The Crown of Dalemark

by Diana Wynne
     Jones
  Mitt arrived at the top
of the steps, panting, and
  pushed open the door.
'Oh, there you are,' said
the Countess. 'We want
  you to kill someone.'
 Since his arrival in the
North of Dalemark, Mitt
has become disillusioned.
 The North seems no more
  free than the Holand he
    fled from, a fugitive
    accused of attempted
   murder. And now he is
  trapped by the order to
   kill someone he doesn't
 know or else risk the lives
of his friends. Forced once
    more to flee, Mitt is
joined by Moril, the quietly
   powerful musician, and
Maewen - out of her time,
 but mysteriously fated to
 play a part in their quest.
 For the evil powers of the
    mage Kankredin are
re-assembling, and only the
  Adon's gifts - the ring,
 sword and cup - can once
   more unite Dalemark.

    Part I - Mitt
            I
    The Earl of Hannart
  arrived in Aberath two
 days before Midsummer.
   He was bringing the
  Countess of Aberath a
portrait of the Adon to put
 in her collection. As this
   was a state visit, he
brought his son as well and
a string of his hearthmen,
  and his arrival caused a
        rare bustle.
  A tall man dressed like a
  shepherd watched it all
   from high in the hills
where the green roads ran.
 He had an excellent view
 from there, not only into
the seething courts of the
 mansion, but of the whole
  town, the cliffs, the bay
   and the boatsheds. The
  Earl was easy to pick out
among the hurrying figures,
    because he was with a
     servant carrying the
 picture. The man watched
   them go straight to the
library, where he knew the
   Countess was waiting to
  receive the Earl. Almost
  immediately, the servant
   was sent away to fetch
someone else. The watcher
  could see him pushing his
 way, first to the stables,
then to the dining hall, and
 finally to the hearthmen's
quarters, where he fetched
  out a large gangly person
and pointed to the library.
   The gangly one set off
   there at a run, on long
          gawky legs.
 The watcher turned away.
'So they did send for this
 Mitt,' he said, as if this
 had confirmed his worst
suspicions. Then he looked
up and round and over his
 shoulder, clearly thinking
   that someone else was
standing nearby, watching
  too. But the green road
    was empty. The man
    shrugged and set off
   walking swiftly inland.
   About the same time as
this man left, Mitt arrived
 at the top of the library
 steps, trying not to pant,
and pushed open the creaky
           door.
 'Oh there you are,' said
 the Countess. 'We want
   you to kill someone.'
     She was never one to
  beat about the bush. It
  was almost the only thing
  Mitt liked about her. All
 the same, he wondered if
he had heard her right. He
   stared at her long bony
     face, which was set
slightly crooked on her high
 shoulders, and then looked
at Earl Keril of Hannart to
 make sure. Mitt had been
     ten months now in
  Aberath, but the North
Dalemark accent there still
 sometimes made him hear
  things wrong. Earl Keril
was dark, with a long nose.
    Everyone said what a
 likeable man he was, but
 he was looking at Mitt as
  grimly as the Countess.
  'Didn't you hear?' Earl
  Keril asked. 'We want
     someone dead.'
   'Yes. Is this a joke of
some kind?' Mitt said. But
  he could tell from their
faces that it was not. He
  felt cold and disgusted,
  and his knees shook. 'I
   gave up killing— I told
    you!' he said to the
          Countess.
  'Nonsense,' she said.
'Why else do you think I
 had you trained as my
     hearthman?'
  'You would have it that
 way, not me!' Mitt said.
'And I never kidded myself
you made me learn all that
   out of love for me!'
      Earl Keril looked
    questioningly at the
         Countess.
    'I warned you he was
rude,' she said. She leaned
   towards him and they
    murmured together.
 Mitt was too disgusted to
try to overhear. He looked
beyond their two implacable
   faces at the painting of
   the Adon propped on an
   easel behind them. The
light was across the canvas
 from where Mitt stood, in
    a bluish haze, but the
  painted eyes caught his,
like dark holes in the haze.
      They looked ill and
 haunted. The famous Adon
      had been far from
  handsome, sickly-looking,
 with lank hair and crooked
    shoulders. Near-on a
cripple, like the Countess,
Mitt thought. She and Earl
Keril both descended from
  the Adon. She had the
  shoulders: Keril had the
 Adon's long nose. Earlier
that day, Mitt would have
      been thoroughly
 disappointed to find that
the Adon looked like this.
Since he came to Aberath,
 he had heard story after
  story of the Adon, the
great hero who had talked
with the Undying and lived
   as an outlaw before he
   became the last King of
  Dalemark several hundred
 years ago. Now he looked
  from the painting to the
   two living faces leaning
 together in the twilight of
     the library, and he
 thought, Fain' stories! Bet
he was just as bad as they
 are! Well, I ran off from
 Holand, so I reckon I can
run off from Aberath, too.
   Just then, he caught a
  murmur from Keril. 'Oh
yes, I'm sure that he is!'
   Sure I am what? Mitt
  wondered, as they both
     looked at him again.
   'We've gone into your
history,' Keril said to him.
   'Attempted murder in
Holand. Successful murder
    in the Holy Islands-'
  'That's a lie!' Mitt said
  angrily. 'Whatever you
think, I never murdered a
single soul! And I gave up
trying, long before I came
           here.'
 'Then you'll have to force
yourself to try again,' said
the Countess. 'Won't you?'
  'And you came on here by
    boat,' Keril went on,
  before Mitt could speak,
 'with Navis Haddsson and
  his children Hildrida and
   Ynen. In Aberath, the
  Countess took you in and
    had you educated—'
     'For my sins,' the
 Countess said unlovingly.
   'So you see the North
has treated you well,' Earl
  Keril said. 'Better than
  most refugees from the
 South, in fact, both you
   and your friends. We
   found Navis a post as
   hearthman to Stair of
 Adenmouth, and we sent
  Hildrida to study at the
Lawschool in Gardale. Have
you ever wondered why this
  was?' As Mitt wondered
   about it, Keril added
pleasantly, 'Why the four
of you were separated in
    this way, I mean.'
    It was a pleasantness
that made Mitt feel like a
   sack with a hole in it.
 Everything trickled away
  through the hole and his
knees almost let him down.
 'Where's Ynen then?' he
    said. 'Isn't he with
           Navis?'
 'No,' said the Countess.
'And we are not telling you
      where he is.'
  Mitt watched her long jaw
shut like a trap. 'I used to
 think,' he said, 'that the
  earls in the North were
good. But you're as bad as
 the ones in the South. Go
 to any lengths, all of you!
  You're telling me to kill
  someone for you, or my
   friends suffer. Right?'
  'Let's just say—if you
 want to see your friends
 again,' Keril suggested.
   'Well, you're wrong,'
Mitt said. 'You can't make
 me do anything. I don't
care two hoots for any of
          them.'
 The two implacable faces
   just looked at him.
  Mitt managed a careless
 shrug. 'We happened to
  ride on the same boat,
  that's all,' he said. 'I
         swear it.'
  'You swear it? By which
   of the Undying?' Keril
 asked. 'By the One? The
Piper? The Wanderer? She
 Who Raised the Islands?
  The Weaver? The Earth
 Shaker? Come on. Choose
     which and swear.'
 'We don't swear like that
 in the South,' said Mitt.
  'I know,' said Keril. 'So
it won't hurt you to swear
to me by the Earth Shaker
that Navis and his children
 mean nothing to you. Just
swear, and we'll forget the
      whole matter.'
      Their faces tilted
towards Mitt. Mitt looked
away, at the dark painted
  eyes of the Adon, and
   tried to make himself
swear. If Keril had chosen
any other of the Undying,
 he thought he could have
done it easily. But not the
 Earth Shaker. And that
 showed how frighteningly
much Keril knew. Even so,
   perhaps he could swear
 about Navis and Hildy and
 let on he meant Ynen too?
  Navis, cold fish on a slab
   that the man was, still
   didn't seem to like Mitt
   particularly; and as for
     Hildy, after her last
  letter, Mitt could almost
swear he hated her. But he
 had shown he was worried
   about Ynen, like a fool,
  and there was no way he
    could even pretend to
  dislike Ynen or let these
   two earls hurt him.
  'Is Ynen all right?' he
          said.
       'Perfectly, at the
      moment,' said the
 Countess. She never told
   lies. Mitt was relieved,
 until he realised that she
    and Keril both had the
  same look, satisfied and
unsurprised. They knew he
   had given in. They had
         expected it.
 'I warn you,' Mitt said,
    'if there's murdering
  needing doing, I can see
 two ripe cases for it here
  in this room. So who do
you want killed? What's so
special that you need to go
 to all this trouble with me
  to have it done?' Keril's
   eyebrows went up. The
Countess seemed surprised.
  Good, Mitt thought. Find
   out how important it is
from how rude they let me
be. 'Do you take me for a
 fool?' he said. 'If it was
   lawful, you both have
 lawyers to burn, and if it
    was ordinary you've
   hearthmen to do it by
hundreds. And I'd lay good
 money you have spies and
 murderers better than me
  any day. So it stands to
      reason it must be
politics—you wanting to lay
this on Southern scum like
            me.'
   'You said it, not me,'
 Keril replied. 'Politics, it
 is. We want a young lady
out of the way. She's very
   charming and much too
 popular. The whole of the
    west coast, including
 Dropwater, will follow her
  as soon as she gives the
           word.'
     'Flaming Ammet!'
     protested Mitt.
     'Be quiet!' said the
  Countess. 'Listen!' She
 said it like the snap of a
     steel trap. End of
  rudeness, thought Mitt,
and swallowed what he had
been going to say. It hurt,
 as if he had swallowed an
        apple whole.
   'Noreth of Kredindale,
 known as Onesdaughter,'
Keril said. 'I expect you've
 heard of her.' Mitt shook
 his head, but it was from
  amazement, because he
    had indeed heard of
Noreth Onesdaughter. The
  story of the One's only
human child was one of the
many, many stories he had
heard round the small coal
 fires in Aberath this last
  winter. He had thought
that, like other stories, it
 was from times long ago.
   But Keril, in the most
matter-of-fact way, went
 on to speak of Noreth as
    alive here and now.
 'Unfortunately,' he said,
   'she's extremely well
connected. The Kredindale
   family go back to the
Adon's daughter Tanabrid,
 whose mother was of the
Undying. Noreth is cousin
      to Gardale and
Dropwater—though Stair's
wife at Adenmouth is the
   aunt who brought her
  up—and she's a distant
   cousin of mine too—'
   'And mine,' said the
Countess. 'Pity the girl's
         mad.'
 'Mad or not,' said Keril,
 'Noreth claims that her
father is the One himself.
 As her mother died when
 Noreth was born, there's
 no one to contradict her,
 and this claim gives her a
 huge following among the
ordinary people. She makes
 no secret that she thinks
   she's born to become
        queen of all
   Dalemark—North and
 South.' 'And that fool in
Dropwater backs her,' said
       the Countess.
       So that's it! Mitt
  thought. They're scared
   for their earldoms. So
  they get me to stop her
  and then blame it on the
     poor South! 'Just a
minute,' he said. 'If she's
   who she says she is, no
  one can do a thing about
   it. And someone who's
 from the Undying on both
sides isn't going to be easy
       to kill, either.'
   'Quite possibly,' Keril
said. 'That's why we were
  so interested in what we
 heard about you from the
Holy Islands. Reports from
  there suggested that you
 could well ask the Undying
 to help you.' Mitt stared
   at him, shocked at how
  much Keril knew and how
 coldly he was prepared to
  use that knowledge. Keril
leaned forward. 'We don't
want yet another false king
   and yet another ruinous
uprising,' he said. Mitt saw
  he really meant it. 'We
  don't want another war
 with the South. We want
  Noreth quietly stopped
  before she can lay her
   hands on the crown.'
  'The crown?' said Mitt.
 'But nobody knows where
 that is. They tell stories
here about how Manaliabrid
          hid it.'
   'She did,' said Keril.
    'Noreth,' said the
 Countess, 'says that the
One will show her where it
 is.' Mitt looked from one
   face to the other and
  suspected both of them
 had a fair idea where the
crown was hidden. 'The girl
  claims the One talks to
 her,' the Countess added
disgustedly. 'I told you she
   was mad. She says the
  One has promised her a
sign to prove her claim and
      that this year at
Midsummer she will become
   queen. Silly nonsense.'
   'She's in Dropwater at
 the moment,' Keril said,
'acting as law-woman for
    her cousin, but our
 information is that she'll
  be going to her aunt in
Adenmouth for Midsummer
to drum up support there.
   We're sending you to
     Adenmouth too.'
'And,' said the Countess,
 'you're to go there and
stop her. But don't do it
   there. We want this
          quiet.'
    'We advise you to join
   her as a follower—you
shouldn't be noticed among
  all the others—and then
      look for a suitable
opportunity,' Keril said. As
Mitt opened his mouth, he
added, 'If you want to see
 Hildrida and Ynen again,
           you will.'
 'But Midsummer's the day
   after tomorrow!' Mitt
 protested. A stupid thing
 to say, but he had been
  looking forward to the
   feasting in Aberath.
 'It's an easy day's ride,'
   said the Countess, who
    rarely went anywhere
   except by carriage. 'I
shall give out that you have
  my leave to go and visit
      Navis Haddsson in
   Adenmouth. You will go
 first thing tomorrow. You
   may go away and pack
            now.'
    Mitt had been taught
that you bowed on leaving
 the presence of an earl,
 but he was too disgusted
 to remember. He turned
   and blundered his way
across the dimness of the
 library, past the books,
 and the glass cases that
    held the Countess's
  collection: the necklace
that was supposed to have
 been worn by Enblith the
 Fair, the ring that once
 belonged to the Adon, a
flute of Osfameron's, and
   the withered piece of
parchment that went back
to the days of King Hern.
Behind him, he sensed the
     two earls drawing
      themselves up in
        indignation.
 'Mitt Alhamittsson,' said
  Keril. Mitt stopped and
 turned round. 'I remind
 you,' Keril said, 'that a
man can be hanged when he
 is fifteen. They tell me
   your birthday is the
 Autumn Festival. Noreth
had better be dead before
    then, hadn't she?'
  'Or we may not be able
  to avert the course of
    justice,' added the
Countess. 'You have nearly
 three months, but don't
      cut it too fine.'
      So there was no
possibility of putting things
 off. 'Yes,' said Mitt. 'I
 get you.' He looked past
   them to the harrowed,
    ill-looking face of the
  Adon. He could see the
portrait better from here.
He pointed his thumb to it.
'Miserable-looking blighter,
   isn't he?' he said. 'It
 must be giving him a right
 belly ache having you two
 as descendants!' Then he
turned round and walked to
the door, rather hoping he
 had been rude enough to
  be thrown into prison on
the spot. But there was no
 sound behind him while he
  opened the door, and no
sound but the groan of the
hinges as the door shut on
   his heels. The man on
guard outside straightened
    up guiltily, and then
relaxed when he saw it was
  only Mitt. Mitt marched
    away down the steps
  without speaking to him.
 They really meant him to
   kill this girl. Even the
 Countess had not told him
   off for his rudeness.
  His knees were trembling
  as he came out into the
   courtyard. He almost
wanted to cry with shame.
 It was the way Keril had
  muttered 'Oh yes, I'm
sure he is!' that seemed to
have got to him most—sure
 Mitt was a guttersnipe, a
    Southerner with no
 feelings, the first person
 earls turned to when they
  wanted dirty work done.
   Mitt had known such a
person and vowed never to
 be like that, but fat lot
     those two cared!
  Someone shouted to him
  across the courtyard.
   A knot of people stood
  there, all about his own
   age. Earl Keril's son,
 Kialan, was one of them,
and the others were waving
to Mitt to come over. Mitt
had been rather anxious to
meet Kialan. Now he found
 he could not bear to. He
ducked sideways and turned
      along the wall.
 'Mitt!' shouted Alia, the
Countess's bronze-haired
daughter. 'Kialan wants to
        meet you!'
   'He's heard all about
you!' shouted Doreth, the
 copper-haired daughter.
   'Can't stop! Message!
Sorry!' Mitt shouted back.
 He did not want to meet
the daughters either. Alia
  had jeered at him for
 being so miserable when
Hildy was sent away, until
  Mitt got mad and pulled
   her bronze hair. Then
    Doreth had told the
Countess of him. Mitt had
been quite surprised not to
be sent away then too. But
that must have given them
 proof that Mitt did care
  what became of Hildy.
    Flaming Ammet! The
  Countess and Keril must
 have had this planned for
          months!
   Kialan was now shouting
   himself. 'See you later
 then!' Mitt had a glimpse
 of him waving, tawny and
  thickset and quite unlike
    his father—but quite
 certainly not really unlike,
  not deep down where it
counted. Mitt put his head
down and sped along by the
  wall, wondering if Kialan
     saw him as a dirty
 Southern guttersnipe too.
Kialan would certainly see a
  lot of lank hair and two
spindly legs, and shoulders
that were too wide for the
  rest. Mitt kept his face
turned to the wall because
      that was the real
  giveaway, a guttersnipe
    face that still looked
   starved even after ten
   months of good food in
 Aberath. He told himself
Kialan wasn't missing much.
   He plunged through the
  nearest door and kept
running, through rooms and
   along corridors, and out
 again on the other side of
  the mansion, to the long
  shed on the cliffs above
the harbour. That was the
best place to be alone. The
   people who were usually
 there would all be rushing
      about after Keril's
   followers or getting the
  Midsummer feast ready.
 And he was having to miss
that feast. Hildy had once
  said that misery was like
    this: silly little things
 always got mixed up with
 the important ones. How
      right she was.
  Mitt rolled the shed door
  open a crack and slipped
  inside. Sure enough, the
    place was empty. Mitt
breathed deep of the fishy
     smell of coal, and of
 fish-oil and wet metal. It
was not unlike the smell on
 the waterfront of Holand
where he had been brought
   up. And I might just as
well have stayed there for
  all the good it did me! he
   thought, staring along a
   vista of iron rails in the
 floor, where tarry puddles
      reflected red sun or
    rainbows of oil. He felt
    caught and trapped and
surrounded in a plot he had
  not even noticed till they
      thrust it at him this
   afternoon. Everyone had
told him that the Countess
   was treating him almost
  like a son. Mitt had been
   pretty sarcastic about
 that, but all the same he
 had thought this was the
  way people in the North
  did treat refugees from
         the South.
      'Fool I was!' he
        muttered.
  He walked along the rails
to the huge machines that
  stood at quiet intervals
 along them. Alk's Irons,
 everyone called them. To
Mitt, and to most people in
 town, they were the most
      fascinating things in
  Aberath. Mitt trailed his
   fingers across the cargo
 hoist, and then across the
    steam plough, and the
 thing that Alk hoped might
 one day drive a ship. None
 of them worked very well,
   but Alk kept trying. Alk
      was married to the
  Countess. It was the only
     other thing Mitt liked
 about the Countess, that,
instead of marrying the son
  of a lord or another earl
     who might add to her
importance, she had chosen
 to marry her lawman, Alk.
 Alk had given up law years
    ago, in order to invent
machines. Mitt dragged his
  fingertips across the wet
   and greasy bolts of the
      newest machine and
  shuddered as he imagined
himself pushing a knife into
a young woman. Even if she
  laughed at him, or looked
like Doreth or Alia, even if
 her eyes showed she was
 mad—No! But what about
   Ynen if he didn't? The
worst of this trap was that
 it pushed him back into a
part of himself he thought
   he had got out of. He
    could have screamed.
     He went round the
 machine and found himself
   face to face with Alk.
 Both of them jumped. Alk
recovered first. He sighed,
  put his oilcan down on a
 ledge in the machine and
   asked rather guiltily,
    'Message for me?'
 'I—No. I thought nobody
  was here,' Mitt said.
   Alk relaxed. To look at
     him, you would have
    thought he was a big
blacksmith run to fat, with
   his mind in the clouds.
 'Thought you were calling
 me to come and run about
after Keril,' he said. 'Now
 you're here, have a think
  about this thing. It's
  supposed to be an iron
horse, but I think it needs
  changing somewhere.'
  'It's the biggest horse I
    ever saw,' Mitt said
frankly. 'What good is it
 if it has to run on rails?
Why do your things always
        run on rails?'
 'To move,' said Alk. 'Too
heavy otherwise. You have
to work the way things will
         let you.'
  'Then how are you going
to get it to go uphill?' said
            Mitt.
   Alk rubbed an oily hand
  through the remains of
 copper hair like Doreth's
  and looked sideways at
Mitt. 'Boy's disillusionment
    with the North now
complete,' he said. 'Taken
 against my machines now.
  Anything wrong, Mitt?'
  In spite of his trouble,
 Mitt grinned. Alk and he
 had this joke. Alk himself
   came from the North
  Dales, which Alk claimed
 were almost in the South.
   Alk said he saw three
   things wrong with the
 North for every one that
 Mitt saw. 'No—I'm fine,'
   Mitt said, because the
Countess had probably told
   Alk all about her plans
 anyway. He was trying to
think of something polite to
 say about the iron horse,
 when the door at the end
 of the shed rolled right
open. Kialan's strong voice
  came echoing through.
    'This is the most
  marvellous place in all
       Aberath!'
     'Excuse me,' Mitt
 muttered, and dived for
the small side door behind
           Alk.
  Alk grabbed his elbow as
he went. He was as strong
as the blacksmith he looked
  like. 'Wait for me!' he
said. They went out of the
  side door together, into
    the heap of coal and
  cinders beyond. 'Taken
    against the Adon of
  Hannart too, have you?'
  Alk asked. Mitt did not
know how to answer. 'Come
up to my rooms,' Alk said,
 still holding Mitt's elbow.
 'I have to dress grandly
for supper, I suppose. You
    can help. Or is that
        beneath you?'
   Mitt gasped rather and
  shook his head. It was
 supposed to be an honour
to help the lord dress. He
  wondered if Alk knew.
  'Come on then,' said Alk.
    He let go of Mitt and
   lumbered ahead of him
 through the archway that
   led to his apartments.
   Alk's valet was waiting
there, with candles lit and
  water steaming and good
clothes hung carefully over
  chairs. 'You can have a
 rest tonight, Gregin,' Alk
  said cheerfully. 'Mitt's
going to clean me up today.
  Part of his education.'
  Even if Alk did not know
   he was doing Mitt an
honour, the valet certainly
    did. His face was a
    mixture of jealousy,
respect and anxiety. 'Sir,'
  he said. 'The coal. The
 oil.' He started to back
  out of the room as Alk
waved him away, and then
   came back to whisper
fiercely to Mitt. 'Mind you
   don't let him stop you
  scrubbing him when he's
  still grey. He'll try. He
         always does.'
  'Go away, Gregin,' said
  Alk. 'My word by the
Undying that we won't let
 you down.' Gregin sighed
 and went away. Mitt got
down to the hard work of
scrubbing Alk clean. 'Do I
take it you've had another
of your disagreements with
 my Countess?' Alk asked
   while Mitt laboured.
 'Not—the way you mean
  this time,' Mitt said,
rubbing away at one huge
        hairy arm.
  'Her bark is worse than
 her bite,' Alk observed.
   Alk had to think that,
  Mitt supposed. He must
 have had a lot of illusions
about the Countess to have
married her at all. 'Keril's
 worse,' he said. 'He's all
bite and no bark, as far as
        I can see.'
    'So Keril's in it, too?'
Alk said musingly. He took
 his arm away from Mitt,
  looked at it and gave it
 back, sighing. It was still
grey. 'Now I see you're in
no mood to agree with me,
   but Earl Keril's a good
man, shrewd as he can hold
 together. Knows all about
 steampower, too. They
 have a steam organ at
 Hannart, did you know?
Huge thing. But he's not
 the man to get on the
wrong side of, if you can
        help it.'
 'Well, I have,' Mitt said
  bitterly. 'I was on his
wrong side before he even
     set eyes on me.'
   'Now why was that?'
     wondered Alk.
 He was obviously waiting
 for Mitt to tell him, but
 Mitt found he could not
bear to, any more than he
   could bear to go near
    Kialan. He finished
 scrubbing Alk's left arm
 and began on the right,
  even blacker and larger
       than the left.
   'Something's up,' Alk
  said at length, 'that I
don't know about. I think.
And it can't be quite legal,
or she would have told me.
Did they tell you not to tell
           me?'
  Mitt looked up to find Alk
  staring shrewdly at him
  across his lathery arm.
  'No,' he said. 'But I'm
  not saying. They knew I
   wouldn't, too, for fear
you'd be disgusted and kick
  me out. How do you like
 being washed by the scum
       of the earth?'
  Alk frowned. 'You scrub
 even brisker than Gregin,
     if that's what we're
   talking about.' He said
  nothing else for a while,
until Mitt had scrubbed him
 to clean pink blotches and
  was starting to help him
  into good clothes. As his
head came out through the
    neck of the white silk
 shirt, he said, 'See here.
I was only a poor farmer's
boy before I came to be a
  lawman. Keril's Countess
   Halida was nobody much
 either, and she was from
 the South like you.' Mitt
    had not the heart to
 answer this. It was kindly
    meant, but so wrong.
  'Hm,' said Alk. 'Wrong
   track there.' As Mitt
 helped him force his arms
    down the sleeves, he
  added, 'And it's maybe
  the wrong track too if I
    were to mention that
you're much better placed
  than you were when you
  came? You can read and
write and use weapons now.
They tell me you learn good
    and quick, and you've
   brains to use what you
 learn—well, I know you've
  got brains. My Countess
   has not treated you so
           badly—'
  'And that's a lie!' Mitt
 burst out. 'She did it all
      for a reason!'
 'As to that,' Alk said, as
Mitt threaded golden studs
into his cuffs, 'you've not
  gone out of your way to
 make her love you, Mitt.
And everyone always has a
reason for what they do.
    It's only natural.'
 'Then what's your reason
for trying to cheer me up
like this?' Mitt retorted.
 'Easy,' said Alk. 'I can't
 abide misery and I hate
mysteries. Anyone taking
half a glance at your face
 could see something was
  wrong. And cheering up
   often brings things to
  light. I found that out
when I was a lawman, the
 first time we had a man
accused of murder.' Mitt
winced at that and nearly
 dropped a stud. He knew
 Alk noticed, but Alk only
said, 'Want me to talk to
my Countess about this?'
  'No point. Wouldn't do
  any good,' Mitt said.
 Everyone knew that Alk
 never went against the
Countess. He turned away
and got Alk's vast brocade
 trousers. 'Look, I don't
want to talk about this no
more,' he said, helping Alk
     step into them.
 'I see that. And I think
 you ought to,' Alk said.
   Mitt obstinately said
nothing while he buttoned
the trousers round Alk's
  bulging waist and then
    fetched the huge
 embroidered jacket. Alk
  backed into it with his
  arms out, like a bear.
'Nothing you want to say,
    then?' he asked.
       'Nothing, only a
    question,' Mitt said,
   meaning to change the
subject. 'Is the One real?'
 Alk turned round with the
 jacket half on and stared
   at him. 'I mean,' said
  Mitt, 'I never heard of
   the One, nor half the
other Undying either, until
  I came here. We don't
take much note of Undying
   in the South. Do you
 believe in any of them?'
  He went round Alk and
  heaved the jacket on to
him. Then he bent down to
  help Alk with his boots.
  'Believe in the One!' Alk
  said, and trod into the
 right boot. 'It would be
   hard not to, here in
 Aberath, at this time of
year, but - ' He trod into
the left boot and stamped
down in it, thinking. 'Put it
 like this. I believed in my
  machines when they were
  just a notion in my head,
 and nothing I could touch
or see. Who's to say that
   the One isn't as real as
 they were in my head—or
 as real as they are now?'
He flipped the fastening at
   the neck of his shirt to
    see if Mitt had tied it
   securely and tramped to
     the door. 'Coming?'
  Supper would be ready in
 the great hall. It came to
  Mitt that it would be his
  job to wait on Kialan at
  table. He could not face
it. 'I got to polish my gear
  and pack now,' he said.
   'I'm off to Adenmouth
         tomorrow.'
     'Are you now?' Alk
    turned round in the
doorway and looked hard at
Mitt again. 'Then I'll make
sure someone remembers to
   feed you,' he said. 'I
   think I'm on the right
track now. And I don't like
it, Mitt. I don't like it any
more than you do. Don't do
 anything stupid until I talk
       to you again.'
             II
   Mitt had to set out for
 Adenmouth without seeing
  Alk again. The Countess
 had obviously given strict
  orders. He was roused
before dawn, and fed, and
  pushed to the stables as
   the sun rose, where he
   found the Armsmaster
  waiting for him in a very
  bad temper. Mitt sighed,
 and watched every buckle,
   pouch and button being
  checked, and then every
scrap of tack on the horse.
  He had had some idea of
 hanging his belt, with the
 sword on one side and the
dagger on the other, up on
 a nail and then forgetting
 it accidentally on purpose.
But there was no question
  of that with an angry
Armsmaster standing over
          him.
   'I'm not going to have
you let me down in front of
  potty little Adenmouth,'
 the Armsmaster said, as
       Mitt mounted.
  Mitt rather hoped the
horse would try to take a
     bite out of the
 Armsmaster, the way it
 always did with anyone
 else, but of course it did
 not dare, any more than
Mitt did. 'I wish you'd let
me take a gun,' Mitt said.
 'I can use a gun. I'd let
you down with a sword for
           sure.'
  His idea was that it would
  be much easier to shoot
     this Noreth from a
 distance than to get close
up the way you had to with
a sword. But that idea died
      at the look on the
    Armsmaster's face.
'Nonsense, boy! Guns here
   have to be smuggled in
from the South. Think I'd
 trust you with something
that expensive? And sit up
  straight! You look like a
       sack of flour!'
    Mitt straightened his
  back and clopped angrily
through the gate. He could
 use a gun, and care for it
   too. Mitt's stepfather
 Hobin made the best guns
 in Dalemark. But nothing
  ever seemed to convince
 the Armsmaster of this.
  'Yes, sir, goodbye, sir.
  Good riddance, sir,' he
 said, raising one smartly
 gloved hand when he was
too far away to be caught.
   He clopped through the
  streets of the town, all
 hung with decorations for
the feast he was having to
miss, and up along the top
  of the cliffs, where the
sun was a gold eye opening
between heavy grey eyelids
of sea and sky, and looked
 down on the boatsheds at
 the cliff foot as he went.
One of those sheds hid the
battered blue pleasure boat
 they had arrived in: Mitt,
   Hildy, Ynen and Navis.
    Ynen's boat. And the
    Countess had started
 plotting from that moment
 on. Today, Mitt found he
  was angry about it, very
  angry. And the odd thing
about being angry was that
it seemed to break through
 the walls that had seemed
  to hem him in yesterday
    and give him space to
 hope. He was going to see
  Navis. Navis was Ynen's
     father, and a cool
   customer, and he would
 think of something. Navis
  was used to dealing with
 earls' plots, being the son
     of an earl himself.
  Thinking of Navis, then
    of Ynen, Mitt rode
 between the sea and the
  steep fields on the hills
 above, where people were
 scrambling to scrape in a
  crop of hay despite its
  being a feast day. Ynen
was younger than Mitt, but
Mitt had nevertheless come
 to admire him more than
  he admired anyone else.
Ynen was— steadfast—that
 was the word. His sister
 Hildy, on the other hand
             ...
   After first Navis, then
  Ynen had left Aberath,
 Hildy and Mitt had been
  together there another
 short month, while Hildy
    was coached by the
 Countess's law-woman in
  Law, Geometry, History
   and the old writing, so
  that she could pass into
   the great Lawschool in
Gardale. That way, as she
told Mitt, she could always
  earn her living. Nobody
was more respected than a
 lawyer. Hildy was inclined
  to patronise Mitt, just a
   little, as Mitt struggled
  simply to read and write
   along with all the other
           duties of a
hearthman-in-training. 'I'll
  send you letters,' Hildy
   had promised, when she
  went away, 'to help with
your reading.' The trouble
was, she kept her promise.
   Her first letters were
carefully printed and quite
full of news. The next few
 were dashed off, with an
  air of duty about them.
   Around then, Mitt had
learnt enough to be able to
   write back. Hildy had
  answered several of his
  letters with one of her
  own, carefully, point by
  point, but she had been
   quite unable to resist
correcting his spelling. Mitt
had kept writing—there had
   been a lot to tell—but
Hildy's letters had become
 ever briefer and further
 apart, and each one was
harder to understand than
the last. Mitt had waited
  well over a month for
Hildy's latest letter. And
     what came was:
        Dear Mitt,
 This grittling the boys on
fayside were at trase with
peelers, would you believe!
They had sein right too, so
  it was all kappin and no
    barlay. We only had
  mucks. But Biffa was our
surnam and you should have
    seen the hurrel. Now
 highside is doggers and we
 have herison from scap to
lengday, and everyone looks
up to us although we are to
 be stapled for it. In haste
    to trethers. Hildrida.
    It was like a message
  from the moon. It hurt
 Mitt badly. Hildy and he
  had had little enough in
 common anyway, and now
 Hildy was making it clear
 that this little was gone.
After that letter, Mitt had
  told himself he did not
    care what became of
 Hildy, and then Earl Keril
came along and forced him
   to behave as if he did
 care. As he rode on, he
 tried to tell himself that
 he was being noble about
 Hildy. This was not true.
   He did not want Hildy
  hurt, not when she was
  evidently having fun for
 the first time in her life.
  The sun came up higher.
 People began passing Mitt
    on their way to the
feasting at Aberath, calling
out in the free way of the
 North that Mitt was going
the wrong way, wasn't he?
 Mitt called jokes in reply
  and urged his horse on.
 The horse, as usual, had
other ideas. It kept trying
  to go back to Aberath.
 Mitt cursed it. He had a
 very bad relationship with
    this horse. His private
     name for it was The
Countess. It held its head
 sideways like she did, and
  walked in the same jerky
    way, and it seemed to
dislike Mitt as much as the
   real Countess did. They
  came to the place where
  the road forked, a rutty
track going along the coast
to Adenmouth, and a wider
     and even ruttier one
winding back right into the
 mountains at the heart of
 the earldom. People were
 streaming down this wider
road, and turning along the
  way Mitt had come, and
  the horse tried to turn
   back with them. Mitt
wrestled its head round on
to the Adenmouth road and
kicked its sides to make it
            go.
      'Going my way,
  hearthman?' somebody
     called after him.
    Hot and annoyed, Mitt
looked round to find a boy
    on an unkempt horse
   turning out of the main
  road after him. Another
hearthman, by the look of
the faded livery. Mitt did
not feel like company, but
 people in the North never
 seemed to feel you might
  want to be alone, and it
     was a fact that the
    Countess-horse went
 better for a lead. So, as
   the two horses slid and
 stamped in the ruts, Mitt
  said a little grudgingly,
   'Going to Adenmouth,
        hearthman.'
  'Good! Me too,' said the
    lad. He had a long,
 freckled face with a sort
of eager look to it. 'Rith,'
he introduced himself. 'Out
       of Dropwater.'
 'Mitt,' said Mitt. 'Out of
         Aberath.'
  Rith laughed as they set
  off side by side up the
narrower road. 'Great One!
 You've come even farther
   than I have!' he said.
   'What's a Southerner
  doing this far North?'
  'Came by boat—we went
 where the wind took us,'
Mitt explained. 'I think we
 missed Kinghaven in the
night somehow. How come
     you knew I was a
  Southerner? My accent
      that bad still?'
   Rith laughed again and
 pushed at the fair, frizzy
   hair that stuck out all
 round his steel cap. 'That
     and your looks. The
 straight hair. But it's the
 name that's the clincher.
     Dropwater's full of
  Southern fugitives, and
they all answer to Mitt, or
    Al, or Hammitt. I'm
 surprised the South's not
empty by now, the way you
   all come to the North.
       Been here long?'
  'Ten months,' said Mitt.
  'Then you've had one of
  our winters. I bet you
          froze!'
    'Froze! I nearly died!'
  said Mitt. 'I never saw
  icicles before, let alone
snow. And when they first
brought the coal in to make
   a fire, I thought they
     were going to build
 something. I didn't know
     stones could burn.'
  'Don't they have coal in
  the South?' Rith asked
       wonderingly.
  'Charcoal—for those that
could afford it,' Mitt said.
'At least, that's what they
  used in Holand, where I
        come from.'
   Rith whistled. 'You did
  come a long way, didn't
           you?'
   By this time, Mitt had
forgotten he had wanted to
 be alone. They rode with
  the sea sparkling on one
 side and the hills climbing
  on the other, under the
douce Northern sun, talking
   and laughing, while the
  Countess-horse followed
 Rith's travel-stained little
  mount as smoothly as its
jerky gait would allow. Rith
   was good company. He
      seemed genuinely
  interested to know what
Mitt thought of the North
now he was here. Mitt was
a bit wary at first. He had
      found that most
 Northerners did not like
   criticism. 'It's this
 porridge they all eat, I
  can't stand,' he said
    jokingly. 'And the
       superstition.'
  'What superstition?' Rith
said innocently. 'You mean,
 like the Holanders throw
  their Undying in the sea
        every year?'
 'And you lot put bowls of
 milk out for yours,' said
 Mitt. 'Believe anything,
 these Northerners! Think
  the One's a pussy cat!'
    Rith bowed on to his
horse's neck with laughter.
   'What else do we do
 wrong?' he said, when he
  could speak. 'I bet you
  think we're inefficient,
        don't you?'
    'Well, you are,' said
 Mitt. 'All run-about and
talk and do nothing when a
      crisis happens.'
   'Not when it matters
though,' said Rith. 'And?'
   And he went on coaxing
  Mitt, until Mitt at last
   came out with the real
cause of his disappointment
with the North. 'They told
 me it was free here,' he
said. 'They told me it was
 good. I was badly enough
    off in the South, but
  beside some here I was
 rich—and idle. People are
     no more free here
    than—than—' He was
   trying to find a proper
   description, when they
 came round a bend to find
      the road blocked
 house-high with earth and
boulders. A stream sprayed
 from the top in a raw new
  waterfall and ran round
their horses' hooves. 'This
just about sums it up!' Mitt
said disgustedly. 'And your
   roads are all terrible!'
 'The Southern roads are,
 of course, all perfect,'
        Rith said.
    'I never said—' said
           Mitt.
       Rith laughed and
dismounted. 'Come on. This
 is hopeless. We'll have to
 lead the horses uphill and
   come back to the road
     where it's clear.'
 Mitt slid down from the
   Countess-horse and
 discovered he was more
than a little saddle-sore.
Ow! he thought. I wonder
 my pants aren't smoking!
    But he did not like to
 confess this to Rith, who
   had ridden all the way
  from Dropwater and was
    obviously a seasoned
 hearthman. A small tough
boy, Rith. When they were
  both on their feet, Rith
   only came up to Mitt's
shoulders. Makes me look a
 big booby if I moan, Mitt
  thought, and he set off
        dragging the
 Countess-horse up the hill
  after Rith. Both horses
   were huge, heavy and
reluctant. Their hooves slid
   in the slippery grass.
 Mitt's horse put its ears
back and tried to bite him.
 'Stop that!' Mitt slapped
   its nose aside. 'You
      Countess, you!'
  Rith broke into a panting
laugh. 'What a name! It's
a gelding. O - oh! Piper's
          pants!'
 Mitt dragged his horse up
 beside Rith's. The hill, in
 the mysterious manner of
 hills, was twice as high as
   he had thought. Beyond
 and above them, it was a
    huge triangle of earthy
     boulders and trickling
water, which had slid down
across the road, blocking it
   for as far as they could
 see. At the lower edge of
  it, the sea twinkled, flat
        and impassable.
  'We'd better go up over
  the hill,' Rith said. 'I
 know the way. It'll mean
fording the Aden after we
cross the green road, but
   it won't be deep this
           high.'
     So they struggled on
  upwards, about twice as
  high as they had already
  come, until they left the
landslip behind and reached
   a squishy yellow-green
 shoulder, where Rith said
they could ride again. Mitt
 nearly yelled as he kicked
his way into the saddle. He
  was raw. But he did not
    like to mention it. He
 simply bore it, all the way
    through a long marshy
     valley and then up an
  endless firm green slope,
where they came to one of
the things the Northerners
  called waystones. It was
     round, like a roughly
 shaped millstone set up on
  one edge, with a hole in
   the middle. Rith leaned
over and slapped the thing.
     'For luck,' he said,
      grinning. 'I'm a
superstitious Northerner. I
 may ask the Wanderer's
blessing too, just to annoy
  you. There's the Aden
 down there. What do you
   say we stop for some
           lunch?'
  Mitt was only too glad to
    get down. He helped
 himself off by hanging on
to the waystone, which was
     a way of touching it
   without seeming to. He
knew he could do with some
luck. And once he was down
he was so sore that he had
   to concentrate on small
  things—like stripping off
his gloves and tucking them
into the proper place on his
belt, and hitching his horse
   to the waystone, where
  someone had tied a piece
  of red twine through the
   middle for the purpose.
  Then, moving in a careful
    stiff-legged way, he
unbuckled his baggage roll
and got out the food they
 had given him. By then,
  the agony had gone off
enough for him to sit down
    beside Rith, bat the
   Countess-horse's nose
aside as it tried to eat his
  bread, and look at the
            view.
    There were hills all
 round, yellow and green,
with sunlight scudding over
them in patches. The green
   way stretched from the
  waystone, very level and
firm and dry, leading south
 into the mountainous heart
of Dalemark, and the Aden
rolled parallel with it about
  a hundred yards downhill
  from where they sat. It
was a fine big river, wider
   than any Mitt had seen,
      and the way it rolled
     quietly along among all
    those reeds and willow
    trees suggested that it
might be pretty deep. Mitt
  hoped Rith knew what he
 was talking about when he
said they could ford it. He
  leaned back and sniffed
 the smell of the river and
  willows mingling with the
damp wild smell of heather
and rock, the smell of the
   North— which Mitt still
thought of as the smell of
   freedom in spite of his
   disillusionment with the
     North. Perhaps, he
      thought, not very
   hopefully, he would be
stuck this side of the river
      and never get to
Adenmouth at all. But that
  would be the worse for
      Hildy and Ynen.
 'You look pretty gloomy!'
   Rith said, laughing.
 'Just thinking,' Mitt said
hurriedly. 'What are these
 green roads? Who made
       them—really?'
  'Kern Adon,' said Rith.
 'King Hern. They're the
 roads of his old kingdom.
 That's why they don't go
to places where people live
 any more. They say that
   Kern Adon set up the
  waystones and told the
  Wanderer to guard the
 roads, and, if you follow
 them right, they say you
arrive at King Hern's city
         of gold.'
  'I heard them called the
paths of the Undying,' said
           Mitt.
  'Oh, yes. They're called
 that too,' said Rith. 'My
 old nurse used to tell me
that the Undying sit in the
   hole in the waystones.
   What do you think of
            that?'
 'They couldn't!' Mitt said
 unguardedly. 'Not unless
      they shrunk.'
   Rith got very interested
in this idea. 'Then how big
 do you think the Undying
  are?' he kept saying, in
  the same coaxing way he
 had tried to get at Mitt's
opinion of the North. 'I've
never been able to decide.
Do you think they're made
 of something that isn't as
  solid as we are, so that
  they can be of any size?
         Or what?'
  These Northerners! Mitt
thought. Rith was laughing,
  but he was serious too.
 They finished eating and
    Mitt got up, rather
 reluctantly, to untie the
     Countess-horse.
 'What size do you think?'
Rith said, leading his horse
   downhill to the river.
 'If you must know,' Mitt
 called over his shoulder,
'they're people-sized. It
  stands to reason.' He
        dragged the
 Countess-horse round to
follow Rith. 'How could—'
 He stopped and blinked.
 There was no wide rolling
river any more. Rith was
   on his way down to a
   sunken crease in the
 hillside that was choked
with small oak trees. Mitt
 could hear water rushing
      among the trees.
  'You're probably right,'
 Rith called back, 'though
some of the things they do
 make them seem smaller.
Come on. It really is quite
       shallow here.'
  Mitt slowly followed him
    down among the oaks,
 wondering just what river
 it was that he had seen.
  There was no question in
   his mind that the real
Aden was the yelling, stony
   stream in front of him
 now, glinting bright coins
    of sunlight under the
trees. Rivers in the North
  always seemed to crouch
 like this one along dips in
 the hills. And he had not
  seen a single willow tree
  since he left the South.
Shivers ran down his back,
  and he approached the
 brawling little Aden very
    cautiously indeed.
         So did the
  Countess-horse. At the
 edge of the water it put
 its ears back, braced its
   hooves and refused to
move. Mitt called it names.
    'I'll give you a lead,'
said Rith. He stepped into
 the shrilling water, which
  proved to be only a few
  inches deep, and waded
  carefully, watching the
stones in the bottom, until
    he and his horse had
   become dark shadows,
patterned with sun between
       the oak leaves.
     At this point, the
 Countess-horse found it
 preferred not to be left
   behind and took off
   suddenly after Rith,
dragging Mitt in sheets of
 bright water. Mitt kept
    hold of the reins and
  managed to stay on his
 feet until he was halfway
   across, where his foot
turned heavily on something
  that flashed in the sun.
    Rith called out, 'Look
  there!' in a surprisingly
  deep, strong voice, and
    dived towards Mitt.
  It was all sun-patterned
wet confusion. Both horses
  got away and Mitt sat
 down with a splash. Rith
 plunged his hands down
  where Mitt's feet had
    been and stood up
   triumphantly holding
  something that shone.
  Water poured off his
 elbows as he held it out
     for Mitt to see.
       'Look at this!'
    Mitt floundered to his
   knees. The thing had
evidently once been a little
  statue—a figurine, Mitt
 thought the word was. As
Rith turned it round, Mitt
could see traces of a face
and the folds of a robe on
  the side that was green
with river-slime. The other
     side was grated and
   scratched all over, and
   that side shone a pure
buttery yellow. Mitt in his
  time had worked enough
  inlay into gun handles to
   know what that meant.
 'It's solid gold!' he said.
 'I think it is,' Rith said.
  He sounded awestruck.
  'Who found it? You or
          me?'
  'You picked it up,' Mitt
 said. 'I only stepped on
            it.'
  Rith turned the dripping
 statuette round again. 'I
wish I could be sure—Look,
may I keep it for now and
 give you your share when
       I've got it?'
  If Mitt had not been so
saddle-sore he might have
argued. But the cold water
 was smarting him like acid
   and he could think of
almost nothing else. 'Fine,'
he gasped, and splashed his
   way across to the far
  bank, where the horses
 were standing head to tail
    looking pleased with
 themselves. Rith followed,
stowing the wet figurine in
  the front of his jacket.
     'You're being very
generous,' he said, several
times, as they mounted and
 rode on. 'You really mean
I can keep it for now?' He
    was evidently feeling a
  strange mixture of doubt
     and elation—but then
      anyone would, Mitt
    thought, who had just
 picked up a pound of solid
 gold. He thought Rith was
    nice to be so bothered
  about it. All through the
 next hour or so, Rith was
   either exclaiming at the
  amazing chance that had
led them to that spot, or
 he was asking Mitt if he
 really minded waiting for
  his share. 'If it hadn't
 been for that landslide,'
he said, 'we'd never have
come this way. Look, are
      you really sure?'
    Mitt got increasingly
  gruff with him. Mitt's
leathers were wet through
 and rubbing his soreness
 until he was convinced he
was being flayed. Besides,
he thought angrily, the way
he was caught in the earls'
  plotting, he couldn't see
  himself having much use
  for gold or anything else
  shortly. He wished Rith
 would shut up. By the late
  afternoon, when the sea
 came into view again blue
  and crisp to northwards,
Mitt was wanting to scream
at Rith—and he might have
  done, had they not come
      out on a headland
 overlooking Adenmouth to
 find themselves looking
  down on an accident.
    A Singer's cart had
overturned on the bridge
below. The bridge had no
sides, and the horse that
 had pulled the cart was
dangling struggling in the
 Aden. Mitt saw someone
  pulling uselessly at the
 horse. A girl lay on the
 bank as if she might be
            dead.
 'Come on!' shouted Rith,
 and his shaggy horse was
 off down the hill as if it
 was aiming to end in the
        river, too.
    Mitt followed as fast as
  the Countess-horse would
let him, which was not very
      fast. The hill was
extremely steep. Even Rith
  slowed down halfway, but
 this was probably because
 he could see that help was
 on its way. They could see
 into a long green valley to
one side, where a party of
 people were running from
 one of the farms. More
people were running across
  a second bridge, from
 Adenmouth itself, and a
  horseman was galloping
      ahead of them.
  Everyone converged on
   the bridge, but the
horseman got there first.
 He was a hearthman in
Adenmouth livery. As the
Countess-horse slithered
  cautiously down the last
    slope, Mitt saw the
   horseman leap to the
  ground, thrust his reins
   into the hands of the
 red-headed Singer's boy
    and run towards the
struggling horse. There he
 took one look, cocked his
 pistol and shot the horse
     through the head.
  Mitt and Rith came down
  to the bridge while the
horse was still jerking. The
 bang rang in Mitt's ears
  like the memory of his
 worst dreams. The white
    staring face of the
Singer-boy looked just like
          he felt.
   'Anything we can do?'
       called Rith.
   The hearthman turned
from slashing at the traces
 that held the dead horse.
  Mitt almost laughed. It
  was Navis. It would be.
      'Hello,' he said.
   Navis nodded at him in
 his cool way. 'You see to
that girl,' he said to Rith.
'I think she's alive. Mitt,
you help me cut this horse
           loose.'
    As the two of them
 dismounted, Mitt noticed
    the Singer himself
  wandering about on the
 bank carefully laying out
 musical instruments from
  the overturned cart. A
dreamy-looking fellow with
a grey beard. Mitt ignored
 the Singer as useless and
  hobbled over to Navis,
   while Rith sprinted to
where the Singer-girl was
   sitting up, holding her
            head.
   'Get your knife out and
   cut here—then here,'
   Navis said. He did not
seem in the least surprised
 at seeing Mitt there. His
attention was mostly on the
 accusing yellow-white face
 of the Singer-boy. 'Your
   horse had broken two
legs—look,' he said to the
 boy. 'There was nothing
     else to be done.'
   'He was blind in one
 eye,' the boy said. 'He
 walked off the bridge.'
  'I just wish mine would
do that too!' Mitt said, to
  make him feel better.
 'Mine's a right brute.'
  The boy simply stared at
him. 'Southerner,' he said.
'You both are.' He turned
 his back and led Navis's
mare to the other side of
        the road.
  Navis glanced at Mitt.
    'There's a lot of
prejudice,' he said. 'Now
 cut here.' Mitt slashed
 away angrily. Cool, cool
Navis. He had forgotten
      just how cool.
  By the time they had cut
the horse loose, the people
  from the farm and the
  town had arrived. There
    was a lot of typically
 Northern milling about and
  talking. The chief talker
 was a lad from the farm,
  who wanted everyone to
  know how quickly he had
    gone for help to the
mansion and what the Lady
  Eltruda had said to him.
 But amidst all this, there
 was unnoticed efficiency.
   In less than a minute,
many hands had heaved the
neat green cart upright and
Mitt was able to read the
gold lettering on its side.
   'Hestefan the Singer.'
 'You want me?' Hestefan
         asked.
    He was standing beside
 Mitt with a cwidder in one
   hand and a fife in the
       other. Mitt was
 embarrassed. He had only
  said it aloud because he
still found it easier to read
 that way. Now he felt he
   had to say something.
'How did you get past the
 landslip on the road?' he
           asked.
 'Landslip?' said Hestefan.
     'What landslip?'
   Mitt gave him up again
  and turned to Rith, who
 said in a worried whisper,
'I think that girl Fenna has
 really hurt her head. Can
 you help me get her on a
           horse?'
  The Countess-horse was
     at that moment
 demonstrating that it was
not carriage-trained. They
  had tried to back it into
   the shafts of the cart,
      where it divided its
attention between trying to
  take bites out of anyone
 near and attempts to kick
  the splashboard in. Mitt
  ran and hauled it clear.
    'You good-for-nothing
Countess, you!' He dragged
it over to the injured girl,
where the Singer-boy held
    it while Mitt and Rith
    heaved Fenna into its
   saddle. The chattering
crowd seized Rith's horse
 and backed that into the
    cart instead. Nobody
    thought of using the
     beautiful mare that
belonged to Navis. Typical
    of Navis, that, Mitt
 thought, taking the reins
   from the boy. The lad
   looked as ill as Fenna.
'Want me to boost you up
 behind her, Moril?' Mitt
  asked. He had gathered
the boy's name was Moril.
 Moril simply turned away
 and walked to the cart.
    'All right. Be like that
   then!' Mitt said to his
back. All this running about
 made his backside feel as
 if it was on fire. It got
   worse when he set off
   leading the horse into
 Adenmouth. Fenna had to
  nudge him with her foot
  before Mitt noticed she
was trying to speak to him.
   'Er—young hearthman.
          Sir.'
   Mitt looked up. She was
pale, but she was dark and
pretty, and she spoke with
just a trace of a Southern
accent, which made him try
  to smile at her. 'Sorry.
           What?'
  'Don't think too hard of
  Moril, sir,' Fenna said.
 'He loved our old horse.
 And I heard tell he had
  another horse killed by
 Southerners last year.'
  Well, he's no call to take
it out on me! Mitt thought.
    But he said politely,
 'Heard tell? I thought he
     was your brother.'
 'Oh no, sir,' Fenna said.
  'Moril is Clennen the
 Singer's son. He'll be a
   great Singer himself
      before long.'
    Rith grinned at Mitt
  round the nose of the
 Countess-horse. 'These
artists! You can tell what
they're like from the red
hair. Sit straight, Fenna,
    or you'll fall off.'
     It was not far to
  Adenmouth, just across
another bend in the Aden,
 which then poured noisily
   past low grey houses
crowded at the edge of a
 cove. Mitt was glad. By
the time they had gone up
  the main street to the
 mansion, he was not sure
    he could have walked
another step. Their arrival
caused much confusion, for
a good hundred more people
 came out of the houses to
  see what was wrong, and
then followed them into the
 courtyard of the mansion,
    where rows of trestle
  tables that had been set
   up for the Midsummer
 Feast all had to be moved
 to make way for the cart.
