Redwing made sounds of pain; the horse was on a leading rope. Sometimes his senses were acute; he listened as they rode and at night in their camps. Besides Tazlo Am Ahrosh and Lord Inchevin, there were eight men-at-arms, four who were followers of Inchevin and four from the Aroshen.

At night he lay in a narrow tent; he was fed on rye bread and given water to drink. A man of the Aroshen brought him wine and scraps of mutton. Sharn's throat was dry; he could hardly speak. He asked after Redwing; the horse should be well cared for. The men had orders not to speak to the prisoner.

Once he woke from a long peaceful dream of the Zor palace and felt a hand tugging at the rings on his fingers. He cried out. Tazlo Am Ahrosh knelt before him, half inside the narrow tent.

“Where is the seal ring?” he demanded. “The ring with the double oak!”

“In the valley of the stones,” said the king. “I slipped it off and hid it in the grass by the table stone.”

“Work some magic!” said Tazlo. “Or Inchevin will have you shot like a hind!”

“You are a murderer,” said the king. “You murdered poor Bladel, the southerner, long ago in that snowfall. I have remembered how he set me upon Redwing and you came by.”

He shut his eyes and tried to dream again.

On another night he got wind of his Uncle Inchevin close beside him in the darkness.

“Spirit,” said the mad lord. “Spirit, you will be saved. Only climb to the top of the tree and pluck down the golden bird.”

“I am no spirit, Uncle.”

“I have the knowledge,” said Inchevin. “I have consulted a great wizard of the south.”

The king, weakened from his captivity, began to tremble.

“Tell me . . .” he whispered.

“I must confront a spirit in its true shape,” said Inchevin, “and order it to bring me the formula.”

“I am your king,” said Sharn Am Zor. “I am your liege lord and your kinsman.”

“Ahrosh has seen the truth,” said Inchevin. “Relent, spirit, or you must run the long field . . .”

“Uncle, I am a mortal man!”

The king shut his eyes and called in his mind again to Aidris, his co-ruler and to his sister, Merilla, and Carel, his brother. Did they not all have the Eildon blood that would heighten their magical powers? He dreamed of his dear wife Lorn so clearly that he believed she must see him in her own dreams and feel his touch. He saw his children sleeping, saw how they moved in their sleep. He dreamed that Hazard came to him, smiling, no longer blind, and said: “This is your birthday, lad!” He awoke in the chill morning upon the plain and could not tell how many days had passed.

At last the path beneath his horse's hooves began to wind uphill. His enveloping cloak was flung back by his captors. For a long time he was dazzled by the sunlight, then he understood where he was. He had been brought far to the north; the party was riding up a trail on the eastern shore of Lake Oncardan. They came to a green plateau high above the lake, ringed with fir trees. Among the pointed firs, at the end of the long field, was a troop of riders in pointed hats.

The leader came prancing forth on a fat, shining little horse, brown and white. Lord Inchevin and Tazlo Am Ahrosh hung in their saddles a moment before they spurred round the king, their prisoner, and rode out to parley with Rugal of the Skivari. Sharn Am Zor, unkempt, filthy and in pain, straightened up a little.

“For shame!” he said. “For shame, you lords of the Chameln lands!”

He became aware of the cliff edge at his back and below the waters of the lake. A sudden, swift movement—poor Redwing would obey, would ride upon the air for his master. He would cheat these madmen and traitors. At this moment he saw the tents at the end of the field and colored markers on either side, among the trees. He saw the shape of the course that would be run and he clung to his life a little longer, thinking what might be done.

Now the king was urged forward by his guards of the Inchevin and the Aroshen. He was brought face to face with Rugal. The Terror from the East had a fierce golden countenance; his slanted eyes and strong mouth, ornamented with the drooping threads of his moustache, reminded the king of no living man but of a demon mask in the museum at Balufir. Rugal, in his turn, beheld a pale, straight-featured man, taller than the tallest Skivari, with bright hair and wild eyes of a deep and brilliant blue. So each man looked upon a foreign devil.

To the king's surprise Rugal had the common speech; his voice was clear and light.

“A king?” he asked, looking at his Chameln allies. “A king or a demon?”

He indicated that he would speak to the prisoner alone; Tazlo Am Ahrosh and Lord Inchevin reluctantly gave way.

Rugal said to the king, “King or demon, you are caught in a trap!”

“How goes your arrow wound that I gave you by the town of Threll?” asked Sharn.

Rugal smiled. “That proves you are a demon,” he said, “for I cannot be harmed by mortal men!”

The king saw that he was joking. Rugal knew him for a mortal and did not share the madness of Lord Inchevin.

Rugal said then, “The Skivari will have all these lands round about. He will come and come again until we get them. Grant me Vedan and the Inchevin lands, and I will save your life.”

“Rugal,” said the king simply, “I would rather die!”

The war lord bowed his head and rode off down the field. The king was brought after him to a tall green tent of the Skivari, standing apart from the rest of the camp. He was allowed to wash himself and was offered hot food, but he ate very sparingly and lay down to sleep.

No one was supposed to enter or leave the camp on the long field, but during the hours of darkness one man of the Aroshen slipped away. He came down to the farther shore of the lake where the horde of the Aroshen were encamped and the followers of Lord Inchevin and, in wilder country towards the gorge of the Chind, the Skivari. He knew that they waited for the raising of the banners. He saw a splendid white birch lodge built by the Aroshen and hung with banners of the Inchevin and the Zor, in white and gold and sky blue. This was to house the “True Rulers,” the Starry Maid and the True Prince, but he could not tell if they were within. The man of the Aroshen passed quickly through the camp of his countrymen, stole a horse and made off into the lands of the Durgashen. The king was held on the plateau for a day and a night and another day. At midnight on the second night, the sound of a drum was heard in the camp by the long field. A shaman had come down from the hills.