The Summer's King Read online

  “Zilly,” said Sharn Am Zor, “it won’t do. It is a damnable thing this brain shaking, but the captain knows what is best. Stay here till I come. Let the captain bring you down to my bower. We will bring home crowns of oak leaves.”

  II

  The city of Lindriss was shrouded again in that drifting magical mist that the Chameln party recognized from their arrival, but in the familiar green fields before the Hall of the Kings the sun was shining brightly. As they rode up, a great concourse of citizens cheered Shennazar and then, to a skirl of bagpipe music, cheered King Diarmut Mack Dahl, who had ridden another way. Far from being a stiff knightly contest, the Tourney of All Trees was a popular festival. Heralds and marshals stood about in the livery of the knightly orders, and a way was quickly made for the two kings. As they rode on slowly past the lists, the tilt-ground, the race course, all decorated with green boughs and garlands, Sharn heard the marshals sorting the folk into “order of estate.” He and Diarmut were presently dismounted, and so they walked forward alone, two kings, towards the pillared porch of the Hall of the Kings, and behind them were the Princes, Borss Paldo, Beren Pendark, Gwalchai Tramarn and the Princess Gaveril Tramarn, in riding dress, and the Margrave of March, an aged lord from the west, together with his lady, and the two dukes of the southern cantreyn, Greddach and Wencaer. Then came the seven Eorls of Eildon, and lords, carrying branched staves, and the knights and their ladies, all blazoned with their own crests and those of the three orders. Then came all the people of Lindriss and the countryside, still sorted by the marshals into order of estate, until they gave up and let a host of prentices, servants, tinkers, beggars mill about, climbing on each others’ shoulders to see what went on before the hall.

  The trumpets sounded a long fanfare, and there followed a silence broken at last by the sound of harp music. Along the grey pillared porch of the hall came a line of men in white robes, walking from the west and a line of women in white and blue, walking from the east. The druda and the priestesses, the dagdaren, all wore their years; some were old, very old, the men white-bearded, but others were still young, no older than Sharn himself. Sharn Am Zor, afraid of his own impatience, prayed that the ceremony would not last long. The strange music soothed him; he could hold out, he knew it, and Aidris would have been proud of him.

  The ceremony closed with a mighty chorus in which all the men and women of Eildon gathered there in the meadows sang together with great power and sweetness. The druda and the priestesses were gone; the games began.

  Down on the banks of the brook the prentices of Lindriss watched the oxen roasting or chased the greasy pig. Archery, horse races, sword play and tilting went on all at once. A kern or kedran might outshoot or outride a knight or nobleman; only the jousting was for knights alone. It was true that no prizes were given except for garlands of oak and willow, but more than honor could be gained. Bets were laid in coin or in kind upon every contest and rich gifts of meat, game, fruit or wine were lavished upon those who had brought the gamblers a winning. When Tazlo won his first horse race, he was cheered by a clutch of prentices and their sweethearts and presented with a fat goose.

  As he debated whether or not to accept the humble gift—he was, after all, a king’s champion—the escort sergeant who acted as his groom hissed, “Take it, for the Goddess, Count Ahrosh, we have trouble enough with fresh food in this place!”

  It was clear that the tourney held certain dangers for anyone of high degree who deigned to take part. A prince or lord who stood forth with all comers had honor to lose while a contestant of humble estate had not. The notion of a king, even the outland king of Kemmelond, trounced at the shooting butts by some sharp-eyed kedran or hardy forester, was enough to shock the Eildon nobility. When Sharn Am Zor strolled over with his escort, he found the fool at his side in yellow and green motley with his midgets trotting at his heels.

  “Oh Shennazar . . .” sang the fool very softly and sweetly,

  “Unstring your bow, the wind blows cold,

  Some country lad will hit the gold . . .”

  “What do you mean?” asked the king.

  “Does Shennazar really shoot so well?”

  “Yes,” said Sharn Am Zor flatly.

  He strode up to the place where Britt and the escort were holding his bows and called over his shoulder to the fool.

  “Place yourself a wager, my lord fool, for the honor of our faraway home!”

