The Summer's King Read online

  The princess, perfectly good-humored, speaks up to all the company.

  “My dear friends and fellow countrymen, I am pleased to have come home. Let me bid you all good morning!”

  There is a murmur of greeting, and Merilla, drawing Carel after her, moves towards the grand staircase. She receives the carefully judged curtsey of Iliane Seyl and the Lienish waiting women and the duty of Seyl himself. She embraces the Countess Barr, who served her mother, Queen Aravel. She speaks briefly with Denzil of Denwick, offering her sympathy for the loss of his father, a year past, and making some polite reference to his brother, the present duke. She turns aside to a tall and burly old man and embraces him.

  “My dear Lord Zabrandor.”

  The good old lord returns the greeting heartily, and Merilla laughing and crying, takes the trembling arm of a bedizened old woman.

  “Surely . . . surely it is the Countess Am Panget!”

  The terrible old creature, an embarrassment to everyone, begins to weep and presses a welcome gift into Merilla’s hand. She makes one of her pronouncements in the Old Speech as Merilla moves on greeting other older retainers. At the foot of the stairs there lurks a tall young man in riding dress. The princess gives him a nod, rises up two steps and turns back.

  “Esher?” she asks. “Cousin Esher Am Chiel?”

  “At your service, Princess!” he says, smiling. “I am surprised that you remember me.”

  “Of course I remember,” says Merilla Am Zor. “How could I forget the day we pushed my brother Sharn into the garden lake!”

  And with this artless piece of lèse-majesté the princess goes up the stairs followed by a small group of most unfashionable people. The king has gone, accompanied by his favorites. Among the departing courtiers there are those amused and disaffected enough to laugh at this last remark and to ask what it was that old Lady Panget had said. “A true princess of the Chameln, although she has come out of Lien!”

  Above stairs, pacing the wide, rush-paneled corridors and airy chambers of the west wing, Merilla Am Zor comes upon a round window set in an alcove. She bids Carel and the rest go on, all but the Countess Caddah.

  “You are weary, Dan Merilla,” says the countess. “Let me have a cordial fetched . . .”

  “No, thank you,” says Merilla. “Sit here with me, Lady Caddah. I am sure I sat here as a child. There is the garden: the trees have all grown taller, even the black tree, the Skelow, has grown a little. Countess, we must trust each other . . .”

  “I can be trusted, Princess,” says the countess. “You may put all your trust in me.”

  Merilla studies the firm chin and steady black eyes of this Firnish noblewoman.

  “I see that it will be nearly impossible for me to speak privately with the king,” she says, “although I am his sister and his heir. He has hedged himself about with his old friends from Lien. I knew them in the schoolroom; they were never my friends.”

  “Princess,” says the countess with restraint, “the king does what he will.”

  “I worry over my brother Carel,” says Merilla. “I had charge of him as a little child. I have seen him passed over and mishandled by bad governors as a boy. I know that I can have some kind of life here in the Chameln lands, and I pray to the Goddess that he can do the same.”

  “Oh my dear, my dear Princess,” says the countess earnestly, “you will both be happy; I swear it! The arrangements Seyl has made will do very well. My own son will ride with the prince. He is a good fellow: no use to the king and his circle because he is a plain man, no courtier, but there is not a better rider nor a kinder heart anywhere. So it is with the others Seyl has chosen: young Barr, the Mechan brothers and so on. They are all good Chameln folk, believe me.”

  “And the queen?” asks Merilla in a low voice.

  The countess smiles and pats the hand of her liege lady.

  “You will see!” she says. “Queen Aidris Am Firn sees all and understands. She has the ear of our king, and she has his measure. You must send your duty to her at once and ask for a family meeting.”

  “I hardly remember her at all,” says Merilla. “She left the city when I was only four. I have heard wild things; in Lien she is called the witch-queen.”

  “She studies magic,” says the countess, “but only for knowledge and protection. The kind magic of the Goddess. Who has told you otherwise?”

  “I think you know that, Countess,” says Merilla. “My mother was no friend to the house of the Firn.”

  She casts a glance about the room they are in as if she expected to see ghosts of a bygone day roaming through the shadows.