  Lady Eltruda was out on
   the hall steps, bellowing
 instructions in a voice like
the Armsmaster's. 'Navis!'
she yelled. 'Get that thing
    through to the stables!
Spannet, fetch the lawman!
    You!' she screamed at
 Mitt. 'You in the Aberath
 livery! Bring that poor girl
            to me!'
  Before Mitt could move,
 Rith was dragging Fenna
 and the Countess-horse
    towards the steps,
 zigzagging between tables
 and shouting back. 'Aunt!
Aunt! I'm here! I got here,
     and I got my sign!'
   At this, Lady Eltruda
  dashed down the steps
yelling, 'Noreth, my dove!
  Noreth!' and flung her
      arms round Rith.
    Mitt stared. He felt
         terrible.
           III
  The confusion cleared up
 surprisingly quickly. Mitt
  was almost alone in the
 yard, wondering what on
  earth to do now, when
  Navis put a hand on his
          shoulder.
  'Come to my room,' he
 said. 'Tell me your news
          there.'
     Funny, Mitt thought,
 staring slightly downwards
into Navis's cool, clear-cut
  face. I don't remember
    him being that small.
Maybe I grew. 'I would if
 I could walk,' he said.
   Navis smiled a little.
'It's not far. But I can't
        carry you.'
    He turned and led the
  way. Mitt hobbled after
him, protesting, 'I do know
how to ride! It's just that
 I never did it for a whole
  day before!' They went
    through the hall, big
  enough, but a dark little
  place compared with the
one at Aberath, and up a
  shallow flight of steps.
 Navis had a comfortable
 panelled room beyond, as
   good as one of Alk's.
  Typical, Mitt thought,
looking round. He must be
  well in with Lord Stair.
 'How did you know I got
           news?'
  'Hush a moment,' Navis
  said. Two serving-men
came into the room. They
 were grinning rather and
 carrying a large bowl of
something sour and strong.
  They dumped it where
  Navis pointed and then
hung about, lingeringly, as
 if there was some joke.
 'Thank you,' Navis said,
   'but we'd like to be
       private now.'
 'What is this?' Mitt said
  suspiciously as the men
    left, still grinning.
  'Vinegar,' said Navis.
 'Take your leathers off
  and sit in it. Go on. It
          works.'
   Slowly, with misgivings,
Mitt did as Navis said. He
  sat. Yelled. Tried to get
    out again, and found
    himself held down by
    Navis's unexpectedly
 strong hand. Vinegar spilt
on the rugs and Mitt went
on yelling, even though he
was sure the two men were
 standing outside the door
     loving every shriek.
   'Flaming Ammet!' he
roared. 'Are you trying to
         kill me?'
  'No,' said Navis, and he
went on holding Mitt down
until Mitt's yells had given
 way to gasps and then to
miserable panting. Then he
   let go and went to the
 half-open door. 'That will
be all,' he said, and closed
          the door.
   Mitt heard footsteps
retreating. 'Can I get out
           now?'
   'The longer you stay in,
the sooner you'll be able to
  ride again,' Navis said.
'Tell me your news to take
 your mind off it.' It was
on the tip of Mitt's tongue
to tell Navis he was as bad
  as Earl Keril, but he did
    not say it because he
  suddenly realised it was
  true. Navis, in his way,
 could be quite as ruthless
 as Keril. Earls' blood will
out! Mitt thought. He was
 wondering if he was going
  to be able to tell Navis
  anything after all, when
     Navis added, 'They
wouldn't have let you leave
Aberath without very good
 reason, I'm sure.' Very
   strong bitterness came
    through his coolness.
  He feels just as caught
  as I do! Mitt thought.
'Well, before I start, do
you know where Hildy is?'
  'In Gardale,' said Navis.
   'Though, from the one
letter she deigned to send,
 I wondered if she wasn't
       in the moon.'
    'I got one of those,'
Mitt said. 'Total gibberish.
 And Ynen? You have any
   idea where Ynen is?'
  'No,' said Navis. There
 was a cold little silence,
before Navis said, 'No. No
 one has bothered to tell
me that. Is that why they
 let you see me? To bring
       me a threat?'
 'That may be part of it,'
Mitt said. 'They must have
   reckoned I'd tell you.
Navis, they want me to kill
  that girl Noreth. And I
tell you I rode most of the
   way here with her and
she's no madder than what
            I am!'
   'Sit still,' said Navis.
    'You'll get vinegar
everywhere.' He drew up a
 chair and sat facing Mitt
 in his bowl. 'Tell me this
 carefully. Who wants you
            to?'
   'The Countess and Earl
  Keril,' said Mitt. 'Talk
about your past catching up
 with you! They found out
       all about me.'
 'Keril,' said Navis. 'Keril.
 Then, Mitt, you are not
  the only one whose past
has caught up with him. I
once risked a good deal to
send a message to Keril to
  warn him that his sons
 were prisoners in Holand.
He must have taken it as a
threat. What did he say?'
   Mitt sat in his bowl and
   told Navis everything,
    including his ride with
Noreth. The only thing he
  left out was the way he
had thought the Aden was
a mighty river. He was not
    sure he believed that
 himself now. He found he
 felt a little tearful as he
  talked, not for obvious
reasons, but because Navis
   was listening and not
 treating him as the scum
       of the earth.
   'That statue,' Navis
 said. 'You were a little
over-generous there. Can
you persuade her to give
     you your half?'
  'Chop it in two? Why?'
        said Mitt.
   'Because if it is solid
gold,' said Navis, 'neither
 of us need depend on the
charity of earls. We could
   leave tonight. Mitt, I
 don't like this at all. You
  hear a great deal about
      Noreth, here in
 Adenmouth. She is much
     loved. If anything
  happened to her, there
would be an outcry all down
 the coast dales as far as
   Kinghaven. You are an
  obvious Southerner. Yet
they send you after her in
 full Aberath livery. What
    are they playing at?
Everyone will know Aberath
 had a hand in it, however
   villainous they say you
             are.'
   'I'm not doing it,' said
  Mitt. 'I can't. That's
final. But what do we do?'
   'We leave,' said Navis,
 'as soon as I think of an
excuse, with your share of
  the gold if possible. We
 look for Ynen and we cut
short Hildrida's education
and we hope we can get to
 them before Keril finds
out.' He sighed. 'Then we
  all go into hiding again.
 Meanwhile, keep sitting.
  You have to be able to
            ride.'
    Mitt sat for another
hour. During that time, the
big panelled room darkened
     and drops of rain
   patterned on the tall
  window. Lady Eltruda's
voice was heard bawling for
Navis to see about awnings
    over the yard. Navis
   hurried away. He came
back only to be called away
  to see about candles. By
the time he was back from
    that, the clouds had
     passed and red-gold
 sunlight was slanting into
   the room. Lady Eltruda
bawled that it was going to
    be fine after all, and
 Navis hurried off to have
  the awnings rolled away.
Mitt saw why Navis seemed
so well in with Lord Stair.
  People welcomed a little
 Southern efficiency round
  here. He grinned as he
 watched Navis come back
 and dress for the feast,
 with the same efficiency,
    in a ruffled shirt and
   blue-green Adenmouth
livery. You wouldn't think,
to look at him, that Navis
must have been dressed by
   a valet all his life until
      these last months.
 'You can get out now and
   wash,' Navis said.
   Mitt did so. He was not
  sore any more, not even
tender. In fact, he was as
smooth and leathery as his
own buff and gold Aberath
livery. 'You pickled me!' he
            said.
 'That was the idea,' said
         Navis.
  They went out into the
  hall, which was full of
cooking scents and people
 standing about waiting for
  Lord Stair to arrive and
  start the feast. The big
doors were open, blowing in
a chilly wind. A lot of noise
came from the yard, where
everyone else in Adenmouth
was gathered at the tables
drinking beer until the food
   arrived. Mitt stood, a
 little lost among all these
          strangers.
   'Oh, there you are,
 Mitt!' said Rith's voice.
    Mitt turned and found
 himself facing an elegant
    lady. He was utterly
 dismayed. The only thing
 that was the same about
     her was the longish
   freckled face with its
 eager, cheerful look. But
  that was surrounded by
clouds of fair frizzy hair,
done in a most fashionable
  style, and she had on a
slender dress of grey-blue
 that hung in sheeny folds
round a thoroughly female
 figure. Mitt could see now
she was a lot older than he
  was - eighteen or twenty
   at least - and that was
 enough to make him feel a
   fool. But the thing that
dismayed him most was the
fact that Noreth was alive,
  utterly alive, and warm,
         and a person.
  'Come on!' said Noreth.
 'Where's your tongue?'
   'Er,' said Mitt. 'Your
        ladyship—'
   'I told you,' she said,
     'to call me Rith.'
       'Yes,' said Mitt,
'but—what were you doing,
letting on you were a boy?'
     'I always travel like
 that,' Noreth said. 'It's
far quicker and safer than
   a carriage and I don't
 need to bother to take a
guard. My cousin lends me
 the livery. And I can use
   the weapons, too. You
 learn to, during grittling.
   But listen—' To Mitt's
    consternation, Noreth
 reached out and took hold
   of both his hands. Her
   hands were strong and
  warm, but so small they
made Mitt's feel like great
     cold paws. 'I'm very
  nervous,' she said. She
  was. Mitt could feel her
 hands trembling. 'There's
something I have to do. Do
you know how it feels to do
something that means your
life will never be the same
          again?'
   'Don't I just!' Mitt said.
 He sensed that Navis had
   come up behind him and
    was watching Noreth
 coolly. That reminded him
 that he had to ask for his
share in the statue, but he
  was too confused to know
        how to put it.
 'I had a feeling you did,'
said Noreth. 'Listen, could
you— ' There was a bustle
 up on the dais. Someone
was calling for lamps to be
   lighted. Noreth looked
round. 'Oh, here comes my
uncle,' she said. 'Drunk as
  usual. I must go. If you
   could just bear witness
about that statue when the
        time comes?'
 'Sure,' said Mitt, 'but—'
  Noreth let go of him and
  hurried away. Everyone
 was surging towards the
  long tables to sit down.
 Navis beckoned Mitt to a
   place beside him, just
 below the important table
  on the dais. Mitt found
 there were advantages to
  being sent to Adenmouth
 after all. At Aberath, he
would have been waiting at
 the tables with the other
boys. Here he was a guest,
  and he could sit and let
    boys wait on him. He
   settled down to enjoy
   himself. The food was
good, though Mitt found he
 did not much care for the
   traditional Midsummer
 sausage. Like so much of
 the food in the North, it
    seemed to be mostly
  oatmeal. But there was
    venison and pork and
 chicken and beef as well,
     oyster patties and
   plum-and-mutton pies,
 strawberries, raspberries
  with syllabub, and sweet
soda bread. Ale and spirits
   were passed round the
 whole time. The sound of
 voices became a cheerful
 roar that almost drowned
the even greater din from
the yard outside. Mitt ate
  hugely and became very
      friendly with the
  hearthmen at his table.
 There were a great many
    jokes about vinegar.
    Lord Stair was indeed
  drunk. It was impossible
  not to notice. He was a
large sallow man and he sat
   sprawling in his chair,
    eating very little and
  shouting for more drink.
      Every so often, he
complained loudly about the
  food. Nobody took much
notice. If people needed to
      have orders about
 anything, they asked Lady
   Eltruda. It looked as if
  Lady Eltruda, short and
  fat and loud as she was,
 had the same power here
  that the Countess had in
          Aberath.
 'Indeed she does,' Navis
   told Mitt. 'I owe my
position here to Eltruda. I
imagine Noreth does, too.'
     Lady Eltruda was
  obviously very fond of
 Noreth. She kept smiling
     at her proudly.
  The feast drew to a close
in sweet cream cheeses and
  sugared fruit, which Mitt
 was too full to touch. Lord
     Stair began to get
impatient. His voice roared
something about 'those idle
flaming Singers!' and there
  were terrific clatterings
   and scrapings from the
yard where the tables were
     being moved aside.
  Hestefan got up from a
 table near the end of the
  hall and went to stand in
 the great doorway. With
  him, to Mitt's surprise,
   came Fenna and Moril.
  Navis frowned. 'I don't
 think that girl should be
 here. Nor the boy. They
both look ill to me. But I
suppose they have to earn
       their keep.'
     His voice was nearly
  drowned in cheering and
   clapping. Nobody else
 cared two hoots how the
Singers felt, for there was
going to be dancing. Tables
 were pushed aside in the
hall, too. Hestefan slung a
   narrow drum round his
   neck, looked to see if
  Fenna was ready on the
  portable organ and that
    Moril had tuned his
 cwidder, and struck up a
strenuous jig. Outside and
 inside, everyone grabbed
   partners and danced.
  The dancing went on and
  on. Mitt at first leaned
 against a table, feeling a
  little out of things and
 watching the dancing. But
 at the next tune, he was
grabbed by a young lady in
 scarlet ribbons and from
then on he danced with the
    rest. The hall whirled
     around him, hot and
 riotous. Once or twice he
   saw Navis dancing with
  Noreth, in a very courtly
  way. Mitt would not have
     dared to dance with
  Noreth himself. He knew
   absolutely none of the
  dances. The young ladies
 squealed with laughter and
  pushed him into the right
  places and he kept going
    wrong. Every time his
    desperate ignorant
 caperings got him into a
 real mess, he seemed to
 catch the eye of Moril,
   tirelessly playing his
 cwidder in the doorway,
 and there was malicious
amusement in Moril's look.
 It began to annoy Mitt.
    It took Mitt unawares
 when the Singers suddenly
changed to a slow, haunting
 tune and everyone stopped
   dancing. For a moment,
   Mitt was the only one
  capering. Moril grinned.
 'What's this tune then?'
       Mitt gasped.
 '"Undying at Midsummer",
of course,' said the girl in
   scarlet ribbons. 'It's
     nearly midnight.'
     Around him dancing
  partners were breaking
apart and the servers were
going round with bottles of
 rare white wine, Southern
 wine, to welcome midnight
 with. Someone put three
  mugs of it down on the
  steps for the Singers.
 Navis bent over his mug,
sniffing deeply. 'Now this
I have missed,' he said to
Mitt. 'Grapes don't ripen
     this far North.'
   They exchanged a little
    smile of pride in the
 South, even though it had
turned them both out. Mitt
  said wonderingly, 'That
can't be the only thing you
           miss!'
     'I think it is,' said
Navis. 'Life's never dull up
   here.' Saying this, he
thrust his mug into Mitt's
    free hand and dived
 towards the doorway. He
 was just in time to catch
Fenna as she dropped the
  heavy organ and passed
 out. Everybody stared in
 shock as Navis turned to
    Hestefan with Fenna
   draped over his arms.
'What were you thinking
 of, letting this girl play
tonight? Couldn't you see
       she was ill?'
    Hestefan gave him a
 slow, worried look. 'She
 swore she was well, sir,
and we needed her part on
the organ. I thank you for
 catching her so quickly.'
   Navis looked at Moril.
 'And you? Are you quite
           well?'
 Moril's face did not have
 much expression, but Mitt
could tell that he would not
 have admitted it to Navis
even if he had been playing
with all ten fingers broken.
  'Perfectly, thank you,'
         Moril said.
  Here Lady Eltruda raised
her voice. Two women came
   and took Fenna quickly
away. Someone shoved the
 heavy little organ to the
  side of the doorway. It
  was almost midnight. A
  running crowd of men and
women were carrying every
    lamp and candle in the
    place and putting them
 down on the ground in two
 long lines leading from the
gates of the yard, through
   the yard, up the steps,
   and into a circle in the
 middle of the hall. It was
good luck to place a candle,
so everyone fought for the
   honour except for Lord
 Stair, and Mitt and Navis
     who did not know the
          custom.
    'Let in the Undying!'
 everyone shouted as the
  last candle was put in
           place.
  Silence fell, expectantly.
   From the yard came a
strong grating sound as the
two big gates were pushed
 open. At Hestefan's nod,
   Moril again played the
  slow, haunting chords of
 'Undying at Midsummer'.
 To Mitt's ears he seemed
   to be playing now in an
odd, different way. At any
  rate, there was a queer
humming building under the
notes. A damp breeze blew
in from the yard, where it
was probably raining again,
    bending all the candle
 flames. A great wavering
  shadow advanced across
 the floor and grew up the
        wall beyond.
    Flaming Ammet! Mitt
   thought, with shivers
 spreading up his back. I
 think something really is
         coming in!
  But the shadow shortened
  and fell, and Mitt saw it
     had been caused by
 Hestefan advancing up the
 lane of lights, carrying a
small treble cwidder. When
   Hestefan reached the
 circle of lights, he turned
    round and called out,
 'Welcome the Undying to
 this house, for this night
and the coming year!' Then
  he played the same slow
 tune on his cwidder. Mitt
wondered why it sounded so
 much more ordinary now.
      A growl of voices
welcomed the Undying too.
 The custom seemed to be
 to tip your mug and let a
 few drops of wine splash
on the floor. Navis looked
  at Mitt. Mitt shrugged.
And they both spilled some
wine as well, with a private
   murmur to Libby Beer.
   After that, the feast
broke up into groups loudly
  wishing one another luck
for the year. It looked for
a minute or so as if things
     were nearly over.
   But suddenly everyone
  was shouting, 'Noreth!
 Noreth! Noreth, has your
  sign come?' as Noreth
came to stand in the circle
     of candles beside
    Hestefan. She was
carrying the golden statue
  and she held it up for
     everyone to see.
   'Here is my sign,' she
        called out.
  Navis murmured to Mitt,
 'You can say goodbye to
your half of it, I think.' A
  number of people were
  cheering, although Lord
 Stair was saying loudly in
the distance, 'Is that girl
up to her nonsense again?'
   'Hush!' someone said.
   Noreth called out again.
  'Will my uncle's lawman
 please come and stand by
   me. I wish to make a
  statement in the proper
       form of law.'
     There was a lot of
 grumbling from the back.
 One of the men who had
  been at the high table,
rather unsteady on his feet
  and very embarrassed,
 came and joined Noreth.
She left the circle of light
  and walked down the lane
of candles with him to the
 door. 'I want everyone to
hear,' she explained to the
 lawman as they came past
   Mitt. 'Tell me if I say
anything wrong.' Mitt could
  feel her shaking with the
   importance of what she
  was going to do. It made
   his stomach give a cold
            jerk.
  'You know ash mush law
   ash me,' the lawman
  complained, but he went
  and stood by Noreth as
 she took up a position in
   the doorway where she
 could speak to the people
outside as well as those in
the hall. The two of them
pushed Moril right back to
the side of the door. Mitt
    could see him there,
        looking awed.
  Noreth said, loudly and
  slowly, 'I, Noreth of
 Kredindale, do this night
state and affirm that I am
the rightful queen and heir
to the crown of Dalemark,
over both North and South
 and the peoples of both.'
   It really is true, Mitt
thought sadly. The lawman
    leaned across and
  murmured to Noreth.
  'Oh yes. Thanks,' said
  Noreth. 'And over all
   earldoms and marks
therein, not excluding the
earls of those marks and
the lords under them. This
 claim I make through my
     mother, Eleth of
 Kredindale, descendant in
      direct line from
     Manaliabrid of the
Undying, and also by right
  of my father, the One,
 whose true names are not
  to be spoken, and from
whom all kings descend. In
proof of this my right, my
   father promised me a
 token at Midsummer this
 year, and this promise he
  kept. This is the token.'
She held the golden statue
 up over the nearest lamps
  so that it could be seen.
    'Who witnesses,' she
called out, 'that the River
  Aden today gave me this
golden image of my father,
         the One?'
  Mitt jumped and looked
 round for somewhere to
 hide. But Noreth turned
 and looked at him as she
   spoke. He sighed and
   pushed his way to the
  doorway. 'If I'd known
 what you meant when you
asked,' he said, 'I'd have
   gone straight back to
         Aberath.'
 The lawman said, 'Do you
witnesh thish?' and swayed
          a little.
      'Sure,' Mitt said
 bitterly. If Keril and the
  Countess had arranged
personally for the landslip,
  they could hardly have
 pushed him into this any
  deeper. 'I trod on the
statue halfway across the
 brook. She picked it up.
        That do?'
    Noreth replied with an
eager, flustered smile. Her
hands were still shaking as
   she held up the statue.
She was truly nervous. She
was not doing this because
 she was mad, but because
she saw it as her duty—as
  perhaps it was. Mitt felt
himself bound to give her a
 smile in return before he
    edged away. Beyond
 Noreth, he could see the
 Singer-lad staring at him
resentfully. Now what does
 he think I've done? Mitt
     thought irritably.
 'I call on you all,' Noreth
said, 'to support me in my
  right. Today at dawn, it
being Midsummer Day, I go
  to ride the green roads
 until I come to where the
crown is hidden, and there
 I shall be crowned queen.
Let whoever wishes to ride
  with me and support my
   claim meet me at the
waystone above the quarry
     at sunrise today.'
      There was another
silence, which was followed
  by a surge of murmurs,
     half doubtful, half
     enthusiastic. Navis
 whispered to Mitt, 'Well,
there seems only one thing
    we can do now.' Mitt
  nodded, but his attention
     was on Moril in the
  doorway. He could almost
  feel the boy taking some
    kind of decision. Sure
enough, Moril put his hands
  to his cwidder and struck
   up the tune called 'The
   King's Way'. Hestefan
 looked surprised, but took
the tune up on his cwidder
  too, and walked between
 the two lines of guttering
    candles to join Moril.
Moril, leaning over, plucked
 once again in the odd and
    different way. The
   humming gathered and
gathered behind the tune,
 until it had become more
than simply a rousing song.
  Mitt could quite clearly
   feel a serious purpose
booming behind the notes.
       Everyone sang:
  Who will ride the King's
  Way, the King's Way?
  Who will ride the royal
 road and follow with the
          King?
      There was a certain
amount of muddle as about
  half the people tried to
   sing 'queen' instead of
'king', but the singing was
 truly lusty. It seemed to
affect Mitt's head, either
  the singing or the queer
 boom of Moril's cwidder,
and his memory went a bit
    faulty after that. He
    remembered Noreth,
   glowing in the doorway,
 holding the glinting statue
   for everyone to see as
they sang. He remembered
 glancing uneasily at Navis,
    because this song was
 banned in the South, and
  finding, to his confusion,
that Navis was singing with
  the rest. Mitt knew the
 song because he had been
   a freedom fighter, but
  Navis was an earl's son,
      for Ammet's sake!
   Next thing he knew, he
 was back in Navis's room,
 where Navis seemed to be
 persuading him to get into
bed. Mitt interrupted what
 he was saying—he seemed
to be repeating with great
   earnestness, 'This is
  serious, Navis, she was
   serious!'—in order to
protest that he didn't need
          to sleep.
  'Please yourself,' Navis
  said. 'It's only a few
 hours to sunrise anyway.'
Mitt had a confused notion
that Navis went away then,
   saying he had a lot of
 things to do, and he knew
  Navis did not come back
   until the next thing he
   knew, which was Navis
 shaking him awake in grey
            dawn.
  'What is it now?' Mitt
          said.
  'Time to get up,' Navis
said. 'You and I are going
 to ride the green roads
      with Noreth.'
      'Whatever for?'
protested Mitt. 'I told you
           I—'
     'Can you think of a
 better way to keep Hildy
and Ynen safe until we get
  to them?' Navis asked.
   'You were told to join
 Noreth. Keril will assume
you are doing what you are
     told. Now get up.'
   Mitt got up—luckily he
still seemed to be dressed
— and shortly stumbled out
  into old food and beer
   smells in the hall. His
bedroll was on the nearest
  table alongside one for
   Navis. Navis was just
 beyond, saying goodbyeto
        Lady Eltruda.
 'Take care of my girl for
 me,' Lady Eltruda said to
Navis. 'I trust her to you.
She's the only child I ever
           had.'
  'I'll look after her, I
  promise,' Navis said.
  At that moment, Noreth
  herself rushed into the
hall, once more dressed as
   a hearthman. 'Aunt,
where's my bedroll? Aunt!
Oh!' she said, as she saw
  her aunt was occupied.
'I'd better go and look in
 the stable,' she said. 'I
     don't think I ever
 unpacked. Are you riding
         with me?'
       Mitt nodded.
  'Oh good!' Noreth said,
 and raced away outside.

Part II - Maewen
           IV
  Maewen came back to the
present with a jump. For a
   moment there, it had
 seemed as if the noise of
the train was not the beat
  of wheels on tracks, but
 the sound of water rilling
    over stones. She had
almost seemed to see young
  leaves rustling overhead,
  casting a mix of sunspots
  and shadow on the racing
water. In the confusion of
    glints, she could have
sworn there was a brighter
 glint, hands diving for the
   brightness, voices, and
 then the brightness taking
   the form of a dripping
       golden statuette.
 Nonsense, of course. She
 must have dropped off to
  sleep while the train was
    rushing into this deep
 green cutting—such a deep
one that there was no sign
       of the mountains
 beyond—and the glint had
  to be the gold buttons of
 the guard, just passing on
  his regular walk down the
corridors. The guard smiled
gravely at Maewen with his
  head cocked to one side.
      Was she all right?
  Maewen managed a sort
    of smile and the guard
passed on. She prickled all
  over with embarrassment
  again. It was too bad of
 Aunt Liss. Mum would just
have given Maewen a vague
   kiss and waved goodbye,
   but Aunt Liss, being the
practical sister, had had to
collar the guard and explain
 loudly and at length. 'This
   is my niece's first-ever
 train journey. She's going
  all the way to Kernsburgh
  to visit her father and I
 don't like to think of her
going all that way without
someone to keep an eye on
 her. Could you make sure
she's all right? Can I leave
her in your tender care?'
      And so on for five
   minutes, while Maewen
wished she were anywhere
 else and hoped the other
   four passengers in the
carriage were all deaf. As
 if she were ten years old
instead of nearly fourteen!
 The worst of it was that
 the guard was quite young
  and rather good-looking.
   He probably did think
 Maewen was only ten. She
was unfortunately small for
    her age. He listened
 seriously to Aunt Liss and
eventually took his cap off,
     baring his beautiful
    white-fair curls, and
       bowed slightly.
  'Thank you, madam. You
can safely leave your niece
         to me.'
    Looking back on it,
 Maewen wondered if the
guard hadn't been making
 fun of Aunt Liss, but it
hadn't seemed like that at
the time, and Maewen had
  spent the entire space
 between Adenmouth and
 Kredindale trying to hide
her hot face and squirming
         all over.
  The silly part was that
Maewen usually got on with
Aunt Liss, better than with
  Mum. Aunt Liss was the
one who cared. While Mum
   wandered in her studio
covering her strange gawky
   statues with metal rags
    and splashes of bright
  colour, deaf and blind to
 the world, Aunt Liss made
sure Maewen had meals and
       clothes and—most
      important of all to
 Maewen—a horse to ride.
       Aunt Liss earned
    day-to-day money by
  running a livery stable.
When Mum sold a statue,
she earned big money, but
   that only happened—
  'Are you travelling far,
  young lady?' asked the
passenger opposite, making
 her jump again. He must
 have got on the train at
  Orilsway or somewhere.
 She looked at him, trying
to remember, and decided
she must have been asleep
 when he got on, because
     she had certainly not
noticed him before. He was
  one of those wide kind of
    old men who are almost
  bell-shaped sitting down.
 He had a sheet of wriggly
 grey hair on either side of
     his wide, plump face.
  Maewen was not sure she
liked the way his eyes were
       half-hooded in fat
   eyelids—it made him look
  cunning and rather cruel—
  but his question had been
   perfectly polite and she
 supposed she had better
         answer.
   'Just to Kernsburgh.'
  'Indeed?' he said. 'And
  where did you get on?'
     'Adenmouth,' said
        Maewen.
      'From the furthest
 north,' said the old man,
'halfway down the country
   to King Hern's city of
 gold. That is a momentous
journey, child. At one time
  it was the royal road to
 the crown of Dalemark.'
 He chuckled in a windy,
 breathy way. 'And what
brings you on the paths of
       the Undying?'
  What a silly way to talk!
  Maewen thought. There
   are people who travel
  between Adenmouth and
 Kernsburgh every day of
  the week. 'I'm going to
visit my father,' she said.
Up to this moment she had
 secretly thought this was
the greatest adventure of
 her life, but, thanks to
   this old man, it was
  suddenly ordinary and
boring. 'For the holidays,'
    she added drearily.
    'Your father,' said the
 old man, in a breathy sort
   of pounce, 'works away
from home? In Kernsburgh?
            Eh?'
    'Yes,' said Maewen.
   'You travel to see him
          often?'
   'No,' she said. 'This is
 the first time I've been.'
 And she wished she could
end this conversation. She
 did not like the old man's
voice. There was something
        odd about it.
   'Ah, I see. He's only
   just gone to work in
  Kernsburgh, is that it?
           Eh?'
  'No. He's worked there
for the last seven years.'
What was so odd about his
voice? It almost seemed as
    if the sound was not
coming from the old man at
  all, but from somewhere
else quite a long way away.
   Perhaps he was one of
 those people who had had
 surgery on his larynx and
      had to use a false
 voice-box. In which case,
he was unfortunate and she
 ought to be polite to him.
  Maewen tried to explain
  without giving away her
  entire family history. 'I
 haven't seen him since I
 was—was a lot younger.'
She really did not want to
tell him her age, which he
would know if she told him
   her parents had been
  divorced when she was
          seven.
   'Now why is that?' the
 old man asked. 'Do your
  parents perhaps not get
  on? They seem to have
lived a long way apart for
    most of your life.'
   Cheek! Maewen thought.
 It's none of his business.
'My mother,' she explained
  haughtily, 'is a sculptor
 who prefers to work near
  the stone she uses. And
 my father is a very busy
man. He's Head Curator of
   the Tannoreth Palace.'
  'Ah,' said the old man.
She really did not like his
  half-hooded eyes. She
looked away. 'So you are
 truly on your way to the
royal palace?' he said. He
seemed very pleased. 'And
 travelling all on your own
until we met, eh? Now you
 can travel with me.' He
    leant forward. The
carriage seemed full of his
 wheezing breath, as if it
were coming from outside,
 into him, instead of the
         right way.
   For one horrid moment
  Maewen thought he was
going to pat her knee. She
surged herself right to the
back of her seat, but that
  did not seem nearly far
       enough away.
  'I will be with you from
 now on,' he said, leaning
at her. 'Think of me as a
          friend.'
      No! Help! Maewen
thought. She looked at the
  other passengers. Three
 were asleep and the other
  was deep in a book. She
thought of putting her feet
 up and kneeling sideways
  out of reach of the old
man's fat hand hovering to
  pat her. And the guard
  only just went past, she
 thought, so it'll be hours
   before he comes back
            again.
   'Look me in the eyes,'
said the old man, 'and tell
 me you think of me as a
         friend.'
   His face seemed to be
  right in front of hers,
  filling all she could see.
Maewen shut her eyes. Let
    the guard come! she
prayed. Let somebody help!
  And here, like a miracle,
   the carriage door was
    sliding back and the
guard's solemn good-looking
 face was leaning round it.
'Are you all right in here?'
   'I—oh—yes—no—he—'
 Stop stammering and say
he tried to pat your knee,
 you fool! 'He—' Maewen
turned to point at the seat
 opposite and found herself
stammering again, this time
       with astonished
 embarrassment. The seat
   was empty. A quick look
 round the carriage showed
  her that there were only
   four passengers, three
  asleep, one reading. 'But
  he—there was—I thought
    an old man—I mean—'
   The guard shifted his
head to look gravely at the
empty seat. 'I don't think
he'll bother you again,' he
       said, perfectly
straight-faced and polite,
 and he shut the door and
         went away.
  Maewen sat back hot and
   squirming, worse than
 before. If one more thing
happens with that guard, I
think I shall die\ She must
   have fallen asleep and
dreamt the old man. What
had possessed her to have
 a sinister little dream like
that? Probably, deep down,
she was terrified of seeing
 Dad again. Determined to
  stay awake from now on,
 she sat looking out at the
   mountains, dun-coloured
  shoulders, green steeps,
black crags and blue jagged
 distances, spinning past as
     the train thundered
    through the centre of
    North Dalemark. She
 thought firmly of Dad, to
conquer her nerves. He had
written over and over again
  to ask Maewen to visit
 him. He must really want
 to see her. But Mum just
said irritably that she was
not letting Maewen go until
she was old enough to take
 care of herself. 'Because
 he's quite likely to forget
   you exist after half a
   day,' she said. 'You'd
  starve, or worse.' She
 went on to a tirade about
how wrapped up Dad was in
          his work.
     Maewen grinned. That,
    coming from Mum, was
rich. But it seemed to have
  been the main reason for
 the divorce. Dad just kept
  forgetting he had a wife
    and daughter. She felt
  that if Dad turned out to
be a male version of Mum,
   she could cope. She was
used to it. It was worth it
 for the chance of living in
   the royal palace of Amil
 the Great in the middle of
 the capital city. But what
     if Dad turned out
  unpleasant? Maewen had
  always found it hard to
   believe that you could
 divorce someone just for
being vague. After all, she
had never felt the slightest
 desire herself to divorce
 Mum. That made her grin
           again.
   By the time the train
slowed and rolled creaking
 into Kernsburgh Central
   Station, Maewen was
 feeling quite cheerful and
poised. But that was in her
 mind. Her body persisted
    in thinking it was very
nervous, and her arms felt
 like string as she tried to
heave her suitcase off the
 train. It was blocking the
  door and she could sense
  the crowd of passengers
   behind getting more and
  more irritated. But, just
   as she was getting truly
   flustered, here was the
     polite attentive guard
again, giving her a serious
 smile and picking up her
       case for her.
    'Let me carry that.'
     He set off into the
 station and she pattered
  after him, grateful even
though he was looking after
    her like a baby. The
  station was much larger
  than she had expected,
    high and ringing with
announcements and people's
voices and feet, and full of
 big red pillars that made
all the parts of it look the
           same.
   'My father is meeting
     me,' she began
       defensively.
  She saw Dad as she said
it, coming through hordes
 of people going the other
way. He was reading from
  a bundle of notes in his
hand and it was clear that
 the other people pushing
past just did not exist for
    him. The sight took
   Maewen instantly back
seven years. It was a pure
delight the way Dad stood
out from everyone else by
      being so trim and
   clear-cut—but not for
 being tall, she realised as
  Dad came close. He only
  came up to the guard's
shoulder. So that's where
 I get my smallness from!
 she thought, and for one
mad moment she wondered
 if Mum had divorced Dad
because Mum herself was
   so tall and willowy.
     Dad looked up from his
  notes and recognised her
as if he had only seen her
yesterday. 'Oh, hello,' he
said. 'You don't look a bit
like this photo.' He turned
 the bundle of notes round
 to show her the snapshot
   clipped to the front. It
was one Maewen had never
       liked, herself all
   long-faced and freckled
with her arm over a horse,
 not unlike the horse, and
       the horse the
better-looking of the two.
'I suppose that's how your
Aunt Liss likes to see you,'
 Dad remarked. 'She sent
  the photo, of course.'
     There was a slight
 awkwardness then as Dad
 bent a bit and kissed her
  cheek and did not quite
 give Maewen time to kiss
  him back. He smelt just
        the same as she
   remembered, with pipe
    smoke somewhere. He
   wheeled away almost at
once to stare at the guard.
      'You needn't have
bothered, Wend,' he said.
     'I can be trusted to
 remember to meet my own
daughter, I hope.' He had
put back his head and gone
     all haughty. Maewen
       remembered that
  haughtiness well. Was it
  the haughtiness that had
caused the divorce really?
  'I was supposed to take
care of her, sir,' said the
guard. 'Or so I thought.'
  Maewen turned to stare
 at him. She had thought
the uniform he was wearing
was a railway one, but now
she saw it was a paler blue
   and that the cap was
   wrong. How puzzling.
   'I take it you two have
  met,' Dad said. He was
 still haughty. He went on
 with the utmost sarcasm,
    'Maewen, my chief
 assistant, Wend Orilson.
    Wend, my daughter
  Mayelbridwen Singer.'
 Then he swung round and
strode rapidly towards the
way out, leaving Maewen to
    dither, not knowing
 whether to run after him
 or stay with the puzzling
  Wend and her suitcase.
  She arrived at the exit
   doing neither, partly
   chasing Dad and then
stopping and turning to look
at Wend, wondering if she
had the nerve to ask him if
Dad had really sent him all
 the way to Adenmouth to
   collect her, and then
  forgotten—and then not
  daring and running after
  Dad again. They arrived
outside in single file, into a
 roar of traffic and much
  hotter sun than Maewen
 was used to. There was a
 vast stone, round, with a
hole in the middle, upended
  in the traffic island in
 front of the station. Its
huge shadow fell across the
front half of the queue for
           taxis.
      'We won't need a
taxi—it's no distance,' Dad
  said. He pointed to the
    huge stone. 'The old
  waystone,' he said, and
  set off striding into the
 town, 'marking the start
of the ancient road-system
 of North Dalemark. King
Hern, or most probably his
  descendants, made the
 roads, but simple people
  often thought the gods
 made them and tended to
call them the paths of the
         Undying.'
  Maewen pattered after
      him up a broad
thoroughfare, listening to
as much as she could hear
   of a series of little
   lectures. After the
    waystone, it was the
 traffic, then the circular
 road-system invented by
 Amil the Great, then the
goods sold in the expensive
   shops she could see on
  either side. Somewhere
  along the street, Wend
  caught up, carrying her
 suitcase, and she thought
    he said, 'I'll explain
  later,' but she was too
    confused to be sure.
   She forgot everything
   anyway when they came
between giant gilded gates
 in a high wall and she had
    her first sight of the
   palace. It was across a
  cobbled court and it was
    majestic. Like a very
graceful cliff, she thought,
 almost too big to take in,
  and all upright lines that
made it look taller still. In
  front of it, right in the
middle of the court, there
  was a very much smaller
     building. It caught
   Maewen's attention for
   being so different from
  the palace that it looked
 quite out of place. It was
like a house-sized model of
   a fairytale palace, with
   three small onion domes
and such numbers of spiral
    towers that it looked
       almost absurd.
  'Whatever is that?' she
          said.
  'That? Oh, that's the
tomb of Amil the Great,'
  her father told her, and
  followed this up with one
     of the little lectures
   Maewen was coming to
expect. 'He completed the
old part of the palace two
  hundred years ago, quite
 early in his reign. That's
   Amil's old façade we're
    looking at now—those
recessed arcades along the
 lower stories were one of
    his own ideas. He was
  always full of ideas, but
   towards the end of his
 reign the ideas got rather
  out of hand, I'm afraid.
   Amil seemed to become
  obsessed with death and
  evil. He divided his time
 between having this tomb
built and journeying all over
  the kingdom to eradicate
 what he called "pockets of
    Kankredin". He simply
 meant places where there
       was injustice or
   lawlessness, but he had
 become very eccentric by
 then and he preferred to
     call them that.'
 'He was very old when he
died, wasn't he?' Maewen
         asked.
     'Nearly ninety,' said
Dad. 'Come on inside. Give
me that case, Wend. We'll
go up in the lift for once.'
 He set off across the big
 space, over a pattern of
  cobbles and flagstones,
  still lecturing. 'Amil had
 seen this country through
 from two primitive groups
   of earldoms to a fully
  industrial society, so I
 think he earned the right
  to be a little eccentric.
  That tomb is by way of
      being his folly.'
             V
     Dad had an enormous,
spacious apartment right at
 the top of the Old Palace,
  filled with books and old
  furniture. The main room
   looked over the leads of
   the roof, where pigeons
   waddled to the windows
 expecting crusts of bread
  for breakfast. Maewen's
  bedroom looked out over
 the forecourt and the top
 of Amil's mad little tomb,
    to what seemed miles
below, with a huge view of
Kernsburgh beyond that, all
 dark trees and towers and
 square office blocks. The
  room was enormous, with
 almost nothing in it but a
   bed, a cupboard and a
  great threadbare carpet
  that had been old when
   Amil's son imported it.
   Next door was a large
   clanking bathroom with
  plumbing so elderly that
Maewen was more awed by
it than anything else in the
           palace.
  'I'm afraid I can only
spare time to be with you
in the evenings and early
mornings,' Dad said over
   supper. Supper was
   supplied by one of a
   bewildering set of young
  ladies, who all seemed to
 wait on Dad hand and foot
      and then turn into
   secretaries in between.
    Seeing them, Maewen
   instantly knew that Dad
  regretted the divorce no
   more than Mum did. He
 was entirely comfortable.
 After supper he lit a pipe
and explained, 'We're just
 moving into the height of
the tourist season now. As
soon as the palace opens to
  the public, I have to be
  everywhere at once. But
I've told everyone that you
 can explore anywhere you
 want. Tomorrow I'll make
 sure they all know you, so
    there won't be any
          trouble.'
   That evening they just
 talked, with Dad puffing
   clouds of pipe smoke
    through sunset light
   slanting in across the
  leading. Maewen found
 they got on. Dad seemed
 to think the same kind of
   thoughts that she did.
Next morning he woke her
quite surprisingly early and
           they had
   breakfast—supplied by
 another young lady— with
    rosy light slanting the
  other way across crusty
rolls and rich black coffee.
     Just as Maewen was
thinking how grown-up and
   leisurely this was, Dad
 sprang up and took her on
   a tour of the palace.
 The Tannoreth Palace was
 vast. Buildings of various
   ages rayed out around
courtyards with fountains,
  or gardens with statues
and summerhouses in them,
and hedges and roses, and
   a small menagerie. At
every huge room they came
  to—and on some of the
stairways—at every picture
 or work of art or curious
   object, Dad gave her
     another of his little
 lectures. In between, he
   was introducing her to
   bewildering numbers of
 people who worked in the
  palace: ladies in overalls
 polishing the long museum
 galleries or dusting gilded
    tables, security men,
   guides, secretaries and
Major Alksen who was head
of security. Maewen's mind
 began to seize up. When
Dad took her outside to be
      introduced to the
     gardeners, she was
    thinking, I shall never
   remember all this! Our
   minds are not the same
after all. It was too early.
 Even though she was used
to being up with the lark in
  the holidays to help Aunt
   Liss in the stables, she
   could see to a horse on
autopilot, half asleep. This
   was different. No one
introduced you to horses or
 expected you to know the
     history of the barn.
   Afterwards, she found
 the only thing she could
remember from the entire
  tour was Major Alksen,
 because he was so much
   her idea of a retired
  soldier. And Wend, of
course. She was glad Dad
had not re-introduced her
to Wend. Maewen felt too
much pure embarrassment
      to go near him.
   But she felt she was
  letting Dad down, or
 wasting opportunities, or
 something. So, when Dad
 had given her another of
 his swift, awkward kisses
 and rushed off, Maewen
felt herself bound to go all
   over the palace again.
   It took days. Some of
the time she joined in the
guided tours, having made
 sure first that the guide
  was not Wend, and the
  guides would give her a
special smile among all the
       crowds of foreign
     school-children, and
    ordinary families, and
 silk-suited men and women
from Nepstan, and then go
   on with their spiel. She
   visited Amil's tomb with
 one such crowd, but it was
 a cold, boring arched room
  inside, with a lot of gold
lettering on the tombstone,
   and she only went there
  that once. She preferred
            indoors.
   Here she usually started
 her sightseeing in the Old
  Palace where most of the
   pictures were. That was
   easy to find because of
the art students. They lay
  on the floor in what had
   been the great hall, but
     was now a ballroom,
 copying the perspective in
 the ceiling picture. On the
   walls of this room, Amil
the Great with his mane of
fair hair and a roll of plans
   trailing from one hand,
 supervised the building of
    the palace. Amil was
  wearing purple breeches
   which Maewen thought
       were decidedly
 unfortunate. They looked
  worse in the copies the
students made of them. On
 the ceiling there was the
 whole of Dalemark spread
  out, from the plains and
 slow rivers of the South,
  to the mountains of the
North, and full of battling
  figures, as Amil (in the
same purple breeches) led
  his armies against the
  rebellious earls at the
    start of his reign.
        Next door to the
    ballroom was a smaller
   room where oil paintings
  hung in frames. This was
 where Maewen's favourite
pictures were. She got into
 the habit of stepping over
  the students lying on the
    floor and then pushing
between the easels and the
    busy students in the
  smaller room in order to
 look at the portraits they
 were copying. The biggest
     was of the Duke of
      Kernsburgh, posed
 haughtily looking over the
    shoulder of a trailing
crimson cape, in front of a
     new castle on a hill.
 'Amil the Great's chief
 minister,' Dad told her
when she asked that first
evening, 'and one of the
   most ruthless men in
        history.'
     Maewen could see the
 Duke was ruthless—it was
 in every fierce, clear line
    of him—but there was
    something familiar and
 almost friendly about him,
 too. She almost felt as if
   she knew him. She kept
  trying to decide why. He
   looks as if he was very
   nice to his friends, she
decided. But if you weren't
one of his friends you had
to watch it. He'd put you
to death without turning a
           hair.
  The Duke was flanked by
two dismal portraits of the
  Adon, both much, much
older, and beyond that was
 an even older portrait of
 Enblith the Fair, who was
supposed to have been the
most beautiful woman ever,
  daughter of the Undying
 and a famous queen. The
portrait was cracked, but
even so Maewen could only
   suppose that ideas of
    beauty had changed.
Enblith reminded her very
strongly of Aunt Liss—and
   no one had ever called
 Aunt Liss a beauty, even
when she was young. I bet
 she managed people into
  thinking she was lovely,
Maewen thought. That was
 all women were supposed
 to be in those days. And
she pushed between easels
 to the portrait that truly
      fascinated her.
   It was called 'Unknown
Minstrel Boy' and she kept
   wishing she knew more
     about him. He was
probably about her own age
and he had red hair—which
     Maewen had always
     secretly wished for
 herself—with the paleness
that always goes with such
 hair. He was rather richly
  dressed in dark maroon
 satin, so either he was a
   very good minstrel or a
 young aristocrat posing as
     one. Good minstrel,
Maewen decided. It was in
  the way his pained eyes
 met yours and yet looked
  way, way beyond, full of
thoughts and knowledge and
strong sadness. Someone's
     let him down badly,
 Maewen thought when she
 first met those eyes. She
 wished she knew who had,
  and why. And kept going
      back to look.
   She wanted so badly to
 know about that boy that
 in the end she joined the
afternoon guided tour that
  went round the pictures.
  The advantage was that
   the students had gone
     home by then. The
disadvantage was that this
 tour was always taken by
   Wend. It took Maewen
   several days to muster
   courage to go with it.
  When she did, the mere
 sight of Wend started her
fizzing with embarrassment
  again. Wend saw her and
gave her a polite little bow
   and a restrained smile.
    Maewen felt her face
  flooding with red. It was
 the awful way Wend never
     seemed to show any
emotion but politeness. But
she clenched her teeth and
followed the other tourists.
     The picture of the
 minstrel boy was famous
 for several reasons, she
  discovered. Nobody had
ever been able to find out
who the boy was, although
he was important enough to
 have been painted by the
  best artist of the time.
  And he must have been
   important to Amil the
  Great too, because Amil
 made a special bequest of
     the picture to his
 grandson, Amil II. Books
had been written about the
  picture. Some theorists
suspected the boy was Amil
himself, before he won the
throne. Amil the Great had
  also carefully preserved
 the cwidder that had been
  painted with the boy. It
   was obviously old, even
then. The minstrel boy had
 his hand dreamily wrapped
  across the cwidder, half
    hiding the strange old
    lettering inlaid on the
   front. And the actual,
 selfsame cwidder was in a
glass case just beside the
portrait, very fragile and
 cracked-looking, despite
   careful restoration.
  'Well, fancy that!' said
everyone, raising cameras
and jostling for the best
        shot of it.
   After that Wend took
     the party into the
  ballroom, where he told
them that the paintings on
the wall and the ceiling had
 been done in the time of
Amil II. Nobody knew what
    Amil the Great really
 looked like and the purple
    trousers were a pure
 invention. This so amused
    Maewen that she left
    Wend's embarrassing
   presence in order to go
  down to the hallway and
 buy a postcard of Amil in
  his breeches and write a
    'Wish you were here'
 message on it to Mum and
 Aunt Liss. Then she made
  a foray into Kernsburgh
     itself to post it.
   The city was even more
  crowded than the palace
     and the traffic was
    terrible. A very few
 glances into the shops as
she passed showed Maewen
that she had barely enough
  money even for ordinary
presents for Mum and Aunt
    Liss. Kernsburgh sold
  things from all over the
      world, and it was
     expensive. But the
    distressing thing to
  someone who had been
brought up in the country
like Maewen was that the
   place seemed to have
 almost no trees once you
were down on street level.
  'Where do all the trees
 go?' she asked Dad that
         evening.
  It was a perfect example
  of the way she and Dad
got on. Dad knew just what
   she was talking about
although he was busy laying
 out sheets of stiff paper
and notebooks on the other
   end of the table. 'In
people's gardens, I think,'
  he said. 'I believe Amil
 the Great planned it that
 way, because there were
 no trees on the site when
    he started to rebuild
        Kernsburgh.'
      'Then he made a
  mistake,' Maewen said.
'It's all buildings and cars
 and it makes me cough.'
     'You'd have coughed
 worse when the place was
    new,' Dad said. 'Two
hundred years ago it would
 have been smog from coal
  fires. Though I'm never
  sure it was such a good
thing when they discovered
 oil under the Marshes. It
  makes the Queen a rich
 woman, I suppose, but it
     has its drawbacks.'
  'Where is the Queen?'
Maewen asked. 'I've been
almost all over the palace
       now, and—'
    'Oh, she very rarely
 comes here these days,'
 Dad said. 'She's pretty
  old, you know, and she
prefers the warmth in the
  South. She almost only
     ever comes to the
   Tannoreth for State
        occasions.'
 'And the Crown Prince?'
 Maewen asked, feeling
     rather let down.
   'He lives in Hannart,'
 Dad answered absently,
  busy with a notebook.
 'Doesn't get on with his
  mother or with public
          events.'
  'What are you doing?'
   Maewen asked him.
  'Trying to establish our
  family tree,' said her
 father. 'It's a hobby of
    mine—and damned
exasperating, too. You can
come and look if you like.'
    Maewen came and leant
     on his square warm
   shoulder and he spread
scrawled books and careful
  diagrams out for her to
 see. 'Here,' he said. 'My
family. As far as I can tell
 we go back to one of the
 travelling Singers. I think
  his name may have been
    Clennen, but Singers
   wandered about so and
 were so little documented
that it's a fiendish job to
     find out for sure.
Compared with that period,
   the last hundred years
    were a doddle, and I
  thought those were bad
 enough. And when we get
 to your mother's family,
   things get even worse.
 Here.' Dad pushed sheets
    of paper in front of
     Maewen, hectically
  scrawled all over in pale
pencil. 'See? There's some
 connection with Amil II's
 brother Edril, but that's
       as far as—'
 'You mean Mum descends
  from Amil the Great!'
   Maewen exclaimed.
  'So do a lot of people. If
you mean that accounts for
 your mother's standoffish
vagueness,' Dad said dryly,
 'I hardly think so. If you
  remember that everyone
 has four grandparents and
 eight great-grandparents,
  you can see that almost
everyone has to be related
if you go back far enough.
 We're talking here about
  doubling the number of
ancestors each person has
   every generation, and
      halving—or even
 quartering—the number of
   people those ancestors
could have come from. The
population of Dalemark was
quite small until a hundred
         years ago.'
  He was lecturing again.
  Maewen tried to listen.
She was quite interested in
  the difficulties Dad had
  had sorting out the two
   generations around the
  time of Amil the Great.
 School History didn't tell
you half the confusions and
revolutions there had been
  then. But there was so
  much of it. It had been
dark for hours and she was
 yawning before Dad said,
'Well, that will have to do
for now. I've another long
     day tomorrow.'
     Once she was in bed,
  Maewen tried to sort out
how she felt about Dad and
 the divorce. She was very
   fond of Dad—achingly,
  fiercely fond—but not so
   much when he lectured.
And, try as she might, she
could not be upset that he
    was quite happy to be
  divorced from Mum. She
    had expected to feel
 sad—she felt she ought to
feel sad—but whenever she
passed the big busy office
on the floor below and saw
     Dad conferring with
    secretaries, snapping
  instructions at Wend, or
    consulting with Major
 Alksen—and sometimes all
   three at once—she was
  glad she did not have to
 live with him and Mum at
    once. These were two
 strong-minded people who
were both utterly buried in
   their work. And one of
 those, Maewen felt, was
   enough at one time.
     Next morning, as she
  chucked pieces of bread
 onto the leads for the fat
 waddling pigeons, Maewen
   discovered that sorting
  that out about Dad had
somehow let her off having
  to remember everything
about the palace. As it was
  another baking hot day,
 Maewen decided to go for
 a swim. Major Alksen had
  said she could use the
staff bathing pool. But he
had not said where it was.
 She set out to find him
       and ask him.
   Downstairs she went to
the office. It was so busy
   that, though she could
hear Dad's voice, she could
 not see him among all the
other hurrying people. And
 the secretary nearest the
    door said that Major
  Alksen had already gone
 down to his security post.
Maewen went down again to
the great upper galleries of
the palace, which were cool
  and quiet and empty yet,
 until the palace opened to
    the public. These long
    rooms were a sort of
 museum, where curios and
  clothes belonging to past
   kings and queens sat in
  cases among statues and
 pieces of carving that had
  once been on the outside
 of the palace. As a lot of
    the things were very
valuable, Major Alksen was
often there, patrolling with
  a radio phone, checking
security. As she came into
  the first room, Maewen
  could hear his footsteps
   ringing in the distance
 somewhere and his voice
   talking into his radio.
  'Coming through Gallery
    Two now. All secure.
