18

Navis had evidently decided that the meadow was safe. Maewen caught him in the act of dressing after a bath in the stone trough. As she dashed across the field, Navis was scrambling into clothes, in time to behave as if nothing at all unusual had happened when she reached him. Hestefan left off polishing a row of cwidders and ambled across to look. By the time Mitt and Moril reached them, Navis was saying, “Antique, certainly, and worth devoting half the evening to, no doubt. We had more notable blades in the armory in Holand, but if we are to have an uprising, I suppose every weapon counts. And is Wend staying the night with his sister?”

“Didn’t he come out here awhile back?” Mitt asked.

“We haven’t seen him since he went away with the goats,” Hestefan said. “Should we have done?”

“I’m not sure,” said Moril. “He may have left.”

There was no sign of Wend that night. When he had not appeared by nightfall, Mitt and Moril shared the buttered eggs they had set aside for him. Maewen was chiefly relieved that Wend had not rushed out and denounced her to Navis and Hestefan. She thought Navis might not have taken it too badly, but Hestefan would have been outraged. Navis, however, took Wend’s absence as a sign that they were not safe and rigged up a trip wire across the rushes some way down the path.

There was no alarm in the night. They woke to a gray morning to find that the meadow cupped in the crags was smaller and more ragged. There was no garden and no fruit trees. Maewen discovered this first, when she went to have a bath in the stone trough before the rest were awake. The trough had gone. Where it had been, there was a muddy hole in the ground. She looked for the house. Where it had been, there was a thicket of crab apples and wild cherries against the rocks, overgrown with brambles and dog roses. Inside the thicket she could just see the broken walls of a small stone house.

“No hens either,” Navis said, coming up beside her. “It was improvident of us to eat all the eggs.” By this time the others were coming across the field in a dismayed straggle. Navis slid an eyebrow up at Mitt. “Would you say the Undying have deserted us?”

Mitt shrugged unhappily. “No idea.”

Hestefan stood by the muddy hole and looked slowly round, stroking his beard. “I know this place now,” he said. “This is Dropthwaite, and this”—pointing to the mudhole—“is the source of the river Dropwater. I have camped here before. It is said that the Adon once lived in hiding in those ruins over there.”

“Then that serves to authenticate the sword,” Navis said, and went briskly off to inspect his trip wire. It took him a long time to find it. The rushes had been replaced by thistles and brambles. When they did find the wire, it was lying loosely a long way up the hill. From there they could all see that the lake of yesterday was now only a large green pond.

Hestefan stared at it gloomily. “This change is the worst of all possible omens.”

“Oh come on,” Maewen said, forgetting how Hestefan seemed to dislike her. “We got the sword.”

Hestefan turned his gloomy look on her. “The City of Gold is always on the most distant hillside,” he said. Before Maewen or Mitt could ask him what that was supposed to mean, he said, “I believe we should all now disperse on our separate ways.”

Moril gave a short protesting “Oh!” and Mitt said, “Well, Navis and I can’t, and that’s final.”

“But you may disperse by yourself, by all means, Singer,” Navis added.

Breakfast made no one feel much better. Hestefan was, if possible, even gloomier, when they set off, to find that the path was mud and marsh, with hardly room to get the cart past the pond. As they came slowly down the bank of the river, Navis murmured, “The Undying make quite a difference.”

Everyone was glad when they came to the place where the green road crossed the river and found it just the same. They could even see the place where the pursuing horsemen had trampled through the spongy turf, in and out of the water.

“Go cautiously,” Navis said, “since the pursuit is now ahea—” He turned round in surprise as the cart came splashing through the river, too, with water whirling from its wheels. “I thought you were leaving us, Singer.”

“There are only two ways to go,” Hestefan pointed out. “I chose not to turn back.”