  The fool scowled and led his followers to a little mound where they could watch the king. Sharn Am Zor addressed himself to the targets, which were mounted upon hollow “trees” made of straw and daub that could be moved about by men inside their trunks.

  So, hour after hour on that cloudless day in the meadow before the Hall of the Kings, he shot with tireless precision and grace. Foresters, kedran, country champions came and went; the targets went to their farthest distance; the short bow was used for “false hares” moved on wires and “woodcocks” ejected from the tops of the trees; still the king of the Chameln hardly wasted an arrow. He was at first a gold mine for those laying bets: a cartload of thank offerings grew beside the fool and the king’s guard until the odds shortened.

  Sharn Am Zor drank water and ate sparingly. Word was brought from the lists and the race track: Gerr of Zerrah held his own splendidly against a variety of opponents and Tazlo fared well in the short distances. Prince Gwalchai excelled in swordplay with the light blade, while the King of the Isles and one of his champions defeated all comers with the broadsword.

  So the king went on, untroubled, smiling at last, free from care for a moment, as if he were practicing at the shooting butts in the garden of the Zor palace or flying his hawks on the side of the long valley. Few of the better folk came to watch him, but the commoners of Eildon saw and remembered his performance on that bright day and said simply: “He shoots like a king.” In after years there was a common adage “to shoot like Shennazar” meaning “to hit the mark.”

  About the fourth hour of afternoon the garlands were given, to the king and to the two bowmen who had lasted longest against him, an old forester and a young esquire from the Tramarn household. There came a trumpet call, and a marshal approached; the crowd began to whisper and rustle with excitement. Sir Mortrice of Malm came up, dismounted and came with the marshal to the king.

  “Majesty,” said the knight, “you have won much honor!”

  “I have had a good day,” said Sharn Am Zor, “and so have these fine fellows.”

  “There is a custom to be followed,” said Sir Mortrice. “The Grand Champion will be decided by the use of Ravedd’s bow.”

  The marshal unwrapped a long silken package, and in it lay a black bow, shorter than a longbow and strongly curved above and below the grip, which was inlaid with gold and ivory. The old archer, the forester, stepped back shaking his head, and the esquire did the same.

  “Sire,” said Britt to the king in a low voice. “I think there is some magic in the black bow.”

  “So do I,” said Sharn Am Zor. “Tell me plainly Sir Mortrice, is there magic in this bow? Where does it come from?”

  “Prince Ravedd Pendark brought it back long ago from an expedition to the Burnt Lands,” said Sir Mortrice, “and there is magic in it. The bow will not allow everyone to handle it. Yet it is the custom to shoot with this bow every year in the spring and to wish for good fortune for the land of Eildon.”

  “These two archers have refused to shoot with Ravedd’s bow,” said Captain-General Britt. “Should our king . . .”

  “Pardon me, Captain,” said the marshal, “these men are not of high estate. It is a matter of honor.”

  “I have been made an offer that I must not refuse,” said the king smiling. “Peace, Britt, I have no fear of the black bow. The blood of Pendark runs in my veins, too.”

  He picked up the black bow, fitted the bow string and tightened it easily.

  “I will use a Chameln arrow,” he said. “What distance, Marshal?”

  The marsh
al had one of the target trees set on a mark in the middle distance. Sharn tested the bow a little and felt in it a strong resistance, a strength greater than its size, which yielded to him.

  At last he took the arrow from his own quiver and said, “I wish all in Eildon good harvest and good hunting!”

  Then he stepped up, took aim and with a singing note of the bowstring, the arrow flew straight to the mark. The crowd cheered, but for Sharn Am Zor time had stopped, and the noises round about were hushed except for one loud cry and the clash of metal. The moment passed; the marshal took back Ravedd’s bow. Sharn forced himself to smile upon all those who cheered and wished him well. He left the archery ground wreathed in green garlands, Grand Champion of the Bow, and strode off across the meadow towards the tent of his escort with its Chameln banner, near the lists. He saw Tazlo, on foot, wearing garlands himself, running towards him with two guardsmen and knew their message before they uttered a word.

  “My King,” gasped Tazlo, “Gerr of Zerrah is down. The knight Pellasur struck him down. They have brought him to the tent.”