 Over.' She made towards
          the sound.
  The person she saw when
she went round the corner
    was Wend. Maewen
   stopped. How had he
  sounded so exactly like
   Major Alksen? Luckily
Wend's handsome face was
set intently on distance as
he listened to the voice on
his radio. He had not seen
her. Full of embarrassment
 again, Maewen started to
  tiptoe softly round the
           corner.
 'Don't go, Maewen,' said
Wend. 'I'll be with you in
    a moment. Right.
Everything in place here.
     Over and out.'
    What excuse could she
  possibly give for rushing
 away? Maewen wondered.
 So sorry, I need to swim
  this second. Forgive me,
    but I have to go and
depress myself at once by
seeing Amil's tomb. Excuse
 me, I must go and look at
        the Duke of
 Kernsburgh—urgently. Or
 she could just run away.
   But Wend was already
 turning towards her and
  the only thing she could
  think of was to let him
 explain why he had been
sent to meet her as if she
  were ten years old, and
     get it over with.
     'You must have
wondered,' Wend said to
         her.
 'No, no!' Maewen said. It
 seemed as if she did not
 want to get it over after
   all. 'No, no, I never
         wonder—'
 'Who that old man on the
  train was,' said Wend.
  'The one I sent away.'
     This was so entirely
  unexpected that Maewen
 said, 'Oh!' Then because
she could feel her face was
 as red as it could be, she
 said, 'He wasn't there. I
       dreamt him.'
   'No,' said Wend. 'He
 was—well—there, even if
 he wasn't what you'd call
quite real. I'm afraid he's
about to become a very big
threat to you unless you let
 me help you. Will you let
me help—or at least let me
         explain?'
   'I—er—' Maewen was
 even more flustered. She
  was suddenly sure that
 Wend was mad. This was
the only explanation for his
  grave, polite, sane look,
  and the way it made her
 squirm every time she was
  near him. 'Who was the
         old man?'
   'A piece of Kankredin,'
 said Wend. 'A pocket of
 evil. And—' he smiled—'I
   promise you I am not
           mad.'
    This was worse than
 ever. 'Yes, you are! You
 must be!' Maewen cried
  out, and she knew she
 would squirm even harder
 about this when she had
  time to think about it.
'Kankredin's just a legend
  from the days of King
Hern—and Hern killed him
anyway when he conquered
      the heathens.'
  Wend looked his most
serious, and there was a
sympathy about him as if
 he understood precisely
      how she was
 feeling—which, if possible,
 made Maewen feel worse.
'Yes, I know how the story
goes,' he said. 'People tell
   it like that because it's
   more comforting, but it
   wasn't the way of it, I
   assure you. Hern helped
  defeat Kankredin, that is
      true, but Kankredin
   couldn't die because he
was dead already. The only
 way he could be conquered
 was for someone to unbind
  the One himself. You've
     heard of the witch
   Cennoreth. She unbound
   the One, and Kankredin
  was broken and scattered
into a million pieces. But he
    wasn't dead. He came
      together over the
 centuries—concentrated, if
   you like, into larger and
     larger pockets—and
  eventually he was strong
   enough to take over the
  South and divide it from
 the North. Amil the Great
   found a way to destroy
 quite a bit of Kankredin,
but even that didn't really
 defeat him. He was just
scattered, and some parts
  of him came forward in
time to these days. Other
parts simply stayed around
 and arrived here and now
   by keeping secret and
   outlasting anyone who
believed he was there. I'm
   not sure which kind of
   pocket you met, but I
  think, from the way it
behaved, it was one of the
  parts sent forward in
          time.'
  'I don't believe you,'
Maewen said. 'How do you
         know?'
  Wend shrugged. 'I was
there for nearly all of it.
 Hern was my brother.'
  Maewen stared at him.
 'But that's—' She was
going to say 'nonsense!'
but she stopped herself,
 because you had to be
    careful with mad
 people—'not possible, Mr
   Orilson. You see, that
   would make you so old
you'd almost be one of the
   Undying.' And no one
believes in the Undying any
     more, anyway, she
  thought, but I'd better
     not tell him that.
 Wend nodded. There was
  a sad, priggish sort of
sanity to him that Maewen
 found deeply suspect. 'I
 found it hard to believe
   too, when two of my
brothers died and I didn't
  even age. It is hard to
    admit that you are
 anything but mortal. But
the Undying exist, whether
 people believe in them or
 not. I am one. You have
 probably heard of me. I
was known as Tanamoril for
a while. Then I was called
       Osfameron.'
  Osfameron! The Adon's
  friend that raised the
 Adon from the dead! He's
  further round the twist
 than I thought a person
could be! Maewen stared at
Wend, all alone in the long
empty museum room. Do all
 lunatics look this sane? I
  wish I knew. He'd look
 quite normal if he wasn't
   so good-looking. Keep
humouring him until he gets
   called to away to his
duties. 'What do you think
  this piece of Kankredin
 wanted with me?' Maewen
       asked gently.
   'I think,' said Wend,
'that he was trying to get
     control of you.'
  Maewen's spine felt as if
  cold fingers were being
trailed down it. She backed
into the nearest glass case
   in order to feel safer.
 'Why—why would he want
         to do that?'
   'Because you are the
 image of a young woman
  who lived just over two
hundred years ago,' Wend
        told her.
  'That makes no sense!'
      said Maewen.
      But Wend continued
   talking as if he had not
     heard her. 'A very
 important young lady,' he
     said. Looking at his
   constrained and serious
face, Maewen thought that
 this was the heart of his
 mental disorder, whatever
  it was. She leant on the
glass cupboard and let him
  go on talking. 'Noreth,'
 Wend said. 'Born to rule
      all Dalemark. My
 Grandfather the One was
 her father, and she knew
from her childhood up that
she was to take the crown
 and rule both North and
 South. When she had it,
people Would have risen to
 her all over the country,
whatever the earls had to
            say.'
    'What happened?
   Wouldn't she do it?'
     Maewen asked.
     'I don't know what
 happened. She was willing
    enough.' Just for an
 instant, Wend seemed to
 feel wretched about this.
  Then his face smoothed
   over. 'I was guarding
Noreth on the royal road,'
 he said. 'The Midsummer
    after her eighteenth
birthday, as was right, she
set off from Adenmouth to
ride to Kernsburgh for the
crown. Nothing should have
   gone wrong. I was as
watchful as I could be. But
 somewhere along the way,
Kankredin got to her as he
 was trying to get to you,
       and she—simply
    disappeared.' Wend
  swallowed a little. Then,
 with his face all cold and
smooth, he said, 'That was
  how Amil, so-called the
  Great, was able to claim
        the crown.'
  Maewen stayed pressed
 against the glass. 'And,'
   she said, gently and
humouringly, 'you're telling
me this because I look like
        this lady.'
  'No,' said Wend. 'I'm
 telling you because I'm
fated to send you back in
  time to take Noreth's
          place.'
   'Fated?' said Maewen.
'That's a strong word. You
 need me to agree first,
     and I haven't.'
    Wend came nearer to
laughing than she had ever
seen him. 'You forget,' he
   said. 'I was there. So
were you. So I know I did
send you.' He had a funny
 light-hearted air to him,
now he had arrived at this
 point. 'As I see it now,'
   he said, 'I must have
asked the One to send you
to the moment on the royal
     road when Noreth
 disappeared, so that you
    could find out what
happened and tell me when
   you come back here.'
    'Oh.' Maewen looked
down at her two somewhat
scruffy sandals planted on
 the glossy floor. Then I
  must have been—I will
   be—as mad as he is!
  Though of course if he
  really mas there, he is
over two hundred years old
and that means he can't be
 mad. It all hung together.
And she knew mad people's
  fantasies did often hang
   together. That was why
  they found it so difficult
     to get out of them.
  Perhaps the best way to
    deal with Wend was to
  show him it was nonsense
 by daring him to send her
into the past. No. He could
turn violent then. Best just
  to go. She slid carefully
     away along the glass
 cupboard and braced her
      sandals to run.
   Wend smiled his polite
  smile. 'Thanks. I was
  needing to get at this
  showcase. Your father
 wants some of the things
         moved.'
  He fetched up his bunch
 of keys and advanced on
   the lock of the sliding
door. He was far too near.
  Maewen could feel her
stomach squirming and that
 queer pins and needles in
 her back that she always
got when she was about to
    do something wrong.
   Strange the way Wend
 always made her feel like
   this. She slid further
away, warily watching him
as he undid the electronic
lock and then the ordinary
 one. Any second now she
 would be far enough away
  to risk running for help.
 Wend reached inside the
glass cupboard and gently,
 almost reverently, picked
up a small gold statue that
 was standing there among
  vases, salt cellars, rings
 and other golden objects.
While Wend turned to her
 holding the statue in both
hands—she could see it was
heavy— Maewen craned to
 see the label it had been
        standing on.
   Figure of king or noble
 (gold). Prehistoric. Origin
         unknown.
  'This is the image of the
  One that my family once
 guarded,' Wend said. The
radio on his belt beeped as
   he spoke. He frowned.
  'Would you take this to
    your father for me?
    Someone wants me.'
  He held the small golden
image out. It was the ideal
  excuse for going away.
Maewen reached out gladly
and took hold of the image
  in both hands. The thing
 was so worn and old that
all you could say of it was
   that it had once had a
 face and wore a long sort
  of poncho-robe, but the
instant she touched it she
had the queer doing-wrong
feeling worse than before.
   Her teeth ached with it
 and her hair tried to lift.
   She snatched her hands
away. But by then the pins
  and needles were worse,
  down her hands and legs
 and through her face. It
seemed to affect her eyes,
   so that the long empty
 room grew foggy, and her
  ears, so that she could
  only dimly hear Wend's
       beeping radio.
            VI
  The fogginess was cold as
 well as thick. Maewen lost
all sense of direction. She
  staggered and found her
sandals were getting wet in
  short grass beaded with
 fog-drops. It felt icy.
'Oh—ouch!' she cried out.
      Her voice had the
     unechoing clarity of
  somewhere outside—and
 high up too, she thought,
   having been brought up
 among mountains. Anyway
   it was nothing like the
woody, stony echoes inside
  the museum gallery. She
 looked up and around in a
panic. Everything was mist,
  thick white mist, except
for—thank goodness! — one
pink streak of dawn over to
  the right. And there was
    something dark ahead
 through the mist. Maewen
       took a couple of
    excruciating cold wet
  strides towards the dark
 thing, enough to numb her
 feet, and found the thing
 was a round stone a little
 higher than her waist with
   a hole in the middle. A
   waystone? It was only
 about a tenth the size of
the one outside the station
   in Kernsburgh, but she
 supposed that was what it
          might be.
  She stood shivering in her
scanty summer shorts and
shirt, staring at the stone
 resentfully. It's real! she
thought. Wend tricked me!
I'm in shock! I'm going to
   die of exposure and I
 haven't the faintest idea
   where I am! Or when!
 Here she noticed that the
  pins and needles feeling
was no longer with her. It
  had been replaced—some
    seconds ago, now she
   thought about it—by a
   much better feeling, a
feeling that everything was
 going to be all right. Well
I hope so! she thought. I
  could scream, only there
doesn't seem to be anyone
       around to hear.
     She began to feel
    definitely warmer.
   She looked down in time
to see her sandals closing
  over and growing up her
    legs into stout-looking
   boots. Her shorts were
   growing downwards into
      felty, rather baggy
 trousers that tucked into
the boots. A faint jingling
   alerted her to the fact
   that her shirt was also
 growing, and multiplying,
  into linked mail with one
thinnish shirt under it and
  another, thicker one on
  top. A heaviness on her
  head caused her hand to
leap up there. She touched
metal. She now had a light
     domed helmet on.
  She felt a mad, hilarious
      pleasure. I'm a
warrior-maid! I'm changing
 into a fighting-girl under
 my own eyes—what I can
  see of myself! Her feet
were still frozen inside the
boots and her hands were
    no warmer, but she
nevertheless had a warm,
    cared-for feeling.
  Something—the golden
statue?—was looking after
          her.
      There was another
 jingling over to the right.
Maewen whirled like a wild
 animal. The jingling mixed
 with a pruff of breath, a
 sound that she knew very
well. She moved warily over
 that way, jingling herself.
  Sure enough, looming out
 of the mist, dark against
  the pink stripe of dawn,
   was a horse, standing
    patiently waiting for
someone. Not a bad horse,
 though rather shaggy, as
 far as she could see, and
it was saddled and bridled,
   with a roll of baggage
   behind the saddle. It
  turned and blew steamy
 breath at Maewen as if it
         knew her.
 Maewen had not realised
  how much she had been
 missing horses. Almost by
reflex, she gathered in the
 reins, put her foot in the
 stirrup and swung up into
 the saddle. Ouch! Effort!
  The mail and the boots
  were heavy. It was only
  when she was up that it
 occurred to her that the
   horse almost certainly
 belonged to someone else.
 What did they do to you
  for horse-stealing? Oh,
   well. Say I'm awfully
sorry, there was this thick
  fog and I thought it was
 mine. Would that work? It
 felt so much better to be
  mounted that she hardly
cared. Deal with the owner
   when we meet her. She
 reined around towards the
little waystone and tried to
  make out where she was.
    The mist was clearing
   gradually, downwards,
dropping into a valley below
  the stone, but that was
  still all she could see.
     'Hello?' she said
         uncertainly.
 'Oh—your pardon, lady. I
  never heard you come.'
  Maewen bunched herself,
   again with wild-animal
  wariness, as a tall man
   unfolded himself from
 where he had been sitting
 against the other side of
the waystone and bowed to
 her, hastily and politely.
 When he straightened up,
she saw he was Wend. She
 went warier than ever. His
    hair was a good deal
  longer, grown into wavy
 whitish ringlets that were
   not very well combed,
 which altered the shape of
  his face somewhat, and
instead of the neat uniform
 she had seen him in a few
    minutes ago, he was
 wearing patched and baggy
    woollens with an old
  sheepskin jacket on top.
    The sort of clothes,
  Maewen thought, that a
 poor shepherd might have
  worn two hundred years
ago. She stared at Wend,
wondering if she really was
 in the past. And does he
  know me? Does he think
    I'm Whatshername?
   Wend stared back with
the usual grave politeness.
  'I am Wend, lady,' he
 said. 'If you remember,
 we met before.' So he
  does know me, Maewen
 thought. 'And I am here
     to follow you from
waystone to waystone along
  the royal road, until you
come to Hern's city of gold
   and claim your rightful
           crown.'
 He's briefing me, Maewen
    thought, and so he
  should—tricking me into
   pretending to be this
  Northeen, or whatever
 she's called! The trouble
 was Wend still made her
 fizz with embarrassment.
 He spoke in a very strong
  Northern accent, of the
   kind that Mum and Aunt
   Liss always objected to
  when Maewen spoke that
     way. It seemed quite
  natural to Wend, but she
 had heard him speak quite
normally only a minute ago,
 and she could not get over
 the feeling he was putting
on an act. It irritated her.
 'I think I need to know a
  bit more than that,' she
       said angrily.
    Wend bowed humbly,
  which irritated Maewen
  even more. 'True, lady.
Then I will tell you what no
 one else knows. I am the
one they call the Wanderer
   and I keep the green
          roads—'
   He stopped talking and
 looked over his shoulder.
There was a brisk jingling
of tack below and nearby.
Maewen once more bunched
 up like a wary wild animal
   and watched two more
 riders scramble uphill out
 of the fog. They seemed
    to bring the fog with
  them, fog of their own
    breath, fog of their
horses' breath, and fill the
  air with their presence.
 'Good morning, Noreth,'
 said the smaller of the
two. 'You got ahead of us
  very quickly. We were
  hoping to ride up with
you.' He was riding a truly
    magnificent mare. His
 clothes were like the ones
  Maewen had so recently
acquired, mail coat and cap
and all, except that on this
   man they had a neater,
wealthier look. Maewen was
  shocked to find that she
   knew his face. She had
 last seen those clear-cut
  ruthless features staring
over a painted shoulder out
of the portrait of the Duke
       of Kernsburgh.
     It gave her a vivid,
     physical shock, like
touching a live wire. Up to
   then, Maewen had not
  really believed she had
   been sent two hundred
 years into the past. But
    here was a live man
 breathing out warm, live,
 foggy breath, whom she
  knew to have been dead
for well over a century. It
 made it real. It made it
much more frightening. She
 looked rather frantically
 across at the taller rider,
   wondering if she would
   know him, too. He was
    young and gawky and
 obviously in the middle of
  growing even taller. His
 clothes, which were quite
 neat too, sat on him as if
they were his best clothes
and he was used to wearing
 something much scruffier.
    And his horse looked
         villainous.
  He was a total stranger,
  but Maewen's feelings
 about that changed from
relief to dismay when this
 young one smiled at her.
 He smiled in a cheerful,
 friendly way, with just a
touch of shyness, as if he
 knew her quite well. And
she had simply no idea who
he was. Oh great One! she
   thought. Why hasn't
  Wend warned me about
       these people?
   She looked at Wend,
   waiting humbly by the
waystone, but had to look
 back when the man with
 clear-cut features spoke
  again. 'As you see,' he
  said, 'Mitt and I have
come to be your followers
    on the royal road.'
   Maewen was thrown into
    confusion again. He
  sounded so sarcastic. It
  was just the way a man
like this one would speak—
and it made her feel about
five years old. But it was a
    double confusion. She
 suddenly found she had no
  idea when this was. She
  had been assuming, in a
  muddled and buried way,
that she had been bounced
 into this Noreth-woman's
  place somewhere halfway
  to Kernsburgh. But from
  what this man said, she
could be right at the start
 of Noreth's journey from
  the north. It gave her a
low, grinding sort of worry
  to add to all the other
 things. Among the other
things was the thought, If
 Kankredin got to Noreth
 that early, how soon will
   he get to me? And a
    slightly more trivial
    thought, but just as
  worrying, was that this
man on the fine mare was
not going to be made Duke
 of Kernsburgh until some
    years on in Amil the
Great's reign. If she was
Noreth and at the start of
  Noreth's journey, then
    Amil the Great was
     somewhere else in
Dalemark and nowhere near
being king yet. So this man
      was not Duke of
 Kernsburgh yet. And she
  had no idea what to call
him. At least she now knew
the younger one was called
           Mitt.
She gave Mitt a flustered
smile and tried a stately
bow on his companion. He
bowed back, ironically, and
   raised an eyebrow at
 Wend. He was, naturally,
  one of those who could
   slide one eyebrow up
   without the other one
       moving at all.
 'I am Wend, sir,' Wend
said humbly, 'and I follow
      the lady too.'
   'Well, well. That makes
three of us,' the man said.
  'How many more are we
        expecting?'
  Maewen could not answer,
since she probably had less
 idea than he did. In fact,
 she had no idea what they
  expected her to do. She
simply sat on her purloined
horse and hoped that Wend
 would have the decency to
      give her a hint.
  Wend said nothing. They
all sat, or stood, while the
  horses fidgeted and the
pink of the sky spread and
    faded towards a grey
  morning. Below, the mist
seemed to be thinning, but
  not enough to show any
 landscape that might give
     Maewen some idea
  whereabouts they were.
 She began to feel stupid.
 This had the feeling of a
  party when none of the
      guests turn up.
   The man who would be
   Duke of Kernsburgh
 obviously felt the same.
'Not much sign of a mighty
  band of followers,' he
        remarked.
     Mitt was horribly
 embarrassed. 'Navis!' he
       protested.
 Navis! Maewen thought in
 the greatest relief. Or
  should I call him Your
 Grace? No. Stupid. Not
           yet.
   'I suggest we give it till
full daylight and then be on
    our way,' Navis said.
 It was more of a decision
  than a suggestion, as if
 Navis was in charge, but
Maewen was simply grateful
   for someone deciding
something. 'Yes,' she said.
       'That's fine.'
 It was the first time she
  had spoken in front of
 Navis and Mitt. She saw
  Mitt give her a puzzled
glance, as if her voice, or
her accent, or something,
 was not quite right. She
  glowered at Wend. She
was angry enough to smash
his smooth grave handsome
 face. He had tricked her
 into this, and now he was
 not giving her any help at
  all. If one of these two
     noticed she was not
  Noreth, it would be his
  fault and it would serve
          him right.
  Luckily—probably it was
lucky—Mitt was distracted
by someone else arriving at
     last. There were
   clatterings and a light
rumbling from the thinning
  mist below. It could be
 quite a number of people.
Everyone turned that way.
 The first thing to appear
      was a lop-eared
 glum-looking mule. Then a
darkness behind it resolved
  into the rounded canvas
   cover over a cart, the
whole thing painted a sober
 dark green. The bearded
man driving the cart looked
as sober as the rest of his
turnout. As the cart tipped
   forward on to the level
 land beside the waystone,
 he looked up and reined in
    the mule as if he were
   surprised to see anyone
 there at all. Maewen read
    the name in sober gold
   lettering: Hestefan the
     Singer. Now this was
 interesting. Her mind shot
  to Dad's family tree. He
   could be one of her own
   ancestors. And she had
  had no idea that Singers
  still roamed the land as
late as two hundred years
            ago.
    'This is a surprise,
  Hestefan,' Navis said.
'Did Noreth inspire you to
     follow her, too?'
 He was even more ironic
than he had been before,
 but Hestefan answered
 quite simply, 'I thought
I'd come along. Yes.' His
  voice rolled out foggy
     breath, full and
 trained-sounding, but not
        very deep.
   'But,' Mitt chipped in,
    'Fenna's not fit to
      travel—is she?'
  A boy stuck his head out
 of the back of the cart.
'We're not fools,' he said.
       'We left her in
Adenmouth.' The gathering
 sunlight struck red on his
  head. Maewen could not
take her eyes off him. She
knew him, too. He was the
 unknown Singer-boy from
the portrait in the palace.
  'And Lady Eltruda was
good enough to lend us a
 mule,' Hestefan said.
   'Lady Eltruda is always
generous,' Navis said. He
 seemed to mean this. At
  least, he did not sound
 nearly as ironic as usual,
  saying it. 'And what of
 others following? Did you
pass any large numbers of
    folk hurrying to join
         Noreth?'
  Hestefan slowly shook his
 head. 'We were the only
ones on the road.' Maewen
caught the Singer-boy, and
Mitt too, looking at her as
  if they were afraid she
would be very disappointed
        at this news.
 Then everyone was looking
   at her expectantly.
    'Er—' Maewen said.
  'Well, I suppose we'd
better be getting on then.'
  Thinking that she had
better lead the way, she
turned her horse towards
the green path stretching
from the waystone. Then
she paused. Wend was on
foot. 'Will you be able to
 keep up?' And serve you
    right if you can't!
  Wend put a horrible old
baggy cap on his head and
smiled his restrained smile
  up at her. Maewen was
growing to hate that smile.
  'I walk the green ways
every day, lady. Unless you
  gallop, I shall be beside
            you.'
    I wish he wouldn't talk
 like that! Maewen thought
as the small party set off.
   Nobody talked much at
first. Maewen was glad of
  the silence. She had so
much to sort out. For one
thing, she was still full of
quivering animal wariness,
 first from thinking Wend
  was mad, and then from
 finding he seemed to have
told her the truth. On top
   of that was the sheer
 shock of being, really and
truly, two hundred years in
  the past. And one thing
 sorted itself out of that:
    this expedition, with
herself in place of Noreth,
 had to be very important.
The mere fact that two of
  the people who had been
important enough for their
  portraits to hang in the
  palace were on it, made
    this certain. It was
   frightening—too much
    responsibility for an
   ordinary girl who just
 happened to look like this
   Noreth. Perhaps, she
 thought hopefully, Noreth
escapes and comes back to
take over later. But if that
   were going to happen—
  Here Maewen came hard
up against a question which
 had been nagging at the
   back of her head from
  before she laid hands on
  the golden statue, from
   the moment Wend first
    mentioned Noreth. If
Noreth was that important,
   why haven't I seen her
   name in a history book
somewhere? And I haven't,
 not even once. Dad never
  mentioned her. None of
   the guides said a word
 about her, and they were
 forever on about Amil the
      Great. The really
frightening thing was that,
as Maewen now seemed to
  be Noreth, she was the
    one who was going to
  vanish utterly from the
    face of history. She
 shivered and tried not to
   think about Kankredin.
   Well, Amil the Great
 comes along soon. I just
have to hand over to him,
 she thought. That was a
much better thought than
the idea that she was all
alone here having to make
  history—or fade out of
 history permanently. I'll
simply go on until he turns
 up. She raised her head
 and began trying to see
     where they were.
   The green road curved
   gently ahead, sloping
   upwards a very little,
  carving its way into the
mountains by what seemed
the easiest route. At first
    it ran between high
hillsides of brown rock and
Maewen could not see very
     far. The shapes of
 mountains do not change,
   she reminded herself.
   When I see them, I'll
   know. Even though two
 hundred years ago there
   was no big refinery at
       Kredindale, and
Weaversholm was probably
hardly a town, there would
 be something to give her
        her bearings.
  But there was nothing to
see for some miles, except
  every so often a rowan
    tree, leaning like a
guardian over the path, or
     a stream carefully
    channelled under it.
 Corners had been built up
  to keep the road level.
  Maewen wondered about
   this road. There was
nothing like this, that she
 knew of, in her day. Did
Wend mean it when he said
 he kept the green roads?
She looked at him, striding
  beside Hestefan's mule.
Two hundred years old. He
had to be. He had to be of
     the Undying then.
  She looked round again to
find the path coming out on
    an upland and, like a
relief, blue peaks and khaki
 shoulders of mountains in
 all directions. They swung
   slightly right. Maewen
      stared at the high
 horseshoe top of Aberath
    Tor and knew at once
where she was. In the far
    North, right up near
Adenmouth somewhere. She
   and Mum and Aunt Liss
    lived—would live—just
twenty miles west of here.
But it was no good rushing
 off home at a gallop. She
  might find the house—it
  was old—but there would
be strangers living in it. A
 miserable, lonely thought.
  And she had been right.
  Wend had pitched her in
   right at the start of
 Noreth's royal ride, and
     Noreth had been
 kidnapped, so she was in
     for days of this.
         Oh—damn!
  Maewen turned another
 glowering look on Wend.
 And this made her notice
that the rest of the party
  was not entirely happy
  either. Mitt and Navis
rode side by side, but this
  was so that they could
   argue in low voices.
    As she watched, Navis
turned haughtily away from
Mitt, found himself looking
  at Hestefan, and turned
  haughtily from Hestefan
     too, as if Hestefan
 displeased him as much as
          Mitt did.
  Hestefan took no notice.
He just stared dreamily at
 the mule's ears. Probably
he was a dreamy type, but
 just then he looked as if
he was having rather bitter
  dreams. The boy—Moril,
she had gathered his name
 was—sat equally dreamily
 beside Hestefan, plucking
at his big old cwidder, but
 he was no happier. He did
  not have quite the tragic
      look that Maewen
   remembered from the
portrait, but she could see
     he was brooding on
    something miserable.
  Whatever this was might
 have had something to do
  with Mitt. In between
 arguing with Navis, Mitt
   made various friendly
  remarks to Moril, and
Moril either pretended not
to hear, or else he gave a
 short, snide answer that
 stopped any conversation
           dead.
    Nobody but Maewen
seemed to have met Wend
before. After their latest
 argument, Navis tried to
  talk to him and ignore
Mitt. Wend's replies were
 so polite and humble that
Navis raised both eyebrows
 and gave up. Serve Wend
  right! thought Maewen.
  Then she thought, This
won't do! What a dreadful
way to start an important
           journey!
  Angrily, she turned her
horse sideways to the rest
  of them. 'What's the
   matter with you all?'
 They stared at her out of
a confusion of horses and
mule half pulled up. Mitt's
horse refused to stop and
 went bucking backwards
  into the stones of the
verge. He hit it. 'Behave,
    you Countess, you!'
 'Matter?' Navis said with
  his head haughtily up.
  He reminded Maewen of
someone like that, but she
  had not the patience to
think who just then. 'Yes,'
 she said. 'There are only
five of you, and every one
   of you is deliberately
  annoying all the others.
 You're to stop it, do you
hear! Why can't you all be
         cheerful?'
    Mitt, who had on the
whole been trying, Maewen
  had to admit, gave his
  horse another bang and
 said resentfully, 'That's
 great, coming from you!
Who's been off ahead the
 whole time, looking like a
        wet week?'
 Moril grinned at this, as
 if he could not help it.
  Maewen glared from one
  to the other. Boys! 'All
right. I'll try as well. But
I order the rest of you to
      be cheerful too!'
   Navis asked smoothly,
 'And how do you suggest
  we fulfil your orders?'
     ''You can do it by
  stopping being so damn
 sarcastic!' Maewen shot
  back. 'And you—' she
pointed to Hestefan—'can
come out of your dream.'
    This seemed to alarm
  Hestefan. He stared at
her in a stunned, terrified
way which seemed entirely
   wrong for the kind of
person he was. Maewen did
   not understand, and it
  cooled her down rather
  suddenly. She had been
about to go on to Mitt and
  suggest he made peace
  with Navis, and then to
Moril and tell him to stop
  the dumb insolence, but
Hestefan's stare made her
 see that she really knew
  nothing about what had
   happened among these
   people before she met
  them. Maybe they were
 right and she was wrong.
   So she swung round on
Wend, as the only one she
knew. 'And you're to stop
   being so polite all the
           time!'
   Wend snatched off his
 cap and seemed about to
  give one of his humble
          bows.
    'No,' said Maewen.
 'Don't even think of it!'
    Navis threw back his
  head and bellowed with
  laughter. Mitt snorted.
Moril actually giggled. Even
   Hestefan gave a shaky
   smile. Maewen thought
there might even have been
 a bit of a grin on Wend's
 face too. Thank the One!
  Maewen heaved a deep
 startled breath and rode
on again, staring at a large
   bird— eagle?—circling
     among the nearest
 mountains, to help herself
 cool down. How had she
 dared snap at Navis? No
  matter. It had worked.
   She could hear people
  talking behind her in an
   ordinary, cheerful way
 now. But she thought she
 had better go round each
   of the party and talk
 privately to them if she
could. That way she might
 piece together what had
  made them so gloomy.
    Mitt came up to ride
   beside her as she was
 thinking this. 'You've got
  that golden statue safe,
have you?' he said. 'Don't
forget that it's half mine.'
 Maewen went hunched and
 wary again. She had no
  doubt which statue he
meant. The trouble was, it
 was two centuries away,
locked in a glass case in a
palace which was not built
yet. 'Oh yes. Safer than
houses,' she said. Which,
she thought, was certainly
           true.
           VII
     Holding that first
conversation with Mitt was
 one of the hardest things
  Maewen had ever done.
 Long before they stopped
 for what Navis called 'a
 nuncheon', she could feel
sweat starting in beads on
  her face. The air grew
    milder anyway, warm
  enough for Maewen to
 remember that this was,
after all, Midsummer Day,
but it was not that. It was
  the sheer difficulty of
 keeping her end up. She
   kept looking at Wend,
hoping he would give her a
   hint or so, but Wend
simply strode along, easily
  keeping up with Navis's
 mare, and said nothing to
 anyone. Maewen took this
  to mean that Wend was
 only going to come to her
rescue if she made a really
        bad mistake.
     In a way, this was
  comforting, because it
 meant she had not done
anything really wrong yet,
but it was frightening too.
 She knew her face was a
  mass of dots, dots of
freckle and dots of sweat.
   She hated herself like
  that. She kept sneaking
 looks at Mitt's long bony
profile, hoping he was not
       too disgusted.
   Mitt usually turned and
  grinned at her. After a
   while, Maewen realised
that he was as flustered as
   she was. At first she
thought it was because she
 was supposed to be queen.
  Then Mitt said, 'I'll tell
 you straight, Noreth. It
came as a shock last night,
  finding out you were so
            old.'
 Old! Maewen thought. Oh
 bother these freckles! He
 must be at least fifteen!
  How old does he think I
  am? Eighteen, said her
 memory. Noreth went on
  her ride the Midsummer
  after she was eighteen.
  That would seem old to
Mitt. 'Don't hold it against
  me,' she said. 'Please!'
 Mitt laughed. 'I'll try not
           to.'
    This did not make the
  conversation any easier.
 Maewen was trying to find
out who Mitt was—he had a
 dreadful Southern accent
for someone so far north—
 and how he knew Noreth,
 and how he was connected
 with Navis, and why Moril
  disliked him so, and why
 Mitt talked as if he lived
      in Aberath, not
 Adenmouth, and what had
  made him come on this
expedition, and Mitt would
  keep talking about that
golden statue. His beastly
horse did not help. It kept
  trying to bite her leg.
   Each time, Mitt hauled
its head round and cursed
it. 'Stop that! I told you,
    you Countess, you!'
   After about the sixth
   time, Maewen had to
laugh. 'It's a gelding. Why
  do you call it Countess?'
  'I told you yesterday,'
   Mitt said, obviously
        surprised.
  Help! 'Oh, so you did,'
  Maewen said hurriedly.
   It was like that all the
time. But Maewen kept on,
  because she did need to
 know, feeling ridiculously
   flustered for someone
riding in the clear open air
   with mountains slowly
wheeling around them on all
    sides. And at last she
 seemed to have the story
 of the statue sorted out.
Mitt and Noreth had found
   it together in the River
 Aden. Maewen frowned a
  little at this. There was
  that odd dream she had
     had in the train . ..
  'And I need my share of
the money,' Mitt told her.
  'I need it bad. It's to
 help Navis out too, or I
   wouldn't keep nagging
         about it.'
     Mitt believed in plain
   speaking, Maewen could
 see. She liked that, but it
  made her feel dishonest.
'The statue is quite safe —
  honestly,' she repeated.
She began to hope devoutly
   that the horse she was
 riding might have belonged
   to Noreth. It had been
wandering by the waystone.
 Noreth had meant to meet
  everyone there, and then
she had been kidnapped, so
    it could have been her
horse, if you supposed the
 kidnappers had hauled her
 into a carriage and turned
  the horse loose. If that
   was so, then the golden
statue just could be in the
 roll of baggage behind the
            saddle.
 They stopped to eat in a
grassy bay surrounded by
high rocks. Maewen made
haste to lead her horse to
 one side across the moist
green tender grass, where
  she hunted through that
baggage roll pretending to
  look for food. Food she
   found—bread, cheese,
  apples, and a fine small
pie—though not very much
of it, not nearly enough to
     last all the way to
 Kernsburgh. She found a
    clean undershirt and
 drawers, and some socks.
They were all her size, so
  it did begin to look as if
 this was indeed Noreth's
  horse, but there was no
  statue. What about this
  roll of blanket, then? It
felt unpromisingly soft and
light, but Maewen unrolled
it all the same. As she did
 so, someone spoke, close
         beside her.
    'You won't find the
statue there. It has been
         stolen.'
   It was a man's voice,
 deep and rather echoing.
     'What do you mean,
   stolen?' Maewen said,
 wondering how whoever it
   was knew. She looked
  round, expecting to find
herself talking to Navis or
      Hestefan. She was
      confounded to see
Hestefan many yards away,
still dreamily sitting on the
 driver's seat of the cart,
  and Navis unsaddling his
  mare right on the other
 side of the green bay. It
had not sounded like Wend.
  Wend was anyway sitting
  against the wheel of the
cart, fetching a loaf out of
    his knapsack. Mitt was
  over beside Navis. Moril
  came crawling out of the
   cart beside Hestefan as
  she looked. Everyone was
     too far away to have
 spoken — unless of course
      one of them was a
     ventriloquist. Maewen
looked up at the rocks, and
all round, and then bent to
   look under the horse's
  belly. There was no one
else. But the blanket came
  unrolled as she stooped,
showing that it was nothing
but blanket. There was no
 golden statue anywhere in
        this baggage.
 'Who are you?' she said,
keeping her eyes warily on
   all of the other five
 people. 'Where are you?
    How do you know?'
 She had spoken too softly
 for anyone to have heard
her and none of the others
    moved. But the voice
  answered her, seemingly
out of the air beside her.
   'I am the one who has
always advised you. And I
 can feel the statue near.
One of those five has it.'
    'Thanks very much!'
 Maewen rolled the blanket
 up. 'I can't tell you how
that sets my mind at rest!'
 She thought she was in a
state of shock again. Her
mind was whirring with it.
 Whoever had taken the
  statue could only have
  taken it from Noreth.
  Therefore one of her
  companions must have
helped to kidnap Noreth,
  and that person knew
Maewen was a fraud. Why
had that person not said?
 Or was this voice lying?
 'I am glad to find you so
calm,' the voice said. 'You
 speak like the queen you
          will be.'
    Calm! thought Maewen.
  She rammed the blanket
   and clothes back in the
 container and turned back
 across the grass, juggling
  pie and cheese and apple
with hands that seemed too
     shaky to hold them.
   Moril met her as she
  came. He was eating a
      large hunk of
   bread—one-handed,
because his other hand was
supporting that cwidder of
   his. Maewen had yet to
  see Moril put it down. It
  was as if it were part of
    him. She noticed now,
 without any surprise, that
  it was the same cwidder
    that had been in that
 portrait of Moril, the one
 that was in the glass case
beside it. She was noticing
 everything just then. She
   felt like a hunted hare,
 wild big eyes staring. She
noticed that Moril did have
 a scatter of freckles on
 his pale skin, rather like
  hers, only not so many.
She noticed he was looking
    at her wonderingly.
 'What's the matter?' he
 said with his mouth full.
'Have you seen a ghost?'
  'Yes—or I heard one at
least,' Maewen said. 'Out
of the air. A man spoke.'
   'I thought something
happened,' Moril said. 'I
 think I need to break my
rule again. Just a second.'
     He bit off another
 mouthful of bread, tossed
the rest down on the grass
 and put both hands to the
cwidder. For a moment, he
  chewed and thought, and
then he played a short run
 of mellow rippling chords.
   Peace swept through
  Maewen, running like
strength up her back and
   down her arms, and
 relaxing muscles in her
 face that she had not
 known were there. She
  found herself smiling
dreamily, thinking that,
whatever that voice had
 been, it had no way to
harm her. 'Thanks,' she
          said.
   Moril left the cwidder
humming and looked at her
 critically. 'It was easy,'
  he said. 'You're really
 quite a relaxed person.'
   And he added, very
   seriously, 'Things do
happen on the green roads.
There are lots of stories.'
    He bent to pick up his
   bread. Mitt and Navis
sauntered over. Moril must
have seen them out of the
corner of his eye, because
  his face went blank and
  unfriendly and he went
   away at once, back to
         Hestefan.
  Maewen sat against the
 cartwheel to eat, looking
out across broken rocks to
 blue-black mountains, in
   front of dun-coloured
   mountains, with more
 jagged mountains beyond
  that, all under a heavy
grey sky. She must get to
 know Moril, she thought.
 He had seemed to be one
  of those dreamy types,
   entirely wrapped up in
  himself, but he noticed
things, dreamy or not, and
 that— whatever—he had
 played on his cwidder had
been— Well, go on. Say it,
 Maewen. Magic. That boy
  is some kind of magician
and I want to know how he
          does it.
     Far off among the
 mountains, an indigo peak
caught the sun and was for
a moment yellow and green
        and purple.
    Wend pointed a fist
holding a piece of cheese.
  'City of gold!' He and
 Moril and Hestefan spoke
 almost in chorus. 'Hern's
        golden city.'
   'Go on,' said Maewen.
'It can't be! Kernsburgh's
   miles south of here.'
  'It's what we say, lady,'
 Wend explained, 'when a
 peak catches the sun—to
show we remember the city
even though it's long ruined
         and gone.'
    'Ruined and gone!'
   Maewen said. 'But—'
  'It is, though,' Hestefan
 said reprovingly from the
 cart above her. 'Did you
         not know?'
     'I—' Maewen craned
 round at what she could
  see of the grey beard.
What did Hestefan remind
 her of? She should have
 known about Kernsburgh.
All the guides in the palace
had never seemed tired of
pointing out that Amil the
Great had rebuilt the city.
   But none of them had
thought to say that he had
  rebuilt it from nothing.
  'Ruins and rubble?' she
            asked.
    'More like grass and
  humps in the ground by
 what I heard,' Mitt told
           her.
   'Oh—bother!' Maewen
said. 'How am I supposed
to find a crown in a place
        like that?'
   'How indeed?' Navis
        murmured.
   'A way will be found,
    lady,' Wend said.
   Maewen supposed Wend
knew. But as they mounted
 again and moved off, she
could not help thinking that
 this mission was becoming
more impossible with every
     mile they went. She
  wondered if Noreth had
   realised and simply run
  away. Maewen would not
    have blamed her. Six
  people set out wandering
the old roads—one of those
 six accused of theft by a
 voice in the air, too! — in
search of a crown buried in
  a city that did not exist
     any more, with no
  provisions and almost no
   baggage, and this was
supposed to prove that the
wrong girl was queen. As if
the earls in their earldoms
 would let even Noreth get
    away with it! Maewen
 uneasily remembered that
 earls were like little kings
in these days, bad kings in
the South and better ones
  in the North, but all of
   them kings. And kings
   always made a point of
   keeping their thrones.
  But Amil the Great did it
somehow, she told herself.
 Don't be too long turning
up, Amil. I'll hand over to
   you with the greatest
         pleasure.
  The green road all this
    while was taking them
   through another gorge,
   overhung by more rowan
  trees. Maewen found she
   was nervously looking at
 the skyline, high above, in
   case an earl had sent a
    party of hearthmen to
    make sure they got no
further. It must be an earl
who had kidnapped Noreth.
One of her five companions
 was in the pay of an earl.
   She felt a great deal
better when the road took
   them out on to a green
 plain, high, high up. Chilly
  reviving wind swept over
  her. Far below, and yet
  seeming to stand up into
the sky, was the grey sea,
chopped by white galloping
            waves.
     'This is better,' Mitt
said, coming up beside her.
 'Maybe it's being brought
  up a fisherman—I always
   like seeing the sea. Or
maybe it comes of being a
 Holander. Eh, Navis?'
  Navis had come up on the
 other side. He was looking
out at the sea just as Mitt
   was—as if it was home,
   really. He said, 'I miss
the blue of the sea further
     south, but I wasn't
   displeased the Countess
   sent me to Adenmouth.
  Plenty of sea there. And
I've never for one moment
 regretted leaving Holand.'
  It was odd to hear Navis
talk without sarcasm at all.
 Maewen wondered how to
  find out what they were
   both doing so far from
   Holand, but before she
could think how, Navis said
  to her, 'You, of course,
 will have a special interest
   in this stretch of sea.'
     'Why? Do you know
 something I don't know?'
 Maewen shot back. A silly
thing to say, but Navis had
    that effect on her.
   'I was meaning that we
     must be quite near
  Kredindale,' Navis said,
 'where I gather you were
born, Noreth. Isn't it your
  cousin Kintor who's lord
           here?'
    Maewen said quickly,
  'Yes, but we don't get
           on.'
   That, she hoped would
stop Navis expecting her to
go and visit her cousin. But
     he can't be right! she
thought. It was miles round
 the coast from Adenmouth
     to Kredindale. It took
 ages, even by car. But as
   they moved on, she saw
    the long spit of green,
 scribbled with the ditches
of a sea-marsh, stretching
    out into the sea below,
 where, in her day, the big
   refinery stood. She had
    seen it from the train,
  only days ago. It seemed
 that the old road had cut
   straight through the
        mountains.
  'Whatever you feel about
your cousin,' Navis said, 'I
 imagine you could hope to
 gather quite a number of
      followers here.'
   Followers! I hope not!
Maewen thought. Whatever
  would I do with them?
   'Yes, I reckon you're
 going to have to have an
army,' Mitt agreed. 'Show
   those earls you mean
        business.'
  They were probably both
   right, but Maewen just
    could not see herself
leading an army. She would
 feel such a fool. She rode
  on wondering how to get
      out of having one.
    The coastline made a
 grand curve and the road
  followed it, but so high
that Maewen could not see
 the big Kredindale valley
  she knew must be down
 there somewhere. There,
  as they came round the
  curve, was the waystone
  marking the way down to
      the valley and—
horrors!—really quite a big
 crowd of people gathered
 on the clifftops beside it.
  As Maewen's group came
into sight, there was a lot
of shouting. She heard the
  name 'Noreth!' over and
    over again and—she
couldn't help it—she pulled
 her horse to a standstill,
terrified. Her eyes blurred
   and her knees shook.
  She said stupidly, 'What
 do you think they want?'
      'To talk to you,
 evidently,' Navis replied.
 He seemed to be right. A
group of people, men and
    women, was running
towards her eagerly, with
one man out in front, and
   the crowd itself was
 pressing forward behind
 them, more slowly, in a
 jog-trot filled with windy
 wavings of scarves, hair,
  arms, ribbons, and some
   kind of long, snapping
banners. Midsummer flags,
   Maewen thought. They
    must be holding their
 Midsummer Fair up here.
 She wanted to shake her
   horse into a gallop and
leave. Fast. But the crowd
was blocking the road. And
 they all looked so glad to
          see her.
Oh, Noreth! she thought.
Why did you have to let
    me in for this?
  Wend strode up beside
  her. 'May I hold your
horse, lady, while you get
   down and speak with
          them?'
 Mitt had seen how she
was feeling. 'I'll go with
her. D'you mind holding
 the Countess too?' he
      asked Wend.
 'And mine,' Navis said,
 hurling his reins over his
       mare's head.
  Maewen was too grateful
 almost to be ashamed at
  how obvious her terror
   must be. It felt much
better walking towards the
    eager man with Mitt
towering slightly behind her
   on one side and Navis
pacing sedately and briskly
       on the other.
  'Noreth Onesdaughter,'
  the eager man greeted
 her. 'We heard tell you'd
     ride the roads this
  Midsummer and you must
  forgive us that we lay in
 wait for you, in a manner
  of speaking, but—' Here
the small group of men and
women caught up and stood
  panting, nodding, smiling
  and staring. 'We are all
   the gang-heads at the
   mines,' the eager man
  explained. 'I am Tankol
  Kolsson and I speak for
 the heads. Lady, will you
 talk to Lord Kintor, your
cousin, for us? We are at
 our wits' end truly, and
 truly do not mean to be
  lawless the way his new
law-woman says we are.'
  At this, all the others in
the group burst out talking
 too. 'Willing workers all,'
 Maewen heard. 'The land
being that poor,' and, 'No
sale in summer so he'll only
pay half!' overlaid by, 'The
mines now the main way to
make a living,' and, 'Next
    to nothing if you've a
  family to feed!' This was
  half-drowned by someone
     saying over and over,
   'Then Lord Kintor would
have to sell his horses and
 that we do not want,' and
someone else saying just as
 often, 'Pay half for what
we fetch out and put only a
        quarter back in
 winter—that's starvation,
    lady!' During this, the
  entire crowd arrived, so
      that Maewen was
 surrounded and buried in
 people all shouting, 'It's
that new law-woman of his!
 Make him send her away!'
  or, 'We're only miners,
  lady, and we don't know
        what to do!'
      Mines, she thought
 distractedly. Miners. She
remembered the Kredindale
  of her day, and the big
 spoil heaps that had been
 landscaped with grass and
  trees down by the coast,
 with the ruins of chimneys
and old mineshafts further
  up the hills. There was a
colliery museum somewhere.
 Maewen remembered Aunt
  Liss saying that when she
  was a girl, Kredindale had
been nothing but coal mines
   wherever you looked. It
 looked as if it had started
  being like that very early
   on. But she had no idea
   what all these shouting
 people expected her to do
        about it.
     'Hold hard!' Mitt
shouted. 'Do you mind not
   all talking at once!'
 Into the slight hush that
 this made, Navis called,
'Let's get this straight.
  You're in some kind of
 quarrel with Lord Kintor
and you want this lady to
       put it right.'
    Amid the shouts of
 agreement, Mitt said to
  the eager man, 'You.
     Tankol. If you're
 spokesman, you tell her.'
 Tankol was only too ready
 to tell. The trouble was,
 he was not one of those
  people who could tell a
 thing simply and quickly.
Maewen listened for a good
quarter of an hour, almost
 glad of being surrounded
by people because the sea
wind was cold, even though
she found the pressure of
 all their attention nearly
 unbearable. At the end of
      that time, she had
gathered that her supposed
   cousin had hired a new
  law-woman who had told
  him he would have to sell
  his horses because there
  was no demand for coal.
There were lots of figures
    too, halves, quarters,
       thirds, which had
  something to do with the
 wages miners earned. The
  main thing Maewen really
 gathered was that neither
  Tankol, nor anyone else,
  had the least desire to
leave Kredindale and follow
    Noreth as an army.
   She ought to have been
   relieved. She was, in a
    way. But she was also
 exasperated. If even the
      people in Noreth's
birthplace did not consider
  following her, this really
    did make her mission
 impossible. But there had
to be more to it than this.
Mitt and Navis seemed to
be following what Tankol
 said. Maewen turned to
them. 'Can you explain?'
'A rather familiar story,'
Navis said dourly. 'One I
 thought I'd left behind
    with the South.'
     'Isn't it just!' Mitt
 agreed. 'He's saying this
 Kintor of yours has hired
the law to help him diddle
 the miners. Kintor's hard
up, mind you, because folk
 can burn peat for nothing.
  And she's told him—this
law lady—that he can halve
 their wages in the summer
 and then put a bit back in
  the winter, without them
   being able to do a thing
 about it. If they complain
  to him, it's unlawful. If
  they hold meetings about
     it, that's not lawful
  either. So what are they
            to do?'
 'They seem to have been
smart enough to get round
  the law by having their
meeting as the Midsummer
 Fair up here, while they
  waited for you,' Navis
said. 'But one does wonder
 how many miners' wages
 your cousin is paying his
     new law-woman.'
  Maewen was beginning to
 feel glad that she could
 disown this Kintor as her
  cousin. All the worried
 faces staring at her had
 the hollow eyes of people
who never quite got enough
  to eat. Everyone was in
holiday best, to judge from
      the ribbons and
embroidery, but they were
    poor clothes, old and
darned and carefully looked
  after. 'Why don't they
     want him to sell his
    horses?' she asked.
   'Famous bloodstock,'
 Navis said. 'Everyone is
     proud of them.'
  'Yeah. This is the free
North,' Mitt said bitterly.
   'Free to some,' Tankol
retorted, quite as bitterly.
    'You're an Aberath
 hearthman, lad. You don't
    know you're born.'
 Because Mitt looked about
   to become extremely
angry, Maewen said almost
  without thinking. 'Then
   why don't you go on
          strike?'
  Every face, Mitt's and
   Navis's, too, turned to
  her, perplexed. Oh help!
she thought. They've never
    heard of strikes yet.
  Strikes were unheard of
until industry started. And
    when did industry get
  going? Maewen wondered
 frantically. Not quite yet,
she was sure. But wasn't it
 quite early on in Amil the
     Great's reign? Yes,
  because she remembered
   learning that Amil had
    encouraged industry,
 particularly in the North.
But, oh dear, all the same.
 Everyone was waiting for
her to explain and she was
   going to have to send
history in a circle, because
she only knew about strikes
  because there had been
 strikes, probably because
   she had told everyone
   about them one windy
  afternoon in Kredindale,
         because ...
   'It means,' she said,
  'that you all stop work
 until my cousin agrees to
   pay you a fair wage.'
 'But we can't. We'd be
turned off work,' Tankol
       protested.
   'Oh, come on!' Maewen
said. 'My cousin needs you
to work the mines. If you
all stop, he can't sack you
 all, because he'd starve
            too.'
  'But,' said one of the
women, 'it's like Young Kol
  said. It's not lawful.'
    They were so slow and
   sad and doubtful, that
  Maewen wanted to shake
   them. 'Look. It's not
  unlawful if one of you is
sick and can't get to work,
            is it?'
 'No.' Everyone agreed to
          that.
  'Then you all get ill at
once,' Maewen explained.
  This caused a startled,
 interested silence. Mitt
  broke it by pointing out
 what Maewen had always
thought was the weak part
 of strikes. 'They'd never
 get away with that in the
South,' he said. 'The earl
     would just send his
   hearthmen to hang the
  ringleaders, sick or not.
 Maybe your Kintor won't
do that in the North here.
     But he'd have to do
  something. If he didn't
 they'd all be ruined, him
   and them together. It
goes,' Mitt added, just as
 if he had read Maewen's
  mind, 'in a circle, like.'
 It did. Maewen wanted to
   shake Mitt too. 'But
there's going to be a huge
demand for coal,' she said.
 'Any day—well, any year
now—in five years, anyway.
    I know. There'll be
        machines—'
        Mitt frowned
disbelievingly. 'You mean,
    like Alk's Irons?'
    Maewen did not know
   what he meant, so she
 turned back to persuading
  the rest of them. 'It's
true. I really do know. Tell
Kintor that if he'll just pay
   you properly and wait,
people will be yelling for all
the coal you can mine, and
            more!'
 She heard murmurs, back
in the crowd, dubious and
awed. 'The One speaks to
 her. She might know, at
that.' But Tankol, who was
  clearly a more practical
 type, said, 'You wouldn't
be willing to walk down the
  dale and tell Kintor that
yourself, would you, lady?'
    'We don't get on. He
  wouldn't listen,' Maewen
 said. Besides knowing I'm
not Noreth, I'll bet. Great
One, this is difficult! 'Now
what I think you should do,
is wait to go on strike until
  people start wanting coal
 again in the autumn, and
 Kintor really needs you.
  Then you all say you're
 sick and—and those that
want to can come and join
me at Kernsburgh and be
         my army.'
 'After Harvest,' someone
  said. 'We could, if the
       harvest's in.'
  Maewen could feel them
   all slowly beginning to
agree. She felt warm with
victory. How was that for
brilliance? How was that
 for a way to recruit an
army without having one?
 How was that for killing
  several birds with—?
  Navis cancelled all that
 by asking coolly, 'After
Harvest? But what, may I
  ask, will you be doing,
  Noreth, for the three
   months in between?'
  Doesn't it take that long
to get to Kernsburgh then?