This seemed to be Hestefan’s way of saying he was not going to leave them after all. They went on together, the same party, apart from Wend striding alongside, and the river Dropwater went with them, too, sometimes winding in the distance, sometimes skirling along beside them, and growing steadily larger. A long way farther on, they came to the place where the band of hearthmen had camped for the night. There was not much to see, merely hoofprints and the cold ashes of their fire, but it sent Navis very cautious again. From then on he was either watching for prints in the green road or scanning the distance on either side.

It was empty distance, all green sheep runs and faraway dark peaks, but there were sheep and, once or twice, a shepherd a long way off. Maewen found herself staring every time they saw a shepherd, expecting him to come striding toward them and turn out to be Wend. But no shepherd did more than turn and look at them. She was quite surprised to be missing Wend so much.

When they camped that night by the river, Navis insisted that they find a place a long way back and hidden from the road. Hestefan drove the cart after him along the riverbank just as if he had never threatened to leave, remarking cheerfully, “We’ve made good time without a walker to slow us down. We’ll be at Dropwater tomorrow.”

As they dismounted, Moril hopped off the back of the cart and came over to Mitt. “That’s a relief,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known what to do if he’d decided to leave. I’m sure he’s not well.”

Maewen led her horse into the river, still thinking about Wend. She had been sure he would get over his anger and come back, but now she began to see that he was not going to. It was Noreth he followed, not her. So what was she going to do? She had, she saw, been relying on Wend to get her back to her own time. Perhaps she never would get back. She thought of Mum and Aunt Liss and Dad and felt a touch of fear—but only a touch. She was surprised not to be much more frightened.

“The Wanderer is no loss,” said the deep voice. “You never needed him.”

Maewen jumped and shuddered, wondering if it—he—could read her mind. “Didn’t I?” she said. “That’s a weight off my mind!”

Sarcasm always seemed to pass Kankredin by—if it was Kankredin. The voice went on imperturbably, “From now on, look for an opportunity to stab the Southerners. The danger from them is growing.”

“Anything you say!” Maewen told it bitterly.

It was a great relief to her over supper to hear Navis arranging with Mitt for the two of them to keep watch that night in turns. Those pursuing hearthmen had been a blessing in disguise. Kankredin could not expect her to try to kill them tonight. But she was terrified of what might happen when he found she had no intention of trying.

They went on again next day through the same rolling green country, with Mitt yawning and Navis red-eyed. Maewen was inclined to be sorry for them until Mitt said, “I’m used to it, and Navis is one of those who just get sharper for it. Mind you, I’ve only seen him lose four nights of sleep, but he never turned a hair then.”

She realized Mitt was right when Navis spotted the faint marks where the party of hearthmen had turned off the green road to the left, to follow a disused-looking path that led toward the mountains. Navis pounced on it like a cat. “Where does that lead?” he asked Hestefan and Moril.

“You can cut through to the North Dales that way,” Moril said.

Navis narrowed his eyes at the path and then raised them to the mountains. They were nearer here. Ahead they curved inward and seemed to stand right over the green road. “And can horses work their way round through the tops to come back to the road?” he asked.

“Possibly,” said Hestefan. “But the river goes down to Dropwater there.” He pointed to the craggy eminences ahead. “We only have to go down into the valley to be safe.”

“If they don’t reach us first,” Navis said.

From there on he rode with his pistol ready in his hand. When, around midday, they reached the crags, and the road wound in among them, Navis’s eyes were continually flicking to the skyline above, watching for an ambush. Mostly he watched to the left. But if there was a heathery dip in the crags above the Dropwater, which now roared beside the road as a wide wild torrent, Navis was sure to check that, too.

Half a mile farther on, the Dropwater suddenly spread wider still, into an immense flat sheet of racing water, and seemed to plunge off the edge of the world into vague blue distance. The road curved so that they could see where it fell and fell and fell, nearly a mile of falling white water, in smoky rainbows and wet thunder. The noise was enormous.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Moril yelled.