  Sharn quickened his pace, climbed a low hill to the tent, seeing anxious faces. His guards and some of the Eildon servants who worked in the lists scattered as he approached, making a pathway. Then he was inside the hot tent that reeked of crushed grass. Gerr lay on a trestle, his head supported by a folded saddlecloth. His face, tanned by the sun, now had an ugly greyish pallor; his eyes were closed. Captain Ruako was wrenching off portions of the knight’s strip mail, hacking with a knife at his undertunic. A thick splinter of wood and metal from Sir Pellasur’s lance had penetrated the left side of Gerr’s chest, high up near the armpit. Now the healer took a firm hold, motioned to his assistants who held the fainting knight firmly to the table. He drew out the splinter, and blood followed it; Gerr gave a loud cry of pain and opened his eyes.

  “My King . . .” he whispered.

  “Praise to the Goddess that you still live, good Zerrah!” said Sharn.

  “Ill . . . fortune . . .” said Gerr. “By Carach, Captain, that salve of yours smarts . . .”

  “Do not speak, lord,” said the healer. “Give him a sip of water, no more.”

  Sharn Am Zor came round the trestle, took the beaker from the ensign and held it to Gerr’s lips. He thought of a high-vaulted old hall and a table covered with featherbeds. Aidris lay face down on them, pale as the linen, and Jalmar Raiz went to draw out the arrow. An old woman, one of the elders of Musna village, hustled him away down the hall, would not let him watch. He heard Aidris, the bravest person he knew besides his father, give a cry of pain.

  Britt murmured in the king’s ear.

  “Sir Pellasur’s esquire is without. The knight will know how Count Zerrah is doing.”

  “Tell him he does well enough,” said the king.

  He moved away and stood with Tazlo in a corner of the stuffy tent. They tried to smile, and Tazlo told him haltingly, then with more heart, of the races he had won. Captain Ruako turned aside now and came to the king.

  “It is not life-threatening, sire,” he said. “Count Gerr will need some nursing.”

  “Did you see the joust?” asked the king.

  “It was an evil chance,” said Ruako. “Pellasur and Gerr were well matched. It was the last round but one. The knight’s lance caught and splintered—luckily it was not on the Count’s helm.”

  Sharn Am Zor felt a furious irritation; the whole world was bent on crossing him in great things as in small. Life was no more than a series of discomforts, even though he was a king. He made no reply to the healer, but frowned and went out into the afternoon sunshine. There was a strange silence; he was afraid that some other champion had been cut down.

  The fool spoke up from among the tent ropes: “King Sharn, it is the Summoning!”

  A small mounted procession came up to the tent, and a white-clad herald blew a brief trumpet call. An old man in a white robe and mounted upon a splendid white horse was the leader. He had something of a martial air about him, but he was not dressed as a knight. The king recognized him partly from his companions: a woman and a younger man riding darker horses.

  “Sharn Am Zor,” said Dravyd, the messenger of the Falconers. “We have come to summon you to your vigil in the White Tower.”

  “Now? At once?” said the king. “Good Master Dravyd, let me change my clothes at least and see to my people. My champion, Gerr of Kerrick, Count Zerrah, has been wounded.”

  “May the Goddess spare this scion of a noble house,” said Dravyd. “You must come at once, King Sharn. You are honor bound to mount up and follow.”

  “Master Summoner!” exclaimed Captain-General Britt with some heat, “This is our king you are summoning. He cannot ride off unescorted. We, his guardsmen, are honor bound to protect him!”

  “The king may take an esquire,” said Dravyd.

  “My King . . .” murmured Tazlo Am Ahrosh.

  Sharn saw a flicker of anxiety cross Britt’s face; even the young man from the north was not enough protection for his liking. Yet there was nothing else for it.

  “Mount up then, Tazlo,” said Sharn Am Zor in exasperation.

  He stripped off the garlands from his wrists and from his neck and held them out to the fool.

  “Farr the Fool,” he murmured seriously, “stay with my folk in Sennick Fortress and help them. I swear I will give you all that your heart desires.”

  Then the fool bowed his head and his smaller companions seized the garlands. One of them kissed the king’s hand and said, “Go well, King Sharn!”