 Oh hell\ 'I shall be very
   busy,' Maewen said.
  Navis's eyebrow slid up.
 But, quite unexpectedly,
Tankol came to her rescue.
    'Of course she will,
 hearthman. We all know
she'll want to be searching
  out the Adon's gifts to
   take to Kernsburgh.'
 Both of Navis's eyebrows
   soared. 'I beg your
  pardon? Adon's gifts?'
 Tankol, and several other
  people, gave Maewen
        knowing smiles.
  'Southerner, isn't he?'
    Tankol said. 'Knows
  nothing. But we all know
  they answer to the true
    queen, and even the
   strongest claim can be
 stronger. Very well, lady.
You've mapped us our way.
  We work all summer and
       then fall sick of
starvation, and those of us
   still with our strength
  bargain with Kintor and
    then vanish away to
Kernsburgh. What say, all?
   Is this what we do?'
   To Maewen's considerable
   amazement, there were
shouts of agreement. Navis
    was possibly even more
 dumbfounded, but he kept
 his head even though they
were suddenly being jostled
     every which way in a
 cheering crowd. He seized
   Maewen's arm strongly,
and quite painfully, just as
  it seemed that she might
    be swept away from
 himself and Mitt, and he
shouted, in a ringing voice
that came out over all the
other voices, 'The army is
 to gather at Kernsburgh.
Bring weapons and food if
you can. For now, will you
   please supply the lady
Noreth with provisions for
         her ride.'
 Maewen thought that last
 demand was a bit much.
These people were so poor.
 All the same, when Navis
and Mitt dragged her clear
 of the crowd, more than
 half the people in it were
 already running the other
 way to see what the pens
    and stalls under the
    banners could supply.
  They found Moril angrily
hanging on to Mitt's horse.
Hestefan was off the cart,
hauling at the mule. Wend,
who had enough to do with
Navis's mare and Maewen's
horse, said, very irritably
for him, 'That vile gelding
  with the teeth bit the
mule. Tell the boy to take
       care of it.'
  Wend doesn't like Mitt,
Maewen thought. Doesn't
anyone like anyone on this
       expedition?

Part III - Ring and
        Cup
          VIII
     'Congratulations,
   Noreth,' Navis said as
    they rode away from
 Kredindale. Behind them,
    Hestefan's cart was
labouring and creaking with
its load of provisions. 'Tell
  me, do you intend to call
 for an army in every dale
         we pass?'
  Maewen had been afraid
  he was going to ask her
that. While Mitt and Navis
   had been riding about
 choosing cheeses and bags
   of oats, and rejecting
     numbers of skinny
upside-down hens, Maewen
 had put in quite a bit of
  thought. 'I don't think
 so,' she said judiciously.
 'Kredindale was special.
Now they know I'm calling
for an army, word will get
          round.'
  'I admire your faith,'
  said Navis. 'So we—'
  'And I admire the way
   you got all the food
 organised,' Maewen said
quickly, to stop him saying
  what she knew he was
    going to say next.
    'Think nothing of it. I
  was an officer in Holand
   before you were born,'
 said Navis. 'Although,' he
added thoughtfully, 'it was
   last year in Adenmouth
that really taught me to do
ten things at once.' Then,
  just as Maewen was sure
   she had distracted him,
 Navis went on, 'But, as I
was about to say, your plan
   is that we spend the
     intervening months
   searching for certain
   objects with which to
 bolster your claim? Just
  what are these Adon's
           gifts?'
 Maewen tried not to sigh.
But then people did not get
 made Duke of Kernsburgh
by being easy to distract.
 The trouble was, she had
 no more idea than Navis
 did. 'I think,' she said,
 'that the best person to
 ask is Hestefan. Singers
 always know more about
       these things.'
  'I shall,' said Navis. 'But
  you are aware, are you,
 that none of the earls are
 going to take kindly to our
 wandering the green roads
like this? Three months will
   give them ample time to
    deal with your claim.'
      Maewen knew he was
     right. She had been
     wondering whether to
 answer this one by saying
 piously that the One would
    provide, but she had a
  feeling that Navis would
  simply laugh at that. So
    she did the only other
   thing she could think of
   and smiled a secretive,
knowing smile—or she hoped
   it was—and then asked
Navis how he came to be in
          the North.
         He had had an
  adventurous escape from
    some kind of danger in
    Holand, she gathered,
   though as he would only
    talk about it lightly, in
scraps, as if it were a joke
rather than a flight for his
  life, Maewen never quite
     understood what the
  danger had been. He had
met Mitt for the first time
 in the Holy Islands. 'Mitt
    appeared to be having
 dealings with the Undying.
 Quite beyond my depth,'
    Navis said lightly.
       He was so easy to
 distract that Maewen felt
  rather sad. She knew he
was letting her change the
  subject, and that had to
   mean that Navis did not
  really care what they did
 in the next three months.
Someone like Navis was not
       going to join this
   expedition without some
   other, personal reason.
Maewen suspected that he
  and Mitt were going to
 leave and go off on their
    own as soon as that
personal reason led them in
   a different direction.
  'Don't worry, Noreth,'
 Navis said. 'I promised
  your aunt I would take
 care of you. I intend to
      see you right.'
      Maewen was still
  surprised by this when
they stopped for the night.
The road had plunged them
back into the heart of the
  mountains again, through
 narrow places full of pine
 trees, then out again into
a sort of crossroads in the
green ways. It was a large
  lumpy meadow among the
 crags with quite a number
   of waystones round the
   edge. They camped in a
     flat space among the
    lumps. People obviously
   used it regularly. There
       was a fireplace, a
      surprisingly clean
  latrine-pit, and sort of
 caves scraped in some of
the humps for sleeping in.
    'Where is this?' Mitt
   asked, while Moril was
lighting a fire with the bag
   of coal the miners had
         given them.
   Wend answered, but he
spoke to Maewen as if Mitt
 was just a servitor. 'This
    is Orilsway, lady.'
Orilsway! Maewen thought.
 But I went through this in
  the train. It was a town!
     'It is the northern
      crossway,' Wend
 explained, pointing to the
  various waystones. 'That
leads to Aberath, and that
    to central parts, with
     Hannart at the end.
South-easterly, you may go
by Ansdale and Loviath, to
 Gardale and beyond, but I
   take it, lady, we'll be
 wanting the way down the
 end there that goes south
      to Dropwater.'
    Maewen looked up at
   Wend's serious face.
Always serious. Why can't
  he unbend a little? she
  thought irritably. 'I'm
considering,' she said. 'I'll
 tell you which way in the
         morning.'
  Supper was fresh bread,
  curd cheese and pickled
cherries. Mitt loved pickled
   cherries. It was not a
  thing he had met in the
 South. But Navis spat his
first and only one into the
fire. 'I take it the cherry
     crop was large in
Kredindale,' he said. 'They
should have left it for the
  birds. Hestefan, tell us
 about the Adon's gifts.'
  Hestefan looked up from
the other side of the fire.
 'These are well known to
everyone in the North,' he
           said.
   'But not to me,' said
    Navis. 'Or Mitt.'
   Mitt threw a handful of
 cherry stones on the fire.
'Speak for yourself, Navis.
They're supposed to be the
things Manaliabrid gave the
     Adon in her dowry.
 There's a sword and a cup
    and a ring, and the
 Countess has got the ring
  in that old collection of
  hers, back in Aberath.'
   'And the cup's in the
   One's chapel at the
  Lawschool in Gardale,'
Moril said. 'I saw it when
I went to see my sister.'
      'The sword is in
Dropthwaite,' said Wend.
 'It is well hidden, but I
       have seen it.'
   'And would they answer
 to the true queen?' Navis
  asked Hestefan. 'Tankol
seemed to think they would
    and he's the sort of
 practical man I'm inclined
        to believe.'
  Hestefan had been looking
 from one to the other for
    all the world, Maewen
         thought, like a
schoolmaster who had come
    prepared to teach and
found his class knew all the
 answers. He had reminded
her of a schoolmaster ever
  since she first saw him—
Dr Loviath, who taught her
  physics last year, that's
who he was like! He said in
     exactly Dr Loviath's
repressive way, 'There are
 various kinds of hearsay
about the gifts—nothing I
   have seen myself and
nothing anyone is known to
       have proved.'
      Mitt, who thought
Hestefan was a right stick,
took up another handful of
cherries and said, 'Alk told
me the ring always fits the
right one's finger. He says
  it fits the Countess and
   not him, because she's
 descended from the Adon.
Mind you, it's a small ring.
 And you should see the
  size of Alk's fingers!'
  'So that is not proven,'
 Hestefan said, frowning.
'Singers are bound only to
 tell the truth. I can say
       nothing more.'
   Moril seemed puzzled.
'Yes, but we can tell what
people say,' he said. 'And
I know they say that only
 the Adon's true heir can
     draw the sword.'
 'I can say nothing more,'
   Hestefan repeated.
  Maewen tried to smooth
things over by asking, 'Can
you tell me something I've
always wondered? Was the
  Adon of the Undying?'
 It did not work. Hestefan
stared at her rather as he
 had stared before, when
 she told him to come out
of his dream. Then he said
 grudgingly, 'I think not,
  though he was of their
blood. He died twice, you
         know.'
   Chalk up two more of us
who don't get on, Maewen
thought. Hestefan and me.
Thoroughly disgruntled, she
 got up and went to sit on
     top of a hump some
 distance away, where she
  watched the last of the
    light fading from the
highest peaks. The sky was
     still silvery, but the
 mountains were bluer and
bluer. Over the other way,
the camp fire made it seem
 quite dark. What was the
    matter with her? Why
  should it bother her that
   nobody in the group got
 on? She was only a fraud
 and a substitute, who was
in danger of making history
   go in circles after this
          afternoon.
   That seemed to be it.
  This afternoon, she had
done something which really
 would affect history and,
 because of that, whether
  it was impossible or not,
     she wanted this mad
   venture of Noreth's to
   succeed. She wanted to
 take it and make it work.
    Maybe, when the time
came, she would not tamely
    hand over to Amil the
    Great. That would be
 changing history indeed -
if only she could think how
          to do it.
  'You dealt very shrewdly
  with those miners,' the
     deep echoing voice
 remarked in her ear. 'My
advice has not been wasted
          on you.'
     Maewen jumped and
looked round carefully. For
 as far as she could see in
the gloaming, she was alone
 on her damp green hillock.
    She could see Navis,
Hestefan and Wend over in
   the orange light of the
 fire. Besides, she knew
 their voices now, and it
 was none of those three
 who had spoken. Moril's
  voice was still a husky
treble, and Mitt's tended
 to crack and rumble. It
  was that ghost again.
 Ghosts cannot hurt one,
 but Maewen did not like
 the bluish wafts of mist
that were gathering in the
   spaces between the
  hummocks. She got up
casually and started to go
     back to the fire.
    'Now you must acquire
   the Aden's gifts,' the
voice said, still at her ear.
 She walked faster, but it
    was still at her ear,
     sending deep, deep
  vibrations through her.
  'Find the Adon's gifts.
They will prove your claim.
  They will also give your
 followers a purpose, and
  your search will confuse
         the earls.'
  This was exactly the idea
   that Maewen had been
  fumbling for in her own
 mind. Perhaps this voice
was part of her mind. That
    made it worse. 'I'll
 consider it,' she said and
            fled.
   By the fire, everyone
 seemed to be getting up
and settling for the night.
 But there was no sign of
 Moril. Moril was the one
   Maewen wanted. She
  needed some more magic
  from that cwidder. She
   thought she heard it,
  twanging gently, beyond
  one of the hummocks to
the right. She swerved and
ran that way, over a hump
 and down the other side,
where she very nearly trod
 on Mitt, sitting rather as
    she had been sitting
          herself.
   Mitt sprang up with a
 hoarse squawk. Maewen
          yelled.
  'Thank you very much!'
  Mitt said. 'That's all I
 need for a perfect day!'
 'Is anything the matter?'
   Navis called from the
         fireside.
    'Nothing,' Mitt called
  back. 'Just saddle sore.
      Vinegar!' he said
disgustedly to Maewen. 'He
  made me sit in vinegar.
    Maybe I'd be worse
 without it, but it doesn't
do your temper any good, I
 can tell you! And then you
  come charging over this
  mound. What's up? You
    seem a bit off from
         yesterday.'
   'I was wanting Moril,'
       Maewen said.
     'He's off over here
   somewhere,' Mitt said.
  They wandered that way
   together, between two
lines of vague dark mounds.
'Looks a bit like a street,'
    Mitt remarked. 'I
 shouldn't wonder if this
wasn't a town once. What
 do you want Moril for?'
It was soothing wandering
 between hummocks with
 Mitt. Maewen found it
much easier than she had
  expected to say, 'I'm
 being haunted. A ghost
keeps speaking to me and
 Moril helped last time.'
 Mitt was truly puzzled.
 'What do you mean, a
ghost? Last night you were
  saying it was the One,
your father, who spoke to
  you. Or is this another
          voice?'
 Help! thought Maewen.
Why didn't Wend tell me?
   'It's—it's always very
 alarming when he does,'
         she said.
  'That's the Undying for
you,' said Mitt. 'What did
         he say?'
     How can he be so
 matter-of-fact? Maewen
  wondered. Even for two
hundred years ago. But she
  remembered what Navis
  had told her. Mitt knew
what he was talking about.
 'He said I ought to have
   the Adon's gifts,' she
  said. She wanted to ask
   Mitt if he thought the
voice was really the One's,
but Noreth seemed to have
  told him already that it
was, so she could hardly do
 that. Instead, she said,
   'If this is Orilsway,
Aberath is only a little way
to the north. I can go and
 get the ring from there
        tomorrow.'
   Mitt laughed. It was a
   hacking unhappy noise.
'You'll be lucky! They'd cut
 your throat on the spot,
 girl. I know. I know that
         Countess.'
  Maewen began, 'But—'
 Then she saw that Mitt,
once again, probably knew
what he was talking about.
 Two hundred years before
she was born, people really
did cut throats. Earls could
get away with it then. She
 changed her objection to,
   'But I need that ring.
    What should I do?'
  'I'll get it for you,' said
Mitt. It seemed obvious to
   him that this was what
  Noreth was angling for.
 And it ought to be child's
play. 'I was looking at that
ring only two days ago,' he
   explained. 'I know just
  where it is. If I go off
 now, I can sneak in while
   it's dark and pick it up
with no one any the wiser.'
 'But you're saddle sore,'
 Maewen protested. 'And
 your horse isn't fresh.'
    'Teach that horse a
lesson,' Mitt said blithely.
 'And I'm not that bad. I
  was just having a moan.'
  He was lying a bit about
     the soreness. Ouch!
Flaming Ammet! he thought
      as he mounted the
   surprised and reluctant
   Countess-horse. But he
    kept his mouth shut.
  Noreth's face, which he
     could see as a pale,
   anxious oval, was lifted
  towards him from beside
 the hummock he had used
      to mount. She was
worrying anyway. As he set
 off beside the half-seen
 waystone that marked the
    road to Aberath, he
   thought that she would
have to give over this habit
   she seemed to have of
 worrying about everyone.
She'd go off her head with
 it if she got to be queen.
   The green road, as they
all seemed to be, was level
and smooth and surprisingly
easy to follow in the dark.
  The Undying did a good
  job, Mitt thought, if it
  was them who made the
roads. And he was pleased
 to find that, after years
  of indoors work, he had
 not lost the knack he had
 learnt as a fisher-lad of
    finding his way in the
 night. You did it the way
they said bats did, mostly.
Sort of by feel. Whenever
 the road turned, he could
  feel the air pressing off
 the bigger bulks of rock,
 and he knew to veer left
   or right, even when he
   could not see the pale
greyishness of the track.
The Countess-horse, to be
 fair to it, had the same
 knack, when it consented
           to go.
   It made quite a fuss at
   first. After a mile of
head-tossing, loitering and
pretending to go lame, and
 hearty cursing from Mitt,
it chose to surprise him by
   consenting to go. They
thudded on at a fair pace.
Mitt, in order not to think
of the trouble he might be
in if he got caught at the
mansion, tried to work out
 why he was going off to
 get this ring for Noreth.
 It might have belonged to
 the Adon, but, whatever
 Alk said, Mitt was fairly
  sure it was just a ring.
  The Northerners could
believe in these things if it
made them happy, but Mitt
  had been brought up by
the practical Hobin, making
guns for a living in Holand,
and he knew that the only
virtue that ever got into a
 piece of metal was fine,
   careful workmanship.
 Right. That was the ring.
 Did he believe the One
wanted Noreth to have it?
   Mitt had a little more
  difficulty here. He had
 never met this One the
Northerners made so much
   of. Or had he? Mitt
narrowed his eyes into the
 mild wind of the night, as
he remembered finding the
   golden statue and that
 great deep voice crying, '
  There!' That had surely
not been Noreth shouting.
  Well, keep an open mind
    there. But would the
greatest of the Undying be
   that bothered about a
            ring?
 You could say it was Mitt
 himself bothering. If he
  took this ring, it would
prove to the Countess that
   Mitt was not her hired
  murderer. That could be
    true. But it was fairly
 clear to Mitt that he was
  riding through the night
   like this simply because
Noreth thought she needed
   the ring. That nervous,
 freckly look of hers made
 you want to do things for
her. So you did them. And
  then trusted to Navis to
   get them all out of the
 consequences, Mitt added
to himself as he came out
beside the waystone above
         Aberath.
   The Countess-horse knew
     where they were. It
  slithered gladly down the
  raked track to the town.
 Mitt was almost sorry for
its disappointment when he
    dragged it over to the
   woods beyond the first
       fields and—to its
 incredulity—left it tied to
      a tree. It made its
feelings plain, quite loudly,
 and several other horses
answered it from stables in
         the town.
   'Shut up!' Mitt told it.
 'Be quiet or I'll bite you
       for a change!'
    He ran away round the
  fields towards the cliff.
 Reproachful horse-noises
 followed him for a minute
  and then stopped with a
 sigh Mitt could hear even
    at that distance. He
  grinned and ran with long
    strides. His legs ached
 from being wrapped round
 a horse so long and it was
   good to stretch them in
  spite of his soreness. He
supposed he had vinegar to
 thank that he could run at
all. He only stopped running
  when he was looking down
   at the pale heaving sea.
 There he paused to speak
     to the Undying he did
             know.
   'Alhammitt,' he said.
 'Old Ammet. Do you hear
me? I'd be much obliged if
 you and Libby Beer could
 keep an eye on me in the
 mansion. If I get caught
 there, quite a few people
are going to be in trouble.'
  There was no sign from
 the glimmering sea, but
  Mitt felt better as he
hurried along the clifftop
to the place where all the
    children regularly
 scrambled round the wall.
  He nipped round, quietly
and carefully, and there he
  was out in the space by
Alk's shed. It was so easy
 Mitt could hardly believe
             it.
   It went on being easy.
Mitt slithered in among the
 buildings of the mansion,
 from well-known spot to
well-known spot, and not a
 person moved or a sound
disturbed the place except
for the faint crunch of his
 own feet when he crossed
the gravel court in front of
   the library. There were
   one or two dim lights in
some of the upper windows.
  Otherwise he would have
    thought the place was
empty. It reminded him of
   times in Holand when he
sneaked into strange places
 with a forbidden message.
  In fact, it was too much
 like that. The mansion did
  not feel like anywhere he
    had ever lived any
more—and nor was it now,
he thought ruefully, as his
   feet carefully inched
through the dark archway
  and met the flight of
 stairs up to the library.
  At the top his hand met
  the door and found the
 handle. Gently, gently, he
turned the great latch-ring
 and pushed the door open
   on the woody, booky
mustiness inside. It was so
    dark in there that he
  realised he was going to
have to find the glass case
   where the ring was by
   memory and feel. But,
since he was going to have
   to break the glass and
  someone might hear, he
 shut the door behind him
as gently as he had opened
it. He took a step into the
            room.
        Cree—eak.
   'Flaming Ammet!' Mitt
   muttered. 'Wish I'd
remembered how noisy this
    dratted floor was!'
 Light came on, blindingly,
        with a metal
      clapping-sound.
           IX
   Mitt did not even feel
despair. He felt dead. He
  was caught, as he had
always known he would be,
  one of these days. He
 simply stood, blinking to
  see through the light,
  wondering if it was only
 the Countess lying in wait
  for him or Earl Keril as
           well.
        The light was a
  dark-lantern standing on
 the selfsame case he had
   intended to rob. When
Mitt tore his eyes sideways
 from it, he could see the
bilious visage of the Adon's
 portrait, still on its easel.
     Beside that, in a big
 dark-wood chair, Alk was
sitting, bulky and blinking.
Either the light had blinded
  him too, or he had been
  asleep—asleep was most
likely, because Alk yawned
      before he spoke.
   'I told you,' he said,
'not to do anything stupid
 until you'd talked to me.
 Did you shut the door?'
        Mitt nodded.
  'Then come over here,'
        said Alk.
  Mitt went, still without
   any word to say, over
 several miles of violently
creaking floor, until he was
 beside the table and the
glass case, and in front of
 Alk's chair. Alk put out a
 beefy hand and carefully
    closed down the iron
shutter of the lantern until
the library was nothing but
  shadows all round them.
  'Now stand over there,'
Alk said, pointing the other
        beefy hand.
   Mitt moved, regretfully,
  away from the table and
  the glass case, and stood
 at the edge of the pool of
light, beside the easel. Alk
 was alone, but this was no
  comfort. Mitt knew very
  well how quick and strong
  Alk was. Alk had put him
where it was impossible for
   Mitt to get to the door
       before Alk did.
  'Doing a bit of studying
 tonight,' Alk remarked,
 yawning again. 'Or so I
told my Countess. I had a
bit of a conversation with
   her, like I told you I
    would, and I wasn't
pleased with what she had
  to say at all. To put it
 bluntly, as soon as Keril
 was out of the way, we
had words—which is not a
   thing we've ever had
  before.' He blinked at
 Mitt, as sleepy and glum
and grim as Mitt had ever
 seen him. 'What do you
think about that? You being
the cause of those words.'
 Mitt cleared his throat,
which had somehow closed
   solid. 'I'm sorry.'
    'Glad to hear it,' said
   Alk. 'So then I had a
think. And it seemed to me
 that in your shoes I'd be
 trying ways to wriggle out
of the bind they'd got you
      in. Am I right?'
  Mitt cleared his throat
again. His voice still came
out hoarse and desperate.
'I'm not doing any killing!'
  'So I should hope!' said
Alk. 'But I'm glad to hear
 you say it. What's she
    like, this Noreth?'
  'Freckly,' said Mitt. 'Full
  of life. I took her for a
   boy at first. She's all
 right. She's got her head
   screwed on more than
you'd expect, considering.'
 'Has she, now?' said Alk.
 'Then what's she up to,
riding the King's Road with
 you for a follower? That
doesn't sound too clever to
  me. There's more earls
 around than Keril and my
Countess who'll want to put
      a stop to that.'
  'I know. Put like that, it
  sounds right daft.' But
 daft though it was, Mitt
 found himself defending
Noreth. 'She cares about
people, and she's got some
   good ideas. People will
come to her. And she has
      got a claim.'
    'As to that,' Alk said,
  'so have a lot of people
 got a claim. She's saying
   she descends from the
 Adon over beside you and
       his second wife
 Manaliabrid—right? Now
I've been reading up again
         on all that.'
    His big hand made a
   gesture, down by the
lantern and the glass case
 it stood on. There was a
  spread of books there,
   several of them open,
  others with markers in.
One of the markers was a
shoe-horn, another was a
  six-inch nail. Typical of
    Alk. Mitt would have
grinned at any other time.
   'My law stuff is a bit
   rusty after all these
years,' Alk explained. Mitt
 was not sure he believed
   that. 'But I've been
 finding out that even the
Adon didn't have that good
 a claim to be king. But he
  took the crown, so we'll
take it from there. Now if
  this Manaliabrid was who
    she said she was, she
   certainly made his claim
 better. She claimed to be
 of the Undying, daughter
      of Cennoreth and
   great-granddaughter of
    the One. Well, no one
 seemed to doubt she was,
so we'll give her that. Now
she and the Adon had two
    children, a son and a
daughter. And either these
      two were a great
  disappointment to their
 parents, or they weren't
any too sure of their claim
either, because neither of
 them made the least push
  to rule after. The son,
Almet, took the kingstone,
 but all he did with it was
  go off to the South and
   govern a little lordship
that's dead and gone now,
somewhere near Waywold.
     And the daughter,
    Tanabrid, was quite
   satisfied to marry and
 settle down in Kredindale.
   After that there were
        marryings and
  intermarryings, the way
 there are, and Kredindale
  gets related to half the
 earls of the North. What
  I'm saying, Mitt, is the
claim's rubbish. Her cousin
Kintor has a better claim,
and so has my Countess or
  that soft-faced boy in
       Dropwater.'
        Mitt felt a bit
   light-headed. The last
thing he had expected was
for Alk to sit there talking
  family trees at him. He
could only suppose that Alk
   was trying to make him
feel foolish and give up the
  whole idea. So probably
 the Countess had not told
 him about Hildy and Ynen.
         'Yes, but—'
   'You're going to say she
  says her father was the
One,' Alk interrupted. Mitt
 had not been, but he held
   his tongue. 'Now there
   we're into the difficult
  part.' Alk leaned back in
    his chair. It creaked
 horribly. 'Even King Hern
only claimed the One as his
    grandfather—which is
 probably just what we say
 when we call the One our
 Grand Father.' Alk tipped
  his face round to look at
Mitt, across what had been
  a beautifully ruffled lawn
   collar but was now dirty
   laundry. 'I've seen the
  One,' he said, to Mitt's
  surprise. 'Several times.
Not a thing I talk about to
everyone. You'd know why,
if it ever happened to you.
 And—well—it's like coming
    into a shadow all of a
    sudden, or the shadow
 coming into you. A bit like
 this.' Alk's hand went out
 and downwards across the
 narrow slit he had left in
     the shutter of the
    dark-lantern. A huge
   hand-shaped darkness
swept across the floor, and
Mitt and the wall of books
   beyond. Mitt shivered.
   'See?' said Alk. 'He's
there, but not solid—but I
    could be wrong. And
   Noreth's mother's not
alive to tell me I'm wrong,
          is she?'
  When Earl Keril had said
 something like this, Mitt
 had not felt it mattered.
  Coming from Alk, it did.
'But the One talks to her,'
  he protested. 'I think I
 heard him. And it scares
           her.'
  'I don't doubt you,' said
   Alk. 'That's the most
    difficult part of the
 difficult part. If the One
 has an interest in all this,
  us mortal folk had best
tread very wary. You don't
 cross the One. I wish my
  Countess would see that.
   But that Keril's one of
 your new, reasonable folk
 and the Undying are just
out-of-date beliefs to him.
And she listens to him.' He
 leant his massive arms on
    top of the books and
      pondered glumly.
   After a moment, Mitt
said, 'Were you expecting
 me—to come back here?'
    His voice was still
    annoyingly hoarse.
  'After a fashion. It was
  one of the options,' Alk
replied. 'I was here on the
 off-chance you'd take the
 option of going along with
this Noreth and helping her
 claim. I knew I was right
   when that nag of yours
started sounding off in the
   meadows. Woke me up.
  Probably woke the dead
    too. She's after the
  Adon's gifts, isn't she?'
  Mitt's heart sank. He
felt himself sag slightly.
  Alk noticed. He never
missed much. 'I thought
so. She knows, and you
know, she's got no real
claim. You were going to
  pinch this ring here,
      weren't you?'
   Mitt managed a small
     throaty 'Yup'.
 'And I thought you never
believed it answers to the
 right blood!' Alk smiled
 slightly, his face all slabs
  of shadow and curves of
 light. He shook his head.
   'I wish I knew how the
  man who made it did it.
I've tried all ways to catch
    it changing size, but I
never can pin it down. And
 my Countess can put it on
  any finger and both her
thumbs, and it'll fit her. I
 made Gregin try it and it
  fell off him. So I've no
   doubt it would fit your
 Noreth whatever size her
        hands are.'
  'Small.' Mitt's eyes went
longingly to the glass case,
  where the ring picked up
gleams of light underneath
 the lighted pane of glass,
 as if it were under water.
  It looked as always very
  big, nearly big enough to
  fit one of Alk's massive
 fingers. If it did not fall
   straight off Noreth, it
would be a miracle indeed.
 'But it's a stupid way to
   get out of a mess,' Alk
said. 'And I know you're in
  a mess, Mitt. Take this
 ring, or put a foot wrong
   any other way, and my
 Countess will have you—or
   Keril will. My sense is,
they don't mean you to live
  too long. Or maybe they
mean you to spend the rest
of your days as their hired
   murderer. My Countess
  wouldn't admit to one or
the other, but it has to be
             that.'
    Mitt nodded. He had
 worked this out too. He
    tried to imagine Alk
 twisting the information
 out of the Countess, and
he just could not see it. It
 was like imagining one of
   Alk's engines running
   straight up a house.
   'And the only way you
can keep out of that,' Alk
   continued, 'is to stay
 completely lawful and not
 give them a handhold. If
 you do that, I'm on your
 side. Will you promise me
you won't murder or steal,
   or anything like that?'
 Alk didn't understand. It
 was clearer than ever to
Mitt that the Countess had
 not told Alk about Hildy
and Ynen. 'What else can
I do?' Mitt said, trying to
       talk round it.
    'Uh-uh,' said Alk.
    'Promise, I said.'
   'I'd rather not,' Mitt
  said. 'Something might
         come up.'
 'Fish feathers,' said Alk.
 'I put it to you, you've
 done nothing outside the
law yet. You went off to
visit Navis Haddsson. You
came back to have a chat
          to me.'
     'I came to pinch that
 ring,' Mitt said, looking at
it gleaming below the glass.
   'But only I know that,
 and you're not going to,'
   Alk said. 'Whatever
threats they made to you,
 I'll stand by you if you
  give me that promise.'
     Whatever threats?
Perhaps Alk did know about
 Hildy and Ynen then. Mitt
looked searchingly at Alk's
big shadowy face. It gave
 nothing away. 'What can
 you do against Keril?' he
           said.
  'Hold him to the law,'
 said Alk. 'I don't know!
Everyone round here seems
 to have forgotten I used
to be a lawman once upon a
  time! And the law's the
  same whether you're an
 earl or a fisherman. Are
 you going to give me that
         promise?'
  'I—' Mitt was not sure
       he dared.
   'I'll make it easier for
you,' said Alk. 'You didn't
  come here to steal that
ring. You came here to ask
    me to give it you.'
  'What?' It was odd how
the library seemed to be a
 brighter, warmer, freer
place all of a sudden. 'You
  couldn't do that,' Mitt
 said, trying not to laugh.
      'She'd notice.'
    'I made a copy,' Alk
 said, 'trying to get it to
change size the same way.
And I couldn't do it. It's
  just a ring. But it looks
 just the same. Now what
        d'you say?'
   'I promise,' Mitt said.
 'You won't know me, I'll
       be so lawful.'
  'That'll be the day!' said
   Alk. Smiling a little, he
   fetched out a small key
that was marking a place in
  another of his books and
    stood up to move the
lantern and unlock the glass
 case. The dim light swept
  around the room and his
  vast shadow blotted half
the library into darkness.
 'Remember,' Alk said as
 he turned the key, 'that
the One has an interest in
     this, and don't go
 forgetting you promised.'
  Mitt looked at that vast
shadow and shivered. 'I'll
     bear it in mind.'
  Alk lifted the glass lid,
fetched out the ring and
 held it where the light
  from the lantern was
strongest. It was a plain
 heavy ring, made of gold,
 and its only ornament was
 the big seal carved out of
some kind of red stone into
the haggard-looking profile
  of the Adon. Alk's huge
  deft fingers twiddled it.
 'Safest way to carry it is
 to wear it,' he said. 'Put
      your hand out.'
  Mitt spread his long bony
 hands into the light. Alk
  tried to slip the ring on
 the ring-finger of Mitt's
right hand. It stuck at the
  knuckle. 'I got big lumps
  there on all my fingers,'
         Mitt said.
 'You put it on then,' said
           Alk.
  Mitt took the heavy ring,
  and still barely able to
believe Alk was letting him
have it, tried it on finger
after finger. Each time it
 slid only as far as Mitt's
  first knuckle. The only
  finger it would fit, and
 only with a struggle, was
the little finger of his left
            hand.
   'Well, at least it won't
  fall off,' Alk said. 'Off
you go then, and give it to
  your Noreth. And if she
 wants you to do anything
 else unlawful, you say no.
Understand? And I'll back
           you up.'
  'Thanks,' Mitt said. It
   was truly heartfelt.
 He was not any too clear
about much of the journey
 back. He scrambled back
  round the mansion wall.
 That took concentration,
because it meant balancing
  on the edge of the cliff
above the sea. After that
 some kind of reaction hit
   him. Things came and
   went. He remembered
      getting on to the
Countess-horse, because it
tried to bite him as usual,
 and—dimly—going up the
  rake to the green road,
  because that took all the
 concentration he had left.
  But as soon as the horse
     was on the road to
   Orilsway and there was
  nowhere else it could go,
Mitt was probably asleep in
 the saddle. He thought he
 dreamt that Alk had given
   him the Adon's ring. It
   had to be a dream, he
decided, waking up about a
   hundred yards from the
 camp, because it was just
not probable that Alk would
do a thing like that. Why
   had he woken up? He
    thought it was the
Countess-horse, which had
gone from a stumbling plod
  to a much more eager
pace. No, it seemed to be
  because something was
 wrong with his left hand.
      Wrong! That was an
understatement. He felt as
if his little finger had been
   clamped in one of Alk's
  vices. And someone was
    still twisting the vice.
Throb, throb, throb. Mitt
     could feel his finger
  swelling. He dropped the
reins and wrenched at the
 ring. It would not budge.
  Flaming Ammet! He could
 have pulled his finger off
   sooner than moved that
     ring! He had to have
light—help— something! He
 shot down from the horse
and rushed towards where
 he thought the camp was.
   Maewen sprang up. She
  had been half-listening,
  not really asleep, hoping
 she had not got Mitt into
trouble with this Countess
   of his. She heard mad
    blundering footsteps,
   followed by a cracking
  voice swearing and then
demanding, 'Where is this
flaming camp, then? They
 can't of all gone off and
  left me!' Maewen ran in
 that direction. And there
was Mitt, a demented leggy
 figure in the near-dark,
    racing towards the
  southernmost waystone
  apparently wringing his
           hands.
   'What's the matter?'
  Mitt rushed up to Maewen
and towered over her, still
pulling at his finger. 'I got
 you the ring. The flaming
thing's stuck on my finger!
 I think I'm in it for life!'
  Maewen seized the hand
  he flapped in her face.
 She could feel the ring, a
tiny metal waist in a finger
 that seemed as large and
    hot as a fresh-cooked
sausage. 'Oh my lord!' She
   tugged. Mitt yelped. It
   was most well and truly
stuck. 'Don't you know any
  better than to put on a
  ring that's too small for
            you?'
  'How should I know? I
 never wore a ring in my
          life!'
   'Well, you should have
 thought] People were small
in the old days!' But this is
   the old days. He's not
    small. Never mind.
  They bent over Mitt's
hand, both of them in the
same panic. 'I'm stuck in
this thing for ever!' Mitt
         squalled.
 'Lick it. See what lots of
 spit does,' said Maewen.
'Or soap.' There had been
  no soap in her baggage
 roll. But surely soap was
invented by this time? No
  one struck her as that
 dirty. 'Or—water—water
   might cool your finger
           down.'
  'I've got some soap,'
 Moril said from beside
them. 'Shall I fetch it?'
 'Yes, and a light, too,'
     said Maewen.
 Moril dashed away. Mitt
put his hand to his mouth
   and slobbered on it
  mightily. Maewen helped
him spread the spit up and
  down the swollen finger.
    Then she pulled. Mitt
  pulled. Neither of them
  had budged the ring one
 fraction by the time Moril
   dashed up again with a
piece of soap and a lighted
 lantern from the cart. By
the light, Moril looked both
     awed and scornful.
 'That's the Adon's ring?'
         he said.
  'Yup,' said Mitt, soaping
        for his life.
  'It only fits people with
royal blood,' Moril pointed
            out.
      'I know that!' Mitt
snarled. 'I only wore it not
 to lose it, you stupid little
             — !'
   'Cool it, cool it,' Navis
    said, arriving with a
  slopping leather bucket.
 'Oh no!' said Mitt. 'Keep
 him away from me! He'll
   try to boil it off or
       something!'
  'It's only cold water,'
Navis said. 'Put your hand
          in it.'
  'Yes, that should take
the swelling down,' Wend
agreed, coming yawning up
      beside Navis.
 Mitt plunged his hand in
the bucket. Took it out,
soaped it, hauled on the
ring, sighed, and put his
hand in the water again.
   He did this four more
   times. 'I'll bring this
 water to the boil, at this
rate,' he grumbled. As he
plunged his hand in for the
   sixth time, Hestefan
 arrived, yawning, rubbing
 his beard and wanting to
  know what the fuss was
about. By this time, it was
 plain to Maewen that she
  could not have kept the
 theft of the ring secret,
 as she had meant to, any
   more than if she had
shouted it from the top of
  the nearest mountain.
As Mitt took his hand out
  of the bucket for the
seventh time, Wend said
wearily, 'Here. Let me.'
 He seized Mitt's bony
wrist in one hand and the
ring with the other. And
         dragged.
 'Yow!' said Mitt. 'Leave
     me my hand!'
  But the ring was off.
Everyone was silent while
  Wend held it under the
 lantern light, where they
could all see the red stone
 flash, and then passed it
        to Maewen.
   She felt sweat popping
  out among her freckles.
'This is the Adon's ring,'
 she said, making a clean
 breast of it, 'that Mitt
 very kindly—er—obtained
for me. I intend to collect
    all the Adon's gifts.
 Tomorrow we're going to
        Gardale.'
  'How convenient,' Navis
  murmured to Mitt. But
Mitt was watching Maewen
 across the finger he was
  sucking. They were all
         watching.
   Maewen realised there
   was no way she could
  distract them. She was
 going to have to put this
  ring on, now, under the
light, and it was not going
to fit. It was huge. Mitt's
fingers might look long and
   bony, but each of them
   would have made two of
   hers. If Dad was right,
she told herself, Mum does
 go back to Amil the Great
  somewhere. But she was
 afraid that drop of royal
     blood had got very
 watered-down by the time
it came to her. She took a
 deep breath—and an even
   deeper risk—and slipped
  the wide gold band round
her right thumb, this being
the only place it had even
a chance of fitting. And it
 fitted. Everyone sighed.
      'I'll see to your
 loathsome horse,' Navis
  said to Mitt. 'You get
       some sleep.'
            X
 It took some days to get
to Gardale, even straight
through the heart of the
 mountains. Long before
they got there, everyone
except Mitt was heartily
  sick of pickled cherries.
  Mitt was simply sick with
         himself. The
 Countess-horse was tired
  and subdued and he rode
     slackly at the rear,
 watching clouds come down
and stream like grey scarfs
 below spiky black mountain
   peaks, and then seeing
   those mountains wheel
aside to show more and yet
  more ranged behind, and
clouds stream against those
 mountains too. It seemed
as if the green road was
 gradually rising to take
them through the central
  heights of the North.
  Mitt supposed it was all
very beautiful and grand,
though it was not what he
   was used to. It was
harsher than the sea and
even more obviously cruel.
  And empty. One of the
times they stopped, Navis
 remarked that they had
 not met another soul on
 the way. 'Everyone is at
     home celebrating
Midsummer, I imagine,' he
 said. 'It makes this the
best time to travel and not
        be found.'
     Mitt simply grunted,
'Good.' His mind would not
   seem to let go of that
  promise he had made to
  Alk. In a way, it was a
 weight off his mind. That
worried him. It seemed so
feeble to shelter behind a
 promise. Smug. Now I can
do no wrong, you said, and
ended up doing nothing, like
   a total failure. At the
same time he had a gloomy
  feeling that the promise
clamped him round as tight
 as that ring had, and that
 meant doing nothing, too,
and total failure that way.
  It was worse than Keril
     and the Countess.
 Maewen kept rubbing the
 red stone of the ring on
   her thumb. It became
  quite a habit. The voice
  had told her to get this
  ring and she had got it.
  Somehow that made her
 uneasy. She had the same
fizzing, doing-wrong feeling
  about it that Wend had
 given her in the train and
   in the palace. Without
   exactly admitting it to
  herself, she was careful
      never to be alone
  somewhere where one of
 the others could not hear.
   She suspected, again
without admitting it, that
the voice would only speak
 to her when she was on
her own. And that was all
  mixed up with a nasty
 suspicion that the voice
was part of her own mind,
 perhaps something to do
 with being sent back in
  time. It was bound to
make your mind play tricks
          on you.
  She would have liked to
talk to Mitt or Moril about
   it. But Mitt either rode
 glumly on his own, or else
 he made the kind of jokes
that meant he did not feel
 like talking, and Moril was
    usually inside the cart
playing scales and pieces of
       tunes on different
  instruments. When Moril
did emerge, it was to drive
   the cart while Hestefan
   sat with his legs hanging
       over the tailgate,
      practising different
   instruments too. Their
  small procession went to
 shards and trills of music
 most of the time, higher
and higher into the central
  peaks. The clouds came
damply about them. It was
   never easy to sleep at
           night.
    Maewen stayed with
Navis. She liked Navis. He
   was so efficient and
    imperturbable. It
fascinated her the way he
 never let an evening go by
without polishing his mare's
tack and his own boots. In
  the mornings he brushed
his hair and his clothes and
then, unfailingly, he shaved
   in whatever water was
going, usually icy cold from
a mountain stream. And he
   was so sharp, too. One
 morning Navis cut himself
shaving. He exclaimed with
   annoyance and tried to
     keep the blood from
  running into the collar of
his shirt. Wend, without a
word, produced a clump of
cobwebs from somewhere.
 Navis said, 'I thank you,'
   gratefully. But, as he
pressed the cobwebs to his
chin, Maewen saw his eyes
go narrow and turn for just
    an instant to Wend's
  smooth chin. After that
Navis's countenance was as
   bland and composed as
ever, but Maewen knew he
 was wondering why Wend,
a grown man, never seemed
 to shave or grow a beard
          either.
    It interested Maewen
too. Maybe this was a sign
 of the Undying. But she
 did not like Wend enough
         to ask him.
   From that day on, the
 green road was up in the
  clouds. Everything was
 moist and white. As Mitt
rode in the rear, everyone
ahead had turned into quiet
 grey shadows. A dewdrop
   gathered on his nose.
  'I hate this!' he told the
Countess-horse. It was the
 sort of remark he knew it
     would agree with.
  Moril hopped out of the
  cart and walked beside
 Maewen's horse. She did
  not blame him. It was
warmer walking, and no one
was going fast in this fog.
     After a while, she
  dismounted herself and
 they walked side by side,
 talking, leading her horse.
 Maewen was surprised and
  glad at how ready Moril
  was to talk. He told her
    how it felt to lead a
 Singer's life, and the new
way he wanted to treat the
  old songs, and about his
 plans for the future. She
encouraged him. Ever since
she had seen that portrait,
    she had had an ache
  somewhere about Moril.
  And without putting it to
herself that she was once
   again trying to change
history, she wanted badly
 to comfort him. It would
  be wonderful if she got
  back to the Tannoreth
  Palace to find that the
portrait smiled, instead of
     looking wretched.
    Coming behind, Mitt
honestly tried not to hear
   what was obviously a
 private conversation. He
 wondered about pushing
  past and riding on ahead
   where he could see the
  sketchy grey bulk of the
cart, but the road was in a
  narrow ravine here, with
  wet black rocks close on
  either side, and it would
have meant forcing his way
through beside Moril or the
 horse, which would remind
 both of them that he was
   there, overhearing. He
could see Moril's pale face
 turned eagerly to Noreth,
  as he told her about the
   dangers in the South,
 where Singers were often
called upon to carry illegal
messages. Noreth certainly
 had a way with her, Mitt
thought ruefully. She drew
me out the same way. Now
 Moril was telling her how
  he had come North last
 year after his father had
        been killed.
    Moril's voice cracked a
little. Mitt reined back the
  Countess-horse and tried
  to keep well behind. He
  knew that if he were to
    tell Noreth about his
  father he would want no
  one listening in. But the
   horse had a long rangy
stride and he kept catching
up. He was up close behind
again in time to hear Moril
  explaining that Hestefan
 was no relation. 'He came
   to Hannart while I was
 there,' Moril said. 'And I
 asked him to take me with
him. We went off secretly
 because I knew Earl Keril
   wanted me to stay.'
   Keril's name was enough
  to send Mitt backwards
     again. This time he
dismounted and walked too.
 It was warmer that way,
as well as slower. He tried
 to keep the three shapes
ahead looking like pale grey
  shadows, out of hearing
  and almost out of sight.
 But Mitt's stride was as
   long and rangy as the
  Countess-horse's and,
 somehow, before long he
was able to overhear again.
     'I told Hestefan I'd
follow you on my own if he
didn't want to come,' Moril
  was saying. 'But he said
 he'd better come because
 great events afoot need a
Singer to record them. I'm
 sorry he's so neutral. I'm
  not. I think it's like the
  time Osfameron followed
   the Adon. Did you know
   Osfameron was my
ancestor? My big cwidder
    used to be his.'
    Something about this
  seemed to make Noreth
modest and uncomfortable.
 Mitt could hear her trying
 to change the subject. He
   waited for them to get
   ahead again. The mist
seemed to be thicker here,
perhaps because the ravine
  had widened. They were
going past a chain of dimly
 seen lakes, each one like
 faintly rippled milk under
 the fog. Mitt thought he
kept well behind while they
   passed three of these
  lakes, but he must have
caught up again gradually,
   because he was able to
  hear Moril's voice then,
 evidently in the middle of
    something upsetting.
 Noreth's answer floated
 back clearly. 'But Navis
  couldn't possibly have
known about Olob when he
    shot Dapple. Be
   reasonable, Moril.'
'I know,' Moril answered.
   'I didn't say it was
reasonable. Anyway, he's
 Earl Hadd's son, and I
   hate him for that.'
   'He couldn't help being
    born,' Maewen said
   patiently. 'And Mitt's
definitely not a noble, and
he didn't shoot your horse.
 You can't just lump him in
   with Navis like that.'
  'Can't I just!' Moril said.
  'I hate all Southerners.'
For a while neither of them
  said anything else. Mitt,
  walking on the soft grass
    beside the milky lake,
 thought they had gone out
   of hearing again. Then
   Moril said, 'I'll tell you
  why I really dislike Mitt.
   He makes jokes all the
     time - about serious
           things.'
  I do not so! Mitt thought
indignantly. It occurred to
 him that, though Noreth
  might have forgotten he
 was there, Moril probably
    knew perfectly well.
 'A lot of Southerners do
 that,' Maewen said. 'It
doesn't mean they aren't
         serious.'
  'Mitt's never serious,'
Moril said contemptuously.
'Look at the way he joked
   when he was bearing
  witness about the One's
  statue. That made me so
  angry I broke my rule—I
  told you how I swore not
   to use the power of my
  cwidder. Well, I knew it
    was serious that you'd
   been given a sign to set
out on the King's Road. So
when you told everyone to
   follow you, I started to
    play the song with the
power, to show people that
 it was important and they
shouldn't follow you unless
  they really meant it.'
  Noreth, Mitt noticed, did
not point out that the song
seemed to have misfired a
little. She said, 'That was
   nice of you.' And Mitt
 wondered if perhaps Moril
  did not know he was just
   behind them after all.
  'You should watch Mitt,'
Moril said. 'He's trying to
suck up to you, the way all
 Southerners do. But he's
 shifty, too. He may even
have been sent North as a
          spy.'
 Right! Mitt thought. That
does it! Moril knew he was
there. He had no doubt of
          it now.
    Maewen said, 'Now
 you're being ridiculous,
 Moril. I shan't listen to
you if you're going to talk
        like that.'
  Mitt thought it was nice
of her, but he was not in
the least mollified. As the
   mist began to thin to a
  moist yellow, and Navis
  shouted back that there
 was a good place to stop
    for a nuncheon, Mitt
   thought, If that little
sneak says one more thing!
         He towed the
Countess-horse out of the
 mist to find everyone else
     sitting on wet rocks
  unpacking bread, cheese
and pickled cherries. Here,
 the ravine with the lakes
 had opened into what was
   almost a meadow. The
 horses moved about in it
 trying to crop the grass,
    half hidden in golden
  shifting mist that might
  have been the top of a
            cloud.
    The bread was stale.
 Everyone ate quickly and
packed up again. 'We're at
the highest point the green
roads go, lady,' Wend told
Maewen. 'From now on it is
  down towards Gardale.'
    'Oh good,' she said.
 'Real food. If I eat one
   more pickled cherry I
  might scream. Or does
anyone know a way to cook
 them to make a change?'
   'I might have a notion,'
  Mitt said. 'On a skewer,
like, with cheese and a bit
       of that bacon.'
    They were all moving
about, getting ready to go
 on. Moril gave Maewen a
 meaning look as he went
  towards the cart. 'See
 what I mean? Sucking up
         to you.'
   Mitt went after Moril
with giant strides, roaring,
 'You take that back, you
     little slime-bag!'
     Moril turned round
   against the tail of the
cart. He was prepared. He
 was holding his cwidder in
 front of him like a shield.
    'What should I take
   back?' he said coolly.
'Didn't someone order you
    to suck up to her?'
  There was enough shrewd
 truth in this to make Mitt
 even angrier. The cwidder
     made a poor, fragile
     shield, but a year in
  Aberath had taught Mitt
the value of a beautiful old
  instrument like that. He
knew it was less of a sin to
 break Moril instead. 'You
   little coward!' he said,
 grabbing for Moril's arm.
     Moril swung aside and
  tried to pluck a chord on
 the cwidder. Mitt's hand,
lashing out in what was now
   the wrong direction, hit
    the strings as Moril's
 fingers plucked them. The
 cwidder boomed. It was a
mighty chord and it seemed
  to boom on and on. Mitt
     felt the hairs on his
   outstretched arm stand
upright. What Moril felt he
  had no idea, but he felt
 something strongly. There
   was shock all over his
white face. To Mitt it was
as if he had just punched a
   cwidder made of solid
          granite.
  Then they were both in
 rushing cold water up to
      the shoulders.
  The other four travellers
scrambled for the panicking
 animals. Wend seized the
 mule's bridle on the other
  side from Hestefan and
 together they hauled mule
    and cart through the
rushing shallows and out on
to the strip of turf beside
    the rocks. The three
horses were all further in.
   Maewen was soaked all
    over as Mitt's horse
  floundered past her and
  galloped away down the
 bank, but she managed to
  catch her own before it
followed Mitt's. Navis was
 just beyond her, soothing
his mare while he dragged
 her through rolling stones
    and racing current.
Maewen and he made it to
    the cliffside almost
   together, where they
turned, both dripping, and
stared at a sudden mighty
river where there had only
    been grass before.
  The river was a good half
mile wide, and one of those
 tricky, spiteful stretches
 of water, full of upreared
      rocks and vicious
back-eddies, flowing with a
force that made it hard to
stand up in. Mitt and Moril
 were a long way out in it,
  much further away that
    Maewen had expected,
   staggering this way and
   that and, as far as she
 could see, still screaming
  insults at one another in
spite of it. At the moment
when she looked, they were
    submerged to Moril's
shoulders and Mitt's chest.
 Moril had his cwidder held
high in both hands. He was
 raising a bubbling wave of
water under his chin as he
   pushed and surged, and
 almost fell sideways into a
  hidden pothole, trying to
     make his way to the
nearest big rock. She could
  hear Mitt's voice faintly
    through the incredible
noise of the water, roaring
          at Moril.
  'Stop them, somebody!'
        she said.
  Mitt surged after Moril,
    grabbing angrily. The
 result was that Mitt went
   sideways into the same
hidden pothole and vanished
  underwater. He emerged
   almost at once, flailing
sheets of spray and yelling
         with rage.
     'A bit hard to do
anything from here,' Navis
         observed.
    Moril made it to the
 rock. He put the cwidder
  carefully down on a dry
 space and, scrabbling and
  hauling, managed to drag
himself on to the rock too,
 brown and skinny with wet
 as a drowned weasel. Mitt
 was still in the water with
 a white wave frilling round
his neck. Moril knelt on the
   rock and called down at
        him derisively.
    'If you want to stop
   this,' Hestefan said,
  coming up beside Navis,
'someone must go and take
 that cwidder away. It's a
thing of great power. Moril
  ought not to be trusted
      with the thing.'
   Navis shrugged. 'Really?
     I should never have
 guessed. And how do you
   suggest we remove the
   cwidder? But while you
   consider that problem,
        please do not
underestimate Mitt. I have
  reason to believe he can
 call on power of his own.'
   Maewen thought both of
  them were being utterly
  unfeeling. She looked at
 Wend for help. Wend was
     pale, subdued and
awe-stricken. 'It's not for
   any of us to interfere,
lady,' he said. 'They have
put themselves in the hands
    of the One himself.'
  'O—oh—!' Maewen said,
      'Fiddlestick!'
  She looked helplessly out
   at that distant rock.
  Out there, up to the neck
 in racing river, Mitt said,
  'What do you mean—look
what I made you do? Of all
the feeble, wingeing things
  to say! It's your flaming
   cwidder that did this!'
    To his surprise, Moril
seemed quite ashamed. But
  his white face remained
mulishly set. 'I meant the
 rest of it,' he said. 'You
try to get on this rock and
      I'll kick you off!'
     'And a fat lot of good
  it's going to do us, each
   squatting on a different
  rock!' Mitt bawled up at
    him. 'We got into this
 river together. It stands
to reason it's going to take
   both of us to get out.'
  Moril looked from bank to
  bank of the improbable
  river. Mitt had already
looked. He knew water. He
 had been brought up with
  it, both fresh and salt,
       and it was kind of
   instinctive with him. He
hoped what Moril saw would
  bring him to his senses.