Maewen turned to shout back and saw a squad of armed men running toward them from farther up the road. Her hands leaped to the Adon’s sword, lying crosswise in front of her saddle, and then fell away. Navis swung round with his pistol ready. She saw him lower it. There were so many armed men. They were all wearing dark red and blue livery, except for the man in front who seemed to be waving at them, and she was sure she had seen those colors before—Oh. Maewen looked down at herself. She had grown so used to her clothes that she had thought of them as just clothes. But she was wearing the same dark red and blue. The man in front was in expensive scarlet silk and red leather, and he was definitely waving to her.

Maewen slid down from her horse. This was like Kredindale, only possibly worse, she thought, as she went hesitatingly to meet him. To her gratitude, Moril realized she would need help and hopped off the cart to come with her.

“Who is he?” she half shouted, under the roar of the falls.

“Luthan!” Moril yelled in her ear. “Earl of Drop-water. Noreth’s cousin. He’s been her hearthlord these last two years. Don’t nod at me! Smile at him!”

Maewen stretched her mouth into a grin. At least, she thought, this saved them from any ambush.

The Earl of Dropwater pelted up and stood in front of her panting and smiling. “Cousin!” he bawled.

“Hearthlord!” Maewen shrieked back. He was awfully young. She took him for her own age at first sight. But as he laughed and seized hold of both her hands, she saw he was older than that, maybe at least eighteen. He was one of those people who have pretty pink and white faces, all curves. As he laughed, he tossed back glossy black hair.

“At last!” he shouted, fluttering long dark eyelashes Maewen truly envied him for. “Where have you been? We expected you yesterday at the latest.”

He clearly had no idea she was not Noreth. Well, you see what you expect to see, Maewen thought. “How did you know when to expect me?” she bawled back.

Luthan put an arm round her shoulders and led her up the road, past the people who had been running with him, and among masses more. There was what looked like a small army strung out along the way, and horses for them standing in patient rows under the crags. “There’s less noise along here. We can hear ourselves speak,” Luthan said.

Mitt looked at Moril, who nodded and scampered off beside Maewen. Mitt slid to the ground and hurriedly led Maewen’s horse and the Countess-horse along behind them. Navis looked at him questioningly and then rode up behind Luthan.

Luthan turned round, surprised. “Noreth, who are these?”

“My followers, of course,” Maewen said. They came to a moist green ground beyond the rocks where Luthan had a fine tent set up. The noise of the waterfall was cut off by crags in the way. Maewen could speak normally as she said, “This is Navis Haddsson, and this is Mitt. This is Moril Clennensson.”

Luthan’s curvaceous face lit up. “The Southerners who came on the wind’s road? I’ve heard of you. And of course, I’ve met you, Moril, now I think—though I knew your father better. My cousin certainly knows how to pick her followers.” He smiled at Maewen and really seemed to mean it. She felt like a beast deceiving him. She felt worse as numbers of men and women in Dropwater livery came crowding round to smile and say hello. They were probably Noreth’s personal friends. And all she could do was smile back and hope they did not think she was behaving oddly.

“Now, to business,” said Luthan. “You were awfully secretive when you left, Noreth, but I guessed what you were up to. You’re riding the King’s Road, aren’t you? Well, the whole North knows you are. What made you think I wouldn’t follow you?”

Maewen found herself thinking, Flaming Ammet! She seemed to have caught that from Mitt. Here was the army she had been trying to avoid having. “It—it’s going to be very dangerous,” she said lamely.

Luthan swept that aside. “Danger—nothing! I court it! I intend to follow my true Queen!” He meant it. Maewen squirmed. “But I won’t keep you guessing about how I knew. They sent word down by sea from Kredindale. They told the whole coast. All the coastal dales are ready to come to you as soon as you give the word, and of course, I got ready at once. You’ll need my help. There’s worrying news, too.” Luthan’s curved brows set in a serious line. “My agent in Hannart sent a carrier pigeon. Earl Keril has set out for Kernsburgh, and it looks as if he wants to stop you. I was going to invite you down to the mansion, but in view of that news, I think we’d better break camp and be on our way.”

