The Summer's King Read online

  The king was in a strange mood, not sullen, but given to long silences as they rode out upon the plain. Carel was in high spirits, like his new mount, and took it ill when the captain suggested that he was using his horse too hard in the summer’s heat. Sharn Am Zor, waiting in the shade of a wilting birch grove, hardly knew the young man who came riding out of the heat haze. Carel was like no one at all, only like himself: brown-haired, brown-faced, still inclined to plumpness, his eyes blue-green.

  Sharn Am Zor tried to come closer in their conversation to things of childhood, to Alldene and Queen Aravel. The letters in his pouch, which should have been a cause for rejoicing, now weighed upon his spirit. He saw how far divided he was from Carel and believed that the division was mainly his fault. The prince was tense and alert, his jokes all seemed forced. He shied away from Sharn’s faltering attempts to speak of the past in Lien and had no patience with tales of Achamar.

  Because the summer was so hot, they rode by night and made a detour to a sheepfold with a good well and shelter for the horses during the heat of the day. As they moved on from this place, Sharn became convinced that they were following the very same trail that he had taken years ago with his father, driving the pony cart. The countryside began to change; they saw before them the forest and grassland that spread out from the river Chind, and in the hard, blue distance, the eastern mountains. At last, early one morning, they came riding up to Greybear Lodge among its sheltering trees. A thread of smoke rose from the chimney, horses whinnied, a dog barked. Out came Engist, grey-bearded indeed, and a thickset Firnish fellow with a dog at his heels: Jarn Réo, the elder hawkmaster.

  It was sixteen days since the king left Chernak New Palace, ten since the party set out from North Hodd. The travelers rested and swam and explored the river banks. The king went out several times with Réo and the hawks that were kept at the lodge. On another day the whole party forded the river a mile downstream from Greybear and hunted for small game until nightfall, bringing home more than they could use.

  The king would spend his birthday at the lodge; he set no store by it, but the men thought of feasting their lord and drinking his health. A cask had leaked in the storeroom so that the wine was running low. It was arranged that Lieutenant Dann and old Réo would ride to Chiel Hall for more wine and dainties for the king’s feast and bring Princess Merilla and her family a gift of gamebirds.

  The hunters had seen no one in the wilderness: no other hunters, no shepherds or travelers upon the plain. Chiel Hall seemed worlds away. Sharn Am Zor sat outside the lodge in the twilight watching the stars come out. A trout leaped in the silver waters of the Chind; Carel walked about snatching at fireflies; Yuri sat with his back against a tree. When the king had gone indoors, Yuri followed him shortly, saying that a fire could be seen over the river to the north. Everyone went out and stared at the small flickering light in the darkness over the river. Engist, who knew the countryside well by this time, said that it must be a campfire on the side of Bald Hill. The king and his brother took a nightcap of apple brandy, and the whole party turned in. Carel had come up with a plan to take a longer ride in the morning. His horse, he said, was fretting for lack of proper exercise and old Redwing was positively fat from the lush grass near the lodge.

  Yuri did not hunt and was not called upon to take part in the early morning ride. The king dressed himself and so did Prince Carel. When Yuri awoke, there was only a smell of breakfast in the air; he was alone. He turned over and went to sleep again.

  It was a cool morning; the summer was coming to an end at last. Carel led the way upon Ayvid and then came Captain Kogor upon his black gelding; after them came the king on Redwing and Engist upon Sorrel, a massive light-colored Lowlander. They rode far out on the plain, five miles or more from the lodge on the riverbank. The prince was in fine fettle, putting Ayvid through his paces, breaking off to chase a hare that rose up in his path. At length he turned back in a wide curve and led the party to a shallow valley at the foot of a down, a place they called the Valley of the Stones.

  One huge flat stone or piece of masonry lay in the midst of the valley and smaller stones, very worn, grew up out of the grass; it was like a giant’s hall with a table. The king had wondered, when he first saw the place, whether the table formation was in fact a grave, the resting place of some ancient chieftain. Now he dismounted and sat down at the head of this table on a convenient hump of rock. Engist brought out food and drink from his saddlebag. It was getting on towards midmorning and the day was warm but not bright; a film of cloud hid the sun.

  Carel, who was more restless than ever, made some sound. The king looked towards the north. A clear line of demarcation could be seen between the brown grass of the plain and the green of the river lands, tree-shaded. A party of riders had come out of the tree half a mile away; the leaders, four horsemen in dark cloaks, came on at a steady pace over the plain. The king felt a thrill of alarm even though these were Chameln riders, his own subjects. Kogor and Engist seemed to feel the same; they both stood up and moved towards the king.

  Carel said in an ill-governed voice, “Do you see who it is, brother?”

  The king did not see; no one saw who it was. Then, as the leaders were very close, one, mounted on a Chameln grey, came forward. Kogor spoke sharply to Engist; the king did not stir.

  Carel cried out, “It is Tazlo! It is Count Ahrosh!”

  Sharn Am Zor cursed under his breath, cursed his brother. His first thought was that Carel had arranged this “chance meeting” upon the plain so that Tazlo could plead for an end to his banishment. In after years it became a matter of hot dispute: Had the prince done only this innocent service for his friend? The young man from the north rode forward to the very edge of the giant’s board; he stared boldly at the king. Tazlo Am Ahrosh had a desperate look; he had not come to plead for anything. At his back his three companions remained hooded and wrapped in their black cloaks in the heat of the day. Further back there was a movement as armed riders dispersed north and south to surround the Valley of the Stones.

  Tazlo cried out, “Greetings to Prince Carel Am Zor! What is done here was the blessing of the Goddess!”

  “I doubt that,” said the king quietly. “Who rides with you, Count Ahrosh? Why are you so far from home?”

  “Be still!” said Tazlo. “Your time is spent! I have found you out!”

  Engist and Kogor both spoke at once. The old master-at-arms strode forth angrily.

  “Count Ahrosh, have you lost your wits?” he demanded. “Address King Sharn as you should. Answer his question!”

  “Old man,” said Tazlo, “you are deceived! King Sharn Am Zor, my true liege, is not here. This false king that you serve is a changeling come out of Eildon!”

  There was a silence, then the king gave a short laugh, nervous and scornful.

  “This is madness!” said Engist.

  “Not so!” said Tazlo. “Who would deny that the king is changed, sadly changed, since he returned from the magic kingdom of the west. I have seen the truth. This is an imposter!”

  “Tazlo Am Ahrosh,” said the king, “you were long my friend and rode with me. Will you turn traitor?”

  “I rode with the king!” said Tazlo.

  “So did we all, Count Ahrosh,” Captain Kogor said cautiously. “We ride with him still. Who would believe this foolishness?”

  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 sh
ut 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.