Wisps of fog hung over the
  shrilling water, making it
hard to see far, but it was
     possible to pick out a
 sheer, dark cliff on either
side. Trees clung to niches
    in the cliffs here and
there, so high that at first
    glance they looked like
  bushes. And those were
 the only other living things
in sight. There was no sign
  of Navis, Hestefan and
 Wend, nor of the horses
    and the mule. As he
  discovered this, Moril's
    face unbunched into
      wide-eyed alarm.
   Good, Mitt thought. His
  teeth were beginning to
   chatter and this river
scared him badly. He knew
 it. He had seen it before
  while he sat with Noreth
   by the waystone above
 Adenmouth. This one had
 the same smell, the same
  feel to it, and the thing
which scared him most was
   that it did not seem to
exist. 'Listen,' Mitt called
 up to Moril, 'I'll give you
my life-history if it makes
  you feel better. I know
you hate us Southerners—I
   heard what you said to
  Noreth—but I swear to
 Ammet you got no reason
         to hate me!'
  Moril went on hands and
knees and leaned down to
look at him. Mitt actually
 had hopes that Moril was
going to help him scramble
up, until Moril said, 'Yes,
 I knew you'd listen in. I
was trying to annoy you.'
      Mitt roared with
   frustration. 'Flaming
Ammet! What's wrong with
 you? I think your mind's
mixed up! You behave like
 the whole world's out to
        get you!'
   That got home to Moril.
He was pinched and staring
  and hurt for the time it
 took to draw breath, but
 then he went calm again.
 'And you're jealous,' he
said. 'I meant you to be.'
     Jealous? The word
 seemed to take all the
heat out of Mitt's body.
 He felt as cold as the
water rushing round him.
An instant later, the heat
  came back, tenfold. He
could feel his face burning
  above the frill of water
   round his chin. He was
 surprised the frill didn't
 start to steam. He tried
   to tell himself that he
hadn't a clue why one word
should affect him like this,
but if one of his own words
    could affect Moril as
  badly, why not? Moril's
  mind was mixed up. And
 Mitt had a thousand clues
  about his own condition:
   Rith's cheerful freckly
 face and man-to-man way
     of talking, and then
 Noreth, the young lady in
 the fashionable dress who
 was so nervous about what
  she had to do, and then
the girl trying to hold them
  all together on the road.
   As soon as he picked up
these clues, Mitt could look
up into Moril's pinched and
greenish face and see that
some part of the mix-up in
 Moril's mind was the same
thing. The same clues were
there. They had both been
  unhappy. They had both
 fallen at the same young
  lady's feet. Both of us!
Mitt thought bitterly. How
       flaming stupid!
  'All right!' he shouted up
at Moril. 'So I am jealous!
So are you! Calf love, they
 call it. And it's not going
    to get either of us
          anywhere!'
   A surge of pink swept
  across Moril's face. He
  blinked. 'I—wasn't only
angry about that,' he said.
   'Neither was I!' Mitt
  shouted back. 'Let me
 come up and let's have it
      out, shall we?'
  To Mitt's extreme relief,
  Moril at last held out a
 thin wet hand to help him
up. Gripping it, Mitt hauled
 himself upwards, skidding
 and slipping and clawing at
  the rock with his other
  hand. His boots weighed
 like lead, and the sodden
    leather of his clothes
 seemed to have the whole
   river in them. As Mitt
floundered on to the top of
 the boulder, dripping and
  panting, Moril hurriedly
  crouched in front of his
           cwidder.
     'Don't get it wet!'
 That made sense. If the
 cwidder was spoilt they
would be in this for good.
 Mitt stood at the edge of
the rock and let the water
    course and sluice and
trickle off him where it did
no harm. He was freezing,
 but to his surprise the air
  was warm. He could see
 himself beginning to steam
   as he said, 'Well then.
     What's biting you?'
  Moril bent his head and
fiddled with some pebbles
 lodged in a crack of the
boulder. 'I—It's not that
 I think the whole world's
out to get me. I know the
whole South is. I—killed an
   awful lot of them last
           year.'
     'What? With that
   cwidder?' said Mitt.
 Moril nodded. 'When they
tried to invade the North.
 It can move mountains. I
     closed Flennpass.'
 'You did Noreth a favour
  then,' Mitt said. 'In
advance, like. They can't
get at her till she's ready,
and from what I heard she
can come down at them on
the sheep tracks whenever
        she wants.'
 He looked down at Moril's
   head, wet and brown,
feeling almost sympathetic
until Moril said, 'You don't
 understand. I don't dare
go near Dropwater—it's so
 full of Southerners—and
I've no proof that you and
Navis haven't been sent to
 kill me. Almost the only
   person I can trust is
        Hestefan.'
  'Get away!' said Mitt. 'I
heard you tell Noreth what
 friends you are with Earl
 Keril. That's what got me
           mad.'
   'Yes, but he treats me
 like—like a child,' Moril
    said. 'And I'd done
   something so—awful I
  needed to go away and
 work it out for myself.'
  'Just as long as you don't
   have your work-out on
 me,' Mitt said. 'You don't
look much of a child to me,
  if that's any comfort to
   you. How old are you?'
  'I shan't be thirteen for
another month,' Moril said
 regretfully. 'How old are
           you?'
  'Fifteen come Harvest,'
         said Mitt.
 'I thought you were more
  than that,' Moril said,
marvelling. 'You come from
 a slum somewhere, don't
   you? You've got that
old-and-young look they all
have in Holand and places.
But I thought you were at
     least as old as my
          brother.'
  'Comes of earning a living
 as soon as you can walk,'
Mitt answered. 'But then I
reckon that applies to both
          of us.'
  From there, it was the
most natural step for Mitt
to sit down on the edge of
  the boulder and swing his
    soggy boots above the
  streaming water while he
 told Moril about his life in
   Holand and his journey
North, and then about the
  Countess and Keril. Moril
   frowned at this. 'I like
Keril,' he said, dubious and
thoughtful. 'Could he be up
     to something deep?'
    'No,' said Mitt. 'No
  deeper than he wants
 Noreth out of the way
before she can get to be
         queen.'
  Moril's face came alight,
  the way it had when he
  talked to Noreth in the
 fog. 'She must be queen!
  It's like the old stories,
like Enblith and Tanamoril.
I want to help her. I know
   the old things are still
            true.'
  'Well, well,' said Mitt.
  'You make me feel old.
  Here was I going to say
  that the country needs
 bringing together because
  the North is poor as an
    empty barrel full of
mice—let's face it—and the
 South is rich—or it would
  be if those earls didn't
 take it all. Noreth wants
   to do that, so I'm for
     her. Very dull and
          political.'
   Moril laughed. 'So you
ride off in the night, like
an old story, to steal her
    the Adon's ring.'
  'As to that,' Mitt said,
knowing his face had gone
 hot, 'it proved I wasn't
 going to stick a knife in
     her, didn't it?'
  'That made me jealous,'
 Moril said frankly. 'You
must let me steal her the
cup. Anyway, I'm dull and
political too. She said she
thought the Singers ought
to be paid by the queen to
stay in one place and make
better music than they can
 going round in a cart. A
royal academy, she said. I
      like that idea.'
   'She's got good ideas,'
   Mitt agreed. 'I really
 loved the way she settled
those miners. All right. So
  we're both on the same
side. Are you feeling happy
  enough about it to think
   how we get out of this
          river?'
            XI
  MORIL PICKED UP HIS
CWIDDER, CAREFULLY SO
       AS NOT
  to wet it on his clothes.
'Can you read what it says
   on the front of it?'
   There were swirls and
   dots there, made of
mother-of-pearl, inlaid on
either side of the strings.
 Mitt recognised it as the
 old writing, but that was
all. 'Not me,' he said. 'It
  takes me all my time to
   read the usual stuff.'
  'I can't read it either,'
  Moril confessed. 'But I
was told that one bit says
         "I sing for
Osfameron"—and that's my
     name, along with
 Tanamoril—and this other
 bit says "I move in more
     than one world".'
 'What's this?' said Mitt.
    'You mean we're in
      another world!'
   'I—don't know,' Moril
admitted. 'You always have
 to tell the truth with the
 cwidder. It works on how
  you think when you play
             it.'
  'Then let's get at what
 we were both thinking,'
Mitt suggested. He looked
at the water boiling round
the front of the boulder.
'You were thinking I want
 this Southerner drowned
    deep. That right?'
 Moril ducked his wet head
uncomfortably. 'Not quite.
 At least, I was probably
  meaning the sea. I was
     thinking "Let this
Southerner go back where
he came from" and I knew
    you came by sea—'
  'How?' Mitt demanded.
  'I heard about you in
Lavreth last spring,' said
Moril. 'It's all round the
 North that a Southerner
 came north by the wind's
   road with the Undying
before and behind to guard
 him. Singers call the sea
the wind's road in a lot of
      the old songs.'
 'I never knew that!' Mitt
said. 'And it's true, too,
        in a way!'
     'They told me in
Adenmouth that you were
the one,' Moril told him,
  'and I didn't like you
 because I could see you
had something bad on your
         mind.'
     Mitt shivered. He was
 beginning to feel awed by
Moril's perceptiveness—not
  to speak of that cwidder
of his. A dangerous enemy,
 Moril, if they hadn't both
 chanced to get themselves
  into this mess together.
    'Stuck out like a sore
   thumb, did it?' he said
 ruefully. 'You'd think I'd
do better than that after
   a lifetime of guilty
secrets. All right. So you
 wanted me back at sea.'
  'And you hit the strings
 too and we were both in
this river. What were you
  thinking?' Moril asked.
 Mitt stood up and scowled
at ribbons of foam tearing
   backwards from the
 nearest jagged rock. He
  was fairly sure that he
  would not have been so
blindly furious with Moril if
he had not been feeling so
   trapped himself. Then
Moril had brought it all to
 a head by asking, 'Didn't
someone order you to suck
    up to her?' That had
 brought two pictures into
  Mitt's mind. One was of
    the Countess, sitting
    upright in her chair,
 making it clear that Mitt
    had to do what Keril
 wanted. The other was of
  Alk, bulging out of that
selfsame chair, turning the
whole thing round with that
 promise, making Mitt feel
 just as trapped, because
 the One was supposed to
     have an interest.
   'In a funny way,' he
 said, 'I may have been
 thinking about the One.
  That's where I was at
    when my hand hit,
         anyway.'
  Moril tipped his face up.
  His eyes were squinted
  with dismay. 'You were?
Then we've gone back into
the One's river, before he
  destroyed Kankredin. I
 hope he's not too angry.'
 'You mean we're back in
history?' Mitt demanded.
    'Or dead, really?'
  'More like—the place in
the stories where the One
 really is, I think,' Moril
said doubtfully. 'It's hard
 to explain, but the other
world the cwidder moves in
  is the place where the
       stories are.'
   Mitt looked again at the
 torrent tearing past their
 boulder and thought that
    he had seldom seen
anything more real. Equally
  real were his steaming,
 clammy clothes. He had a
  notion that the One was
 taking the opportunity to
point out that he was real,
  too. No wonder Alk had
been so cautious. 'Then we
get back by apologising and
 asking the One to let us
       go?' he said.
  Moril nodded, looking as
 sober as Mitt felt. 'I'll
ask, if you like, because I
  know the way. You get
ready to hit the strings in
the same place as you did
       when I nod.'
'I don't know where I did
 hit!' said Mitt. 'And it
won't do to get it wrong,
          will it?'
     'You hit the lowest
 string,' said Moril. 'This
    one— it's always the
   dangerous one—and I
wasn't touching it, because
I didn't want to kill you or
  anything, but I heard it
 sound. Just pluck it, with
  one finger when I say.'
     Mitt put forth one
 doubtful finger and knelt
  ready. Moril seemed to
 settle himself—no, it was
not simply that. Mitt could
 feel the power building in
  the cwidder. It hummed
  along his shaking finger.
He felt even more awed by
         the thing.
  Moril drew a big breath
 and spoke in the strange
formal way that Hestefan
  had used to invoke the
  Undying at Midsummer.
 'Great Grand Father of
the golden bonds, Unbound
 and Undying, understand
my asking. Hear and help.
History's flood took us and
tore us from our travelling.
   Restore us to our own
 realm out of the river you
 made. Mitt and Moril ask
  this by Manaliabrid most
humbly, and by Cennoreth,
Clennen's son begs you cast
   aside your anger.' He
    nodded at Mitt—now.
 Mitt's finger twanged the
thickest string heartily. He
thought he saw the way of
  this speech and he could
not resist doing it too, 'By
  the Adon and Alhammitt
 and his all-fruitful lady,'
   he said as he twanged.
 Moril's fingers made the
rest of the sound. It was
  a many-toned roaring.
 It seemed as if the sound
of the river had increased,
  almost unbearably, to a
  sound that fogged their
eyes as well as their ears.
  They felt the river was
now thundering over a cliff
    in a waterfall, whose
thunder gradually faded to
  a long, deep chord, and
 then a growling vibration.
   As the sound faded, it
 seemed to carry the river
  away with it. The water
 became foggy, and quiet.
  The golden whiteness of
the fog spread to the very
riverbed and, for a second
  or so, it was the great
   transparent ghost of a
river, silently rushing over
    green ground. At the
 instant that Mitt realised
 that the green was really
grass, the river was gone,
   except for the faintest
vestige of that chord, still
  sounding and dragging on
 him like a current. During
  the next instant it took
   him to realise that the
dragging was taking all the
river with it, including the
water that filled his boots
and soaked his clothing, he
   was dry. So was Moril.
   Moril's hair went from
draggled brown to true red
  again. And though they
  were dry, though there
was a little feeble sunlight
 on them, the air was so
much colder that they were
    both still shivering.
   From Maewen's point of
view, the river vanished as
 suddenly as it had come,
   leaving Mitt and Moril
crouched on an outcrop of
rock just across the green
  road. She was not sure
whether to cheer or to run
   and shake them. It had
  been maddening watching
 them. All they seemed to
 do was sit on that rock in
  the river and talk for an
     hour. Maewen kept
   shouting to them. Navis
 had shouted too after he
    had rounded up Mitt's
  horse, but the boys had
 taken no notice. Hestefan
  and Wend maddened her
almost as much. Both shook
    their heads and said,
  'They'll not hear from
    where they are.'
  Moril and Mitt climbed
off the rock and crossed
 the road, both looking
     self-conscious.
  'So soon?' said Navis.
 'We were expecting to
     wait all night.'
  Mitt tried to give him an
  explanation. It sounded
lame and stupid to him and
he was glad when everyone
 was distracted from it by
Hestefan. Hestefan seized
 Moril by one shoulder and
ranted at him. He began in
   a low penetrating voice.
  'This is neither the time
    nor the place for such
 tricks. We have a journey
 to go on, fellow travellers
      to consider, and a
    performance to give in
      Gardale.' His voice
  gradually increased as he
    went on to, 'You could
  have spoilt your cwidder,
  or—worse! — lost it. You
   nearly stampeded the
  horses. You could have
      drowned us all!'
       Everyone listened
  uncomfortably. Moril was
  staring at Hestefan as if
     he had never heard
   anything like this in his
life, and that made it clear
   that this was not just a
      master giving his
         apprentice a
     dressing-down, but
  something more. Maewen
  could see that Hestefan
 had been terrified by the
    sudden river and she
supposed he was working it
     off on Moril. Then
Hestefan's voice increased
           again.
     'Now give me your
cwidder at once and I shall
 lock it in the chest until
 you are old enough to be
     trusted with it.'
     Moril clutched the
   cwidder and stepped
backwards. 'No. You've no
        right—'
    'I have every right!'
Hestefan enlarged his voice
 as only a Singer could. It
  rang in the rocks. 'My
apprentice has been fooling
    with something too
powerful for his years. You
 have no notion what that
        cwidder is!'
 'Yes I have,' Moril said,
dogged and white. 'And it
belonged to my father, not
to you. You've no right to
      take it away.'
   Mitt felt he had better
 intervene. 'Now look. He
  didn't do any harm with
             it.'
   Hestefan ignored Mitt.
   'Give me the cwidder
  here,' he said, and held
his hand out sternly for it.
  'There's no need—' Mitt
 tried to say. But at this
point Navis intervened too.
 He came up beside Moril
   and said, in his most
   sarcastic way, 'Is it
possible the master envies
  his apprentice? Surely
           not?'
   Hestefan turned and
    glared at Navis.
  Wend looked urgently at
    Maewen. 'Lady!'
  Maewen had been feeling
   like she did in school,
     watching one of the
 teachers tell off someone
else in her class. Hestefan
 was so very much like Dr
Loviath that she could not
help it. And of course if a
  teacher decides to tell
someone off no one else in
    the class dreams of
 interfering. Wend's look
 made her realise that it
  was not like this at all.
  She tried to gather her
            wits.
    'Stop it,' she said to
 Navis. 'Er—Hestefan, I'm
not sure this is right. Moril
 told me this morning that
   it was your daughter,
Fenna, who was indentured
 to you, not him. He said
he came with you from his
 own choice. Doesn't that
         make him
your—er—colleague instead
    of your apprentice?'
    'Well, yes,' Hestefan
said, very displeased. 'But
 considering his years and
  his actions, common law
  would hardly make that
       distinction.'
 That displeased look made
him so like Dr Loviath that
    Maewen had to fight
    herself not to agree
    humbly. As so often
happens, she found herself
  going too far the other
way. 'But I'm the leader,'
  she said, 'and I say he
      isn't really your
 apprentice. So I say you
   can't take his cwidder
    away even if he did
something—er—rather mad
         with it.'
  'That was my fault too,'
 Mitt put in, but in a very
gruff and unfriendly way.
He was having trouble even
  looking at Noreth after
    what Moril had said.
  Hestefan lifted his chin
 and jutted his beard at
        Maewen.
     A black mark and
detention! Maewen thought.
And Mitt glowering too. If
you're a leader everyone
 hates you. So will Moril
after this. 'And, Moril,
 you were trying to hurt
 Mitt with that cwidder,
      weren't you?'
 Any other boy would have
 protested that Mitt was
  bigger than him. Moril
impressed Maewen by just
      saying, 'Yes.'
 She felt a beast, but she
 was launched on her way
now and found she had to
 go on. 'Then, until we get
to Gardale, someone else is
going to take charge of it.
  Moril, will you give your
 cwidder to Wend, please.'
     It was hard to tell if
 Moril, Wend or Hestefan
     was more surprised.
Hestefan turned away and
climbed into the cart, still
jutting his beard. Moril at
 first clutched the cwidder
closer. Then, with a glance
    at Mitt that certainly
     meant something, he
     passed the beautiful
gleaming instrument over to
   Wend. Wend took it so
 reverently that it seemed
to slide into his hands. He
    hung the worn leather
 strap across his shoulder
   and looked down at the
cwidder as if it was a lamb
 he had just rescued from
  the snow. His left hand
   formed a chord on the
  strings as if it could not
  help itself. 'May I?' he
       asked Moril.
 'If you can,' Moril said.
'I'll fetch you the case.'
  Wend's right hand played
on the strings as if it were
 stroking the lamb's head.
 He only played a sequence
  of chords and arpeggios,
    but he became a new
 person doing it. His face
 came alive, into a slight,
rapt smile, full of thoughts
 and energies that had not
  been there before. The
  way he stood altered, to
 accommodate the cwidder,
into the stance of someone
   much stronger. For the
  first time since Maewen
   had met him, he looked
happy. Oddly enough, that
  made him look ten times
    more dangerous too.
  Why couldn't he be like
that all the time? Maewen
  wondered as she turned
 away to mount her horse
 again at last. Instead of
  trying to pretend he was
not an Undying among all us
dying-people? She tried to
   catch Mitt's eye to see
 what he thought, but Mitt
 was raw with shame about
  that word jealous and he
     turned away quickly.
    Hestefan gave her an
unloving look from the seat
         of the cart.
  Two black marks and a
 whole week in detention!
  Maewen thought. She
 thought Navis was right.
   Hestefan had wanted
 Moril's cwidder. As they
rode on, she found herself
 wondering why Hestefan
   had chosen to follow
 Noreth if he disliked her
         so much.
   The handing over of the
  cwidder had a surprising
   effect on Moril. While
Wend strode along, looking
strong and different, Moril
 behaved like a boy let out
     of school. He went
   scampering along beside
    Mitt's horse shouting
cheeky remarks up at Mitt.
  Mitt answered the same
    way and both of them
  laughed themselves silly.
 After a while, they began
taking turns to ride, with a
lot more silly laughter when
  the Countess-horse tried
     to throw Moril off.
 Maewen rode out ahead,
feeling lonely and unloved,
   listening to the pair of
them laughing in the foggy
distance behind. I suppose
  owning a thing like that
       cwidder is a big
responsibility, she thought,
    but she had a stupid,
hypersensitive feeling that
Moril and Mitt were fooling
  about because of her. I
was told to come here and
   be the leader, she
 thought. No need to be
        paranoid.
     As if that word had
 triggered it off, the deep
 voice spoke to her, at her
  ear in the gathering fog,
'You did well not to let the
Singer get his hands on the
      cwidder,' it said.
  Maewen's hands shook on
 the reins. She had known
that the voice would catch
her alone sooner or later.
Was it the One? Somehow,
 because it was telling her
what she wanted to hear,
    she doubted it. After
 seeing that sudden mighty
  river, she had a feeling
   that the One was more
likely to tell her something
  unexpected that she did
not want to know about at
 all. No. It was some kind
  of ghostly effect of her
   own mind on the green
            road.
     'You will need that
     cwidder, and the
Singer-boy to play it,' the
voice continued, 'when you
 come to find the crown.'
 Maewen had not meant to
  answer, but she found
herself saying, 'And what
  about the cup and the
         sword?'
 'The Southerner can steal
  both of those for you,'
      said the voice.
  'Oh? Can he? Just like
   that?' Maewen said.
   'I tell you so,' said the
voice. 'You must accept my
  advice or you will never
find the crown. And I tell
  you not to alienate the
       Singer-boy.'
   'All right.' Maewen was
   working on her horse,
slowing down so that Navis
 and Wend could catch up
 with her. 'All right. Just
  go away now, will you?'
   She could hear Navis
 behind now, asking Wend
how much further it was to
    Gardale, and Wend
  answering that it would
take another day. Maewen
fell in on the other side of
   Navis and, as she had
 hoped, the voice did not
     speak to her again.
   The fog thickened. By
  nightfall, when it was
blue-dim, they stopped in
 another of those lumpy
  places that might once
have been a town. There
 was a well-made firepit
    where Moril built a
cheerful coal fire. Maewen
 reminded Mitt of his idea
     for cooking pickled
  cherries. Mitt could not
bring himself to be natural.
    Gruffly he borrowed
skewers from the cart and
 kept his back turned while
     he stuck them with
cherries, cheese and dried
   meat to roast. It was
 terrible. Mitt tried to be
  polite and found himself
  agreeing fawningly with
 Noreth that a lentil stew
  would help. He tried to
   correct that and went
 gruff again. He could not
    seem to get it right.
Plainly by the firelight, he
could see the hurt puzzled
    look among Noreth's
freckles. He could feel her
  wondering what she had
done to offend him and of
 course there was no way
      he could tell her.
Never mind. I'll be seeing
Hildy again in Gardale, he
thought. For some reason,
 he knew that would make
      things better.
  While the lentils plopped
and bubbled and turned too
thick, Maewen tried to put
  Mitt out of her mind by
thinking what she should do
   in Gardale. Should she
  make a speech? She had
 told Navis that her army
 would arrive by itself, but
    that was over on the
  coast. They were now a
   long way inland where
   people would not know
about Noreth. The trouble
 was that she had no idea
 what to expect. She had
been to Gardale in her own
 time. She and Aunt Liss
   had driven there on a
 sightseeing trip. But she
had a feeling that this was
only going to confuse her.
    Around then, Wend
  politely asked Moril's
permission and played the
cwidder again. Lilting tunes
 from the old days rang in
     the crags. Everyone
   seemed to feel better.
 They ate caked lentils and
   Mitt's sooty skewered
things quite cheerfully, and
  when they had finished,
Hestefan surprised them all
  by telling tales. Most of
   them were stories that
 were around in Maewen's
 day too, but she had only
read them in books. It was
another thing again to hear
Hestefan tell them, gravely
   and plainly, as if every
  strange occurrence were
    the exact truth. The
    stories were suddenly
unknown and new. Maewen
 had known what was going
   to happen nearly every
time, but it still surprised
             her.
  This is what it means to
  be a good Singer, she
 thought, and he really is
           good!
 'I thank you,' Navis said
when Hestefan finished. 'I
 have never heard those
    tales better told.'
    Hestefan bowed as he
  sat. 'And I thank you.
Never have I told them so
well for so little in return.'
 Navis laughed and tossed
 Hestefan a silver piece.
Hestefan took it with a bit
of a twinkle. It looked as
  if they were actually
   beginning to like one
 another. Maewen caught a
little smile on Wend's face
   as he carefully put the
waterproof case round the
      cwidder, and she
          wondered.
  The fog was worse in the
  morning. Probably they
 were down into the clouds
 again. Certainly the green
road sloped gently downhill
 as if it were leading them
back to the valleys. Before
long, it was branching past
 waystone after waystone
  and Maewen was glad to
 have Wend striding out in
  front to show the right
way. And this day, for the
   first time, there were
   other people using the
  road. It made sense, as
   Navis remarked. Up to
now, they had been ahead
  of or behind all the folk
 who had gone somewhere
      else to celebrate
   Midsummer. Now they
   came up with all those
people returning home, and
 also the usual traffic of
people going in to Gardale.
     They passed riders,
   groups of walkers and
   families with carts all
   coming towards them.
     Hestefan called out
  cheerfully to each. But
when they passed the first
   person going the other
   way, who was someone
driving a flock of geese, he
 said ringingly, 'Hestefan
the Singer here! Watch for
      me in Gardale.'
  Maewen tensed. Hestefan
    had to advertise, of
  course, but so did she.
 She wondered whether to
 call out in the same way,
Noreth Onesdaughter here!
and ask the gooseman—no,
it was a woman all bundled
up against the fog—ask the
goose-woman, then, to join
  her at Kernsburgh. She
  dithered. She hated the
   idea and, besides, the
woman might tell the Earl
 of Gardale. On the other
 hand, perhaps she ought.
  For once she would have
 welcomed that deep voice
speaking to her out of the
air to tell her what to do.
 But of course there were
   too many people near.
  Meanwhile more and more
white triangular geese kept
 appearing out of the fog.
As Maewen, still dithering,
    opened her mouth to
  imitate Hestefan, Mitt's
horse demonstrated that it
  considered geese a lower
life-form. It began moving
  at them in pounces, with
  Mitt hauling on the reins
  and cursing it. After ten
 feet of rocking-horse-like
        progress, the
   Countess-horse won and
    plunged in among the
geese. Mitt fell off into an
     outrage of honking,
flapping and running. Geese
ran in all directions, except
 for two, who ran for Mitt
   with spread wings and
  outstretched necks. The
 lady driving them shouted
  mightily—most of it very
rude things about Mitt and
          the horse.
  Navis was into the fray
almost instantly, using his
riding crop on everything.
The lady shouted at Navis
  too. But the two geese
  fled, Moril caught the
Countess-horse, and Navis
  hauled Mitt up. Everyone
   else chased geese for a
    while. By the time the
flock was assembled again,
 Maewen's nerve was gone.
Even if the goose-lady had
  not been so very angry,
    she thought, watching
 Navis and Hestefan being
  wonderfully polite to the
woman, the proper time to
  declare Noreth as queen
 was when she had reached
Kernsburgh with the Adon's
gifts and had something to
   show those earls. The
  decision made her feel
    utterly relieved and
completely feeble in about
   the same proportions.
   'I think this is yours,
madam,' Navis said, bowing
and handing the goose-lady
the stick she had dropped.
 'Just keep that big looby
off his back and out of my
  geese,' she answered.
 'Certainly,' Navis agreed.
'But I'm afraid that would
  mean buying him a real
horse and we neither of us
 have the funds just now.'
    At this, the woman
hooted with laughter. Mitt
  struggled back into his
  saddle again feeling an
        utter idiot.
 After that, he kept tight
hold of the beast whenever
 another traveller loomed
     through the fog.
          XII
  When they camped that
  night, Wend said that
Gardale was only a mile or
so away, below in a valley
    they could not see.
     It was odd, Maewen
thought, that it had taken
  all this time to get that
near, even coming straight
 through the centre of the
 mountains. When she had
driven here with Aunt Liss,
   it had only taken four
hours, and that was with a
detour on the way to look
at Hannart. Her sense of
distance was all confused.
   Her sense of everything
 was all confused. She was
dreading Gardale. Mitt was
  still being so distant and
  gruff that she knew she
was not going to ask him to
  steal the Adon's cup for
her. And Moril was younger
 than she was and she was
    not going to ask him
 either. She would have to
do it herself. But she still
 felt hurt at the way Mitt
 was behaving. She wanted
 to apologise, although she
 had no idea what she had
done to annoy him. Perhaps
   they should all just go
away and not bother about
          the cup.
   No. Out of this muddle
of thoughts came one thing
that was clear — probably.
Maewen and Aunt Liss had
done the usual tourist thing
and seen round the College
 at Gardale, where the old
Lawschool was. Part of the
 Lawschool was the Chapel
   of the One. There had
 been—would be—a cup on
   the altar there, with a
notice saying that this was
  only a replica of the cup
 that had been stolen two
 hundred years before. So
   it looked as if she had
 stolen—would be going to
  have stolen—the darned
 thing. In a mad, circular
 way, that meant she had
 to go down into Gardale
 and steal it because she
       already had.
 It came on to rain. Oh, I
   give up! she thought.
   Moril and Hestefan had
    the best of it. They
vanished into the cart. The
  others draped the oilskin
  covers off their baggage
 over three large rocks and
crawled underneath, where
they spent a hot and sticky
night, steamily full of the
plopping and thrumming of
      rain. It was so
    uncomfortable that
everyone woke and crawled
  out again at dawn. The
 rain stopped and became
   thinning mist, almost
         mockingly.
   Maewen was clammy all
over, and itchy, and—well—
plain dirty. She could smell
  herself. She wanted to
    clean her teeth. But
 nobody seemed to bother
  about tooth-cleaning any
 more than they appeared
 to worry about baths. At
 that moment Maewen felt
 she would have given her
   left ear and probably
 several toes as well for a
    nice hot bath full of
rose-scented bath oil. And
    there was not even a
 hairbrush in her baggage
    roll! While Navis was
 shaving and Hestefan was
clawing the kinks out of his
  beard, Maewen did what
   she could by taking her
  hair down from the little
 helmet, shaking it out and
   scratching hard at her
    scalp. Her hair smelt
awful, of horse mostly, but
 dirty human hair was part
      of the smell too.
'What wouldn't I give for
 a bath!' she said as she
crammed the helmet back
      on her head.
    'Me too,' Mitt said,
   surprisingly, looking up
from tightening the buckles
   on the Countess-horse.
   This was always a wary
  business, of circling and
darting, in order not to get
  kicked or bitten, and he
 was glad to be distracted.
  'I never thought I'd live
 to hear myself say that,'
 he said. 'But I got spoilt
 this last year in Aberath.
 Alk's got the whole place
   mined through with lead
pipes and a furnace down in
the dungeons. Water comes
       out boiling.'
    A chuckle rose up in
 Maewen's throat. Things
 were all right again. Mitt
was back in form. Now she
 could almost look forward
        to Gardale.
  Mitt kept talking about
 Alk as they wound their
 slow way down into the
   valley. It matched a
 tender place in his mind
where that promise to Alk
 was. So he was not sure
  why he was suddenly so
  cheerful. Maybe it was
that the fog had gone. You
 could see mountains navy
  blue against pink dawn,
   peak after peak, right
  away to far-off Mount
  Tanil, which had a quiet
 feather of smoke coming
  out of its pointed head.
Near-to there was still no
   sign of a valley—only a
     chasm of dark blue
emptiness with mist boiling
  up out of it as if there
were a giant version of one
of Alk's Irons down there.
 'I hear there's this great
  huge steam organ they
   have in Hannart,' he
 remarked, as the roiling,
rising mist put him in mind
           of it.
 Maewen nodded. She had
    seen the carefully
preserved remains of that
 organ on that trip with
        Aunt Liss.
   Maybe, Mitt considered,
 it was the sight just now
  of Noreth with her hair
 down from her helmet in
   long frizzy clouds. Like
  that, she was the young
     lady he had felt so
respectful to in her aunt's
 hall, so different and so
far away from Mitt that it
  was silly to be awkward
with her. Or maybe he was
 simply looking forward to
      seeing Hildy again.
  The track that led down
  from the waystone was
 nothing like as grassy and
  well made as the green
roads. Mostly it was rubble
 and raw earth, and quite
 dangerously frayed at the
edge of the great drop-off
where the mist heaved and
    rose. It led down in
  zigzags beside a furious
   stream of white water
  splayed over wet rocks
and, at every hairpin bend,
  the cart threatened to
come off and pitch into the
  depths. Hestefan led the
  mule. Everyone else took
 turns leaning on the outer
   side of the cart, boots
   braced in sliding gravel,
  either above white water
   or horrifying mist-filled
 steepness, helping to ease
    the cart round. When
    Maewen took her first
    turn, a nattering and
   honking above made her
 look up. There were white
  triangular splotches some
  bends overhead. The
 goose-woman seemed to
     have caught up.
     The splotches and the
  noise came nearer every
bend. 'The geese get down
  here more easily,' Navis
 remarked to Mitt as they
 leant side by side against
    the gold letters. Mitt
  laughed, and hoped they
would not have to meet the
      goose-lady again.
 As they slowly descended
    the track, the white
   stream enlarged into a
mountain river roaring on a
 bed of green rocks, under
   a cliff hung with holly
  trees and small perilous
rowans. The mist continued
 boiling its way upwards as
 they went down. Somehow
it had miraculously changed
from mist to a proper cloud
 hovering against the upper
  crags. The sun caught it
  there and turned it to a
cloud of gold film, with the
 green-black bones of the
   rock showing through.
Everyone began to feel dry
       again at last.
    About then, Maewen
  caught sight of a woman
 standing on the other side
of the loud green river. At
least, she thought she saw
 someone, between two of
the rowan trees. But when
she turned her head, there
  were only the two trees.
She saw Mitt's head jerk,
as if he had seen someone
 there too. Then, as if he
   was struck by a sudden
  thought, Mitt turned his
 head back and up to look
at the zigzags of the track
above. Maewen looked too.
    There was nothing up
there. No gaggle of geese,
   no woman driving them.
  She could not even hear
   the geese chatting any
           more.
 They're out of sight on a
    bend, she thought.
 Mitt thought, Libby Beer!
Now what's she playing at?
 Wend came hurrying down
 to the cart in a slide of
small stones, unslinging the
 cwidder from his neck as
he came. 'Is it all right to
  give this back now?' he
  called to Maewen. 'I'll
  have to leave you for a
while. I'll wait for you by
   the waystone south of
      Gardale Valley.'
    'Yes, I suppose so,'
Maewen said, rather taken
 aback. 'What if we take
     all day, though?'
       'I'll wait,' Wend
    promised, handing the
   cwidder to Moril. Moril
settled it on his knees, and
      quite a weight of
 responsibility with it from
the look of him. They went
 on down. The last Maewen
  saw of Wend, before a
   shoulder of the hill hid
 him, he was leaping in
 great splashing strides
    across the river.
 Going to see that lady,
Maewen thought. She was
      there then.
  At the next bend of the
path, Wend vanished from
 her mind. The path came
out above the great green
   wedge-shape of the
   Gardale valley, with
 Gardale town nestled into
the pointed end just below
  them, seemingly at their
  toes, a mass of smoking
  chimney stacks. Maewen
  was astonished. She had
known the place was bound
to be smaller, but not this
  small! It was more like a
 large village than a town.
   Two more turns of the
  road brought them into
green meadows outside the
  town, and Maewen still
marvelled. She knew it was
 absurd, but she had been
  expecting the high blocks
   of buildings and the tall
 shops she had seen on her
  visit with Aunt Liss. This
  Gardale was all low. The
   houses were all built of
   greenish stone and none
    were more than three
  stories high. The amount
   of smoke from all those
  chimneys astonished her.
 The track suddenly turned
  into a proper road paved
   with the same greenish
stone and took them across
  a bridge over the same
 river, now flowing quietly
    and more brown than
green, between stone walls
    where small boys sat
          fishing.
   After that they were in
    the main street and
    Maewen could hardly
breathe. It's like a foreign
   country! she thought.
   There were crowds of
 people. She had thought
  she had become used to
being in the past. Now she
 knew she had only become
      used to the people
travelling with her, and the
    way those five people
     dressed and talked.
 Everyone who crowded the
street here seemed to have
     more lines on their
faces—or fewer—as if they
all worried about different
   things from those that
     concerned people in
 Maewen's own time. This
 set their faces into quite
 another shape, like people
      who spoke a foreign
     language. As to their
  clothes—the hearthman's
 livery she had grown used
    to was the rarest kind
here. The men wore bright
 wools and sober velvets in
any number of styles, from
  tight-fitting suits with a
    coloured blanket-thing
 folded over one shoulder,
 through the looser sort of
     clothes that Moril or
    Hestefan wore, to the
 elderly fellow pushing past
  in a long dark blue velvet
 robe with a jewelled chain
round his neck. The women
were in so many styles and
    colours—nipped waists,
loose pleats, long flounces,
  calf-length gathers—that
even when Maewen saw the
 outfit was home-made and
    probably re-dyed from
  another colour, they still
  made her feel dowdy and
wrongly dressed. The place
smelt of people and, almost
 chokingly of smoke with,
  underneath that, most
    definitely cesspits.
   'It seems very busy,'
 Navis remarked. 'Market
          day?'
  'That and more, I rather
   think,' Hestefan said.
People had seen his cart by
 then and were pressing up
 to it all round, wanting to
   know when the Singer
  would perform. Hestefan
 enlarged his voice, in the
   Singer's way, so that
  though he seemed to be
speaking normally, his voice
rang round the street. 'In
  the market square in an
       hour's time.'
 'Oh, but—!' Moril started
to say. Then he saw faces
    turning and nodding
   eagerly. He gave up.
  'What are our plans?'
Navis asked Maewen. They
were down to a slow walk,
  boot to boot, as they
pressed through the crowd.
         'Go to the
   College—Lawschool,'
       Maewen said.
   'That suits me,' Navis
 said, and he bent to the
nearest person to ask the
           way.
   It was out on the other
side of the town. They had
 to go through the market
square, where there was a
frenzy of buying and selling
going on, and such shouting
 mixed with smells of new
 bread, fruit, leather and
 cattle dung to add to the
     cesspit smell, that
 Maewen's stomach began
to feel unhappy. Hestefan
  cast a professional eye
over the chaos and agreed
with Moril that they would
   have time to visit the
  Lawschool before people
 were ready to listen. So
the whole party continued,
  out through the further
 end of the market square
  and down another street,
  to where the crowds and
    then the houses quite
  abruptly stopped and the
street became a white dirt
  road leading across more
  green fields. There were
animals—cows, goats and a
donkey or so—tethered out
 in the fields, but the only
 other people in sight were
 a small party of horsemen
some distance ahead on the
            road.
   'Hannart livery,' Navis
     said. He and Mitt
  exchanged a significant,
worried look. 'I think we'll
 let them get well ahead.'
   That suited Maewen. In
these times, Hannart was a
 name to conjure with. As
   everyone reined in and
  hung back at the mule's
  slowest pace, she looked
 anxiously at the horsemen
 until they vanished behind
 a clump of trees. 'Do you
think someone told the Earl
    of Hannart that the
 Adon's ring was stolen?'
      she asked Mitt.
 'I don't reckon so,' Mitt
   said, almost equally
         worried.
 'I'll give a false name,'
 Maewen said, 'if anyone
           asks.'
     'A wise precaution,'
  Navis agreed. 'At times
like this, I could wish Mitt
and I were not so obviously
      Southerners.'
   The Hannart horsemen
 had vanished by the time
they came round the clump
   of trees and saw the
  Lawschool. Maewen had
 another moment of sheer
 surprise. She had known
 the School would have to
 be the oldest part of the
 College she and Aunt Liss
 had visited, but she had
 expected that this would
  be the part with all the
   towers and tall pointed
    windows. She had not
expected it would be these
    low, graceful greenish
     buildings topped with
   clusters of long, stylish
   chimneys. The windows
were wide, one and all, and
  they had diamond panes.
  In the middle, an elegant
      archway filled by a
  wrought-iron gate joined
 two blocks of the buildings
  together. The rest were
joined by a high stone wall.
   'Looks a good place for
  studying,' Mitt said. He
tried to smile, but he knew
 his face had gone pinched
     and worried. Those
Hannart riders were inside.
  He could glimpse horses
  between the bars of the
            gate.
 By the time they reached
    the gate, there was
nothing to be seen through
   it but a garden and a
cobbled path leading away
 between lavender bushes.
  An official walked to the
     middle of the gate.
  Maewen bit the inside of
  her mouth, or she would
    have laughed. He was
  wearing exactly the same
uniform that the porters at
   the College wore in her
   day: baggy knee-length
 breeches and tunic in dark
   blue, with a wide white
   collar. It was obviously
   old-fashioned even two
hundred years before that.
He had bad teeth. She saw
    them as he spoke.
   'Visitors for Sending
   Day? Which of the
  Scholars are you for?'
 Navis hesitated a fraction
  because of those riders
  from Hannart. 'Hildrida
 Navissdaughter,' he said,
with a shrug you could only
have seen if you knew him.
     'And I'm for Brid
 Clennensdaughter,' Moril
   called from the cart.
     The porter smiled at
them. Maewen had to look
away from his teeth. 'I'm
sorry for it, but you're all
   too early. Sending Day
 doesn't start till midday.
Come back then and I'll let
    you in with pleasure.
 You're not the only ones
  I've had to turn away.
 You'll find the town's full
  of you. But,' he said to
 Hestefan, 'you can come
 half an hour ahead if you
want to set up to sing. The
other Singer will be coming
       back then.'
 Hestefan frowned to hear
   of another Singer to
compete with and began to
    turn the cart round.
  'Thank you. I shall only
perform in the town then.
 But my apprentice will be
  back to see his sister.'
  Nobody pointed out that
 the riders from Hannart
 had been let in at once.
  Nobody even remarked
 that, since they had been
   let in, this meant they
  were not just a chance
  band of hearthmen, but
   members of the earl's
   household on important
business. Yet they all knew
  it, even Maewen. They
  rode back the way they
  had come very soberly.
 The other Singer was now
 camped just outside the
  town. They saw him as
 soon as they came round
 the trees, a neat black,
white and gold cart at the
  edge of the wide green,
 surrounded by sacks and
   bundles of provisions.
 Someone—presumably the
Singer—was sorting through
  the bundles in a rather
       hopeless way.
    Moril, at the sight,
   tugged excitedly at
Hestefan's arm. Hestefan
whipped up the mule. The
  green cart, in a most
uncharacteristic way, went
   rollicking and bumping
 across the turf towards
 the black and white one.
Moril stood up on the seat
   waving and shrieking,
     'Dagner! Dagner!'
    The Singer, a slightly
    built young man with
  reddish hair, who looked
very little older than Mitt,
 had just picked up one of
the sacks. He turned round
 at the noise and let out a
     bellow of his own.
   'Hestefan! MORIL!' He
dropped the sack and came
  racing over to hang on to
the step of the green cart,
 laughing as if this was the
 most wonderful meeting in
   the world. The three of
them fell into instant eager
            talk.
  As Maewen came up with
    Navis and Mitt, she
thought she had never seen
Hestefan look so animated.
  They hung about a short
   distance away, none of
them sure how private the
Singers wanted to be, and
 admired the new Singer's
 turnout. The horse, which
  was enjoying a nosebag,
was as black and glossy as
   the black paint on the
 cart, and its harness was
white. The austere colours
served to show up the fact
  that, instead of a name
painted on the cart, there
       was a large and
complicated coat of arms.
  Moril turned and shouted
to them. 'It's my brother!
    Isn't it wonderful!
 Dastgandlen Handagner!'
  'Oh, I've heard of him,'
    Mitt said, decidedly
 impressed. 'Aberath folk
   said he was the best.'
  'Let us be introduced,'
       Navis said.
 But before they had come
  within talking distance,
Moril had said something to
  Dagner which seemed to
 alarm him acutely. Dagner
   backed away from the
 green cart, asking anxious
questions. Next moment he
  was running for his cart
 and hurling the sacks and
bundles in anyhow, latching
  the tailgate and running
 again to take the nosebag
off the horse. The horse's
head came up. It looked as
surprised as everyone else.
  'Sorry, Stiles,' Dagner
 called out. 'Later.' With
that, he was in the driving
seat and untying the reins,
and the cart was in motion.
      All in seconds.
   'But what about Brid?'
       Moril yelled.
    'You're here now—you
   can give her my love!'
Dagner shouted back. 'Get
  up, Stiles. I want your
   best pace.' The horse
   broke into a trot. The
 black and white cart went
in a swift near-circle past
Navis, Mitt and Maewen.
Dagner leant out to call as
   he passed, 'I'd have
followed you too, lady, if
  this hadn't happened!'
  Maewen realised he was
talking to her and managed
 to shoot a smile in reply.
 Then the horse was going
faster still. The black and
 white cart went careering
  away into the distance,
raising a cloud of moisture
and grass seeds behind its
      flying wheels.
   'What got into him?'
      Mitt asked.
    'I told him Fenna was
hurt,' Moril said. 'He's in
 love with her. He's going
straight to Adenmouth by
    the green road above
   Hannart.' It was clear
Moril was very pleased by
   his brother's devotion.
'And why does he carry a
 coat of arms?' asked
Navis. 'It looked like the
arms of the South Dales to
           me.'
  Moril grimaced. This was
 something which did not
   seem to please him so
  much. 'It is,' he said.
   'Dagner's Earl of the
  South Dales. Since last
 year when our cousin got
  killed. He told me Earl
  Keril made him put the
  arms on his cart, but I
 know Dagner only agreed
 because it takes up less
space than his names do.'
He looked fondly after the
 galloping cart. 'Dagner's
   only proud of being a
     Singer,' he said.
   Navis had one eyebrow
right, right up. 'Is Tholian
        dead then?'
     'Yes,' said Moril.
  'Well, well,' said Navis.
'One hesitates to say good
  riddance, since he was
obviously a near relation of
       yours, but—'
  'We have to sing in the
market square,' Hestefan
interrupted. He was back
   to his schoolmaster
         manner.
   'Well, well,' Navis said
again, as they followed the
 green cart back into the
 town. 'Tholian dead! If I
  had to choose between
Tholian and Keril, I might,
    even at this moment,
      choose Tholian.'
   'Never met him,' said
          Mitt.
    'You have no idea how
lucky you are,' said Navis.
  He did not say anything
else until they were in the
  confusion of the market
again. Then he said, 'Mitt,
     how about a decent
   breakfast at the inn?'
 'That,' said Mitt, 'is the
best thing I heard today.'
     The two of them
  threaded their horses
between the stalls towards
the large inn at one side of
the square. Maewen had no
 money. She was watching
them rather wistfully when
  Navis turned round and
called, 'You too, lady. This
        is my treat.'
      Maewen followed
 gratefully. They clopped
under a huge archway into
a stable yard, where a boy
with a raw face and yellow
hair spat out the straw he
 was chewing and came to
       listen to Navis's
  instructions. He wanted
 the horses to have a good
   breakfast too. Maewen
  patted her horse and let
 the boy take it away with
    the other two. A nice
horse, she thought, as she
followed Navis into the inn,
     but one without any
 character at all. If it was
  Noreth's horse, the girl
  must have used it like a
 bicycle. What had become
            of her?
   The front rooms of the
inn were wide open to the
square, where tables were
  set out under a sort of
covered way supported by
  old gnarled pillars with
creepers trained up them.
   A nice arrangement in
summer, Maewen thought.
  It reminded her of the
 pillared balconies at the
  front of the Tannoreth
Palace. But what did they
 do in winter? Kernsburgh
was many degrees warmer
 than Gardale even now.
  People in these times
 seemed to be so hardy.
 They lived out of doors
 much more than Maewen
      was used to.
  The only free table they
 could find was a long way
from the end of the square
    where Hestefan had
 stopped his cart. Maewen
    could hear his voice
faintly, behind all the rest
of the din, calling to people
to come and listen, but any
 view was blocked off by a
   gnarled pillar and a big
  stall selling iron pans. It
         was a slight
  disappointment. Maewen
  had never yet heard the
 Singers perform. Still, as
  she agreed with Mitt, it
was good to be sitting in a
  proper chair listening to
Navis ordering food from a
 cheerful hurried man in a
         dirty apron.
   'And beer for three,'
     Navis finished.
    Help! thought Maewen.
 Coffee came from abroad,
 of course, and it was not
much drunk until a hundred
 years later than this. She
    would have preferred
  water— except from the
  way this town smelt she
was sure the water was not
fit to drink. Oh, well. Beer
  couldn't be that bad, or
  people wouldn't drink it.
  Hestefan and Moril were
singing now. Maewen leaned
  back, trying to pick out
the sound from behind the
    shouts, the talk, the
 yelling of animals and the
 bonging of the pans in the
 ironware stall. It was not
      a tune she knew.
  The food came promptly
   on enormous wooden
  platters, sizzling hot:
  bacon, kidneys, eggs,
 mushrooms and hot bread
 to go with it, with butter
  and honey for the bread.
   With this arrived three
     pewter tankards of
 sour-smelling yellow stuff.
 Maewen tried it. Yuk. But
she was very hungry and all
that food needed something
 to wash it down. She kept
   drinking, in valiant sips.
     Mitt could no longer
contain his anxiety. 'They
 let Hannart in early,' he
said to Navis. 'I don't like
 that. What do we do?'
  'Play it as we see it,'
Navis answered. 'At least
      we're here.'
 'And what's this Sending
Day?' Mitt asked, wolfing
   down food he hardly
         noticed.
  'As I gather, it's the
day most pupils go home
for the summer,' Navis
 said. 'Not that anyone
thought to inform me. I
 asked Noreth's aunt.'
  'Then you can take her
    away,' Mitt said.
   'So can Hannart,' Navis
  pointed out. He was, as
  usual, trying not to show
his feelings, but Mitt could
 tell Navis was as strained
    and gloomy as he was
           himself.
  There was applause from
   the distance. Hestefan
began a new song. Maewen
  thought it was perfectly
 lovely, but it was low and
sweet, and she kept losing
     it in the noise.
   'Suppose,' said Mitt,
 'that Hannart has been
and gone by the time they
        let us in?'
     'There's a closing
 ceremony,' Navis replied.
'Surely even Hannart can't
remove a pupil before that.
 And of course neither can
           we.'
   'First moment we can
then,' Mitt said urgently.
  'Whatever's possible,'
     Navis agreed.
      They ate in worried
     silence after that.
  Hestefan seemed to be
telling a story. There were
  bursts of laughter, and
 clapping, but Hestefan's
voice was almost inaudible.
 Maewen was straining to
  hear, when Navis pulled
    himself together and
   turned to her politely.
   'I fear we have been
   leaving you out of our
private concerns, lady,' he
  said. 'As you may have
gathered, we became your
 followers not entirely out
  of personal conviction.'
 'Speak for yourself,' said
Mitt. 'I'm convinced.' He
turned to Maewen, waving
a hunk of bread and honey
  in one bony hand. Here
was something to take his
  mind off Hildy. 'Tell us
   your beliefs, Noreth.
      Convince him.'
    Help! thought Maewen.
She stared at the pots and
 pans swinging on the stall,
hoping for inspiration. Mitt
  was leaning towards her
  eagerly as if he thought
she really did have beliefs.
 Probably Noreth did have
beliefs, but Maewen had no
way of knowing what those
were. She had simply been
   getting by on a messy
muddle of beliefs from her
  own day, mixed up with
     what she knew had
 happened in the last two
 hundred years. Dalemark
had changed, almost out of
 recognition, in that time,
   and not wholly for the
      better at that.
  'It is possible she just
  follows the will of the
 One,' Navis remarked in
 his usual sarcastic way.
 This bounced Maewen into
speaking. She did not want
    to let Mitt down. 'I
  believe there has to be
    change,' she said. A
 disgustingly safe thing to
say. Something seemed to
be wrong with her, adding
to her difficulty. Her face
   buzzed and the sounds
from the market had gone
  quiet and distant. Moril
was singing. She could just
  pick out his voice among
the deep belling chords of
   his cwidder. She would
 have liked to think it was
 the cwidder doing this to
   her, but she was fairly
sure it was the beer. And
the way Gardale smelt like
a filthy farmyard. Maewen
 swallowed. 'There's a lot
  in Dalemark that hasn't
 come out yet,' she said.
   'Wonderful people, and
talents and richness. Some
   of the reason it hasn't
come out is because all the
  ordinary people are too
     poor for different
 reasons—' Am I going to
  be sick?—'but the main
reason is that everybody is
    too busy thinking of
 themselves as North and
  South. They need to be
 one country and—and be
        proud of it—
  before—before they can
   show what's—really in
  them.' There. I believe
that. Maewen pushed back
 her chair. She knew what
was wrong with her now. A
truly vicious stomach-ache.
Nerves? Those mushrooms?
 She could not help it that
   Mitt's eager face was
     going puzzled and
disappointed. 'I'm sorry—I
   have to—Do you know
      where is the—?'
      Navis understood
instantly. 'It'll be round in
   the stable yard. First
door. Women to the right.'
 Maewen bolted that way.
She raced under the arch.
 And—bless Navis!—there
was the door. It was dark
  inside, with a sticky mud
  floor, but she was led to
    the right door by the
 smell. Yuk! She nearly was
  sick. Inside it was clean
enough in its primitive way,
with whitewashed walls and
a bundle of rags instead of
 paper, but the smell! Why
      hadn't things smelt
anything like this bad up on
the green roads? Did Wend
 really look after that kind
    of thing as well as the
            roads?