“You mean you’re coming, too?” Maewen said. Oh flaming Ammet, oh bother!

Luthan smiled meltingly. “My Queen, what do you think I’ve been telling you? I am coming, and all my hearthpeople with me.”

Navis coughed. “When did the Earl of Hannart set out, and how long will it take him to reach Kernsburgh?”

Luthan blinked his beautiful eyelashes. “Er. Um. Yesterday. He’d be there tomorrow evening if he rode hard.”

“Yesterday.” Maewen could see Navis thinking that it was not Earl Keril’s band that had been after them, then. “And Dropwater is on the other point of a triangle, am I right?” Luthan nodded, in another flutter of eyelashes, and turned back to Maewen. “Then,” said Navis, forcefully, “if you would be good enough to strike camp at once, my lord, I think we must ride through the night.”

Luthan all but sprang to attention. “Oh. Yes. At once, sir.” He ran away, waving his arms and shouting orders. Moril snorted. He butted his head into Mitt, and both of them bent over, howling with laughter.

“It’s not funny!” said Maewen.

“Only some of it,” said Navis. “But allies are allies.” He watched the Dropwater people running about for a while, and he sighed. “These children have no idea they are about to fight a war. And,” he added, “no idea how to hurry either. Mitt, stop giggling and come with me. I’ll need a serious aide.” He shook his mare into motion and rode into the confusion. Mitt popped his eyes at Maewen and legged after him.

It was like magic. The confusion stopped as soon as Navis took over. He seemed to know just which gaggle of people to speak to and which to leave alone. And if two or more inefficiencies happened at once, Navis had only to nod to Mitt, and Mitt was at one of them, sorting it out as quickly as Navis. Maewen was impressed. Barely half an hour later they were ready to go. There was even a spare horse for Moril. Navis came riding up with it himself. “Because I take it you are ready to leave us now,” he remarked unlovingly to Hestefan.

Hestefan’s beard jutted at him. “If you recall,” he said, “sir—Navis Haddsson from Holand—I told you a long way back on the road that where great events are toward, a Singer must needs be there. But by all means remove my apprentice. I’ll follow at my own pace.”

“As you please,” said Navis, and he murmured as he wheeled away, “Crawl behind, if you like. I don’t know what it is,” he remarked to Mitt as soon as they were well away from the green cart, “but I can’t abide that fellow. He sets my teeth on edge—rather the way my brother Harchad always used to.”

Mitt shuddered. “That’s a bit steep, isn’t it? Your brother Harchad only killed a few hundred folk each year and terrified the rest. Hestefan’s a Singer, Navis. Maybe it’s the beard reminds you.”

They rode. The cart was soon only a green smudge behind. They rode under Navis’s direction as fast as they could without exhausting their horses. They stopped to breathe them and rode again, on over the green undulations of the Shield, rising now, toward the high plateau that held Kernsburgh. Before nightfall the more distant mountains had wheeled into the blue jagged shapes Maewen remembered seeing from Dad’s apartment. The peaks of the North Dales, Dad had told her. They set off again into the sunset to ride some more.

The Countess-horse had had enough by then. It stopped with all four feet planted and tried to bite Mitt’s leg while Mitt cursed and bounced and shook the reins. Navis looked. He beckoned with a trim, gloved hand. One of the Dropwater hearthwomen instantly rode up with Earl Luthan’s spare horse for Mitt. Nobody seemed to object that after that Mitt rode on a mare that was almost as good as Navis’s own. When Maewen next saw the Countess-horse, it was in the rear carrying someone’s baggage. She was impressed all over again. This was the kind of thing, quite certainly, that was going to get Navis made Duke of Kernsburgh during the next year or so.