  “I remember my dear father in this room,” she says, “and my mother . . . more than once she wandered about in the night, distracted. All would be well for a while, then the dreams, the voices, the terrible visions would come again. She was recovered for the longest time when we first went into Lien after my father died. Now it is hopeless. I had thought of bringing her home to Achamar, but Achamar was never her home. Now she is cared for in Swangard, a royal prison, not far from Alldene where she was happy once with her sisters. I have prayed to the Goddess all my life for a miracle, that my mother should be healed of her madness, but now I feel it is too late.”

  “Alas, poor lady,” sighs the countess. “And is it true what they say, what the king himself believes, that it was all an evil spell, the work of that terrible old man?”

  “I have puzzled about it and read many scrolls and spoken with healers when I could,” replies the princess. “It began with magic, with demands and nightmares sent by Rosmer. Then she could not wake. A weakness, a woman’s sickness, made the evil dreams return, clouded her mind forever.”

  “Dear child,” says the Countess Caddah, “you must continue your prayers and live your life, your own life, in the present.”

  “As the king does?” Merilla smiles.

  She stands up, casts a glance through the round window and gives her hand to the countess.

  “The west wing is a fine place!” she says. “I am well pleased with my household.”

  The Maplemoon and the Aldermoon that follows have a dark reputation: the moon of blood and the moon of death. Now the house of Achamar are shuttered against the approaching cold, the keeps and fortresses, the villages of the highland and the plain are stocked with provisions. The lodges of the northern tribes are insulated with turf and boughs, and the best furs are brought out of their cloth bags. It is the time of year that Sharn Am Zor likes the least because he must forgo the pleasures of hawking and swimming.

  The royal calendar is full of disagreeable tasks that cannot always be put off or delegated to others. The Merchants’ Reckoning, for instance, involves the Daindru in hours of wearisome debate in the Wool Hall. The Honoring of the Stones means another lost morning by the south wall. The distribution of winter gifts for the poor in Achamar is, thank the Goddess, an excellent thing for Merilla, Heir of the Zor, and Aidris the Queen has always undertaken the autumn progress through the highlands as far as Zerrah.

  This year of the “false summer” Aidris has made this autumn progress early and is settled in Achamar again to receive the Princess Merilla and Prince Carel. The family meeting takes place, and the queen is well pleased with her cousins. Sharn strides about, half-quarrels with everyone by the queen’s fireside. He radiates unease, a physical irritation as if all his fine clothes chafed and constricted him. Only music seems to soothe him a little, and this year the music is particularly sweet.

  When Aram Nerriot, the lute player who accompanied the runaways out of Lien, begins to play, the very trees upon the tapestries bend down to listen. Servants lay by their tasks, the guards peer round the door, the sounds of dishes, voices, even the clatter of Prince Sasko’s little wheeled horse, all are hushed. It is like a scene from an old tale where the musician casts a spell over all who hear him. Good old Nerry, as Carel calls him, that easygoing companion who was more or less browbeaten by Merilla into making the escape into the Chameln lan
ds, is clearly a great master of the lute.

  He plays on: a duet with Merilla, who is herself no mean performer, then the accompaniment for many songs. Merilla and Carel sing together in close harmony: sweet airs of Eildon and Lien and the folksongs of the Chameln lands. Aidris the Queen sings a song from Athron, and when she has done Nerriot improvises upon “The Fair Maid of Steyn,” enriching the simple melody.

  When at last the sound of the lute dies away, when all have applauded, Count Bajan speaks for the whole company: “By the Goddess, I have never heard such artistry! We are honored, Master Nerriot, to have such a performer in Achamar.”

  Sharn, relaxed at last, long legs stretched out towards the fireplace, smiles at Merilla, his sister.

  “You must send Nerriot to my suppers in the winter!”

  Merilla bows her head in assent, but Carel bursts out in anger, “No, this is too bad! Sharn will steal away our good Nerriot! He will have our servant to his wretched suppers, but I swear we will not grace his table. He will have everything, every friend and servant for himself!”