     It was not a place to
    stay long in. Maewen
 finished as quickly as she
  could and unlatched the
  door to the dark muddy
passage with relief. That's
better. Now I can go back
  and talk sense to Mitt.
  A hard arm grabbed her
round the throat. A hand,
  with the faint glint of a
knife accompanying it, rose
 and came down, stabbing.
 'Help!' Maewen screamed.
    The hard arm cut her
  scream off to a squawk.
  She struggled furiously.
 What an awful place to be
killed in! I will not die here!
    She twisted sideways
   against the grip on her
  throat and kicked where
 she could feel legs behind
     her. The rest of her
      twisted and bucked
mindlessly. It was horrible
the way she could feel the
man. Intimate. Beastly. It
 never occurred to her to
   use the knife and short
sword she had just hitched
     aside to fasten her
    breeches. She kicked
madly, trying to fall out of
 the man's grip into a sort
 of squat. That unbalanced
   him. The hand with the
 knife swept away sideways
  and banged on a wooden
   wall as he tried to stay
upright. His arm loosed her
  throat enough for her to
    give a high, whistling
           scream.
 'With you!' someone said.
    Doors banged. Wood
    resounded. The knife
 gleamed in half-daylight.
It had grown. No, it was a
    sword, being held by
someone else. Maewen only
   glimpsed it before her
attacker dropped her as if
 she was on fire and fled,
 kicking her as he barged
  across her, shoving the
   swordsman aside, and
  banging out through the
  door. Maewen could feel
the pounding of his running
  feet as she lay on the
     sticky mud floor.
    'Are you all right?
  Noreth! Where are you
          hurt?'
   It was Navis. His hand
   was pulling at her arm.
Maewen tried to sit up and
 found she had suddenly no
    strength at all. Navis
   hauled her upright and
  dragged her out into the
comparatively pure-smelling
          yard.
  'Where are you hurt?'
 'I—I'm not—I—How did
  you—? Who was he?'
   'I wish I knew,' said
 Navis. 'It was far too
dark. As I didn't see him
when I came along behind
 you, I conclude he was
     hiding in there.'
 'What a horrible place to
hide!' Maewen managed to
   say. 'Why did you—'
  'I told you,' said Navis.
'Your aunt told me to look
 after you. Let's get the
 horses and go out on the
  common. You should be
 safe out of the crowds.
  We should have stayed
 there as soon as we saw
   Hannart was in town.'
          XIII
   Maewen spent what was
left of the morning sitting
  on the grass outside the
 town, more or less where
  Dagner's black and white
 cart had been, hedged in
   by Mitt, Navis and the
three horses. Even this did
not make her feel safe. If
 someone came to untether
 a cow, or a goat bleated,
or a lark went up from the
   grass, she jumped and
  stared round, expecting
 her throat to be grabbed
and a knife to appear. She
  was, slowly, beginning to
  feel more rational, when
   crowds of people came
 streaming out of town to
  follow the road to the
Lawschool. Maewen started
       shaking again.
   'Nearly midday.' Navis
 stood up and brought her
        horse over.
   Maewen mounted, hoping
 she would feel better high
  up on a horse. It seemed
 to help a little. They rode
  sedately over to join the
stream of carts, carriages,
 riders and walkers on the
  road, and she found
  herself hanging back
       nervously.
 'Get the Southerner to
steal the Adon's cup for
you,' the deep voice said
  suddenly in her ear.
     Maewen felt like a
  waterbed, trembling all
 over from being trodden
 on. 'Is that all you can
  say? Where were you?
Why didn't you warn me?'
  'You are not hurt. The
Southerners were there to
  help,' said the voice.
    'Oh, thank you!' said
  Maewen. 'You're such a
     comfort!' She was
 trembling with indignation
   now. What use was a
ghostly adviser who did not
 care that you might have
  been killed? Angrily she
  caught up with Mitt and
 Navis as they joined the
    busy road. They had
 almost reached the clump
    of trees before she
realised that she felt much
better. It made her smile.
  Perhaps the voice knew
what it was doing after all.
     Outside the gracious
 buildings of the Lawschool
there was now a picket line
   set up for horses, and
boys in that old-fashioned
  uniform to guard it. The
  man with bad teeth was
 now letting people through
 the gate in slow twos and
 threes. Mitt jigged with
impatience as they joined
the line of people waiting
 to go in, and even Navis
      looked anxious.
   Moril got down from a
waiting carriage which had
 evidently given him a lift
 and came jogging over to
  them with his cwidder
 bumping on his back. He
 was folding up a pie and
      corncakes in an
  expensive-looking linen
  napkin and chewing as he
   arrived. 'They gave me
lunch too,' he explained. 'I
 wondered where you'd got
             to.'
 'And where is Hestefan?'
      asked Navis.
     Moril looked a little
  anxious. 'He said he'd
have a rest and meet us at
the waystone with Wend. I
  don't think his health's
 very good. He's looked ill
    ever since the cart
       overturned.'
  'You think he got hurt
   then?' Mitt asked.
 'Yes, but he won't say,'
       said Moril.
   They came to the gate
   and the man with bad
  teeth. Moril gave him a
  beaming smile. 'Do you
 think you could take care
of my cwidder until I come
out?' That was how he got
   the ride in the coach,
Maewen thought, watching
 the porter try to pretend
that no one had ever asked
him such a thing, and then
    give in and take the
  cwidder carefully in his
arms. Singers learnt to get
        round people.
  'Through the garden and
  turn right to the small
quadrangle,' the man said,
 as he said to everyone.
   Nobody looked at the
   garden. They passed
  through on the cobbled
path trying to keep up with
    Navis and Mitt. They
 swept through an archway
on the right and came to a
square court surrounded by
   buildings. Here stood a
long row of young people in
   grey, with broad white
  collars. Some were much
 younger than Moril, some
were nearly grown up. Most
 seemed around Maewen's
  real age. Many of them
    were already greeting
parents and other relatives
and most of the rest were
  staring sideways at the
archway, looking for their
 own families. There were
   no hugs or shouts and
  almost no jigging about.
 Evidently the way of this
school was to pretend you
  were very grown up. It
made things very awkward.
   Mitt, Navis, Moril and
   Maewen went crabwise
along the line and the ones
 waiting stared coolly past
 them, until Navis stopped
in front of a thin dark girl,
 whose pale face seemed to
be set in a permanent little
           frown.
   'Hildy!' he said. There
 was delight and relief all
  over him. Mitt was the
            same.
  The dark girl turned from
whispering to the enormous
girl bulking beside her and
 stared at Navis. 'Father!
Fancy you being here!' Her
 face lit up. For a moment
  it looked as if she were
    going to break out of
   school custom and hug
       Navis. Then she
remembered the grown-up
behaviour and took hold of
  both his hands instead,
 smiling all over her face.
   It made her look much
 younger. 'Father, this is
     good! Now I'll have
someone to show round and
    shout for me at last
     grittling after all!'
 'Are you all right? Is all
 well here?' Navis asked
           her.
  'Absolutely mountaintop!'
said Hildy. 'I love it here.
   But this is Biffa.' She
 turned and pulled forward
 the huge girl beside her.
  'Biffa's my besting. Do
   you mind if she comes
   round with us? She's a
winthrough like me and her
  parents can't afford to
  come today. Please. She
won't have anyone if I go
          off.'
   'I shall be honoured,'
  Navis said. Huge Biffa
turned pink right down to
her white collar and stood
bulking helplessly, smiling.
   She had a very sweet
smile. It transformed her
 slab of a face and made
  everyone see why Hildy
         liked her.
  'Good,' said Hildy and
began to tow Navis away,
 ignoring the rest of them
         completely.
   Navis hung back. Mitt
   said, 'Hello, Hildy.'
    Hildy glanced over her
    shoulder. 'Oh. Hello,
    Mitt.' It was barely
friendly. Maewen found she
 could not bear to look at
Mitt's face. The hurt in it
   and the disillusionment
 were so huge and so plain
 that it hurt her too, just
 from the one glimpse she
        had of it.
  Navis firmly pulled Hildy
   back again. 'My dear
 daughter,' he said. 'Not
so hasty. Let me introduce
my friends. This young lady
       is—ah—Ilona
      Kernsdaughter.'
 Maewen bowed, impressed
that Navis remembered to
 invent her a false name.
  Hildy's eyes swept over
 Maewen's travel-stained
  hearthman's livery and
  back to her face, which
    she seemed to study
 freckle by freckle. Hildy's
 eyes were very dark, very
   observant and not very
     warm. Maewen felt
 thoroughly uncomfortable.
She was wondering whether
to bow again, ironically this
time, when Hildy seemed to
  decide that Maewen met
     some standard she
   approved of. The little
     frown cleared from
 between her eyebrows and
 she smiled and bent her
    head to Maewen.
 'Who is placed in my care
   by her aunt,' Navis
 continued. 'This lad with
me is Moril, from a line of
     famous Singers.'
   Singers were obviously
something Hildy respected.
 She bowed and smiled at
 Moril, who stared gravely
  and did not bow back.
   'And,' Navis finished
drily, 'Mitt of course you
          know.'
   Mitt had his face under
  control by then. It still
stared pale and blank, but
 he grafted a joking smile
on to it. 'Turned up again
  like the bad penny,' he
            said.
     Somehow this hurt
Maewen more than the way
 Mitt had looked at first.
 When Hildy nodded coolly
and turned away, Maewen
  could have slapped her.
  He's looked forward to
 meeting you, and worried
about you— which is more
than you deserve!—and you
    do this to him! she
 thought. You little—little
            cow!
  They all moved off, with
 Mitt drifting in the rear
 like a sleepwalker. Moril
 spoke to huge Biffa. 'Do
you happen to know where
  I'll find my sister?' He
said it shyly, but somehow
 made it plain that he had
 no use for Hildy. 'She's
        called Brid
    Clennensdaughter.'
   Maewen caught a look of
   sheer awe above her on
  Biffa's face. 'Brid!' said
Biffa. 'Is Brid your sister?
    She's Great Girl this
sessioning. She won all the
    prizes on tally. She's
 somewhere about with the
            Adon.'
 Eh? thought Maewen. But
the Adon's dead, centuries
       before this.
   Hildy turned half round
from in front. 'She means
  she's with the Earl of
Hannart's heir,' she said.
   'He came to see her
because she's the Earl of
 the South Dales' sister.'
   There was a reverent
note to her voice that told
 Maewen that Hildy was a
   snob. This probably
accounted for the way she
 treated Mitt. Mitt had
caught the reverent note
  too, and his face was
    worse than ever.
 'They say,' Biffa added
shyly to Moril, 'that the
Adon's in love with your
         sister.'
 'Is he?' said Moril, as if
he thought he might have
  something to say about
that. 'Where's the best
   place to find them?'
   'Skreths—no, maybe
Climbers,' said Biffa. 'I'll
come and show you if you
           like.'
   She led Moril off, while
  Hildy called instructions
about where to meet again
and Biffa called back about
    when. Both of them
    seemed to be talking
 gibberish. And when Biffa
   had vanished round the
  nearest corner, Maewen
  realised that there were
  only three of them left.
    Mitt seemed to have
slipped off with Biffa too.
   She could hardly blame
  him. She would not have
  stayed to be ignored by
  Hildy either. No, it was
worse than ignoring. It was
   more unkind than that.
 From what Moril had told
  her, Hildy was an earl's
 granddaughter, but Navis
was only a hearthman now.
  He was not going to be
  Duke of Kernsburgh for
some years yet. There was
no reason—no excuse—for
 Hildy to think so well of
         herself.
  She gloomily followed the
girl on a grand tour of the
 School. It soon became a
   great blur to Maewen,
 confused in her mind with
  tours of the Tannoreth
  Palace—except that this
tour was strewn with other
    pupils in white collars
  leading brightly clothed
 relatives who all looked as
    bewildered as Maewen.
 When she thought of the
   visit she had made here
with Aunt Liss, she became
 even more confused. None
 of it was the same. When
  she remembered some of
the buildings, they seemed
  smaller, or in the wrong
place. And parts of it were
      like any old school.
 Maewen's head ached and
 her stomach-ache came
 back. She trailed behind
Hildy and Navis, wanting to
    sit down, while Hildy
dragged Navis along by one
  hand, saying things like,
      'and this is where
  hardimers set trethers.
  Even if you're sailing in
 grybo, they can make you
 a comedown for squarks.'
 She never once bothered
  to explain. Navis looked
increasingly ironic. Maewen
   thought, Hildy doesn't
  want us to know what it
really means. She's one of
 those that like to be on
the inside knowing things,
with everyone else on the
  outside, not knowing.
  Perhaps this was unkind.
Maewen knew she was still
    feeling odd because
 someone had tried to kill
 her. She made an effort.
She came politely up beside
   Hildy while they were
   crossing an enormous
  courtyard that did not
exist in Maewen's day, and
  tried to join in the talk.
   But after a very short
   time of politeness, she
 found herself saying, not
altogether kindly, 'Why did
 you treat Mitt like that?
 He's been looking forward
       to seeing you.'
 'Really?' said Hildy. 'How
stupid of him. I suppose it
      comes of being
       uneducated.'
   'Is he uneducated?'
  Maewen said, even less
          kindly.
       'He's practically
illiterate,' said Hildy. 'He
    can hardly read.' She
    made it sound like an
   infectious disease. She
  added, 'He used to fish
 for a living.' Her manner
  of saying it told Maewen
that Hildy was quite aware
  of Maewen's unkindness,
that she had met it often
    before, and that she
   expected it and did not
     care two hoots.
    Hm, thought Maewen,
   dropping back again. I
 suppose that says volumes
 about her early life. She
   has problems. Well, I
suppose unpleasant people
do have problems, or they
wouldn't be unpleasant, but
 that doesn't mean I have
to like her—or forgive her!
  And she went on trailing
   behind. She ached all
    through. Some of it
 seemed to be an ache of
 the heart about the way
   Mitt must be feeling.
    Been here before, Mitt
   was thinking. It's only
what I'm used to. Only to
     be expected, really.
Hildy's back in the life she
  was bred for and that's
    that. But though this
   stopped him hurting—a
 little—he was still hurting
 in other ways he was not
        used to at all.
  He had thought Hildy was
   his friend. He had not
 known friendship could be
    such a fragile thing.
   Probably Ynen, if they
found him, would not want
 to know Mitt either. And
   who cares? he said to
himself, sauntering behind
 the mountainous Biffa and
  the much smaller Moril.
The size of Biffa made him
 grin, hurt as he felt. She
   was a good few inches
  taller than he was, and
 Mitt knew he was around
   six foot these days.
 'My parents keep the mill
over in Ansdale,' Biffa was
    saying to Moril, 'and
  they're both taller than
 me. If you think I'm big,
you should see my brother.
 Size runs in our family.'
 'It's not far to Ansdale,'
        said Moril.
   'Two days,' said Biffa.
'That would be four, if one
of them came to fetch me.
   They can't afford the
time. But they sent me the
 horse-hire to come home.
  I don't have to stay all
  through the recess like
        Hildy does.'
  Mitt wondered what kind
of mountainous horse Biffa
would have to hire to ride
  home on, but the sick,
 choked, hurt feeling kept
  him from joining in the
       conversation.
  They crossed an echoing
cloister and came out into
 a bright, hot courtyard
 with steps at both ends.
  'Climbers,' said Biffa.
      'There she is.'
 A number of hearthmen in
Hannart livery were sitting
   on the steps opposite,
indulgently watching Kialan
 Kerilsson walk about the
    court talking with a
     dark-haired girl in
  Lawschool uniform. Mitt
checked a bit at the sight.
     He had not properly
  attended to where Moril
  was going. But of course!
he thought bitterly. Kialan
    comes here to see his
 fancy, and they let him in
    early because he's an
earl's son, and he probably
  doesn't even notice he's
 getting special treatment.
There's earls for you. Mitt
thought he might go away.
Then his misery said, what
   the hell—I'll give him a
     rude message to his
 father. And he walked
down the steps with Biffa
       and Moril.
 'Brid,' Moril said sternly.
   The girl spun round. She
   was very pretty, even
  prettier than Fenna, and
   not as old as Mitt had
expected, probably only his
    own age. 'Moril!' she
 screamed and, unlike the
pupils in the sober line, she
 rushed at Moril and flung
 her arms around him. The
two of them hurtled round
and round, both talking at
  once and laughing, with
Kialan throwing remarks at
  Moril and laughing too.
 Mitt stood back hurting.
 'I only came to fetch her
back to Hannart,' he heard
        Kialan say.
   Brid's voice rose in a
 Singer's soprano, with a
 good strong edge to it.
    'Of course I'm not
  throwing away Singer
  heritage, Moril, or law
 learning! But it's my life
     and I decide it!'
   'So she'll be here for
three more years,' Kialan
 said ruefully. 'Satisfied,
Moril?' He probably was in
    love with Brid, Mitt
 thought. See the way he
 looked at her. His chest
   gave a wrench at the
          thought.
  Out of a further babble
 of talk, Moril asked, 'Is
   your father here?'
  Kialan shook his frizzy
 head. 'No, I came over
      alone. Why?'
 Alone except for twenty
hearthmen, Mitt thought,
and was taken by surprise
 when Moril said, 'Good.
  Then you can meet my
      friend Mitt.'
Mitt's chest gave another
wrench, that Moril called
him a friend, and then a
sort of hop at the eager
way Kialan instantly swung
round and stared, with his
 head up so that his nose
   made him look like a
  questing eagle. 'Mitt?'
    Kialan said. 'From
  Aberath? Really?' Mitt
nodded warily. 'What are
  you doing here?' Kialan
  asked, no less eagerly.
  Mitt intended a laugh. It
came out as a hacking sort
 of caw. 'Visiting on Hildy
     Navissdaughter.'
  Kialan's mouth bunched
   like a prune. 'That
  whitefaced little sow.
She'll be worse than Earl
   Hadd before she's
through—she's the image
   of him already! Her
brother Ynen's worth ten
         of her.'
   Mitt's chest did odd
things again. He was not
sure what he felt, but he
somehow made no protest
 when Kialan signalled to
   Brid to keep talking to
  Moril and seized Mitt's
arm and walked him out of
  their hearing. It was a
  lordly thing to do. Mitt
found he hardly cared. The
way he was feeling showed
   him that Kialan was a
lordly type who would have
acted like this if he'd been
born a fisherman's heir. It
 was a strange discovery.
 He faced Kialan, pricking
 with odd new sensitivity.
  'Am I glad to meet you
at last!' Kialan said. Mitt
knew he meant it. 'I was
 looking for you all over,
 when I was in Aberath.
 Did you really sail north
    with the Undying?'
     'In a manner of
 speaking,' Mitt said as
they walked up the steps
together. 'It was Ynen's
boat, but I helped bring
  Old Ammet aboard.'
 'I want to hear you tell
it,' Kialan said, 'but that'll
 have to wait.' He stopped
  halfway up the steps and
 again pulled Mitt round to
 face him. They were near
 enough of a height to look
  into one another's faces,
   but Kialan was chunkier.
    Kialan said, slowly and
  carefully, 'It was lucky I
    didn't run into you in
 Aberath. I'd have blurted
     out all sorts of jolly
 messages from Ynen—or I
   would until that evening.
  My father spoke to me
  before supper then and
   told me you weren't
 supposed to know where
 Ynen is. And of course I
  couldn't go against my
         father.'
   Mitt looked into Kialan's
light-coloured eyes, a good
many shades bluer than his
   own, and realised that
  Kialan was telling him all
  the same. His chest did
    strange things again.
 'When did you last speak
to Ynen?' he asked, testing
       the situation.
'This lady—Noreth—is she
 riding the green roads?'
Kialan asked, testing Mitt
         in return.
  'Alive and kicking,' Mitt
 said. 'She's around the
 school somewhere if you
    want to meet her.'
   For a second, Kialan
  looked as if he would
dearly have loved to meet
Noreth. Then he shook his
curly head regretfully. 'My
father would be furious. In
answer to your question, I
spoke to Ynen this morning
 before I set off to come
here. He wasn't allowed to
    send his love to his
     sister—' He looked
   questioningly at Mitt.
   'All right,' Mitt said.
      'I'll tell her.'
   'Thanks,' said Kialan.
 'I'd promised Ynen. And
 you're riding with this
 Noreth Onesdaughter?'
  'Down to Kernsburgh,'
 said Mitt. 'I suppose.'
  'I'll join you there,' said
Kialan. 'With Ynen. Wait
for us if we're not there
first. It's going to take a
bit of planning.' He swung
Mitt round again and they
   strolled back down the
 steps. 'So where did you
 make landfall?' he asked
loudly, for the benefit of
the hearthmen across the
       courtyard.
 'Holy Isles,' said Mitt.
 'And right weird they
         were.'
 'I've heard they are,'
 Kialan agreed. 'Where
         then?'
   'Blown north again to
Aberath,' Mitt said. 'We
 never saw the coast till
then. We'd no idea we'd
     come that far.'
  'Amazing,' said Kialan.
'Well, thanks for telling
me.' He let go of Mitt's
          arm.
  'You're welcome,' Mitt
said, backing away. 'Tell
 Moril I'll be with Navis
   when he wants us.'
     'Right,' said Kialan,
strolling back towards the
  others. Brid waved and
called out something happy
      to both of them.
 Mitt could not face happy
scenes. He went the other
  way, back up the steps
  with long, busy strides,
     pretending he had
something important to do.
 His mind was all over the
  place. He needed to be
 alone to think. But there
were people everywhere, in
  happy chatting groups.
Back and forth went Mitt,
looking as busy as he knew
  how, through gardens,
  under arches, across a
   wide paved court, into
buildings again. And always
there were people. Until at
   last he came out into a
  gravel court where there
     was a small separate
   building, a funny domed
   place that looked older
 than all the rest. Nobody
 seemed to be about here.
   Mitt went cautiously in
      through its arched
doorway. Inside, it seemed
to be a stone summerhouse
with a stone table up some
steps at one end. Mitt sat
     on one of the stone
benches that curved round
the walls, between bundles
   of twisted greenstone
 pillars, and gave himself
 thankfully up to thought.
   So Ynen was in Hannart,
  then, right under Keril's
 eye. It made sense. Even
 Navis would hardly try to
get Ynen out of there. But
  Kialan could. Who would
      have thought it?
Mistrustfully, Mitt tried to
tell himself that Kialan had
not meant a word of what
 he seemed to mean. He
  was just acting for his
  father, getting Mitt to
  betray himself. 'And I
 did—didn't I just!' Mitt
   said aloud. But as the
 words echoed round the
domed room, he knew that
 Kialan had been entirely
 straight with him. Kialan
was all right. The bitter,
 disillusioned feeling that
  made Mitt not want to
  trust anyone was about
Hildy, not Kialan. He knew
 very well how Kialan came
    to think so differently
 from his father. Mitt had
 only to recall that glimpse
    he had had, of Kialan
shuffling through Holand, a
prisoner of Navis's father,
   to know it. Over a year
  ago it had been now, but
    Mitt remembered it as
      fresh as if it were
yesterday. No doubt Kialan
 remembered even better.
Kialan knew all about how it
felt to be in the power of
         an earl.
  All the same, Kialan had
  no call to say Hildy was
    like Earl Hadd. Mitt
decided he hated Kialan for
that—all the more because
 he suspected Kialan might
          be right.
  'Damned earls and their
  families!' Mitt said out
loud, clenching both hands
 on the edge of the stone
   seat. His eyes glared
 ahead at the stone table
and the lopsided metal cup
  on it. Hildy and Kialan
 between them had mixed
   his mind up properly.
     His eyes suddenly told
him what they were seeing.
  That stone table was an
 altar. There was an image
  in a niche above it of an
     old man lifting up a
 mountain. The One. That
   meant that the lopsided
    cup had to be the one
Noreth wanted—the Adon's
          cup.
   Mitt clutched the stone
 bench even harder. It was
  the perfect opportunity.
 All he had to do was walk
  over, pick the thing up,
and stuff it down the front
of his jacket. Noreth would
    rejoice. And with the
    school swarming with
  people, if somebody did
  notice the cup was gone
   and raise a shout, how
were they to know which of
the crowd had taken it? If
Mitt took it and went now,
 through the valley and up
to the green road, he could
   be gone before anyone
 could do anything. So why
 was he sitting here like an
  idiot, clinging to a stone
seat until his fingers hurt?
  Because it was stealing.
Because he had made that
promise to Alk. Because he
 had spoken words to Old
   Ammet, and to Libby
Beer—who had been around
   yesterday and today,
perhaps to remind Mitt of
those words. Mitt grinned,
   a bent unfunny smile.
Funny the way it was never
    enough to swear and
promise just the once. You
seemed to have to rethink
 and repromise every time
   the subject came up.
   Mitt's smile narrowed
 away. This time he would
 be stealing from the One,
 and even sane, level Alk
was cautious with the One.
On the other hand, Noreth
    was the One's own
  daughter, and the One
 wanted her to have the
cup. And now, after Hildy
   and Kialan had mixed
Mitt's mind up, he felt like
 doing something bad. It
 would be a waste not to,
          really.
 Mitt unclenched his fists
from the bench and stood
  up. He listened. All the
  voices and footsteps he
could hear were off in the
 distance. What he could
  see of the gravel court
 through the doorway was
  empty. So. Get it over
            with.
     Mitt took three long
strides to the altar. There
 he flinched and froze. He
could have sworn a shadow,
like an old man with a long
  nose, had swung through
 the room as he took the
third step. As if someone
   had flitted across the
doorway. But he stood and
 he waited and he listened
  and no feet crunched on
  the gravel outside. The
  new view he had of the
    court from here was
empty. He stretched out a
cautious hand and grasped
   the cup round its wide
        uneven stem.
  The domed room filled
 with crackling blue light.
   Mitt leapt back. One arm
    was over his face and
  watering eyes. The other
 hand was fizzing, prickling
  and stinging and he shook
it frantically. The light was
 gone by then. Mitt blinked
   away tears and dazzle,
 panting. No wonder no one
bothered to guard this cup.
   The thing looked after
   itself. He looked round
  nervously, hoping that no
one had been near enough
 to see the One's chapel
 suddenly fill with light.
   Somebody must have
 been. There were shouts
    outside, loud and
desperate, from somebody
          young.
          XIV
  Maewen had had enough
 of Hildy by then. Navis
was being far too patient
with her. 'Now look, my
dear,' he was saying, as
they wandered through the
  garden by the gate, 'it
   really is vital that you
 come away with us today.
If you remain here, you're
  playing into Earl Keril's
hands. He's using you as a
 hostage for my behaviour
— not to speak of Mitt's.'
    'Let's not speak of
    Mitt,' said Hildy.
 'All right, we'll speak of
you, then,' Navis agreed.
'Everyone else goes away
 from here today — isn't
  that right? Surely you
would prefer not to be left
 all alone in this place all
          summer.'
    The fierce little frown
   grew between Hildy's
    brows. 'Why are you
bothering now? I was alone
here for nearly two weeks
   at Spring Recess — at
 least Biffa was here too,
 but it was nearly alone —
     and I didn't mind.'
    'Things have changed
  since then,' Navis said
         patiently.
    'What things?' said
         Hildy.
 'Politics. I know now that
you were sent to this place
 as part of a plan,' Navis
explained. 'The plans I've
made to counter the earls'
 move could make it very
 dangerous for you. Keril
  knows you are here. He
has only to take you away.
 Anyway, the only safe
thing for you to do is to
be with me for the next
   three months. I —'
   'Three months!' Hildy
interrupted. 'But then I'd
miss Harvest grittling and
  modes and the start of
   middle vokes — No!'
   'Well, yes, I'm afraid
     you would,' Navis
 admitted. 'But you'd be
  alive. You'd not be in
  prison. You can always
 come back next year, if
   things go our way.'
  'If! Next year\ Miss a
 whole year!' It was clear
Hildy could not believe her
 ears. 'Just for politics!
No way!' She meant this so
  much that she actually
made an effort to explain.
'Father, you're asking me
    to go back to junior
vocation studies, just for
        politics.''
 Navis looked exasperated
 and, for him, surprisingly
  helpless. His eyes flicked
     to Maewen. Maewen
 realised she must be some
    of his difficulty. She
   supposed it was because
  Navis had told Hildy she
  was someone called Ilona
  Something and Navis was
 not sure he dared explain
  who she really was — or
    who Navis thought she
  was. Oh, what a muddle!
  Maewen was sick of this.
It was with enormous relief
that she saw Biffa coming
  towering through the
  garden towards them.
 Maewen rushed to meet
           her.
   'There you are!' Biffa
      said. 'I hunted
    everywhere. Then I
 thought she'd decided to
show you the One's chapel
and I came this way. Have
     you been there?'
 'Not yet,' Maewen said.
   'Which way is it?'
  But Biffa was gazing over
  Maewen's head. 'What's
   wrong with Hildy? She
looks near-on in one of her
          rages.'
   Maewen looked back at
   Navis and Hildy, bent
    towards one another
  arguing, against a great
  bush of lavender full of
bees. She saw the anger in
Hildy's white face and the
  worry in Biffa's healthy
pink one, and she wondered
how Hildy had managed to
be friends with such a nice
 girl. 'Navis wants to take
  her away with him,' she
 explained, 'and she won't
             go.'
    'Why ever not?' said
  Biffa. 'She's been right
gloomy all this week, saying
 she'll be alone all summer
    here — you wouldn't
          believe!'
   Maewen could believe.
'Then go and persuade her
  — Navis is worried to
death,' she said. 'Which
way is the One's chapel?'
  'Over there,' Biffa said,
 pointing. 'You'll just have
time before grittling.' She
strode over to the lavender
bush to loom anxiously over
            Hildy.
   Maewen sighed as she
trudged off the way Biffa
 pointed. She knew Biffa
would persuade Hildy. She
  supposed it was a good
   thing, if Hildy was in
    danger. But the idea
depressed her too much for
 her to bother to work out
what the danger might be.
  There would be Hildy all
  the way to Kernsburgh,
    frowning angrily and
  pretending Mitt did not
exist. And Mitt would have
that look all the time, with
  that horrible joky smile
  grafted on top of it. It
  hardly bore thinking of.
     Chalk up another black
    mark to this Keril, she
    thought, as she came
   through the bushes and
    saw the One's chapel
  across a gravel court. It
      was just as she had
   remembered it. But she
   had not remembered it
here. The buildings must all
    have been in different
  places after two hundred
  years. I wonder why she
 didn't show us it, Maewen
 thought. No, I know why.
It's not something she can
   call a silly name and
mystify us with. Or maybe
  she'd call it Wunners.
    The thought amused
Maewen enough to give her
  the courage to advance
slowly and quietly towards
the small, domed building.
 She was not happy with
 the idea of stealing this
cup. But she did think she
ought to do something for
herself. And of course she
    was in the fortunate
  position of knowing that
she had done it. Just rush
in, snatch it, and out, she
     told herself as she
    advanced cautiously,
   slantwise to the door.
   A funny blue flash made
her jump round. The gravel
    crunched under quick
 footsteps. Maewen swung
  round further, almost in
time. Someone muffled in a
 grey robe grabbed at her
with one hand and raised a
    knife in the other.
   'No, not again! Help?
    Maewen screamed.
    She went on screaming,
 because this time he had
not grabbed her throat. It
 was so much like last time
  that she was sure it was
the same man. He had her
 arm instead of her throat
and he was trying to twist
  it so that she would hold
still for him to bring down
the knife into her neck. In
 spite of the way it hurt,
Maewen seized the wrist of
  his knife-hand with her
 free hand and frantically
held it away. She could see
his face over her head. It
seemed to be made of grey
    cloth, except for his
  glaring eyes. The sight
turned her weak. She could
 only push at his wrist and
keep screaming, 'Help! I'm
        being killed!'
      Gravel scrunched and
 spurted, stinging her face.
   Someone said, 'Flaming
  Ammet!' and then, 'Drop
  that, you hooded horror,
  you!' Mitt's unmistakable
large bony hand closed over
 the fist that was trying to
   stab Maewen. Everyone
  swayed, and grunted, and
  slid, in a shrill jangling of
  gravel. Then the attacker
 wrenched his hand, and his
  knife, free and ran, with
     Mitt after him like a
  greyhound. Maewen was
left standing in a patter of
small stones, still shouting.
    'Oh save me, Mitt!'
 She heard herself say it,
as the madly running grey
   man plunged into the
 bushes and trees of the
 garden and Mitt hurtled
   after him. She stood
  staring, feeling a total
 fool. Tears were running
down her face, though she
 had no memory of when
  she had started crying.
How — how totally — girly!
 'Oh save me, Mitt!' she
mimicked herself. Honestly!
  She tried to walk to the
 chapel then, but her legs
wobbled and refused to go,
  even though at the time
  they were carrying her
  round and round on the
spot, like someone in a mad
 giddy dance. She seemed
   to be trying to see all
 sides of the yard at once
  in case there were any
 more grey attackers. She
  made herself stop that.
 She managed to stand still
  and wipe her eyes, but
    that was all she could
 manage before Mitt came
  hurtling back with Navis
running beside him. Both of
   them looked so anxious
  that tears came leaking
down Maewen's face again.
  'Bastard got away in the
     bushes!' Mitt said
       disgustedly.
  'What are you doing on
  your own here?' Navis
        demanded.
 Maewen swallowed. 'Cup,'
she managed, but that was
           all.
   'That's easily solved,'
said Navis. 'Stay with her,
           Mitt.'
   Before Mitt could say
   anything, Navis had
  crossed the gravel and
 briskly vanished into the
          chapel.
   'Are you all right?' Mitt
   asked Maewen. He put
both hands out uncertainly,
 with half a mind to take
hold of her shoulders. But
 then he did not quite like
    to touch her. Maewen
  instantly found she was
hurling herself against him.
    She pressed her face
against his chest. Through
  the hard mail, she could
 feel Mitt panting and his
 heart thumping. She was
sure she was embarrassing
 him horribly, but this did
   not prevent her from
 wrapping her arms round
him, tightly. One of Mitt's
 arms came gingerly round
    her shoulders and he
 patted her back. 'There,
   there. It's all right.'
  'Oh, Mitt, I'm so sorry!'
Maewen blurted. 'About me
 and about Hildy — about
       everything!'
   'There, there,' Mitt
       repeated.
    That was all they had
time for before Navis trod
  briskly out of the chapel
  again carrying something
      bundled in a large
    handkerchief. 'Quite
 simple, you see,' he said.
  Mitt stood back a bit,
  with a damp spreading
patch on his jacket where
Maewen's face had been.
 'Simple?' he said. 'It's
 got a hex on it sizzles off
like a thunderbolt when you
          touch it!'
   'This being the North, I
    considered that,' said
 Navis, 'and I didn't touch
  it. Look.' He opened the
silk handkerchief a fraction
 to show the cup nestled in
 it. Then he calmly stowed
   the bundle in one of his
 wide pockets. 'We'd best
  take ourselves off to the
great court,' he said as he
made sure this pocket was
arranged not to bulge more
 than the one on the other
side of his coat. 'We must
attend a closing ceremony,
         it seems.'
  They went there slowly.
 Maewen was still shaking
  and her legs were not
steady. Navis courteously
  put his hand under her
 elbow to help her along.
Mitt avoided touching her.
 Maewen kept seeing him
rubbing at the wet patch
her face had made on his
 chest. She could hardly
     look at him for
     embarrassment.
  'You persuaded Hildy to
come along?' Mitt asked,
rather too casually, giving
 his chest a further rub.
  'Not yet,' said Navis.
  Mitt's face went tight
  and bony, like a skull.
     'She's got to.'
   'I know,' said Navis.
'I'm hoping that extremely
  large friend of hers can
 make her see reason. In
that hope, I explained the
 whole situation to both of
           them.'
  'Biffa?' said Mitt. 'Is
       that safe?'
   'I trusted her,' said
Navis. 'And this you won't
 believe! The girl's real
     name is Enblith!'
  'After Enblith the Fair!'
 In spite of his skull-face
 of worry, Mitt began to
         giggle.
  'Unkind, isn't it?' Navis
said. 'Her parents made a
   serious miscalculation
 there. Not that she's un
 beautiful, poor girl. Just
too big for one to see it.'
  Maewen wondered how
 anyone could be so cool
with the stolen cup in his
  pocket. Mitt tried to
match Navis in coolness.
  He said, 'I found out
   where Ynen is. It seems
 like bad news, but it could
just be good — very good.'
     'Later. Hush,' said
           Navis.
 They came round a corner
    in a covered walk and
  found themselves at the
      top of wide steps
   overlooking the biggest
   courtyard. People were
crowded on the steps below
  them, serious, parently
people, all looking across to
 the main school building,
      where a line of
   grey-coated teachers
  stood. One stood out in
  front in a blue and grey
 gown. In front of them,
  the courtyard was filled
   with rows and rows of
 uniformed pupils in bright
       white collars.
  They had missed quite a
 bit of the ceremony. The
gowned teacher was saying,
  in a voice that carried
      almost as well as
Hestefan's, Tor those who
now go out into the world,
       this is a solemn
  leave-taking. For those
 who will return here next
Harvest, it is a temporary
  parting, accompanied, I
hope, by new resolves and
higher endeavours. I would
  like you all seriously to
        consider.. .'
   Maewen let the strong
 voice fade to a drone in
  her ears. I don't believe
       it! she thought.
   Headmasters must have
   made this speech ever
since schools were invented!
      Something scuffled
behind. She and Mitt both
  jumped round. But it was
     only Moril, tiptoeing
  towards them. He looked
white and worried. Mitt, at
      the sight of him,
 self-consciously rubbed at
  his chest again. 'What's
           up?'
       'The cup!' Moril
whispered back. 'I went to
get it and it wasn't there!'
   'Never fear,' Navis
murmured. 'The sacrilege
  has been committed
       already.'
  'Is that why you all look
so worried? Why don't we
just go then?' Moril said.
    People on the steps
  turned round and said,
'Hush!' Navis put a finger
 to his lips. Maewen pulled
herself together enough to
  take hold of Moril's arm
and tow him back round the
           corner.
   'We have to leave with
  everyone else or they'll
know exactly who's got it,'
      she whispered.
   Moril was no fool. She
saw him realise this as she
 was telling him. 'Sorry,'
 he said. 'But I told Mitt
     I'd get it. He—'
  'It wasn't Mitt. It was
         Navis.'
  This obviously astonished
Moril. Well, it astonished
Maewen too, now she came
 to think of it. Navis was
  an adult and a sensible
 person. If he thought it
was necessary to take the
 cup, this somehow made
  the whole matter more
          serious.
   When they came back
  round the corner, the
 headmaster was saying,
   'We will now sing our
 customary prayer to the
  One, who is the special
  guardian of our school.
What comes after that is
something my staff and I
   know nothing about.'
   For some reason almost
everyone laughed. Then the
 grey rows of pupils broke
into song. It was a solemn
  and simple invocation to
 the One, and like nothing
Maewen had heard before.
Mitt was as startled as she
     was. The song was
 beautiful. The strange old
 tune swelled and mounted,
  warm and chilling at the
   same time, and full of
reverence. While it lasted,
  something seemed to fill
  the vast courtyard that
   was not of this world.
  Maewen's back prickled.
  Navis has done an awful
   thing! she thought. But
Navis never turned a hair.
   Moril listened critically.
'I never care for those old
 tunes,' he said. 'What's
going—? Oh, I remember.'
  The headmaster and the
     other teachers had
vanished from the front of
    the building as if the
ground had swallowed them
    up, and the ranks of
grey-uniformed pupils were
 suddenly seething. Nearly
  every one of them was
pulling over his or her head
  a coloured hood of some
    kind, and most were
  putting on clumsy gloves
too. Quite a number of the
 hoods were grey, or grey
 with a blue or orange tuft
on top. As soon as Maewen
 saw them, she understood
   how her attacker had
     managed to be so
  thoroughly disguised. He
     must have raided a
   cloakroom. The hoods
 covered faces except for
the eyes. Sober pupils had
 now become blob-faced
 monsters, with formless
grey, green or red heads.
   The sight upset her.
     There was confused
   shouting, muffled and
 strange, from under the
hoods. It sounded like 'Bad
  on' and 'Herry's gone'.
  After a second, Kialan
came sauntering down the
steps at one side, trying,
from the look of him, not
   to look as silly and
  sheepish as he felt, and
stopped slightly to one side
  of the milling monsters.
   'They always ask the
 most important visitor to
start it,' Moril explained.
  'Eye, eye, eye,' came
the muffled shouts. 'Owe
        it eye.'
  Kialan nodded. Someone
on the steps tossed him a
 great brown ragged ball.
Kialan took it in one hand,
bent over sideways with it
and heaved it high into the
 sky. He probably intended
it to come down somewhere
in the middle of the crowd,
  but either the thing was
  weighted oddly or Kialan
  miscalculated his throw.
 The ball came down again
    almost where he was
   standing. Kialan saw it
come and simply ran for his
            life.
  'Nor don't I blame him!'
        Mitt said.
     The whole crowd of
  monsters closed on the
spot, righting like maniacs.
Many fought with fists and
     feet. But weapons
 appeared too, which must
have been hidden under the
   sober uniforms. There
 were clubs, whips, sticks
  and at least one person
was wielding a short plank.
  It looked as if someone
    would be maimed or
   trampled to death any
          second.
 After a stunned minute,
Navis said, 'This, I take
    it, is grittling?'
   'That's right,' said
         Moril.
    'How comforting to
 know,' Navis said, 'that
the South is, after all, a
  comparatively peaceful
  place. And here was I
   thinking that all the
bloodshed happened south
      of the passes.'
 'Yes, but what are the
  rules?' Mitt wanted to
           know.
       The rest of the
  spectators were shouting
'Up the reds!' and 'Yellow,
 yellow, yellow!' as if they
  knew what was going on.
  Moril was not very sure,
but he thought each of the
  colours was a team, and
 the aim was for one team
to get the ball into its own
   special place round the
   edge of the big court.
There were lots of places.
 There seemed to be at
 least seven teams. The
fight rushed this way and
          that.
   'I hope they don't make
 a mistake and score with
  someone's severed head
instead of the ball,' Navis
murmured. 'How long does
  it usually take, and how
    many deaths result?'
    'I don't know,' Moril
confessed. 'Brid doesn't do
            it.'
  It seemed to take hours.
  Hours of yelling, battling
  and thwacking, of giant
      surges and furious
    counterattacks. Long
     before it was over,
   Maewen was hiding her
 eyes. The sight of all this
  fighting, after someone
had twice tried to kill her,
  was just too much. She
  wanted to leave. But as
she had sensibly told Moril,
  they dared not leave.
    Moril was not happy
either. 'It reminds me of
    Flenpass,' he said.
  Mitt, on the other hand,
had discovered that it was
 easy to pick Biffa out in
the fray and he was yelling
 with the rest. 'Come on,
  Biffa! Hit him! Ammet,
 that girl's strong. Go to
     it, Biffa! Go it!'
  And eventually the ball
 went into someone's goal
 area in a tumble of grey
bodies and a great deal of
         shouting.
 Shortly after that, Hildy
 and Biffa joined them on
the steps. They were both
  dangling blue hoods and
  were very flushed. The
   hoods were padded all
 over, particularly across
 the nose, and they must
  have been boiling hot in
           them.
 'Well?' said Navis. 'Did
        you win?'
    Hildy's chin lifted
haughtily. 'Of course. You
    must have seen.'
  'I saw murder, mayhem
   and confusion,' Navis
 retorted. 'Are either of
  you seriously maimed?'
  'Of course not—not with
Biffa as our surnam,' Hildy
           said.
 'It was great!' said Mitt.
  'Don't mind him. Hildy,
 Ynen sends you his love.'
   Hildy glanced at Mitt as
if it were very tiresome to
 have to answer. 'Thanks,'
 she said, and turned back
  to her father. The look
   settled on Mitt's face
 again. It was not so much
 hurt as mortally wounded,
   Maewen thought. She
     wished someone had
        maimed Hildy.
     'Father,' Hildy said,
'I've come to a decision. I
 intend to be a really good
    law-woman and—'
  'An excellent intention,'
    said Navis. 'Is this
 recent? Did it come upon
 you during the grittling?'
  Hildy stamped her foot.
Maewen hardly blamed her.
Navis could be maddening.
 'Oh, I wish you wouldn't
be so—so unserious all the
  time! You always try to
  stop me doing things by
   making me look silly!'
   'Let us get this clear,
 Hildy,' Navis said, almost
   angrily. 'I have never,
ever wanted to prevent you
 being a lawyer. I am not
  trying to stop you now.'
  'Yes you are!' Hildy cried
 out. 'If what you told me
 goes wrong, then we'd be
 on the run and I'd never
get back here. I'd have to
  sacrifice what I want to
 politics, just like I have
 done all my life! I'm not
going to. I refuse to come
  with you. I'm staying
here!' She spun round and
 marched away down the
steps, angrily swinging her
        blue hood.
  Navis watched until she
 was lost in the surging,
 mingling crowd. His eyes
were narrowed. He looked
  vicious and wretched.
  'Excuse me, sir,' Biffa
 said, looming shyly over
           him.
 Navis jumped and looked
up at her. 'Didn't anything
I said get through to her?'
      he asked Biffa.
     'Not really,' Biffa
   admitted. 'But it got
  through to me. That's
 what I wanted to talk to
  you about. I know she
  ought to be away from
here, somewhere where no
earls will think to look—and
 I thought—Anyway, if I
asked her to come home to
 our mill with me for the
   summer, I know she'd
  come, and no one would
expect that, because we're
 poor. But—but the trouble
is I only have the hire for
        one horse.'
   Navis's face relaxed.
 'May the One bless you,
 my child!' he said. 'That
 would solve the summer.
But I was talking about an
 autumn campaign, if you
 remember. Can you think
   of a way to stop her
   coming back here?'
   Biffa shyly twisted her
 hood. 'That's the other
thing I wanted to tell you,
  sir. We get the autumn
   storms real terribly in
from the Marshes, over in
 Ansdale. Sometimes you
   can't get down to the
 valleys until weeks after
   Harvest. I was over a
  month late getting here
last autumn—that's how I
 came to know Hildy. We
 were both latecomers, as
well as on scholarships. But
 Hildy came a month after
 me, and she won't know.'
   'Ahah!' said Navis. 'This
 is deep cunning, my dear!'
  Biffa went very pink and
  shot a flustered smile at
Mitt, then at Maewen and
  Moril. 'Well, if you think
you can keep my thankless
daughter safe,' Navis went
    on, briskly undoing his
  money belt, 'here is the
hire of a horse for her and
  money for her keep. Is
       this enough?'
   Biffa looked at the pile
  of gold coins he pushed
into her hand and her eyes
  went large. 'It would do
 me a year, sir—or two, if
 I went steady. I'll give it
    Hildy now, not to be
 tempted. That's the third
   thing I wanted to tell
you—we ought to go now, in
  among everyone else, so
that when those Hannart
  people look round for
   Hildy, she's gone.
Wouldn't you say so, sir?'
  'Absolutely right,' said
 Navis. 'Biffa, you are an
extremely intelligent young
          woman.'
     Biffa went an even
  brighter pink. 'Yes, I
know,' she said. 'But me
being so big, people never
 think of me as clever. I
 trade on it quite a lot.'
Everyone laughed. It was
too much for Biffa. She
    turned and ran.
  'Quite a character,'
      Navis said.
'Do you trust her?' Mitt
         said.
 'I think it's all right,'
Moril said. 'She sort of
worships Hildy—you know
   the way girls do.'
'But all that money!' Mitt
muttered as they joined
  the shuffling mass of
    people trying to get
through the garden and out
   of the school gate. 'I
 wouldn't trust myself with
 that lot. And she said she
    traded on her size.'
    It was a nerve-racking
  time. They shuffled and
    stopped, and shuffled
again, and the garden lawn
 got trampled under many
  feet. They were too far
from the gate to tell if the
cup had been missed, or if
  the many hold-ups were
because Hannart hearthmen
  were waiting at the gate
 for Hildy or Maewen. And
that gate was the only way
            out.
  'I think it's merely the
   confusion of so many
 departures,' Navis said.
He was completely cool. He
seemed to be one of those
people who just got cooler
  the more danger there
           was.
   As they shuffled nearer
 the gate, it began to look
as if Navis was right. The
 opening was crammed with
   parents and pupils and
    younger brothers and
  sisters, all with luggage
  and lunch baskets. Pupils
 kept forgetting things and
    shoving back into the
 school to find them. Many
 families had hired porters
to carry the pupils' trunks,
 so the way was constantly
 being blocked by men with
  handcarts, shouting,
   'Porter for Serieth
Gunsson!' as they came in
and, 'Por—ter! Mind your
 backs!' as they shoved
  their way out again.
After a while, Moril said
quietly, 'Biffa and Hildy
are in the crowd behind
           us.'
 Maewen wished she was
 taller. It took her five
 minutes of twisting and
standing on tiptoe to see
the two girls. Both carried
     bulging bags. Very
  sensibly, they had mixed
themselves up with a family
    of tall men who were
 fetching home a boy pupil
even taller than Biffa, and
   were talking busily with
 them as if they belonged.
   'A relief,' Navis said,
    after he had turned
casually and seen them too.
 'So young Biffa is honest
           then.'
  They reached the gate at
long last. People were just
 shoving their way through
without being stopped, but
 without any order either.
  The man with bad teeth
 was standing to one side.
     He stopped Navis.
     'Excuse me, sir.'
 Everyone waited for the
worst. 'Excuse me, one of
your party left a cwidder
        with me.'
   Moril shoved his way
 through, while the rest of
them tried hard not to look
  as relieved as they felt.
    The man turned and
fetched the cwidder out of
 his cubby hole beside the
            gate.
     'Here you are. One
 cwidder, safe and sound.
   Is it you the Adon's
 waiting for?' He pointed
   sideways through the
          opening.
      There, beyond a
confusion of carriages and
    carts, the Hannart
   horsemen stood in a
 huddle. Kialan was in the
  midst of them looking
   bored and impatient.
  Moril took it in without a
blink. 'No. It's my sister.
    She's always late.'
    'No, lad, she's out
  there,' the man said.
 They could all see Brid as
  he spoke, on a horse
      beside Kialan.
    'Well, it's not me. I
  don't live in Hannart,'
   Moril said. 'I expect
    they're waiting for
 Hildrida Navissdaughter.
 Isn't that so?' he asked
           Navis.
     'My daughter,' Navis
said, looking quite at ease,
'is even more inclined to be
   late than your sister.'
   The man laughed a
 mouthful of bad teeth.
'Women!' he said, handing
    Moril the cwidder.
    They went out through
the gate. Mitt and Maewen
felt weak at the risk of it
  all, but Navis and Moril
   wandered nonchalantly
  along the line of horses
and Navis gave Moril a leg
 up to ride double with him
   until they came to the
cart. As he arrived on top
  of the mare, Moril gave
   Kialan a friendly wave.
  Kialan waved back. They
 saw him scan the three
horses and try not to look
         puzzled.
   Moril giggled. 'Expecting
 Hildrida to be with us and
all set to pretend he didn't
 see,' he said as Mitt and
Maewen mounted. 'Now he
  can't think what's going
   on. Good. It distracted
       him beautifully.'
   Mitt batted aside the
  Countess-horse's biting
   mouth. 'What do you
          mean?'
   Navis set a sedate pace
  round the walls towards
 the main part of Gardale
  valley. It was sensible,
although Maewen could see
 the cup flopping heavily in
   Navis's pocket and the
  sight made her want to
 gallop. 'Moril means,' he
  said, 'that while he was
waving to Kialan, Hildy and
Biffa came out and almost
instantly cadged a lift in a
carriage. If that carriage
 takes them into town and
 they hire horses at those
stables in the first street,
they could be away almost
    as soon as we are.'
   'And Kialan can't tell
Keril,' said Moril. 'Keril's
 rather good at getting
  things out of people.'
    'I believe you,' said
           Mitt.
   As their three horses
rounded the corner of the
school walls, Maewen had a
    good view of a man in
 Hannart livery pushing his
 way out through the gate
 and running towards Kialan
  shaking his head. Before
   they were quite out of
  sight, Kialan was giving a
genuine display of someone
annoyed and baffled and at
the end of his patience. As
   the walls hid them, the
   Hannart horsemen were
   turning to ride off the
         other way.
   Miraculously, nobody at
all seemed to have noticed
    the cup was missing.

 Part IV - Sword
    and Crown
           XV
 Weariness hit Maewen as
  soon as they were well
away from the school. The
   Gardale valley was as
      beautiful as she
remembered from her visit
 with Aunt Liss, and much
  the same except there
  were far fewer houses.
  They took narrow lanes
 where wild roses grew in
the hedges, miles of them,
 that blurred in her mind.
   She was so tired she
    almost missed seeing
Hestefan's cart and would
 have ridden straight past
   if the others had not
          stopped.
 The cart was parked on a
triangle where three lanes
met. The mule was hitched
to an oak tree almost the
 same colour as the cart,
   and dozing on its feet.
Moril jumped off the mare
 and went racing anxiously
   over, with the cwidder
 bumping on his back. He
  looked over the tailgate
 and came back. 'It's all
right. He's asleep inside.'
The relief in his face was
mixed with worry. 'I don't
      think he's well.'
  'He's not a young man,'
Navis said. 'And I'm sure
he was injured, or shocked
 at least, when your cart
       overturned.'
   'Let him sleep,' Mitt
suggested. 'They say sleep
         cures.'
 Moril unhitched the mule,
 which was not anxious to
move, and drove the cart
    behind the horses.
Hestefan did not stir. The
miles went by slower still.
   Moril was white with
          worry.
 'And no wonder,' Navis
murmured to Mitt. 'What
   becomes of him if
    Hestefan dies?'
  'There's that brother of
  his,' Mitt said stoutly.
'He's fond of the old lolly,
  that's all. Worry about
Hildy instead. And I'll tell
   you about Kialan now.'