  Tazlo Am Ahrosh turned his head sharply; the little man had used the Old Speech.

  The king mounted up on his trusty Eildon steed, which was called Blaze, and Tazlo was on his second mount, a bay called Trueheart. They followed the Messengers across the field and saw the King of the Isles summoned with as little ceremony from his tent by the Swordsmen’s Yard. Then they came further to the tent of the Falconers, and there Prince Gwalchai was waiting, already mounted, with his esquire who was a kedran officer. So they came past the stand before the lists, and the Eildon nobility waved their hands and cheered the two kings and the prince as they went by to their vigil. The procession moved to the porch of the Hall of the Kings again, and where the priests had stood, there were now the heads of the knightly orders with their banners. Prince Borss Paldo was their speaker:

  “Go now, brave knights and warriors,” he said, “go to your vigil and your quest. You are honor bound to return here to this place no sooner than the meeting day, two moons from now, and give account of yourselves. You may ask the Council a boon at that time.”

  The king’s head whirled with questions. Two moons? A vigil and a quest? A boon from the Council? What if they all asked the same boon, the hand of the Princess Moinagh? Would the business of contests, magic, the formal and friendless life they had been living in Lindress, begin all over again?

  Dravyd and Nieva and Gil rode on in silence, taking a path that led round the Hall of the Kings and through smooth parkland. It was late afternoon; they were riding to the north. The setting sun hid behind a low hill, and in twilight they came at last to the White Tower. It was a very old and solid keep built of huge blocks of crudely dressed stone, whitewashed like a farmer’s cottage, with the original grey of the stone showing through in places. It rose up on a flat green field without any trace of fortifications; to the right and left were the colleges of the druda and the dagdaren—long low buildings with hedged gardens.

  On the green lawn before the arched entrance of the tower grew trees of various heights, planted in no special pattern. It was hard to count these trees; as Sharn Am Zor looked from one to the other, he was amazed by each separate tree, by its beauty or its power or its strangeness. That must be the Carach. Almost involuntarily he sent out a prayer to the Carach, saying, “Care for your countryman, poor Gerr of Kerrick Hall, injured in the lists!” There was an oak, twined with mistletoe, and there a sea-oak, bearded with moss, and there a conif
er unknown to him, very narrow and dark, and there a bulbous tree with roots hanging in the air. As they dismounted, still in silence, young druda in their white robes came and led the horses away. The Messengers led the way down a broad pebbled path to the entrance of the tower, and at last Sharn saw the black tree, the Skelow, grown a cloth yard high in the year since it had come into Eildon. It stood to the left of the path, and he wished he might run and kneel down beside it. All he could do was call to it in his mind: “Skelow, I am here, come from the Palace of the Zor at Achamar, from your parent tree, my old dark companion.”

  III

  He woke with an effort as he had done so many times before and saw that the candles beside the altar stone had hardly burnt down. It was the fourth night, and they were still on the cold stone, still keeping vigil, stripped of their rank, showered with the sacred spring water and wrapped in curious garments. Sharn fingered the stuff of his cloak: it was like nothing at all, like mist, its color a brown-purple-grey, mole color perhaps. It kept him warm, so warm that like all the others he fell asleep in the huge cold hall during the nightlong vigils. He saw that Gwalchai’s kedran was wide awake, while her master dozed, kneeling. The woman, Edrith, was the oldest; then Kenzie, the esquire of Diarmut. Both the island men were sitting cross-legged, upright, staring straight ahead, entranced. Tazlo had fallen from a kneeling position a body length away; if he slept too long, one of the druda would come and waken him. Sharn drew up his long legs and hugged his knees; his body ached.

  The vast hall was open to the sky. He had watched the stars overhead during these long nights: was that the Hunter winking a red eye at him? There were wooden galleries circling the interior of the white tower, their pillars made of tree trunks, dwarfed by the masonry. The altar of the Goddess was a single block of white stone flanked by thick candles and decorated with stone urns of spring flowers. Sharn knew that visions were often vouchsafed to true worshippers during a vigil, but he had seen none. A trio of priestesses came in every night and swept and garnished the altar and the place before it.