Otherwise she did not enjoy the ride. At least the actual riding was a pleasure. It was good not to have to keep to the pace of Wend or the cart. It was Luthan she did not enjoy. He was beside her far too often, and he would keep reminding her, with significant smiles, of all the things he and Noreth had done together. “Do you remember the Harvest when we threw plums?” he said, and Maewen had to pretend to remember. Or, “You know that time with the lawbooks? Ham the Markinder still hasn’t got over that.” This was bad enough. But Luthan’s smiles grew more and more melting. Finally he sighed and said, “Noreth, it seemed an age, an endless age, after you had gone. Dropwater was empty. Empty and void.”

This is dire! Maewen thought. Moril, jogging on the other side of her, thought so, too. “But,” he said, “Dropwater isn’t empty. It’s full of plum trees and people.”

Luthan was not at all embarrassed. He smiled meltingly again. “You know what I mean. Lovers are allowed to say these things.”

Maewen gave up trying not to hurt Luthan’s feelings and lost her temper. “Stop being so silly! I am not your lover!” Then she bit her tongue. For all she knew, Noreth was very fond of Luthan—though if she was, Maewen was beginning to wonder why.

Luthan sighed, and laughed a little. “Oh dear. Have I overstepped again? I never know where to have you, Noreth. I think I’ve won your heart, and then you bite my head off.”

So that was all right. But it did not stop Luthan. When Mitt was relieved of the Countess-horse, he rode Luthan’s spare mare firmly up between Luthan and Maewen. Whenever Luthan said anything sighing or melting, Mitt grinned, grinned like a death’s-head. It was soon too much for Luthan. He gave up and rode on ahead. But then, as far as Maewen was concerned, it was almost worse. Moril and Mitt could not seem to stop teasing her about it.

“Your handsome lordly lover got it bad for you!” Mitt said.

“Every lady’s dream!” Moril sighed. “An earl in red silk!”

“With eyelashes,” said Mitt. “Don’t forget the eyelashes. All bat and flutter, this dream lover!”

Moril giggled. “Now he’s gone off to write a poem about you.”

“No, he hasn’t. Even he’s not that much of a wimp,” Maewen said.

“He is writing a poem, you know,” Moril said. “He’s dictating it to his scribe. The poor man’s got real trouble, trying to write it down on horseback.”

Maewen refused to look, so she had no idea whether this was true or just Moril’s idea of a joke. Besides, it grew dark then, too dark for poems—or so she hoped. They stopped again, and ate and drank, and then went on. After that Mitt and Moril were too tired to tease her. They just rode.

Eventually, far into the night, Navis consulted Luthan and the Dropwater armsmaster and decided they could afford a longer stop. Everyone saw to horses, ate food they did not feel like, and fell down and slept for three hours. Then Navis had them all up and on their way again.

“Flaming Ammet!” Mitt groaned. “Is this necessary?”

“Yes,” said Navis. “We have to be in a good defensive position before the Earl of Hannart arrives.”

“Because of Ynen?” Mitt yawned.

“Not entirely,” said Navis. “You and I have necks we need to save, too.”

Mitt puzzled about this as he yawningly mounted Luthan’s mare among all the blue-brown shadows of other people mounting, too. It seemed tremendous cheek for him and Navis to use the Earl of Dropwater’s hearth-people just to save their necks. Noreth was the excuse, of course. But somehow he did not think this quite accounted for Navis’s urgency. Navis had something else in mind which Mitt was too sleepy to work out.

Dawn came as their small army set off again, whiteness pouring down the sky and blueness rising from the ground to meet it. Then the blueness was ripped open to the left by a dazzling bar of orange. In seconds, the grass was green again and the riders turned from brown shadows to solid, colored shapes.

There were more solid shapes advancing down the green road to meet them. The orange dawn flashed on gold braid and threw turning glints from steel and leather. It was a smaller group than theirs, but everyone in it was orderly and very well armed.

“It looks as if Earl Keril got here first,” Maewen said.

“No,” Mitt said, squinting up his eyes to look. “That’s not Hannart colors, it’s—Flaming Ammet! It’s Alk! What’s he doing here?”