  To everyone’s surprise, Sharn is surprised and hurt by his brother’s outburst. He protests that he meant only to borrow the services of Nerriot. Aidris, watching, sees Merilla soothe the embarrassment of the poor musician with a gesture and a glance. She sees that the young king is quite incapable of straightaway inviting his brother and sister to sup with him. These wintery rituals belong to him, to his exclusive circle; they are his suppers. She wonders if he caught the reference to a friend stolen away: Tazlo Am Ahrosh. For the young man from the north has become the king’s constant companion. Not a friend of the same order as Seyl and Denwick, more of a henchman. No prank is too wild, no horse too difficult, no night too long for Tazlo.

  In the last days of the Maplemoon the weather prophets talk of a hard winter. Suddenly the tribal lands in the north are smothered in early snow. The saying is that Garm, the giant who guards the lands against the onrush of winter, is asleep. Still, the skies over Achamar are clear and the frosts are mild so that the king takes out his hawks even longer than usual. At last he allows them to remain in the mews and simply takes the air, riding or driving in his carriage.

  On the tenth day of the Aldermoon, near the anniversary of that great victory at the Adderneck Pass, the king rides and rambles on foot the whole length of his favorite valley by the Chernak road. In the forenoon he sets out with Tazlo Am Ahrosh, Engist, the master-at-arms, and two officers of the palace guard and, in an open carriage, the dark beauty Veldis of Wirth with Denzil of Denwick, now a betrothed pair. The sky is clear, giving the lie to rumors of another early snowfall; and as the king’s party turns out of the east gate, they meet two other riders also setting out: Prince Carel and his attendant Count Caddah. Greetings ring out, and Sharn, with unpredictable generosity, calls for the prince to join him. Caddah, unwanted, goes in, gives the word for the prince to Esher, the head groom. It is an hour or so before noon, and the sky is slowly beginning to cloud over.

  The king and his party take the road to Chernak, to that long valley where Sharn has flown his hawks all summer. It is not the day for a picnic, but some food has been brought along in the carriage. Tazlo and Prince Carel race about, hallooing in the frosty silence and help the officers bring wood for a fire. When all have feasted off a hearty fire pot of quail and a firkin of dark, mulled wine, the Lady Veldis gathers an autumn bouquet of dried leaves, seed pods and grasses. She confides to Zilly of Denwick, who is bemused with love, that she is cold. The pair of lovers ask the king’s leave and are driven back to Achamar.

  The day has indeed become much colder, but there is no wind. The whole party leaves the campfire and moves due east along the steep side of the valley. The king and his brother are walking with the mounted officers leading their horses. Ahead ride Engist on his black charger and Tazlo on his Chameln grey. Sharn is happy, striding along in the cold, climbing down further to examine rocks, animal tracks, the bones of an old kill from his hawking expeditions. He talks freely with his brother, and the boy gives back the same youthful spirit that he enjoys in Tazlo. Everything is new to Carel; he loves woodcraft and hunting. The Chameln lands, spreading out before the royal brothers as far as eye can see, promise a freedom that the Mark of Lien could never offer. So they wander on for more than five miles, the whole length of the valley.

  They reach an open space at the valley’s end with a stone monument. It is not a dolmen but a huge boulder, purple-black, having roughly the shape of a head. It is hollow and has been lined with fireclay, like a kiln, and stacked inside with firewood. This is the Beacon Head. The king mounts Redwing again and Carel swings up on to his horse, Tempest, the elegant gray gelding that brought him out of Lien. It is about the second hour after noon; the sky is hard and white. Small, hard flecks of snow are beginning to fall.

  The six horsemen look out at the plain, still green in places, stretching away before them. Maple trees cluster about a mile away about a stone wall. The low downs shimmer a little in the greyish light, deceiving the eye; distances are hard to judge.

  “Well, my friends,” says Sharn Am Zor, “this is the end of the season.”

  He takes his leather flask of apple brandy from the officer who carries it, drinks and passes it around.

  “Come, my kings,” cries Tazlo, “let us ride to the maple trees!”

  “No more, Count Ahrosh,” says Engist. “It is time to turn back. We must have the prince back home!”

  Carel accepts this with a shrug; for him the day has already gone marvelously well. But Tazlo gallops downhill a little and turns back towards his king.

  “One last ride, my King!” he calls.

  Sharn Am Zor laughs and wheels Redwing about to follow him.

  “Sire!” says Engist. “Dan Sharn . . . we must turn back. I don’t like this snow.”