 The two of them talked in
   low voices. Maewen
    continued to ride in a
    daze, long, long lanes
through the valley, a long,
    long haul up a slanting
track into the hills beyond.
After what seemed an age,
her horse humped itself on
 to level green turf at the
   head of the track, and
   there was the waystone
     casting a huge hollow
    shadow in the evening
 light. Wend's shadow was
even bigger as he stood up
        to meet them.
     Seeing him, Maewen
 relaxed from a watch she
  had not realised she was
 keeping. Safe at last! she
     thought. Wend was
Undying. He had the power
to keep her safe. Most of
   her weariness dropped
 away. She realised it had
  been a smokescreen her
mind had put up to disguise
how terrified she had been
  that someone would jump
  out from behind a hedge
 and try to kill her again.
 She was so glad to see
Wend that she leant down
from her horse and wrung
        his hand.
  Wend was surprised, but
 she could tell he was very
  flattered, too. His face
looked like a normal human
 person's who was glad to
see friends again. 'There's
  a good camp in a mile or
        so,' he said.
 It was a very good camp.
 It was a green lawn-like
  place set back from the
road, spread beside a pool
 from a cascading stream.
There were rocks to sit on
and a small wood of rowans
  and silver birch leaning
       over the place.
 'Protection,' Wend said,
  patting a graceful silver
           trunk.
 'Libby Beer?' Mitt asked.
 Wend looked at him. 'You
  know her?' he asked
        sharply.
 'You might say so,' Mitt
said. 'We've met once or
         twice.'
     Wend stared at him
 gravely for a moment, as
  if he were reappraising
something. Then he turned
   away, looking puzzled.
 The fresh, safe feeling in
the camp revived everyone.
  They all bustled about,
 seeing to the horses and
   making a fire. When
 Hestefan crawled out of
the cart, rubbing his eyes
and saying he didn't know
 what had come over him,
he was greeted with jokes
     and laughter from
 everyone. There did not
  seem to be much wrong
with Hestefan. He helped
Wend fill Wend's hat with
    wild strawberries as
 energetically as Mitt and
     Moril were hunting
     mushrooms further
  upstream. Among them
   they provided quite a
          feast.
   Maewen kept looking at
Mitt, wondering if he was
   still feeling bad about
Hildy. She simply could not
 tell. The fact was, Mitt
  had no idea himself. At
  times, while Navis was
giving Wend and Hestefan
 the story of all they had
   missed in Gardale, he
    thought that if only
  someone would give him
 definite proof that Hildy
  and Biffa were safely on
   the way to Ansdale, he
     could forget Hildy
    entirely—almost with
relief. Trouble with me, he
 thought, watching Wend's
 straight, fair face turning
  to Noreth in alarm, I'm
like a stupid dog that asks
        to be kicked.
    'Twice?' said Wend.
 'Lady, I must ask you not
to go down from the green
roads again. The paths can
     keep you safe.'
    'But did you get the
  cup?' Hestefan asked.
  'Navis did,' Moril said.
He was still sore about it.
    'Please show us,'
Hestefan said politely to
         Navis.
 Maewen forgot Mitt. This
was going to be alarming.
  Nervously she watched
 Navis feel in his pocket
and pull out the bundle of
silk handkerchief. It was
    twilight by then and
      greenish. As the
 handkerchief fell aside,
  the firelight made mild
   dancing gleams on the
 silver of the cup. Navis
bowed to Maewen from his
 seat on a boulder. 'Your
  cup, Noreth,' he said,
handing it to Mitt to pass
         over to her.
  Mitt was not expecting
Navis to hand him the cup.
   He came out of his
 thoughts with a jump and
fumbled. The handkerchief
 unrolled. For an instant,
  the green light and the
  flicker of the fire just
 vanished, overwhelmed in
blue fizzling light. 'Ouch!'
said Mitt. While everyone
   blinked and saw yellow
      dazzle, he hastily
  rewrapped the cup and
   passed it to Maewen.
'Careful. There's a strong
         hex on it.'
  Maewen took the bundle.
 This was worse than the
     ring. They were all
expecting her to unwrap it
and take hold of it and she
 was probably going to be
electrocuted. But, she told
herself, swallowing hard, if
 I had been electrocuted,
Wend would have mentioned
   it in the palace. Here
   goes. Pulling away the
  handkerchief, she said,
 'Look, everyone. This is
the Adon's cup.' She took
 firm hold of the lopsided
silver bowl of it and held it
            out.
      To her huge relief,
nothing fizzed. Everyone's
 dim faces were turned to
 the cup. After a moment
   or so, Maewen realised
  they were looking at the
way her hands looked dark
   against it, darker than
natural. The cup seemed to
 have grown brighter. Yes.
 It had. It was filling with
 a spreading gentle blue
 glow, shining like a blue
  lamp in the near-dark,
   making her hands look
 blood-red against it. It
 was so beautiful, and so
 welcome, that her eyes
     filled with tears.
  Several people let breath
out noisily. 'It is the cup,'
 Wend said. 'It knows you
   as it knew the Adon.'
   Well, thank the One!
  Maewen thought as she
wrapped the thing up again.
      Under the friendly
rustling of the rowans and
birches, they all slept well.
 But towards dawn, around
 the time when the pouring
   of the stream began to
   sound less soothing and
    more like a noise, and
  people began to turn and
   shift because the grass
 was flat and the bones of
  the earth came through,
Mitt had a strange dream.
  There was danger in it,
 and wonder, and the two
were mixed up confusingly.
  It began with him looking
   down on the camp from
  above. He saw the silver
  cup glowing and another,
    yellower glow nearby.
After a while, he knew the
 yellow glow was from the
golden statue. It was very
 important. Mitt looked at
  it and thought, 'Noreth
won't need it so much now.
 I can have my share.' But
   that was not why it was
   important. Mitt puzzled
      over this, until his
attention was distracted by
   finding he could see the
  green roads winding away
  from the camp. While he
   was looking at them, he
dreamt he was back in the
     camp, lying under his
  blanket, dreaming he was
looking at the green roads.
 He dreamed and looked at
  the roads with interest.
They went in all directions,
      snaking among the
 mountains, linking place to
  place. He could see them
     all, right down past
  Dropwater to Kernsburgh
 and beyond that, into the
   North Dales and on into
 the South. Yes, there had
 been green roads that led
   through the South, but
 they were not kept up any
 longer. Things moved over
them, keeping them hidden,
dangerous things. But they
 had been meant to cover
      all Dalemark.
     Mitt dreamt that he
  would have been happier
  about seeing it all if the
 roads had not kept coming
  back to him, lying under
   the rowan trees and in
 danger. Since the idea of
danger made him impatient,
he turned his attention out
 again, to the roads, grey
under late yellow moonlight,
   and took a look at the
 people travelling on them.
Quite a few people were up
early or travelling through
 the night. Hildy was one.
She and Biffa were riding,
  a long way over towards
   that smoking mountain,
     nearly into Ansdale
 already. Kialan was riding
  too, well on the way to
    Hannart. This meant
   danger. That troubled
Mitt, so he looked North,
  where the young Singer
 who was Moril's brother
was up early and hastening
   towards Adenmouth.
    Beyond, and coming
  towards Dagner, there
 were more riders. These
    meant danger, too.
 There was a black patch
of danger centred on the
  camp under the rowan
         trees.
     Mitt ignored it
  obstinately and kept
 watching the roads. He
saw the Undying moving on
  them too, unnoticed by
   ordinary people. They
    looked so much like
 ordinary people that Mitt
   wondered how he knew
they were Undying. But he
  knew King Hern, coming
  down the King's Way to
 build Kernsburgh, though
  King Hern looked like a
   gawky boy only about
 Mitt's age; and he knew
Manaliabrid, hurrying into
exile with the Adon and a
  small boy who was the
  Adon's son. The Adon
 turned out to be a short
man, much more like Navis
 than Mitt expected, and
 Manaliabrid had a strong
look of Noreth about her.
 Wend was with them, to
  Mitt's surprise, looking
      much the same.
     Now he knew he was
   dreaming. So it did not
surprise him that the green
  roads were winding away
 into the past. He lay and
 marvelled at the way they
   turned back and forth
 through history, up to the
   present, into the place
    where he lay in such
   danger, and then went
winding and snaking on into
     the far future. The
  Undying went walking on,
  taking the roads through
time, and history went with
    them, ignoring them,
   forgetting the Undying
  were making history. He
 watched the roads snake
 out again into the South,
  and battles, and other
 strange things. He would
  have enjoyed watching
more, if the roads had not
 kept on winding back into
   the rowan trees and
showing him Noreth was a
          danger.
  'No,' Mitt said to his
 dream. 'She may be in
 danger, but she's not a
        danger.'
    And the dream kept
telling him, 'Not Noreth.
           You.'
  'Ah, come on! She's all
   right,' Mitt told the
 dream. 'If there's any
danger it's those earls.'
  Then he woke into white
 mist with grey trees like
shadows in it, feeling very
   irritable and rather
        frightened.
   Everyone else seemed
  annoyingly refreshed.
   When Wend asked
Maewen, 'Where to next,
  lady?' she answered
 cheerfully, 'To get the
     Adon's sword.'
   'Then we go towards
 Dropwater,' Wend said.
  When the road branched
at the next waystone, they
took the right-hand branch
   and found themselves
almost at once in the stony
bottom of a vast valley. It
dwarfed everyone. Sweeps
of hill rose on either side,
barren, and curved tight as
   a wind-filled sail. Mitt
   supposed he was put in
  mind of sails because the
    wind streamed in this
 valley, with a sour sort of
  whistling, as hard as he
 had ever known it at sea.
  Like wind at sea, it kept
  sweeping bands of misty
  rain across them, which
 made the barren hills look
    even more harsh and
      empty. They look
  stretched, Mitt thought,
    staring up at the bare
  yellowness, through little
 itching raindrops. A vision
  came to him of the One,
 immeasurably huge, taking
   the hard rocky edge of
this land and pulling until it
     was so tight it would
  stretch no more. Rivers,
  rocks and creatures went
tumbling and rolling as the
         One pulled—
      Mitt shivered and
hunched into his jacket. He
had a dim memory that he
might have seen something
 like this in his dream. He
   put it, and the idea of
  danger, resolutely out of
his mind. It did no good to
    get nervous fancies.
    It was a drear day's
ride, and a cheerless camp
that night, which could not
   have been more of a
contrast to the camp under
the rowan trees. The wind
  came from all directions.
   The flames of the fire
 blew out raggedly, making
 more smoke than warmth,
  and the smoke seemed to
 follow you about wherever
   you sat. Everyone, even
 Moril and Hestefan in the
 cart, rolled themselves in
  all the coats, cloaks and
blankets they could muster,
but nobody slept very well.
The wind seemed to get in
  everywhere. Mitt was so
 cold that he got up almost
before it was light. It had
rained again and everything
 he had was damp. Since it
   did not seem to matter
how much colder or wetter
   he got, he went off to
wash in the stream beyond
 the pile of boulders where
 the horses were. It was a
   cheerless little stream,
   clattering down through
  grey stones with a sound
    like teeth chattering.
   The sound of his going
 woke Maewen. She rolled
    up into the grey day
  moaning. She had never
been so cold or so damp in
   her life. The one good
thing was that her stomach
 had stopped aching. As if
the green roads cured you,
     she thought as she
stumbled off to the latrine
  beyond the horses. She
came back to find everyone
else huddled in dead heaps.
 This was depressing. She
 went back to the boulders
 and started to attend to
       the horses.
  She was alone. The deep
voice spoke to her at once.
  'I have considered,' it
   said. 'Your way is now
     clear before you.'
    'Is it indeed?' said
 Maewen. 'Welcome back.
  Where were you when I
  needed you to warn me
about the other man with a
          knife?'
    At the stream, Mitt
   discovered that it was
 possible to be colder. The
   water was icy. It must
have been snow-melt from
 some high mountain out of
 sight from here. The bits
of him he could bear to dip
 in turned blue. He washed
   in a hurry, with great
  splashings and snortings,
and put his clothes back on
  quick. The sun was up by
then. It was no wonder he
  was cold, Mitt saw. The
  stream was in deep blue
  shadow. But there was
misty yellow sunlight on the
   boulders. Shivering all
over, Mitt went over there
        to get warm.
    He could hear Noreth
talking on the other side of
the rocks, and a deep voice
      answering her. So
 Hestefan or Wend was up.
 Mitt went cheerfully round
        the boulders.
 'You were in no danger.
Help was at hand whether
I warned you or not,' the
     deep voice said.
  Mitt stood, confounded.
   Noreth was brushing
Navis's mare and entirely
on her own. He could see
Wend, still asleep by the
dead fire in the distance.
Navis was the other hump.
  And Hestefan was just
 crawling out of the cart.
   She said the One spoke
to her, Mitt thought. But I
 never really believed it till
  now. He backed quietly
 away behind the boulders
 so that Noreth would not
  think he was prying and
stood in the sun there. But
  he could still hear both
           voices.
  Maewen said, 'I'm not
going down into the dales
any more. I'm staying up
on the green roads. Wend
  says I'm safe here.'
 'You are not safe here,'
   said the deep voice.
  There was a pause. 'Why
not?' came Noreth's voice.
  She sounded quite calm.
   Mitt was not to know
  Maewen was shaking all
 over. He was thinking he
had better back away some
more, out of hearing, when
 the deep voice answered.
  'The Southern youth you
call Mitt,' it said, 'is the
   worst danger you have
encountered yet. You must
kill him before he destroys
          you.'
 After this, Mitt could no
more have moved than he
    could have flown.
   'But Mitt rescued me
     from the second
   murderer,' Maewen
        protested.
 'For his own ends,' said
the voice. 'And this Mitt
  will not be easy to kill
  while the man Navis is
 alive. Navis will defend
Mitt for his own ends. For
this reason I advise you to
kill them both at the same
           time.'
   'You can't mean this!'
      Maewen said.
   'After you have found
the Adon's sword, both of
them are expendable,' said
 the voice. 'Stab them as
   they sleep, the night
     before you reach
       Kernsburgh.'
  'Really?' said Maewen.
'And what about Wend and
 Moril and Hestefan? Are
  they expendable too?'
    'I told you,' the voice
replied imperturbably, 'you
will need the Singer boy to
 find you the crown. After
that, he will be as much of
      a liability as the
 Southerners and you may
  stab him as soon as you
    have an opportunity.'
 'You're asking me—' said
 Maewen. She was trying
not to giggle, even though
  it was not funny at all—
'you're asking me to arrive
at Kernsburgh with nothing
   but a pile of corpses.'
   'You will be joined there
by a sizeable army. Display
the bodies as the bodies of
 traitors and explain that
  all traitors to the crown
    must suffer the same
            fate.'
  'Thanks a bunch!' said
 Maewen. 'That's quite a
      programme!'
  'Do as I say,' said the
voice, and the deep notes
of it made both Mitt and
Maewen shudder, 'or fail,
    and die yourself.'
   There was silence then.
 Mitt stood where he was
  until he heard vigorous
horse-grooming noises from
   the other side of the
 boulders. Then he did his
 best to walk casually over
to the camp. Nobody there
 seemed to notice that he
 was shaking all over. But
 they were all cold and all
        shivering.
    Breakfast was nasty.
   There was no decent
bread. The outsides of all
   the cheeses had gone
 mouldy. Almost the only
  thing eatable was the
pickled cherries, and Mitt
discovered that he hated
       them by now.
   They moved on up the
stretched and windy valley,
  and neither Mitt nor
 Maewen spoke to anyone
   much that morning.
   Maewen's thoughts were
chaos. Was it the One who
  spoke to her? Or was it
 just a time-confused part
 of her own mind, reacting
     with violence to the
   violence she had met in
   Gardale? There was no
    doubt she had been in
 danger from someone. Or
 if it was the One, he was
     angry. Those he had
singled out—Mitt and Moril
had tried to steal the cup,
   and Navis had taken it.
 She had known during the
 song that Navis had done
 something awful. It might
be because of the cup. But
  it did not really matter
    what spoke or why. It
 hurt. Maewen's head was
now full of nasty suspicions
 of Navis, Mitt and Moril.
Right back at the beginning
of this ride, she had seen
  that each of them had
  come to follow her for
 their own secret reasons,
  and Mitt and Navis had
 shown her some of those
reasons in Gardale. It was
Hildy who was important to
     them. That hurt.
   Oh, I want to go home!
  Maewen thought this so
  strongly that she almost
said it aloud. In fact, she
 did utter a sort of noise,
which caused Hestefan and
 his mule, who happened to
be alongside her just then,
  both to turn and look at
her. But no sooner had she
almost said it than she saw
 she did not quite mean it.
   She wanted to find out
    what had happened to
    Noreth, and to try to
    change history, even
 though she knew now that
   one of those three was
    going to do her some
terrible harm. Correction.
  Mitt was going to do her
 some terrible harm. Navis
was a cool customer, Moril
was a deep one and he had
that cwidder, but Mitt was
  the one who did things.
  The knowledge made her
throat ache, as if Mitt had
 tried to strangle her—and
 maybe he had, at the inn
         in Gardale.
   Mitt kept thinking, This
  is a laugh! The One was
playing games with him. Or
   he had it in for Mitt,
    which was much more
likely. Mitt wanted to ride
away from the whole mess.
It would be lovely to settle
      down on a farm,
somewhere near enough the
  South to be like what he
was used to, and leave the
    One to stew. But he
   needed his half of the
golden statue for that, and
  Noreth was not likely to
 part with it now. Not now
  she knew Mitt had been
  told to kill her. Anyway,
  he had to stay with her
 until Kernsburgh. If Hildy
     was safe, Ynen was
 not—and Kialan might not
manage to bring Ynen there
  after all. He would have
   laughed at the mess if
   he'd felt like laughing.
Meanwhile, he had to warn
 Navis and Moril somehow.
  And talking of warnings,
   that dream had been a
  warning, hadn't it just!
    Mitt came out of his
  thoughts to find he was
 warm— more than warm,
    almost too hot, for a
    wonder. He undid his
  jacket. There was light,
 white rain steaming over
them, but he was too warm
   to care. This makes a
   change! he thought. It
must be almost record heat
       for the North.
 They had come out of the
stretched valley and were
 now following the green
     path across a high
  gorse-grown heath. The
  mountains had melted to
 white-purple distance and
 the one behind, Mitt saw,
 peering through the misty
 bands of rain, did indeed
have snow on the top of it.
 'Where is this? Why is it
 so hot?' he said. It was
the first thing he had said
     since breakfast.
   Moril grinned at him.
 'Welcome back. It's the
    Shield of Oreth.'
  'It is a large upland that
opens towards the South,'
 Hestefan explained from
beside Moril on the driving
seat. Schoolmaster again,
   Maewen thought. The
  warmth was making her
   feel better. 'We'll be
 having the warm air from
now until Kernsburgh. This
used to be fine land. Even
in the Adon's day, it was
       full of people.'
  Hang on! Maewen thought,
coming properly out of her
   misery. If this was the
 Shield, she had looked out
  of the train at it. There
   had been farmlands and
factories, trees and towns.
    But Hestefan could be
 right. Up among the gorse
and heather on either side
  there were piles of stone
  in faint, broken squares,
    which could have been
        ruined houses.
 'Where did all the people
    go?' she asked.
   'Fled in the wars after
the Adon died,' said Moril.
  'Who owns it now?' Navis
   asked, looking out over
    bracken and heather
beyond the gorse bushes as
if he would not mind owning
     some of it himself.
  As Hestefan went into a
 complicated account that
suggested that Hannart or
 Dropwater might have a
 claim, but nobody wanted
 this land anyway, Maewen
    frowned. She rather
   thought Navis would be
  owning some of it before
      long. The Duke of
 Kernsburgh owned the big
 brewery here in her day.
   Would she dare change
  history to the extent of
  cutting Navis out of it?
 Could she? No, of course
not. That was a relief. But
 that did not apply to Mitt
   or Moril, who were not
  really in history at all.
   She looked sideways at
 Mitt. He was turning his
  head to watch a slightly
 bigger pile of stones with
 an old apple tree drooped
  over them. I could farm
here, he thought. It would
take a deal of hard work,
 but I reckon it would be
         peaceful.
  The rain blew away into
 the mountains, leaving a
 tearful sort of blue sky
     overhead. Everyone
 steamed in the heat. And
 the cart went along in its
      own cloud made of
wreathing spirals of steam.
    Flies came out of the
  heather and circled the
   horses. They made the
  Countess-horse restive,
  but Mitt rode along with
    his chin down, hardly
 noticing. That dream was
  nagging at him. Farming
      had not been in it
 anywhere. Something was
          wrong.
   By this time, they were
   seeing occasional small
farms built of grey stone,
 with square fields around
them scratched out of the
  heather. The Shield was
   not quite as derelict as
 Maewen had thought. The
   farms grew bigger and
   more frequent as they
 went on. By midday, when
they stopped to eat, there
was farmland all round, and
   walled lanes leading to
distant farmhouses on both
  sides of the green road.
   There were even a few
trees. They stopped to eat
 under a mighty old ash on
     a corner by a lane.
    Navis revelled in the
  heat. While the horses
  crowded into the shade
     with Maewen and
    Hestefan, Navis sat
against the drystone wall in
the sun and stretched both
 arms out. 'This is more
 like it!' he said to Mitt.
    'It is and all,' Mitt
 agreed. 'First time I've
 been warm since I came
 North. I'll be back in a
 moment.' He picked up a
     couple of pickled
onions—better than those
cherries—and a handful of
the manky cheese and set
   off up the lane. That
 dream was now mixing in
his mind with what he had
 heard this morning and he
   wanted to be alone to
think. Something was badly
           wrong.
     He almost wondered
    whether he might not
simply walk away. He came
to another lane and turned
   into it, because it was
  narrow and had no walls
 and he felt freer there.
He climbed higher with it,
until he was walking in the
  warm wind between low
   hedges with a field of
    grain on either side.
  Grey-green both fields
  were, like the sea over
sand in dangerous shallows.
  The barley on the right
   surged in the wind, in
   green waves over silky
  white, as if it were the
 sea indeed. The wheat on
    the other side stood
    stiffer, and the wind
 rasped in it like sea over
shingle. But the land-smell
  was wrong for the sea,
     dusty and juicy.
    Great homesickness
 overtook Mitt. 'Flaming
Ammet!' he said. 'Why did
 I ever leave the coast?'
   'You know you had no
choice,' someone told him.
          XVI
 Mitt's head snapped up.
 A tall golden man came
  walking along the lane
towards him and bent his
 head in a solemn nod of
greeting as Mitt looked. At
  this season, Old Ammet
    had a face that was
 neither young nor old. He
 could have been the same
 age as Navis, except that
the long golden hair blowing
     about his head and
 shoulders made him seem
           young.
 'Now it's you,' Mitt said.
'Why do you Undying keep
   pushing me about?'
    'It's not our fault,
  Alhammitt,' Old Ammet
 answered. 'The times are
  pushing us. And I should
 remind you that when you
chose the wind's road, you
   chose the green road,
            too.'
  'I know, I know,' Mitt
  said. 'Once I got on,
  there's never been a
moment I could have got
off. But I keep having to
choose all the same! And
 every time I choose and
   try to get right, things
 turn round on me and try
  to make me go the other
 way. The One told Noreth
to kill me this morning—and
  Navis and Moril. You tell
 me what I'm supposed to
        do about that!'
  Old Ammet looked at him
   gravely, in a way that
reminded Mitt of Wend all
 of a sudden, except that
Old Ammet was blowing and
rustling in the wind. 'I am
 not here to tell you what
          to do.'
  'No,' Mitt said bitterly.
'You Undying never do give
a straight answer. You just
           push.'
  'It is not my place,' said
 Ammet, 'to question our
 Grand Father, whom they
  call the One. His law is
   that we do not tell his
 mortal family what to do.
That is to make people into
          puppets.'
 'Then the One just broke
 his own law,' Mitt said.
 'I am here to tell you to
 think about that,' said
         Ammet.
  There was a silence full
of the warm wind and the
 rustling and streaming of
  Ammet's white-blonde
 hair, while Mitt digested
 this. 'I don't get it,' he
said at last. He found Old
Ammet looking so kind that
it made him feel terrible.
 'I should remind you that
we gave you our names to
say at need,' Old Ammet
           said.
  Mitt nodded. He felt his
face screw up. There were
  indeed four names, the
 greater and lesser names
 of Old Ammet and Libby
 Beer, tucked away in the
  corner of Mitt's mind.
   That part of his head
   always felt like a sore
   tooth, where you kept
putting your tongue even
though you knew it would
hurt. 'You mean, I could
say your biggest name at
          her?'
   Ammet laughed. It felt
as if the wind had turned
  to a warm gale. 'That
  name is not to be used
  that lightly. It will be
 many a long year before
  you will need to say my
Great Name. But you have
 three other names. I am
here to tell you that if you
 use those names properly,
the Shield of Oreth can be
  covered again with fields
        like these.'
  His hand spread to show
Mitt the surging barley and
 the stiff rustling wheat.
   Mitt looked wistfully,
 thinking of that farm he
  might have. 'You'd like
  that, wouldn't you?' he
           said.
  'We would, Alhammitt,'
  Old Ammet agreed. He
  smiled at Mitt, rather
 sadly, over his shoulder
 among his flying hair, as
 he walked away round a
     turn in the lane.
     Mitt stood looking a
   moment. The lane ran
straight as a ruler through
  the two fields. Then he
  sighed and turned to go
           back.
 Moril was standing a few
 yards down the hill. The
 two of them simply stared
    at one another for a
moment. Then Moril licked
   his lips and cleared his
throat. Still his voice came
   out scratchy with awe.
    'Wh—who was that?'
  'Old Ammet,' said Mitt.
 'The Earth Shaker.' His
   voice was not in much
 better shape. 'What are
      you doing here?'
  'You forgot to take any
    bread,' Moril said.
   'It was like a flaming
 grey rock this morning,'
  Mitt said. 'There'll be
  critters in it by now.'
      'Well, anyway, I
brought—' Moril started to
 hold out the bundle in his
  hands. And stopped and
   stared at it. Then he
 unwrapped the cloth and
held out a crusty new loaf.
    Mitt could smell the
newness of it on the wind.
He looked ruefully down at
 the cheese and onions he
  had not yet bothered to
 eat. The onions were the
 same, but the cheese was
now a fresh pale wedge. It
 smelt as wonderful as the
          bread.
  He held it out to Moril.
      'Want some?'
     Moril nodded. He
arranged the cwidder on
his back and sat down by
 the hedge. As Mitt sat
   down beside him, it
  occurred to him that this
 cwidder was as much of a
    sore place to Moril as
 those names were to him—
   and more of a nuisance,
  too. Moril had not let go
of the thing since Hestefan
 had threatened to take it
            away.
     They tore the crusty
  fresh loaf in two, broke
 the cheese in half and ate
like wolves. 'All the same,'
  Mitt said, going back to
what Moril had first said,
 'it's not like you to run
  after me with bread.'
  'I wasn't spying,' Moril
said, with as much dignity
     as someone who is
 crunching a pickled onion
  can. 'I only saw him. I
didn't hear a word he was
saying. And he must have
    known I was there,
  because of the bread.'
     'So?' said Mitt.
'Something's wrong,' said
Moril. 'This morning, I was
on top of the rocks, trying
to get warm. I heard that
voice telling her to kill us.'
  Mitt felt his appetite go.
           'And?'
     Moril swallowed the
pickled onion as if it was a
   lump in his throat. 'I
heard it before. I heard it
tell her to find the Adon's
 gifts. It seemed all right
           then.'
     Mitt went on eating
 although his appetite had
gone. If you had once been
 poor in Holand you never
  wasted a chance to eat.
  'So what do you think?'
   Moril was eating in the
same dutiful way. Singers
  met hard times too. 'I
 think,' he said, 'that it
isn't the One that speaks
          to her.'
  Mitt knew this was why
  Old Ammet had looked
kind. It was something he
  did not want to think
about. 'Who is it then?'
 'Kankredin,' said Moril.
    So it was out. Mitt
 nodded. 'I think you're
right. You know what this
      means, then?'
'He started talking to her
when she was young and
  worked her up to this
  gradually,' Moril said,
 thinking about it. 'He's
disembodied, so he could
pretend to be the One.'
    'Probably, but I don't
   mean that,' Mitt said.
 'Just stop and think what
 it means if she got to be
   queen. She may be all
     right, but she'd go
everywhere with this voice
   telling her to do what
Kankredin wants. And she'd
    do it too. She does.'
  'But,' said Moril, 'this
morning. She was sounding
sarcastic, rather the way
    your Navis does.'
   'Maybe, but she'll do it
   in the end,' Mitt said.
 'Don't you see? He works
her along, like you said. He
  tells her she's got to be
queen and she's the One's
daughter, and she sets out
to ride for the crown. For
 all we know, she's got no
  claim at all. Alk thought
  not. It means this whole
 ride is a load of old crab
           apples.'
  'So what should we do?'
       Moril asked.
     Mitt smiled his most
unfunny smile. 'It looks as
 if I better do what the
  Countess and your Keril
wanted in the first place.
 Kill her somehow. It's a
           laugh!'
  It was a horrible thing to
say. Mitt almost choked on
   it, thinking of Noreth's
        nervous, freckly
 look—which seemed to get
  to him more now he knew
 her so much better—and
 how plain frightened she
 had been when that man
    attacked her in the
  Lawschool. He was still
   surprised at how very
 frightened she had been.
She would be the same, or
  worse, when she found
      Mitt after her.
 He was fervently relieved
when Moril said, firmly and
      quietly, 'No.'
    'But she's got to be
stopped,' Mitt protested
       hopefully.
 'Yes, but if she's dead,'
    Moril said, 'won't
Kankredin just move on to
somebody else? Somebody
    who's more—you
    know—ruthless?'
 Like Navis, Mitt thought.
That would be worse. The
  idea snapped his brain
clean out of the bind Keril
 and the Countess seemed
 to have put on it. 'Then
it's Kankredin we ought to
  go after.' This was the
 way Old Ammet had been
 trying to make him think,
   he realised. 'Can this
    cwidder of yours do
      anything there?'
   Moril put his chin on his
knees and twiddled the last
crust of his bread while he
  thought. 'It's got to be
 truth,' he said. 'I think,
    if we could catch him
   talking to her again, I
 could make him appear in
his true shape. Would that
        be enough?'
  'Could be just right!' Mitt
 said. 'I've a name or two
up my sleeve I could use as
  long as I know where he
             is.'
   Moril put the crust of
  bread in his mouth. 'I
hoped you might have,' he
said, munching it. 'There
 are stories about you.'
  They got up and dusted
 off crumbs. 'Don't give
  Kankredin any kind of
     hint,' Mitt said.
   'What do you take me
  for?' said Moril. They
  smiled at one another,
conspirators, but not at all
      happy about it.
    Mitt thought, as they
 walked back between the
rustling corn, the worst of
 it is, if it goes wrong. I
   might have to kill her
   anyway. The hot sun
 seemed to weigh on him.
  He felt as if he was in
    mourning already.
  The others were waiting
 impatiently under the ash
tree. They said, almost in
chorus, 'Where were you?'
 The rest of the bad grey
bread had been tipped into
 the ditch. Mitt and Moril
    looked at it guiltily.
'We got lost,' Moril said.
'I think we ought to stop
   at a farm for more
         bread.'
          'Teach your
      grandmother,' said
  Maewen. Mitt could see
 her, as they mounted and
 rode on, looking from him
   to Moril and wondering
     what they had been
    plotting. She had her
 nervous, freckly look. He
     knew he ought to do
something about it, but the
 Countess-horse was balky
 in the heat and kept Mitt
  busy wrestling with it all
  through the long, blazing
   afternoon. Despite his
warning to Moril, Mitt kept
 wanting to tell the horse,
       Cheer up! Come
 Kernsburgh, you could be
carrying my dead body! He
   could see himself, too,
 dead hands trailing on one
side, limp boots swinging on
 the other, and the whole
  thing starting to smell in
 the heat. He had to keep
biting his tongue not to say
            it.
    Maewen and he did not
say one word to each other
   until they were camped
   that night—in a proper
  field with cowpats in it,
 near a farm. While Wend
  and Navis were away at
  the farm, buying bread,
and Mitt and Maewen were
doing the horses, Mitt took
  a deep breath and said,
  'Are we not on speaking
   terms, or something?'
 She jumped and turned to
   him gratefully. 'Yes.
Probably. You didn't have
 to wait under that tree
  and listen to Navis and
 Hestefan being sarky to
       one another.'
  Though Mitt knew there
was much more to it than
  that, he said, 'If you
 shoot someone's horse,
he's not likely to love you.
  Mind you,' he added,
watching Hestefan fussily
washing down the wheels of
the cart, 'if that Hestefan
 wasn't a Singer, he'd be
 teaching school and living
 alone in a house with the
       door barred.'
    'Yes! Wouldn't he!'
    Maewen said, quite
        delighted.
        They chatted
lightheartedly after that,
 until they saw Wend and
Navis returning with cans
   of milk and armfuls of
cheese and bread. Maewen
 said guiltily, 'Oh dear. I
bet Navis paid for it all. I
 hate the way we seem to
     be living off him.'
 Mitt's attitude to money
was much more carefree.
 'Well, we can't hardly
 wave a golden statue at
     them,' he said.
It was the wrong thing to
  say. She gave him a
nervous, freckly look and
went off to meet Navis.
Mitt sighed. All the same,
  he and Moril took good
care never to be far away
 from Maewen in case the
 voice spoke to her again.
But nothing happened that
           night.
 When they went on next
 morning, they found the
farms thinning out again,
 giving way to more and
more bracken and tumbled
 rocks. The Shield here
  descended slightly in a
series of waves, downwards
towards Dropwater and the
 coast, and the green road
  went with it, up and over
and down, up and over and
down. The warm, itchy rain
  came over in waves, too.
You could look back and see
      each white shower
  travelling back along the
 way you had come, up and
   up and up, like a ghost
 going upstairs, until it was
    lost in the high green
           distance.
     In the middle of the
afternoon, Mitt was looking
    back after the latest
 shower, having watched it
 as it came climbing up and
 swept over them, when he
   thought he could see a
  darkish blot, right up at
  the top, where the road
  and the rain went out of
     sight. Next time he
 looked, the blot was more
definite, wavering forward
    in the high distance.
   'Ay-ay,' he said. 'Looks
like there might be a troop
    of horses coming down
           behind.'
   Heads snapped round.
 Hestefan and Moril leant
 out on either side of the
cart. It was what everyone
    had been dreading.
   'Looks to be at least
   twenty,' Wend said.
   'In good order,' said
 Navis. 'Quite a body of
 hearthmen, I would say.
   Can anyone see what
         livery?'
    'Too far off,' said
       Hestefan.
  'But coming quite fast,'
        said Moril.
 'And they must have seen
us,' said Navis, 'if we can
 see them.' He turned to
Wend. 'Is there anywhere
 we can get off this road
 while we're in a dip and
    they can't see us?'
    Wend's solemn face
twisted anxiously. 'Not for
       some miles.'
  'Then get in the cart,'
  said Navis. 'Let's get
there as fast as we can.'
  Wend took three running
strides and heaved himself
  over the tailgate of the
cart. Hestefan whipped up
the mule. The cart set off
 rattling up the next rise,
and the rest of them kept
 pace. It was maddeningly
slow to Maewen. The mule
  was trying, but the cart
   was heavy and it slowed
     down over every long
undulating rise. She grew a
    crick in her neck from
looking back. The horsemen
    were gaining steadily.
   Every time she looked,
    there were fewer hills
    between them. Before
  long, they could tell that
  there were, in fact, only
about fifteen of them. But
    as Mitt said, that was
  quite enough against six.
   'Perhaps they aren't
 after us at all,' Maewen
      said hopefully.
 'Would you bet on that?'
 Navis asked. 'Between us
we have stolen a cup and a
  ring and attempted to
start an uprising. I wish I
could see the livery. That
   would give us a clue.'
     And stolen a horse,
  Maewen thought guiltily,
looking at the patient ears
of the horse she had hoped
   was Noreth's. Would
 someone ride all the way
 from Adenmouth after a
stolen horse in these days?
   She wished she knew.
  'And someone may think
 we sneaked Hildy along,'
 Mitt said, with his head
   turned back over his
   shoulder. 'Are they
        Hannart?'
 The rain was blinding over
  in white clouds. It was
 never possible to see the
    horsemen except as a
   wavering dark blur, but
they saw them most of the
 time. When the cart was
down in a dip, the blur was
cresting a rise, and as the
  cart laboured uphill, the
 pursuers had already been
  down in the next dip and
  were wavering into sight
  again. They came closer
         and closer.
 Navis was looking off into
what could be seen of the
    countryside. It rose
steeper and steeper to the
 left, and not so steep to
 the right. Most of it was
    covered in head-high
  bracken. If they did go
   off the road, the cart
 would make tracks in that
 bracken that a blind man
  could follow. 'How much
further?' Navis snapped at
            Wend.
 'Just down to the river,'
Wend said anxiously. 'Not
           far.'
   By the time they came
 down the last slope to see
a small river cutting across
    the green road, the
 horsemen were only three
  hills behind. They were
  almost invisible in what
seemed to be a final cloud
    of rain. As the cart
  splashed into the moist
  edge of the river, weak
sunlight travelled after the
 rain and made everything
      golden-white.
   'Stop a moment,' Wend
  called. He leaned out of
the back of the cart. 'Will
    you play your cwidder
   now?' he asked Moril.
  Moril leaned out to look
 at him. 'Does it matter
          what?'
 'Yes.' Wend jumped down
  into squashy turf. 'Play
anything you can think of
      about the witch
Cennoreth,' he said, going
   to the mule's head.
  Moril wrenched the cover
away from the cwidder and
 hurriedly plucked out the
 chorus to 'The Weaver's
           Song':
 Thread the shuttle, throw
 the shuttle, Weave the
    close-bound yarn.
    As he moved on to the
 tune of the verses, Wend
   led mule and cart in a
   half-circle, with much
splashing and swaying, until
  it was facing up to the
left, along the river bank.
   'Follow me upriver,' he
 said to the others, under
         the music.
  They rode after him along
the wet grassy verge, none
 of them very hopeful. The
light was brighter and more
  golden than before. Mitt
looked at the tracks of the
   cart and the prints the
   horses were leaving and
    thought that even in
another shower of rain the
 riders behind could hardly
     miss them. Maewen
 wondered if Moril had got
    the music wrong in his
    hurry. She knew 'The
  Weaver's Song' and she
   had never known it had
   anything to do with the
   witch Cennoreth. Navis
rode trying to look back up
  the green road, but the
  rise of the land cut off
  the view almost at once.
  'This is going to take a
  miracle,' he murmured.
   The lawn-like river bank
turned into a proper track,
leading easily upward among
 bracken and rocks. As the
  cart clattered on to the
 higher, rockier part, they
   all distinctly heard the
 drumming of several dozen
   hooves, mixed with the
  rattle of tack and mail,
  and a few voices. Navis
 stopped his mare and, in a
resigned way, fetched out
 his pistol and cocked it.
Above, the cart went on,
  and Moril continued to
            play.
        To everyone's
 amazement, the drumming
 of hooves barely paused.
 It slowed, and broke into
 separate noises, but that
     was mixed with the
splashing of water and the
  clack of rolled stones as
   the party crossed the
  river. Then the regular
drumming took up again and
     faded off into the
         distance.
  'Missed us!' Mitt said.
He could hardly believe it.
   'Let's hope they don't
 come back before we're
out of sight,' Navis said,
 turning his mare back to
         the path.
 Above the rocky section,
   the river was a mere
 stream, flowing out of a
   fair-sized lake, cupped
  inside steep black crags.
   The banks were squashy
  with marsh, but the path
    avoided it by mounting
  higher, among clumps of
 tall rushes. Maewen could
 not resist leaning sideways
   to trail her hand in the
feathery heads. They were
the scented kind of rushes.
    Clouds of strong pollen
 filled the air with a lovely
smell, like nothing else she
 knew. Mitt sneezed. Navis
pushed through the rushes
 in clouds of more pollen
  and caught up with the
 cart. Moril had stopped
     playing by then.
   'Are you sure this is
safe?' Navis asked Wend.
   'Of course, sir,' Wend
 said. 'This is Dropthwaite
where my sister's croft is.
 No one can find us here.'
  He smiled in his pent-up
  way and pointed out into
the lake where a number of
   fat white ducks were
swimming beside a patch of
  white-flowering weed.
  'Those are my sister's
ducks.' The way he smiled,
Maewen thought he and his
  sister must have some
 private joke about them.
          XVII
   They came through the
   rushes to find a small
 ragged field with a stone
trough in the middle. Hens
wandered there. Two goats
were tethered further off
and there was a vegetable
 garden beyond that. The
    croft was a low stone
   house built against the
  crags, among fruit trees
 and lilacs. Everything was
warm and fragrant because
 the rocks went round the
holding in a high horseshoe
   and cut off all but the
          west wind.
  Wend walked through the
 orchard with long strides
 and knocked at the house
door. It was opened almost
 at once by an old woman
    leaning on a stick.
 'His sister?' Navis said,
 watching the two talking
    eagerly together.
   'More like his granny,'
 said Mitt. 'Still, we might
get a bed for the night out
of it.' And a bedroom had
  a door you could bar, in
 case Kankredin persuaded
  Noreth to do her killing
          now.
 Oh yes! Maewen thought.
      And a bath!
   Navis looked nervously
back down the path. 'They
won't find us here,' Moril
  said to him. 'Promise.'
  Navis looked at Moril's
 cwidder, but not as if he
      was convinced.
 Wend came striding back.
   He seemed almost as
 carefree as when he had
   taken charge of the
 cwidder. 'She says you're
   welcome to camp in this
     field here,' he said
   cheerfully. 'And if the
   young ones like to go to
 the door when the horses
   are seen to, she'll have
  milk and eggs and cheese
ready for you.' Whistling a
 little tune, he untethered
   the goats and led them
away round the side of the
            house.
 Bother! Mitt and Maewen
thought, though both for
   different reasons.
   'The old lady likes her
privacy, I see,' Hestefan
 said glumly. Evidently he
had been hoping for a bed
            too.
    'It's not a very big
 house,' Moril said as he
unhitched the mule. Apart
 from Wend, he was the
 only one who was happy
  with the arrangement.
 Navis continued to watch
 the path, and he insisted
   on setting up the camp
where it could not be seen
 by anyone coming up from
the lake. This meant a long
trudge across the grass to
the trough, which Mitt felt
 was unnecessary. He was
  the one who fetched the
     water. The trough
    fascinated him. Clear
 water bubbled up in it the
 whole time, but it never,
      for some reason,
         overflowed.
    When the horses were
 rubbed down and feeding,
   Moril jerked his head
  towards the house. Mitt
  winked and left Navis to
 see about the rest. They
 were both a little put out
to find Maewen coming with
 them through the orchard
    trees. They did not
 consider Noreth as one of
  the young ones. Maewen
 saw it. But she had come
    along almost without
  thinking and it seemed a
little late to go back now.
 Besides, she was curious
    about this sister of
           Wend's.
 Wend opened the door to
 them. 'Come you in,' he
    said. 'This way.'
     He led them quickly
through a kitchen-room and
 opened a door to the back
   of the house. Maewen
  looked around curiously,
but all she had time to see
   was a scrubbed wooden
table and a banked-up fire
    of smoky peat, with a
copper kettle singing on it.
  The room at the back of
the house was even harder
to see at first. It had only
   one window, which was
 half-blocked by a big loom
   with woollen cloth being
  woven on it. It smelt of
warm wood and, even more,
  of slightly oily wool. The
      ceiling was low and
  beamed. The walls were
dark from being panelled in
old wood—very beautifully
   carved, in a mass of
half-seen designs—and the
rest of the dim space was
 nearly full of stack upon
    stack of tall chubby
   wooden things. These
  things were where the
  wool-smell was coming
from. Large bobbins, they
seemed to be, wound with
   woollen yarn of every
     conceivable colour.
   Wend's sister got up
 from her seat at the loom
    and edged through the
bobbins towards them. She
   was tall and she moved
very spryly. When she was
   near enough to be seen
 clearly, all of them had a
moment when they thought
      the old woman who
   answered the door must
    have been Wend's old
mother. Then they realised
she was the same lady. But
 she looked much younger,
  though older than Wend.
Her face was thin and only
 a little lined and her hair
was white, mass upon mass
of it, wriggly and curly and
   pinned back with combs
that glittered black among
  the white. Mitt thought
  there was just a look of
  the Countess about her,
 but a kinder look than the
 Countess's. Maewen, too,
  found this lady reminded
  her of someone, but she
   could not place it. She
   thought she must have
been stunning when she was
younger, when all that hair
was surely flaxen-fair. The
   lady's eyes were still
     stunning, huge and
        blue-green.
   'I'm pleased to meet all
   of you,' she said. Her
     voice was much more
educated than Wend's, and
 that reminded Mitt of the
    Countess too. 'I hear
    you're looking for the
        Adon's sword.'
  'Oh, did Wend tell you?'
said Maewen. 'Yes. We've
got his cup and—' she held
 up her hand with the ring
   on its thumb—'this.'
  'Then one of you is truly
riding the royal road,' the
   lady said, looking from
Maewen, to Moril, to Mitt,
 with very strong interest.
 'At last! I thought no one
 would ever get round to it
again! Very well. The sword
 is here. You'd better see
 if you can get it down.'
 'The sword is here!' Moril
was so astonished that his
   voice went up into a
         squeak.
 The lady swung round on
him. 'What makes you so
       surprised?'
      'Well,' Moril said
 awkwardly, 'I heard—the
   Singers say—that the
          Adon's
wife—Manaliabrid—hid his
sword when she went back
 to the Undy—er—her own
         people.'
    'And so she did,' said
  Wend's sister. 'My poor
  daughter. She'd thought
    her Adon was of the
Undying too—and, as I told
her, so he might have been
 for all we knew, but when
  a man sets himself up as
king, he puts himself in the
   way of assassins, and
   sooner or later one of
   them will strike lucky.
  There are many ways to
kill the Undying, though we
      don't die easily.'
 'Manaliabrid,' said Moril,
   'is your daughter?'
  'That's right,' said the
lady. She folded her arms
 and looked amused at the
 awe in Moril's face. 'And
the name you'll have heard
for me is Cennoreth. Am I
          right?'"
  'Then you're a witch,'
       said Mitt.
  'You're the Weaver,'
       said Moril.
  Both of them turned to
look at Wend. 'My sister
    is both,' he said.
   'So I should hope!'
  Cennoreth snapped.
 'But you—' Moril said to
         Wend.
     'Tanamoril,' said
 Cennoreth, energetically
 making her way between
  the piles of bobbins,
'Osfameron, Oril, Wend,
  Mage Mallard—when a
 person lives a long time,
  names tend to pile up.
  Now, do you want this
sword or not? Here it is.'
 There was a fireplace at
   the end of the room
opposite the window, made
  of stone as beautifully
  carved as the wooden
walls. Hung on the wooden
 panels above the stone,
  there was a long dark
 thing. Maewen and Mitt
 both took it at first for a
    stuffed fish. But when
 they had edged over there
     along the narrow path
 between the bobbins, they
     saw it was actually a
    sword, probably quite a
    plain one, in a blackish
leather sheath. The reason
   it was so hard to see in
 that dim room was that it
    was tied to the wall by
  innumerable long strips of
leather. The leather thongs
 had been knotted to about
   a hundred rusty nails
    hammered into the
 panelling above and below
   the sword, and then
knotted and overlapped and
  knotted again, until the
  sword was in a kind of
 basket of leather strips.
  'Hey, Moril!' said Mitt.
   Moril was still over by
the door, looking across his
 shoulder at Wend, full of
 awe and amazement. Mitt
  could hardly blame him.
This was the man Moril had
  been named after, twice
 over, the hero of half the
 stories the Singers learnt
   to tell, and Moril's own
 ancestor into the bargain.
  Wend was shifting about
self-consciously, as if—just
  like a normal person—he
  had no idea what to say.
  He was obviously relieved
   when Moril switched his
      attention to Mitt.
  While Moril was making
    his way through the
bobbins, grinning and going
like a sleep-walker, Wend
  said awkwardly, 'These
 things happen—if you live
  long enough. You should
think nothing of it—or not
         too much.'
     'Think nothing of it!'
  Moril said, looking up at
 the sword and its thongs.
 'That's asking a bit much!
Those pieces of leather are
  knots and crosses. There
    has to be a catch.'
    'Quite right.' Cennoreth
  stood by the hearth with
  her arms folded. 'You're
an observant boy. You must
 understand that none of it
  is my doing. My daughter
       nailed it up there.
    Remember she was mad
     with grief— though I
     suppose you're all too
    young to know how that
   feels—and try to forgive
 her. She was disappointed
  in her children too. She
    expected too much of
  them—but there you go,
I'm only her mother and it
didn't matter what I said.
 So she set this sword up,
   knots and crosses, like
   red-head said, for the
 children of her blood and
the Adon's. That's rather
    a lot of people these
 days— but that's another
  thing she wouldn't listen
to, when I told her how it
  would be if enough time
        passed.'
 'So what's the catch?'
      Mitt asked.
 Cennoreth shrugged. 'The
   knots must be undone
without touching sword or
scabbard, and the sword
 must be drawn before it
  touches wood, stone or
earth. My daughter,' she
said, 'expected too much
of her children's children
too, if you ask me—but I
    wasn't consulted.'
   They all stared up at the
sword in its cat's cradle of
 leather. The thongs were
 black with age, and there
   was dust all over them.
   Maewen could see that
   each knot, beside being
   pulled fiercely tight to
start with, had shrunk and
      hardened over the
    years—how many? two
hundred?—and must by now
   be nearly impossible to
 undo. Just to think of the
  lasting fierceness of the
 misery that did this was
 appalling. Could one wet
the leather and loosen the
  knots that way? 'What
 happens if you break the
    rules?' she asked.
   'She didn't say,' said
       Cennoreth.
  'Though you may take it
  that you won't get the
sword, lady,' Wend added
from the other side of the
          room.
  They stared up at the
  sword again. It was high
  above Maewen's reach. I
  suppose if I knelt on the
  mantelpiece—the leather
could just be old enough to
crumble away when I touch
it. Anyway, I don't really
 need this sword—though it
 seems a shame, when I've
  got the ring and the cup.
   Moril thought a while.
 Then he sat down on the
nearest pile of bobbins and
started taking the case off
       his cwidder.
   'What are you doing?'
     Mitt asked him.
 'The leather was straight
to start with,' Moril said.
'The cwidder could tell the
truth and make it straight
          again.'
     It could, too! Mitt
 realised. Things unfolded
with a crisp snap inside his
 head, and he saw that he
   and Moril had been so
taken by surprise that they
     had not thought this
   through. Why don't I
   think? he asked himself
 angrily. If Kankredin was
    talking to Noreth, and
Noreth had listened to him
all her life, then even if he
    and Moril could do for
   Kankredin—which was a
 stupid thing to plan, when
 even the One could not do
    it—then the last thing
  either of them should do
was to help Noreth become
   queen. That meant the
   whole country under
 Kankredin. So—break the
       rules, quick.
 Mitt was the only one tall
enough to reach the sword.
'No. That's going at it the
 slow way,' he told Moril.
  Moril's fingers went slow
    and fumbling on the
 cwidder. As Mitt turned
  away and pulled out his
 knife, he knew Moril had
seen the danger, too. Mitt
 pushed between Maewen
and Cennoreth, reached up
  and, quick as he could,
slashed along the length of
  the sword, between the
    multitude of knots.
  'Get ready to catch it!'
   he cried out merrily.
 He had meant to call out
   too late. But, to his
  annoyance, not all the
age-hard thongs parted.
 He was forced to slash
  again, and again after
that. Even then, only the
     pointed end of the
 scabbard came loose. Mitt
       watched it with
  satisfaction, descending
 slowly to the mantelshelf,
tearing the other thongs as
          it came.
      Maewen yelled out,
'Careful!' and flung herself
forward with both arms up
  at full stretch. She was
 just in time to catch the
   tip of it. The cwidder
 resounded as Moril set it
  hastily down and jumped
forward to pretend to help
  her. He grabbed hold of
     the scabbard above
    Maewen's hands and
 blundered artfully around
 her. But Maewen hung on
 grimly. All Moril managed
 to do was dislodge a long
 iron-handled hearthbrush
 from beside the grate. It
fell among their legs with a
           clatter.
   Bother! Mitt thought.
Hadd's pants! He took hold
of the sword's hilt, thongs
 and all, and pulled. That
ought to bring it down, and
 make sure it touched the
wall or the fireplace on the
            way.
   The hearthbrush seemed
  to set off an avalanche.
 Fire irons went on falling,
with mighty clangs: ladles,
  toasting forks, a slotted
spoon, shovels, two pokers,
   a mighty black roasting
  spit, a set of hooks for
    cauldrons. Cennoreth
  seemed to have a whole
    blacksmith's worth of
 implements in her hearth.
Maewen and Moril stumbled
  on a firedog. Mitt found
long tongs between his legs
   and reeled aside. This
    burst the last of the
 thongs. Maewen and Moril
  crashed backwards on to
   Cennoreth's feet, both
 trying to save themselves
    by hanging on to the
 scabbard. Mitt was left
   holding aloft a naked
           sword.
 It was indeed a very plain
 blade, he saw. 'I reckon
   we broke all the rules
  there,' he said in mock
          regret.
 'You touched at least half
   a dozen knots,' Moril
     gasped hopefully.
 There was a strange look
   on Cennoreth's face.
Possibly she was trying not
to laugh. 'No, he didn't,'
she said. 'I was watching
quite carefully. Which of
  you is supposed to be
    having the sword?'
    'She is,' said Moril.
   'Then please give it to
 her and then clear up my
hearth,' Cennoreth said. 'I
think I'd better look at my
         weaving.'
  Maewen got to her knees
and held the scabbard out.
 Mitt slithered the sword
  inside it with an angry
     flourish. It looked
ceremonial, done that way.