  “Snow?” echoes Tazlo Am Ahrosh, the man from the north. “Are you afraid of a breath of sleet, Engist?”

  He gallops away down the slope, and the king rides after him, letting Redwing have his head a little.

  “My brother is riding better than ever,” says Carel. “Redwing is a fine fellow.”

  The two officers, ensigns of the royal escort, hide their smile. Engist watches in irritation as Tazlo spurs away to the maple trees, and the king, riding better than ever, thunders after him. He sees the two riders—Tazlo’s red bonnet, the king’s brown cloak—through a film of light, crystalline snow. It has whitened the clearing and is stacking up against the northern side of the beacon. Once the riders are out of sight Engist is faced with other decisions. Should he send an officer after them and risk the king’s displeasure? Should he send Prince Carel back at once with one of the officers? He waits, they all wait, expecting the king and Tazlo to come riding back, having rounded the maple trees. How far away are the trees? A mile?

  “Come boy,” says Engist to Carel, “Let us wait in shelter.”

  The snow, still dry and fine, is beginning to whiten the plain itself and settle upon the clothes and harness of the men and their horses. Engist leads the way to the only shelter at the end of the long valley, a stand of fir trees.

  “If this keeps up,” he says, “you’ll have to ride back with Ensign Bladell.”

  “Sharn bade me come!” says the prince. “I must stay!”

  Engist meets the eyes of Bladell, a tall man of the Zor, a southerner, and Fréjan, dark and Firnish. He sees that they are anxious. They wait behind the trees; time spins out; the king does not return.

  Presently Carel, who loves to play with fire, asks if he may light the Beacon Head. They have been waiting almost half an hour in the cold with the light beginning to fade. Engist sends the boy off to light the beacon—the prince has his own tinderbox—then turns to the two ensigns.

  “Enough!” he says. “What lies beyond those maple trees, Fréjan?”

  “Downland, Captain Engist,” says the ensign, “smooth, low hills. Further off are sheepfolds, cottages. To the southeast there are tra
ils and a road leading to Chernak Hall.”

  Prince Carel has lit the beacon. Now he gives a cry and points to the northeast.

  “Engist, look there!”

  The three officers ride out of the shelter of the fir trees. In the northeast they see thick cloud, white and wet, mantling earth and sky. A wind has sprung up; the snow is falling heavily.

  “Bladell, Fréjan,” orders Engist, “ride after the king. Find him and bring him into shelter if you cannot come back to this beacon.”

  The two men plunge off at once and are lost to view before they have reached the maple trees.

  “Carel,” says Engist, riding to the glowing beacon, “mount up!”

  When the prince has scrambled on to Tempest again, the master-at-arms reaches out and seizes the boy by the arm.

  “You’re a brave fellow,” he says, “and you have a good horse. You must ride back alone along the ridge and bring word to the palace.”

  He stares so wildly that the young prince realizes the danger for the first time.

  “I would not send you,” says Engist panting, “but it is for the king. He is the king, you understand, and your brother. If he is lost . . .”

  “I can do it!” cries Carel.

  “Go then! Go along this ridge. Stop any rider, any cart and ask their help to get you to the palace. Tell those at the palace to send help at once. The king is lost upon the plain, beyond the Beacon Head.”

  Carel urges Tempest gently onto the path that runs along the edge of the valley. The snow is steady, but the going is quite easy. He is warmly clad with boots, a lined mantle, thick gloves, but the northern cold of Achamar is starting to seep into his bones. His face is numb, his ears sting, his teeth ache if he breathes through his mouth. Halfway along the valley he feels as if the way will never end.

  He is stricken by a shameful thought. If he goes slowly, falters, falls, old Sharn will be truly . . . lost. Merilla will be Queen of the Zor. Tempest shudders and stumbles as if he shared the boy’s imaginings. Carel urges him on, looking about at the pressing whiteness, and comes at last to the remains of their campfire. With a sob he remembers the day he has spent, so fine, with Sharn and Tazlo. Surely, surely it will not end so badly. He gallops along the Chernak road crying out at the dark shapes of stones or trees. The city, when he can see it, seems to be crested with a heap of white cloud, and the plain, the way he has come, is lost in whiteness. He pounds on, as fast as Tempest will go, seized by a deadly fear.