 Mitt had not the slightest
  doubt that Manaliabrid
would consider that Noreth
  had won the sword. He
turned away disgustedly to
help Moril collect fire irons
  and prop them in noisy
   bundles by the grate.
 Clatter. It was not that
      simple to defeat
 Kankredin's plans. Clang.
  Boing. Well, it wouldn't
be, would it? Kankredin was
  of the Undying, and that
  meant strong. After all,
 Old Ammet was so strong
that just saying one of his
na—Oh flaming pants! Mitt
     stopped with pokers
  bundled to his chest and
 looked up at the dangling,
broken thongs and torn-out
   nails. This was why the
Earth Shaker had reminded
him of those names! And he
 had never even thought of
          using one.
Clatter—flaming—CRASH.
         There.
  Dejectedly, Mitt followed
Moril and Maewen over to
   the window. Wend was
  standing, leaning on the
 loom, watching Cennoreth
smooth and smooth at the
most recently woven end of
  her cloth. You could see
the likeness between them
   now, Maewen thought,
  although Wend looked so
smooth and young. But she
 also saw another likeness.
 That dreamy, devoted way
  Cennoreth was smoothing
   at her weaving was like
Mum's, when Mum was on a
   new statue. They were
   rather the same shape,
   though Mum's hair was
    straighter and darker.
     Cennoreth clicked her
 tongue and shook her head
  as she stroked the cloth,
   again like Mum. A comb
fell out of her hair and she
        rammed it back
impatiently. That was even
 more like Mum. 'This is a
  pretty snarl!' she said.
     It was odd cloth—even
       odder than Mum's
  sculptures, which Maewen
  secretly considered quite
     mad. At first sight it
 looked as if the witch had
   used every colour off all
    the bobbins at random,
   changing colour so often
   that it all went down to
reddish-brown muddle. But,
after you had looked at it
a while, letters seemed to
appear in the weave, small
    and close and almost
making words. Then just as
you thought you had found
 a word, you found instead
  patterns, large patterns
  and small ones, rambling
  and winding all over the
   cloth in various bright
    colours. The pattern
  Cennoreth was smoothing
at was a rusty orange that
suddenly turned into bright
red. Indeed, it had turned
    red so suddenly and
 recently that the scarlet
    yarn was still in the
shuttle, hanging down from
 the half-woven edge in a
   row of other shuttles,
  ready to be used in the
         next line.
    'There's no need to
 stare,' Cennoreth said.
'My grandfather asked me
to go on weaving. It's not
my fault it comes out as it
 does. Just look at this! I
  can't think what you're
doing with my son-in-law's
   sword, young woman.
 You're not who you should
be at all. What's your real
           name?'
  Their four faces stared
at Maewen, and the shock
 on three of those faces
 was lurid in the low light
from the window. Moril's
 mouth came open. Wend
 was white. He and Mitt
   both edged back from
Maewen, and Mitt frowned,
calculating and enlightened,
 as this cleared up several
   mysteries he had not
properly considered before.
    Maewen backed too,
 clutching the sword. She
    felt she might have
   dissolved with horror
without something to hang
 on to. 'M-Maewen,' she
said. Cennoreth looked at
her. Under those accusing
 blue-green eyes, Maewen
 found she had to correct
herself. 'Er—Mayelbridwen
      Singer, really.'
 'Hm. That sounds like an
 outlandish version of my
    daughter's name,'
 Cennoreth said. 'Where
      are you from?'
  'The present—I mean,
  your future,' Maewen
       confessed.
   Everyone was startled.
 'That can't be possible!'
        Wend said.
    'Oh, yes—or at least,
    it's quite true,' said
Cennoreth. 'That red snarl
 is from no bobbin here in
 this room. I was planning
how to get that colour dye,
    but I haven't done it
   yet—though I suppose I
  will in time. I thought it
     felt strange when I
  threaded the shuttle the
   other day, but there's
  been a fog and the light
  wasn't good. I didn't
  really see it till now.'
  Wend seemed completely
shattered. His face looked
  older than his sister's.
   'Unpick—unpick it!' he
burst out. 'Before it's too
   late, Tanaqui—unpick!'
 'Don't be silly,' said his
         sister.
   'But you've unpicked
   before!' Wend said.
  'Not often and not for
centuries,' she retorted.
 'And only when the One
   has asked it of me.'
    'But I asked you last
 time!' Wend cried out. He
  seemed quite desperate.
  'Don't you remember? I
 asked you when that slimy
traitor killed the Adon. You
       unpicked then!'
  'Duck, that was unpicking
 a death,' she said, very
  seriously. 'You wouldn't
 want me to unpick a living
          person.'
     'Why not?' Wend
   demanded. 'She's an
imposter. Unpick! Send her
  back! I don't want her
           here!'
    Maewen clutched the
sword and stared from one
 to the other. Wend must
be mad after all. 'But you
  do want me!' she said.
  'You sent me here! You
 told me in the palace you
     wanted me to take
      Noreth's place!'
  Wend rounded on her, so
 angry and tall and so full
 of queer power, that she
 backed away again. 'I do
not want you! Why should I
      send you here?'
     'Because,' Maewen
faltered, 'because the real
  Noreth disappeared and
     you know I look—'
     'Disappeared!' Wend
shouted. His eyes were not
 mad, Maewen saw, but so
full of grief and shock and
 anger that they glared as
if he was not really seeing
           her.
 'I thought you knew,' she
said. 'What you said—you
know—by the waystone—at
       Adenmouth—'
  'What!' said Wend. 'For
so long?' He rounded on his
 sister. 'Where is Noreth
       of Kredindale?'
  Cennoreth ran her finger
  down the rust-coloured
 pattern, and on down the
scarlet twist of wool, until
 she came to the thread
hanging off in the shuttle.
'It's not here. That part
  isn't woven yet.' Wend
    made an angry noise.
  'Don't you understand,
    Duck? I don't know
          either.'
 Maewen could have sworn
that Wend was crying as
he swung round again and
glared at the boys. 'And
do you know?' Moril and
  Mitt shook their heads.
 'You wouldn't!' Wend said
disgustedly. 'You only think
  of yourselves. Don't you
 understand? All my hopes
   were on Noreth. There
  could have been a queen
           again!'
   'No, there couldn't,'
  Maewen said unwisely.
   'There was a ki—.'
  Wend swung round and
shouted at her. 'What do
  you know about this?
 You're not Noreth! You're
no one! You're not the one
 I've kept the green roads
  for, all these years! You
can go hang, and the green
  roads with you! Not one
step more do I go with any
           of you!'
    He turned and stormed
  through the room, going
    from space to space
   between the bobbins in
enormous strides. The door
    to the kitchen-room
 slammed behind him. Very
 shaken, Maewen looked at
  Mitt and Moril. She was
 afraid they were going to
  be as angry with her as
    Wend. What she saw
growing on both their faces
 was simple, devout relief.
Mitt even gave her a shaky
       grin as he asked
   Cennoreth, 'He do this
    often, your brother?'
Cennoreth was frowning out
   of the window, at the
    rocks and apple trees
 there, busily and absently
 attending to her weaving,
tying off a thread of dark
    green yarn beside the
   hanging scarlet shuttle.
      Very like Mum when
     something upset her,
Maewen thought. At Mitt's
question, Cennoreth gave a
  start and looked down at
what her hands were doing.
 'Oh dear,' she said. 'You
 must forgive my brother.
  There are times when he
   feels that every mortal
  soul just lets him down.
  He can behave like this
   when his heart is very
    much in something. I
expect he has gone to look
   for the real girl.' She
   sighed. 'I think you'd
 better go and collect the
     supplies I promised
 you—they're on the table
    in the kitchen. Your
  friends will be waiting.'
  She turned back to her
   loom. Mitt and Moril
nodded at one another, and
 the three of them worked
    their way through the
   bobbins to the kitchen
door. There was no sign of
 Wend in there, but on the
   table stood a crock of
   milk, butter, a bowl of
     eggs and a round of
 cheese. Maewen looked up
  from wondering if Wend
   had put them there, to
 find Mitt and Moril facing
  her meaningly across the
 table. Here it comes! she
         thought.
  'Who are you really? You
 said Singer,' Moril asked
           her.
     'That's a surname,'
Maewen explained. 'My dad
 said we had Singer blood.
  Believe it or not, he was
  showing me some of our
    family tree the night
before I left, but the part
 from this time was really
 confused and I've no idea
   whether I'm related to
you.' It felt so good to be
  able to be herself again
     that she could have
 chattered on for minutes.
  'I may be called Singer,
 but I can barely sing a—'
    'How long into the
   future?' Moril said.
   'Oh. Er—two hundred
     years, I think.'
 Mitt and Moril looked to
one another. 'That long!'
 said Mitt. 'Then you'll
  know what's going to
   happen here—right?'
     'Not really,' Maewen
confessed. She was rather
 dashed to find that what
they were really interested
  in was their own future.
 She had wanted to amaze
   them about planes and
 computers and television.
 'History doesn't tell you
 about the Undying or the
 green roads or anything,'
she explained. 'It's mostly
 kings and politics. Noreth
didn't come into any of the
 history I learned, but I'll
tell you who does—Amil the
  Great. I'm almost sure
      he's almost now.'
     'Who?' said Mitt.
 'Amil,' Moril said, rather
 accusingly. 'That's not a
 king's name. It's one of
  the names of the One.'
  'What about him? Tell,'
       said Mitt.
    Maewen racked her
brains. 'Well, there was a
 big uprising and Amil the
 Great took the crown and
  united all Dalemark. He
   reigned for ages and
  rebuilt Kernsburgh and
     changed the whole
         country.'
    'Ah,' said Mitt. This
 sounded good. Let him and
 Navis only get in on that,
   and Earl Keril and the
 Countess could go whistle.
'When is this uprising going
         to start?'
   'I can't remember the
date,' Maewen confessed—
      which was stupid,
 considering how often she
     had heard it in the
  palace—'but it can't be
  more than a year away
now. I've been thinking all
along that I've only got to
    keep going until Amil
           comes.'
    'Then where does he
   start?' said Mitt. He
 needed to know where to
        make for.
 Maewen flogged her brain
    again, feeling quite
resentful at being released
from her imposture only to
stand up to a history test.
 She would have told him
   so, too, if she hadn't
thought she owed it them.
The trouble was, what she
remembered was a muddle.
  'I think it began in the
    South, down on the
coast—No—because I seem
  to remember that the
North Dales and Dropwater
  came into it too. And
Kernsburgh, I think. Yes,
I'm pretty sure that some
     of it began near
       Kernsburgh.'
   'Kernsburgh.' Mitt and
Moril looked at one another
 again. She could see that
both their minds were hard
at work. 'Kialan's bringing
    Ynen to meet us at
  Kernsburgh,' Mitt told
    Moril. 'If he can.'
   'Kialan,' said Moril,
'would make a good king.'
   'My money's on Ynen,'
  said Mitt. 'I grant you
  that Kialan's kingly, but
Ynen's got the character.'
    Both boys looked at
 Maewen. 'I reckon,' Mitt
said, 'that our job is to go
 along there and hand over
 that sword and that ring,
   and the cup, to one of
           them.'
    'Yes,' Moril agreed. 'I
  don't think we can stop.
 The One's got an interest
in it. You can tell from this
 king's name.' He frowned
  down at the little white
goat cheese in front of him
 on the table. 'But I don't
     understand. What's
    happened to Noreth?'
     This was the part
Maewen had been dreading.
 Both of them were eyeing
    her, picking out the
    features that did not
   match their memory of
     Noreth—or, maybe,
   wondering if she was a
murderess. 'I don't know,'
 she said. 'Honestly. She
was gone when I got here.
I found her horse—at least
      I suppose it's her
horse—wandering about by
  the waystone. I thought
   maybe one of the earls
might have kidnapped her.'
   Again Mitt and Moril
exchanged looks. 'It could
be,' Moril said. 'About the
only earl in the North who
 won't want to stop her is
       Earl Luthan.'
   Mitt said, 'Then we'll
   look for her—after.'
     There was a silence,
filled with the soft singing
    of the kettle on the
 banked peat and clacking
 from the loom next door.
    A memory teased at
    Maewen, now she had
     space to think. 'I
 remember! Wend told me,
back in the palace when he
was tricking me into coming
 here, that Kankredin had
 got to Noreth somehow.'
 Both of them pounced on
 this. 'The voice,' said
         Moril.
    'Now, we'll tell you
  something,' said Mitt.
 'That voice that talks to
  you. You think it's the
     One, don't you?'
'But it's not,' said Moril.
   'It's Kankredin.'
  'How do you know?'
 Maewen said guiltily.
    'By what it tells
you—mostly,' Mitt said.
'But I'm the only one who
  can hear it!' Maewen
       protested.
 'We've both heard it,'
Moril told her. 'And we
 know it's Kankredin.'
 He and Mitt looked at
one another again. 'If he's
 got rid of Noreth,' Mitt
  said, working it out, 'he
got you instead because he
  thinks you'll do what he
 wants. Do you want to?'
    'No!' Maewen said
    fervently. 'If you
       heard—No!'
   'Then don't let's talk
   about it outside this
    house,' Moril said.
  Maewen looked up from
the bowl of eggs, big pale
  blue duck eggs and brown
 hen eggs mixed, which she
had mostly been staring at,
     and gazed round the
  kitchen. Low beams with
  strings of onions hanging
  from them, copper pans,
chairs with knitted cushions
 and a wall of shelves with
glass jars on them, holding
coloured mixtures that may
    have been dyes—it all
 belonged to Cennoreth. It
made sense that Kankredin
 could not hear them here,
  even if he seemed to be
    everywhere else. She
shuddered. That voice. She
knew it was Kankredin now.
It was the same voice that
had so frightened her from
     the old man in the
 train—the way it had not
  seemed to come from a
  person—but she had not
  realised, because there
   had not been a face to
        connect it to.
  'No,' she said. 'I won't
say a word. You know I—
 secretly, I was afraid I
   might be going mad!'
 'Not you!' said Mitt. 'So
we'll keep him thinking we
   don't know it's him.
          Right?'
  'Right,' said Maewen.
  They were all suddenly
jolly with relief. Maewen
felt like a person who has
    long had a splinter
     festering under a
fingernail, after someone
 has come along and pulled
    the splinter out. Mitt
laughed as he picked up the
    bowl of eggs and the
   cheese. 'One thing,' he
  said. 'I bet you got that
idea about the miners from
 history books, didn't you?
    Telling them to go on
           smash.'
 'Strike,' said Moril, and
he laughed as he picked up
     the crock of milk.
 This left Maewen free to
snatch up the loaf and rush
   out of the door, crying
     out, 'Wallop! Smash!
Strike!' She raced through
    the trees, waving the
 sword in one hand and the
loaf in the other. 'We got
  the sword!' she shouted.
     Mitt and Moril were
   forced to follow more
 slowly for fear of spilling
  milk and breaking eggs.
    Moril had gone sober
 again. 'Penny for them,'
        said Mitt.
    'She never heard of
 Noreth,' Moril said. 'So
 what happens to her} She
can't be in history either.'
          XVIII
     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 armoury 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
a while 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 tripwire across
the rushes some way down
        the path.
 There was no alarm in the
night. They woke to a grey
  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
tripwire. 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
 further 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 towards 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 found a
place a long way back and
   hidden from the road.
 Hestefan drove the cart
 after him along the river
   bank 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 gets
sharper for it. Mind you,
 I've only seen him lose
four nights of sleep, but
 he never turned a hair
          then.'
     She realised 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 towards 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 inwards 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 further 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 towards
 them from further up the
 road. Her hands leapt 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 colours
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 realised 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
   Dropwater. 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 a pretty pink and
 white face, 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 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,
 towards 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 law
books? 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 hearthpeople
  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, coloured 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
  colours, it's Flaming
Ammet! It's Alk! What's
    he doing here?'
           XIX
       Alk was riding an
enormous horse. Mitt knew
  it well. It was about the
 only one in Aberath which
was up to Alk's weight. By
the horse and the hugeness
  Alk was unmistakable, as
he gestured to the rest of
 his party to halt and rode
 out ahead of them alone.
   Though Mitt knew Alk
 would be wearing his own
 special armour under his
  pale leather clothes, he
still thought this was very
brave—or very foolish—of
 Alk. Luthan's people had
guns and crossbows. They
might be tired, but after
the way Navis had worked
them, they were jumpy as
            cats.
   'Nobody fire!' Navis
   called sharply. Fifty
    weapons were up.
  Luthan came awake with a
jump. 'That's right, Navis.
Hold fire, everyone. We've
 no quarrel with Aberath.'
  Speak for yourself! Mitt
 thought nervously as Alk
 came to a ponderous halt
 halfway between the two
          bands.
     'Good morning,' Alk
called. 'I need to speak to
 some of you. Here's my
  list: Navis Haddsson,
Alhammitt Alhammittsson,
  Hestefan the Singer,
Tanamoril Clennensson and
 a lady known as Noreth
 Onesdaughter, if she's
with you. I'd be grateful
if they all came out here
and the rest of you went
back a bit. I need to talk
   to them in private.'
 They exchanged mystified
looks. Mitt and Moril had
 been yawning. Maewen's
eyes had been nearly shut.
But they were all suddenly
wide awake. 'I suppose we
should see what he wants,'
 Navis said. 'We are four
         to one.'
  'That doesn't count with
Alk,' Mitt said. 'I've seen
    him throw a horse.'
  Navis bowed politely to
Luthan. 'We'll try not to
keep you waiting long,' he
 said. Luthan gave him a
 polite, bewildered nod.
Navis edged his mare out
  of the throng and the
other three followed him.
  Alk looked them over as
they approached. Mitt had
never seen him look so glum
    and grim. 'Where's
  Hestefan the Singer?'
  'Following behind,' said
Navis. 'His mule couldn't
keep up. Are you likely to
detain us long, my lord?'
 'My lord.' Alk rubbed his
 chin. It rasped. Behind
    him, Mitt could see a
 cluster of faces he knew
 well from Aberath. All of
them had a weary, fed-up
   look and none of them
  greeted him. 'My lord?'
   Alk repeated. 'Now, I
 reckon you're at least as
  much of a lord as I am,
    Navis Haddsson. My
 reading is that when you
call people that, you don't
mean any respect at all. So
don't call me that. As for
 how long we'll be—this'll
 take as long as it takes.
  You all gave me the slip
   once, when I'd nearly
      caught you up at
 Dropthwaite, and forced
 me to get ahead of you.
 I've been hanging around
 for you, up and down the
green roads, for a day and
a half now, so now you can
  just wait for me, Navis
Haddsson. That reminds me
   — ' Alk's glum manner
  vanished. He turned to
  Mitt. 'This is something
you'll appreciate, Mitt. I'd
been in Aberath such years
  that I'd forgotten what
   these green roads were
like. Lovely level runs, you
     get on them— bends
beautifully cambered, not a
      sharp curve among
  them—and never a steep
    gradient anywhere! It
   would only take a little
tinkering and filling-in, and
 I could lay tracks and run
 my steam engines all over
         the North!'
      Maewen had been
watching Navis look as put
down as she had ever seen
him, but this snatched her
  attention back. So that
  was why there were no
  green roads in her day!
They were all railways! 'So
 that's—!' she began, and
      stopped herself.
 But the small noise caught
this huge man's attention.
 'And who are you, young
   lady?' Alk asked her.
  'Noreth Onesdaughter,'
she said. 'You asked to see
            me.'
    'With respect, young
 lady,' said Alk, 'I don't
     think you can be.'
   He was terrifyingly grim
  about it. Mitt and Moril
  gave her looks that were
  plain frightened. As for
  Navis, he looked at her,
   narrowed his eyes and
looked again, in a way that
  made Maewen feel as if
  she were dropping fast
through the earth, leaving
     sun and grass and
    friendliness behind.
'Wh—what makes you say
that?' she managed to ask
             Alk.
 'The reason I came after
    you all.' Alk settled
 himself stonily upright on
   his huge horse. 'Four
days,' he said. 'Four days
  after Mitt set out for
 Adenmouth, Lady Eltruda
 of Adenmouth arrives in
 Aberath. Came herself.
 Asking for justice. On a
  charge of murder. She
   brought the murdered
corpse with her, because
the victim was her niece.
Noreth of Kredindale. The
  girl's throat had been
            cut.'
   'I don't believe this!'
Navis burst out. His face
     had drained to a
blue-white, except for his
eyes, which were rimmed
     with red. 'Does
  Eltruda—the Lady of
Adenmouth—suspect that
          I—?'
 'You're on her list,' said
 Alk, 'though I can't say
   she likes the idea.'
 Navis sagged. There were
big deep lines on his face
that had not been there a
minute before. He's really
fond of her! Mitt thought
 wonderingly. That little
  loud lady. Who'd have
        thought it?
       'It seems,' Alk
  continued, 'they didn't
 find the girl's body right
away, because whoever did
  her in killed her in the
stables. Then shoved her in
  an empty stall and piled
  straw over her. It was
only luck they found her. I
 reckon the killer hoped it
 would be longer than that
     before they did.'
  His eyes wandered over
all four of them, bleak as
stones. Mitt shivered. He
 had never seen Alk like
  this. This was Alk the
 lawman. Seeing it, Mitt
had an inkling at least of
   why the Countess had
married Alk. Like this, he
must have frightened even
       the Countess.
  'Lady Eltruda,' said Alk,
   'ought to have been a
law-woman. She did a fine
      job. Everyone in
Adenmouth she's accounted
for, and had them all prove
 where they were and what
 they were doing. She has
    it narrowed down to
 everyone who went off on
 Midsummer morning. You'd
better believe this. I do. I
 suspect you all, plus,' his
 eyes travelled to Maewen,
 'you. I've seen the body.
   You could be her twin
sister, but you're not her.
She looked older.' His eyes
travelled to Moril and on to
    Navis. 'You told Fenna
     you'd sworn to follow
 Noreth, and you promised
   Lady Eltruda you'd look
  after her. But when you
    both went off she was
   already dead.' His eyes
     went to Mitt and, if
possible, were bleaker still.
  'And you came and made
promises to me in Aberath,
 so you could get that ring
  for someone who wasn't
 Noreth. Did you know she
     was dead then?'
   'I didn't—I didn't
 know—I swear—!' Mitt
      stammered.
    'Nor did I,' Moril
 whispered. 'I was with
     Hestefan all—'
  'All the time?' said Alk.
 'You went and talked to
Fenna, up in her bedroom,
 and after that you were
  running around, no one
 knows where, looking for
       your cwidder.'
   Moril wilted. Navis said
 nothing. Maewen put her
  hands to her face. The
 poor girl. And here was I
 cheerfully thinking she'd
    just been kidnapped.
  Maewen knew, too well,
     what Noreth's last
  moments had felt like.
Grabbed round the throat.
The knife coming round. Or
  maybe Noreth had been
 glad to see the killer and
 turned round smiling—Oh,
 are you coming too?—and
 then she saw the knife.
 Tears came rolling down
 her face. Poor Noreth.
  'This gets us nowhere,'
   Alk said. 'I came for
 justice, not play-acting.
And I made enquiries as I
 came. When Karet came
back up from Gardale with
the news that the Adon's
  cup had gone from the
Lawschool, I thought, Can
 you believe anything that
  Mitt says? You stole it,
       didn't you?'
 'No,' Navis said. 'I did.'
    Alk stared at him in
  genuine surprise. After
  blinking a bit, he said,
    'Then where is it?'
     Navis answered by
 fetching the cup from his
pocket, still wrapped in the
 handkerchief. Alk stared
  at it for a moment. He
    considered. Then he
nodded at Maewen. 'Give it
 to her. And you,' he said
to Maewen, 'take hold of
 it without that wrapping
 and tell me your name is
Noreth of Kredindale. Go
           on.'
 Maewen wretchedly took
the cup, and just stopped
 herself from wiping the
 tears off her face with
  the handkerchief. 'My
    name is Noreth of
  Kredindale,' she said,
        'Why—?'
    'Quiet,' said Alk.
  Maewen obediently shut
her mouth. The man had a
personality as huge as his
body, she thought, wiping
her face with her sleeve.
  You did what he said.
    'Now say your real
     name,' said Alk.
    'I'm Mayelbridwen
  Singer,' Maewen said
          sadly.
 She was still thinking of
Noreth. She saw everyone
staring at the cup before
 it occurred to her to look
    at it herself. It was
   shining blue all over its
lopsided shape. Even in the
  gold haze of dawn it was
 bright. And at the end of
her long shadow, stretching
away on top of her horse's
  longer shadow, right out
    across the grass and
 bracken, there was a blue
 haze where the shadow of
 the cup should have been.
   She saw Alk's followers
    turning to look at it.
    'Marvellous!' said Alk.
 'Clever work! When I was
 a boy at the Lawschool, I
   heard they used it for
 truth-telling in evidence.'
 For a moment, in spite of
 their anxiety, all four of
  them had an irresistible
 vision of Alk at grittling.
  His side must have won
  every time. Even Navis
nearly smiled. 'But I never
   saw it at work before
 this,' Alk said. 'Now tell
   me another lie, young
      Mayelbridwen.'
   Maewen's mind would not
come up with a lie at first.
 Then her horse sidled, no
 doubt puzzled by the blue
 light on its back, and she
     caught a glimpse of
 scarlet, where Luthan was
    standing, patting his
horse's nose and staring at
the cup. She said, 'I'm in
    love with the Earl of
Dropwater.' The blue light
  went from the cup as if
  someone had turned a
  switch. Moril gave an
    unhappy chuckle.
 'Now another truth,' Alk
      commanded.
    Maewen nearly began,
'I'm in love with—' but she
swallowed it down and said,
   'Oh—er—we found the
 Adon's sword. It's behind
        my saddle.'
 'Did you indeed?' said Alk
 as the cup lit blue again,
 like a small sheeny moon.
   'I thought no one knew
  where that sword really
 was. Well, well. Now pass
the cup to the Singer-lad.'
Maewen reached across and
  handed the cup over. As
 Moril's hand closed round
    it, the blue light went
  again. Alk nodded. 'You
say your name,' he said to
             Moril.
   'Osfameron Tanamoril
 Clennensson,' said Moril.
And the cup was alight and
blue again. He stared at it
       wonderingly.
   'Untruth,' commanded
           Alk.
 'I—er—I can't play the
cwidder,' Moril said. And
 he was holding a simple
       silver cup.
   'Now say—did you kill
Noreth of Kredindale?' Alk
          said.
   Wo!' said Moril, and
again the cup flared blue.
Moril screwed his eyes up
at it as if he might cry.
  'Now pass it to Navis,'
Alk ordered. When Navis
  had stretched out and
taken the cup and it was
 once more a mild silver,
Alk said, 'And did you kill
 Noreth Onesdaughter?'
  'I most certainly did
 not,' Navis said, and
screwed his eyes up like
Moril when the cup shone
    blue in his hand.
Mitt waited anxiously. Alk
    was leaving him till last
   because he thought Mitt
    was the guilty one. He
   could see that. It was a
 wretched thought. But the
 cup itself was beginning to
worry him just as much. If
  it was behaving as it was
     supposed to with the
others—and from Alk's look
      as he tested it, it
  was—then it had behaved
     all wrong with Mitt,
 spitting blue sparks at him
     both other times he
touched it. Mitt suspected
the thing disliked him. He
  did not trust it not to
  prove him guilty out of
sheer malice. He could see
 the faces of his onetime
friends in Aberath behind
 Alk, shut away from him,
 sure he was a murderer.
 'Now to him,' Alk said to
         Navis.
      Navis held the
 blue-glowing cup out to
 Mitt. That, and Mitt's
worry, made his new horse
turn round restively, giving
 him a sight of Luthan and
   all his people staring.
  Ammet only knew what
    they were thinking.
 'Take it!' Navis snapped.
   Mitt spared a hand for
 the thing. 'Ouch? It was
like nettles, squirting blue
rays between his fingers.
He had to let go the reins
  and hang on to the cup
   with both hands or he
  would have let it fall. It
   hurt. It crackled blue
  streams round his wrists
   and knuckles. The cup
clearly hated him as much
as the Countess-horse did.
 'Ow!' And Luthan's spare
horse did not help, bucking
around in fear, until Navis
  grabbed it and pulled on
          the bit.
 'Can you bring yourself to
   tell a lie?' Alk said,
    watching callously.
  'You being—sarky is—all I
  need!' Mitt said with his
 teeth clenched. 'Burn you!
    I—I—You don't make
  steam engines!' The blue
     rays faded inwards
between Mitt's fingers and
   vanished. The prickling
  lasted an instant longer,
  and then that went, too.
 Mitt shook the plain silver
goblet he was now holding,
and the other hand as well.
 The relief! 'Burn you, Alk!
   This thing hates me! I
 won't dare tell the truth
    now, I warn you!'
   'I dare you,' said Alk.
  'Did you kill Noreth of
        Kredindale?'
   Wo!' Mitt spat, hunched
   against another assault
  from the cup. It spat at
   him again, with a sharp
sizzle, but, to his surprise,
    it was nothing like so
     painful. More like a
   tingling. The blue rays
     reaching through his
    fingers were almost
  glorious. 'Ah. Calmed it
       down,' he said.
  'Turn it off, turn it on. I
 thought that might do it,'
  Alk said. He looked smug,
like someone who had won a
   bet. As Mitt thankfully
   passed the cup back to
   Navis, he said, 'Then I
declare you all clear of the
  charge of murder. Now,'
he added to Maewen, 'let's
 have a look at that sword,
       young lady.'
  'But why?' said Navis.
  'It might do to swear
some more on,' Alk said.
  Navis looked harrowed.
'Please,' he said. 'I have
 to get to Kernsburgh in
   case my son Ynen is
          there.'
     Maewen hurriedly
scrabbled the sword loose,
 knowing Navis was right.
  Alk grinned. 'It's just
  curiosity, really. I love
  clever metalwork. Just
draw the sword and show it
  to me, young lady, and
   then you can all go.'
  Maewen tried to draw the
      sword in the same
 hurry—too hurriedly. She
     jammed it sideways
somehow and it refused to
 emerge. 'It's stuck!' she
  said, hauling uselessly at
 it. Mitt and Navis leaned
  over to help. They both
 wanted to get going. Both
their horses, and Maewen's
 with them, got the wrong
 idea and started to move,
  and were pulled back. All
   three surged round in a
  circle, and Moril's horse
joined in. Alk calmly moved
 his own horse back, where
      he sat watching the
    confusion. It was only
resolved when Navis seized
     the leather scabbard
 Maewen was waving about
and planted the hilt end on
Mitt's saddle. Both pulled.
The sword came loose with
     a slithery clang.
  'There,' said Mitt. He
rode over and pushed the
 sword under Alk's nose.
      'Satisfied?'
   'I'll say!' Alk looked it
 over admiringly. 'It may
 look plain and a silly old
 fashion, but it's better
work than any of us could
   do today. I'd give an
eyetooth to meet the man
 that made it. He'd have
taken a year and a day to
  do it, you know. No one
 bothers to take that sort
of trouble today. All right.
  Put it away and let's all
    get to Kernsburgh.'
 'All?' said Navis. He was
more depressed than Mitt
had ever seen him. 'I've
  no more patience for
          jokes.'
  'No joke,' said Alk. 'I
    said I'd come to
Kernsburgh with the rest
 of you. Keril listens to
          me.'
     'I don't think you
 understand,' Navis said
  wearily. 'You have just
 removed my pretext for
   dragging the Earl of
Dropwater there with me.'
    Alk's eyes went to
Maewen. 'Is that so? Who
 heard me do that, apart
from you and two lads who
knew anyway? Didn't you?'
     he asked Moril.
   'Kankredin might have
    heard,' Moril said.
  'All the more reason for
 going there,' said Alk. He
turned his vast horse round
   to join his hearthmen.
  'Just a moment,' Navis
 said. He seemed to have
 revived wonderfully. Alk
  stopped and turned his
 head questioningly. 'If I
 have no pretext,' Navis
said, 'you must have one.'
   'Must I?' Alk lifted his
  helmet and scratched his
 head. 'I suppose it stands
  to reason,' he admitted,
 'that if I pull the rug out
from under you, you'll need
 somewhere to stand.' He
  grinned. 'Let's say I've
  got the same pretext as
         you have.'
     Navis laughed and
wheeled round to ride back
        to Luthan.
    'What did he mean?'
 Maewen asked, as their
  three horses shimmied
 about, glad to be moving
          again.
 'Not to tell Luthan you're
not Noreth, I think,' Mitt
said, although, knowing Alk
  and Navis as he did, he
    was not at all sure.
   She made a face. Moril
 laughed. 'Don't look now.
Luthan's on his way to ask
   you all about what Alk
          wanted.'
  Maewen naturally looked.
Luthan was mounted again,
 trotting up the road with
     an eager, tender,
  questioning look. 'What
     shall I tell him?'
    Navis reached Luthan
first. He spoke quickly and
   quietly to Luthan, and
whatever it was he said, it
 seemed to satisfy Luthan
entirely. He shot Maewen a
look of deep understanding
  and rode gravely beside
Navis as their party joined
          Alk's.
   The two groups together
  made quite an impressive
force, Mitt thought, as he
  rode in the midst of it.
  This ought to show Earl
      Keril they meant
 business—if this was what
Navis and Alk had in mind.
   Since he was not sure,
Mitt found himself thinking
about Noreth instead, dead
before she set foot on the
   King's Road. Kankredin
 must be angry about that.
 Wend had fooled him, and
 everyone else, by sending
    Maewen in her place.
 Except that Wend hadn't
  seemed to know what he
    was doing. Mitt was
 anxious about that. Wend
      had withdrawn his
 protection from Maewen,
  and she could well be in
danger if Kankredin turned
on her. Mitt decided not to
  let her out of his sight.
   He was surprised, and a
little ashamed, to find that
   when he thought he was
 thinking of Noreth, it was
    Maewen he was really
        worried about.
  About an hour later, they
  reached Kernsburgh. At
least, it was where Alk and
  all the Dropwater people
    said Kernsburgh was.
  'It is. Honestly,' Moril
assured Mitt and Maewen.
    They had halted in a
 half-circle three or four
  riders deep, facing an
ordinary, small waystone.
Beyond it, the green turf
rose and fell in a hundred
humps and hummocks. And
       that was all.
  'City of Gold,' Alk said
genially. 'Always on the hill
           beyond.'
  Navis beckoned Mitt and
cantered among the grassy
  mounds to organise his
defence. Everyone followed
 slowly, Maewen among the
    last. This felt weird.
    Where they had first
  stopped could have been
the space which Kernsburgh
 Central Station was going
   to fill, except that the
  waystone was all wrong.
   Those low mounds were
  where she had last seen
  shops and office blocks,
   and the slightly higher
 hummocks ahead, up which
Navis was riding slantwise,
 were where the Tannoreth
  Palace would be some day
soon. The green crease she
 was following, full of hoof
prints and horse droppings,
 was probably King Street.
   And instead of cars and
 lorries, there was a much
 quieter confusion of riders
  in two different liveries.
    Maewen could so little
    believe this was really
Kernsburgh that she had to
look up towards the distant
  hills to make sure. There
   she saw the blue jagged
shapes she saw from Dad's
    apartment, the North
    Dales Peaks. But the
  oddest part was the way
there had obviously been a
  city here once, under all
these lumps. She felt as if
time had stood upside down
 and she really was in the
 far future, looking at the
remains of the Kernsburgh
       she had known.
 A great shout jerked her
attention back to here and
 now. Mitt was down from
  his horse, leaping across
   the hummocks, yelling.
   Maewen shook her own
  horse to a fast trot and
 arrived at the top of the
  palace mounds in time to
     see Mitt delightedly
  greeting two newcomers.
   The tall curly one was
  plainly Kialan. Navis had
      his arm round the
shoulders of the small pale
boy with Kialan. They were
alike enough for Maewen to
 know that this was Ynen.
      There were two
weary-looking horses in the
 hollow behind the two. It
   looked as if they had
  ridden all night as well.
  'I'm sorry we kept out of
 sight,' Kialan was saying.
 'There was a big troop of
horsemen in wargear on the
road last night. We had to
   leave the road to avoid
them. We couldn't see who
they were in the dark, but
we didn't think they should
         see us.'
   'It was probably Alk,'
said Navis, 'but we'll take
       precautions.'
    Maewen was watching
 Ynen frisk round Mitt like
  a terrier puppy round a
  greyhound. I'm so glad!
she thought. He likes Mitt!
 I don't think I could have
 borne it if he'd been like
 Hildy. Ynen was so unlike
   Hildy that she thought
  maybe he was a bit of a
  softie. Then Ynen looked
up at Maewen and she knew
 he was not soft at all. He
 smiled at her uncertainly,
 not knowing who she was.
 'Are you Noreth?' Kialan
asked her. Lordly, Maewen
thought. He reminded her
 of the boys at the sixth
       form college.
  'We all thought so, but
  apparently not,' Navis
  said. 'Mayelbridwen, I
  believe, is the name.'
    Just then, there were
    agitated noises from
  Luthan a little way off.
   Mitt went haring over
   there to see what was
 wrong. Maewen found she
 could not face the puzzled
looks from Kialan and Ynen,
   and she followed Mitt.
 In another hidden hollow,
 Luthan was standing over
an immense heap of mixed
 bread and grapes. There
was another heap beyond
  that looked like oats.
'Where did all this come
from?' Luthan demanded.
  Mitt narrowed his eyes at
the stuff. The loaves were
   the kind plaited into a
wheat-shape which he had
    last seen in the Holy
 Islands. The grapes were
 the sweet green Southern
    kind. He grinned. 'A
  present,' he said, 'from
the Earth Shaker and She
 Who Raised the Islands.'
  'You're joking,' Luthan
    said uncertainly.
   'I am not,' Mitt said.
  However it arrived, the
    breakfast was very
welcome. By the time Navis
 had the place organised,
 everyone was glad to sit
   down and eat at their
 posts. Alk's people, and
  most of Luthan's, were
   posted hidden behind
 mounds in a great circle.
 Kialan and Ynen were sent
  to help pass a loaf and a
      bunch of grapes to
   everyone, while Maewen
and Mitt were busy pouring
  a pile of oats in front of
      each of the horses
   picketed in the middle.
Luthan's hearthwomen were
 standing by a third of the
 horses to mount a cavalry
     charge if necessary.
 'There's still quite a heap
of bread and grapes left,'
Kialan said, as he arrived
  at the horses with an
     armload for the
      hearthwomen.
   'As if they might be
 expecting more people,'
Ynen said, following Kialan
  with his arms clutched
 round loaves and grapes
dangling from his fingers.
  'I got these for us.'
 Mitt wondered about this
as they went to eat in the
 central hollow. What did
  the Undying think was
going to happen? He had a
 sense that this was a lull
before things got frantic.
    And once things got
   frantic, he knew they
 would go on that way for
      quite some time.
 Before Mitt could mention
this feeling to the others,
Navis arrived with Alk and
  Luthan. 'There,' Navis
  said. 'That should stop
anyone interfering while we
look for the crown. Has
anyone any idea where it
          is?'
   Everyone shook their
heads. Wend would know,
  Maewen thought. Oh
    bother the man!
     Luthan broke apart a
 loaf. 'They say,' he said,
  'that the crown is buried
in the ruins of King Hern's
palace. You may be sitting
   on it,' he added, with a
  melting smile at Maewen.
  'Then it's going to take
digging to find,' Alk said,
sitting on the slope with a
     loaf in each hand.
   'Long, careful digging,'
Kialan agreed. 'They took
six weeks' digging to find
  the second spellcoat up
      above Hannart.'
  'I doubt,' said Navis,
'that we have six hours.'
  'Then we think it round
 another way,' said Alk.
 Moril arrived then, with
 his vaguest look, and was
 introduced to Ynen. Ynen
  was delighted. It turned
    out that he had met
 Moril's brother Dagner in
Hannart, who had told him
 a great deal about Moril.
The two of them chattered
  as they ate. They were
   the only ones talking.
     Everyone else was
wondering how to find the
crown, except Luthan, who
  kept giving Maewen such
   melting looks that she
wanted to tell him to start
digging. But he won't, she
thought. It would spoil his
        scarlet suit.
 'This won't do,' Mitt said
         at last.
  'No,' Kialan agreed. He
nudged Moril with his boot.
'Moril, do the Singers have
any sayings that might help
    us find the crown?'
 Moril looked up. His face
   was full of a kind of
nervous awe. 'You want to
    go and get it now?'
  Everyone stared at him.
     'I've been walking
around,' he said, 'trying to
  work it out. I think the
cwidder will do it. We have
  to go to the waystone.'
 Everyone sprang up. 'Why
didn't you say?' Ynen cried
            out.
    'I second that,' said
           Navis.
   'Leave him be,' Kialan
   said, as they all raced
 down the hummock. 'He's
like that. One of us should
  have asked him before.'
     They raced past the
hobbled horses, where the
  hearthwomen were fixing
bayonets to long guns. Mitt
knew how they felt. Every
   one of the women was
 trying to pretend this was
  just a training exercise,
and very much hoping that
was all it would turn out to
 be. As they ran on, more
    hearthmen sprang up
   alertly from among the
   green humps, and then
subsided, seeing they were
     not being attacked.
  Further heads reared up
from across the green road
  and disappeared, as the
  eight of them gathered
    round the waystone.
  'What do we do?' said
        Kialan.
 'Go through,' said Moril.
  'I think.' He knelt down
 and carefully put his face
to the impossibly small hole
    in the middle of the
          waystone.
    'Look any different
 through there, does it?'
   Mitt asked hopefully.
 'No,' Moril said, crawling
away backwards. He slung
the cwidder round to the
front of him and stripped
  off its cover, thinking
           hard.
   'I don't wish to cast a
blight, lad,' said Alk, 'but
  not even young Ynen is
    going to get through
           there.'
 Moril frowned. 'I know. I
 wish I could think how—'
 'Wait a minute,' Maewen
      interrupted.
  As she spoke, there was
  a yell and a splatter of
 gunfire from the mounds
  over to the right. Here
comes the frantic bit, Mitt
         thought.
     'Uh-oh,' said Alk.
 Luthan's curvaceous face
went a little less pink. 'My
sector,' he said and went
      dashing away.
     'Good,' said Maewen.
 'Moril, in the time I come
  from, this waystone is as
tall as a house—and I think
   the hole is lower down.
       Does that help?'
  Moril's white face lifted
  to her. 'Yes. That's a
 truth.' He put his fingers
    to the strings of the
cwidder and bent his head.
 Mitt, now he knew a little
  about the working of the
  cwidder, could feel Moril
concentrate and the power
   begin to build. He knelt
down beside him, as if that
          could help.
   There was another shot
and a great deal of yelling,
 fierce and strident, from
    over to the left. Alk
 flinched in that direction
   and turned back. 'I'd
    better go,' he said.
  'That's my part. Here,
 Mitt. Here's a keepsake
for you. Catch.' He tossed
 Mitt something small and
      round and heavy.
  Mitt was just in time to
  catch it. 'What's this,
           then?'
  'Told you I made a copy
 of the Adon's ring,' Alk
 called over his shoulder.
 'Put it on. I may have a
    hole in me like that
waystone when you see me
           next.'
    Mitt gave the ring a
distracted look and shoved
 it on his nearest finger.
 Moril had begun to play,
 rippling music like waves
 from a stone dropped in
   water, expanding and
  expanding, and rippling
again. The waystone looked
  no different, but Mitt
could feel the solid booming
 beneath the ripples, and
 strange, shrill stretching
  sounds buried in it, that
  told him that something
       was happening.
  Counterpoint against the
music came more shots and
  clamour, this time from
           behind.
   Navis looked over his
shoulder. 'Now I must go.
 You young ones find that
crown and we'll cover your
         backs.'
'But you'll need me,' Mitt
  said, half getting up.
 Navis put a hand on his
 shoulder and held him
down. 'Not yet. You go.
 Luck ship and shore.'
   A strange thing to say,
   Maewen thought. She
     looked back at the
   waystone and saw the
 impossible sight of Moril
stepping through the hole
  in the centre, carefully
 holding his cwidder. The
waystone looked no larger.
  Moril looked no smaller.
Yet he stepped through and
 there was no sign of him
  on the other side. Ynen
  hopped eagerly through
      after him, and he
    disappeared too Then
 Kialan stooped to follow.
  He was so much bigger
   that Maewen held her
breath. But Kialan stepped
   through as calmly and
   easily as if he did this
impossible thing every day.
Mitt went next, in a gawky
  scramble of elbows and
long legs. By this time the
  yelling and the gunshots
    were coming from all
  round. As Maewen bent
down to follow Mitt, there
were white puffs of smoke
 coming from every mound
she could see. She saw the
hearthwomen in the centre
   grimly getting on their
           horses.
  A strange voice behind
her yelled, 'Charge! Come
    on charge them!'
   Maewen had no time to
think that the hole was too
      small. She simply
 scrambled through it, and
  was barely surprised to
   find that it was easy.
           XX
 Maewen had a glimpse of
 kialan and Ynen following
Moril down a silent, golden
street, casting blue-black
   shadows as they went.
There was a warm sun and
a feeling of humming peace
 in this place. But Maewen
could clearly hear screams
  and shots and crashing in
the distance all round. The
      battle was only a
 hair's-breadth away. She
knew it could come bursting
through Moril's paper-thin
  enchantment any second.
When someone came at her
  sideways in another long
 indigo shadow, it was just
like Gardale again. She put
 her hands to her face and
         screamed.
  'Hush!' Mitt said, giving
      her a shake.
 It was only Mitt, who had
 waited for her. Maewen
  knew this, but still she
  whimpered and sobbed.
   Mitt shook her harder.
'Will you hush! Moril made
 this out of sounds, don't
  you understand! You're
  going to break it if you
carry on. What are you, a
          baby?'
   Maewen pulled herself
together. 'Of course I'm
not a baby. I'm thirteen.
It was just the battle out
         there.'
  'Thirteen? Really?' Mitt
 found this wonderful and
 remarkable. He had been
thinking of Maewen as the
 same age as Noreth, and
here she was younger than
he was! It seemed to turn
everything round. As they
   set off to follow the
others, Mitt slid his hand
 carefully down Maewen's
arm and took hold of her
  hand. It was the most
momentous, and the most
exciting thing he had ever
     done in his life.
           Click!
 'Snap!' said Maewen, as
 Mitt swung their joined
hands up to see what the
  noise was. They both
   laughed. On Maewen's
      thumb and Mitt's
    forefinger were two
  identical gold bands and
     two identical gloomy
profiles carved out of what
 seemed exactly the same
 kind of red stone. 'Alk's
   copy?' Maewen asked.
  'Yes. He made it to fit
himself by the size of it,'
        Mitt said.
 After that it became a
more normal thing to hold
  hands. They walked on,
    following the square
gold-yellow stones of what
  seemed to be a street.
   Everywhere was misty,
white mist with the sun in
  it, and the other three
were out of sight ahead by
  then. But there seemed
 nowhere else for them to
have gone except along the
           street.
  At first there appeared
  to be houses on either
  side, though these were
fuzzed out above the first
  storey by the mist. But
after a while, they seemed
to have come into a garden
or a parkland. There was a
    feeling of openness.
    Delicate trees spread
green-gold branches in the
   mist, and others were
    spires and blocks of
gold-dark. It seemed moist
underfoot. Maewen thought
 she could hear birds, but
   when she listened they
    were somehow out of
  hearing. Seabirds? Mitt
thought. Land birds? There
 were smells too, delicately
scrawled on the air. Mitt's
head came up at the smell:
   the peat-smell of the
 North, of a distant farm,
the hot tang of the South,
  water lazily running, and
    even, amazingly, the
  far-off salt of the sea.
  This was a smell he had
 once thought of as home.
   Nearby, willows were
         budding.
  It can't be this wet here!
  Mitt thought. But it was,
   secretly. The scent was
  conveying him the secret
 that under Kernsburgh the
rock was porous and riddled
    with channels of water
  flowing down to the sea.
  Then they can sink wells,
    he thought with some
 relief. It had worried him
slightly that Kernsburgh did
 not seem to have a water
supply. He found himself
   saying to Maewen,
'There's going to be war
and fighting for the next
       two years.'
   'They can't do much
rebuilding till that's over,'
        she agreed.
  'They can make a start.
That's not what I meant,'
Mitt said. 'I meant it was
all building to war when I
left the South, and I get
 the feeling I'm going to
 have to be part of it, but
I don't like to think of you
    getting hurt in it.'
  'I don't want to be left
    out,' Maewen said.
 'But you don't like war,'
Mitt pointed out. 'What I
 mean is, you might stay
   here and start the
         building.'
  'Only if you promise to
  come back and see me
 after the war,' Maewen
said. 'I'll come after you
      if you don't.'
  'All right,' said Mitt. 'I
promise. In two years.' In
 the strange scented gold
   mist it did not seem
ridiculous to talk of these
           things.
  'I'll hold you to that,'
  Maewen said, laughing.
     They wandered on.
Shortly they came out into
  a wide golden courtyard
   where they found the
other three, none of whom
seemed to notice that Mitt
  and Maewen must have
 come by a side way. Ynen
was pointing to a statue on
        a pedestal.
    'Ours are the only
 shadows, here,' he said.
         'Look.'
    He was right. All their
   shadows were long and
  blue-black. The statue
ought to have laid a zigzag
    shadow up a flight of
stairs, but it did not. Moril
    stumbled on the stairs
because they were so hard
  to see. Kialan caught his
 elbow to stop him falling,
 all in a criss-cross of inky
 shadows, and accidentally
   jarred the cwidder. It
 sang out melodiously. The
sound seemed to shake the
  entire place. Everything
   blurred. For a moment,
even the inky shadows were
     faint. Nobody dared
   breathe. They all stood
  still until the sound died
   and the faint golden
   buildings came back.
    The tall building at the
 head of the steps, though
   it was lost upwards into
  mist, was remarkably like
the Tannoreth Palace. Like,
     but quite unlike too,
  Maewen realised, staring
  up at it while the others
     tiptoed gently up the
   steps. It had almost no
  windows and its roof was
 supported on mighty pillars
   shaped like buds—long
whorled buds, like the ones
  on magnolias—and yet it
  had the same shape and
gave her the same feel as
 the palace she knew. She
climbed the difficult steps
   on cautious, whispering
feet and joined the others
    in the long gold-stone
            tunnel.
   They trod forward as
 gently as they could, all
 horribly aware that this
palace of gold was only the
 most fragile illusion. The
 stony air from the tunnel
 made both Ynen and Mitt
want to cough. Neither of
   them dared make that
much noise and had to keep
 clearing their throats as
gently as they could. Then
    the tunnel branched.
     'Where to?' Moril
       whispered.
   'Follow your cwidder,'
     Kialan breathed.
  Moril seemed to consider
  this meant straight on.
  They tiptoed after him,
deep into the heart of the
 palace. Now they seemed
 to be in a corridor whose
golden stone roof was only
    an inch or so above
  Kialan's head or Mitt's.
Both of them ducked when
  Moril led them under a
heavy lintel and down misty
 steps into a warm oblong
  room. It was not a big
    place. It had stone
  benches along each side
 and a large stone seat at
  the far end. The first
 thing they all noticed was
    that this seat had a
strange gap underneath, as
   if something that was
  meant to go there was
 missing. The second thing
    they saw was a thick
 golden circlet on the seat
        of the chair.
   They all knew this was
the crown. Everyone waited
   for everyone else to go
   forward and pick it up.
  Before any of them could
 sort out the courage to do
 it, a young man jumped up
from the right-hand bench.
   'At long last!' he said.
  He was very glad to see
 them. He strode joyfully
over to the stone seat and
  picked up the crown. 'I
 thought I would never do
 this again!' he said as he
 turned round holding it in
       both hands.
 Everyone stood very still.
He was a tall young man,
  with rounded shoulders
   wider than Kialan's or
 Mitt's, and there was a
 sort of gawkiness to him
that reminded them all of
 Mitt. His face, when he
  turned sideways to look
from Moril, along the line
    to Maewen, was like
Ynen's. He had the same
  nose, long and pointed.
 When he turned full face,
 to look at the whole group
 of them in a puzzled way,
  he reminded Maewen of
  Wend, though everyone
    else was reminded of
  Maewen, with a fleeting
    likeness to Moril and
    Kialan. And Mitt was
  reminded of Old Ammet
too, because the young man
 had the same flying white
            hair.
   'What's the matter?'
said the young man. 'Why
    don't you speak?'
 'Is it all right? It won't
 shake the place apart?'
    Moril whispered.
  The young man laughed.
'Not here. This part has
to be more solid. It used
 to be my strongroom.'
 'Er—then, who are you?'
Mitt asked. 'If you don't
   mind being asked.'
  'My name's Hern,' said
the young man. 'I used to
 be king here a long while
           ago.'
  All five of them gasped,
and then drew breath, one
 after another, to ask the
   king if he was of the
Undying— and then let the
breath go, not quite sure.
     He had the same
unshadowed, golden look as
the rest of the palace. If
 you caught him out of the
corner of your eye, bright
 rays seemed to stand out
from him, and across him,
 that almost cancelled him
       out of sight.
    Hern laughed again.
'Don't be afraid. I'm only
 here because I asked the
 One on my deathbed if I
could present the crown to
      the new king.'
 'Whatever possessed—?'
Kialan, Moril and Ynen all
     began together.
 '—me to do such a stupid
  thing?' Hern asked. 'I
 know. What you ask the
    One for, you get.'
   'Then you are of the
Undying,' Mitt said. 'In a
  manner of speaking.'
   Hern looked at him. His
 face was bleak and ribby
as Mitt's face had been in
 Gardale. 'In a manner of
  speaking is right. I was
 afraid all my life that I
was going to turn out to be
    of the Undying. And
   because of that I was
always very careful never
    to let anyone make a
   picture or an image of
     me—that's how the
  Undying are bound into
  godhead, you know—and
then I go and ask for the
    wrong thing, and my
 reward is this half-life.'
Mitt opened his mouth to
 say something, but Hern
 shook his head. His face
      relaxed and went
businesslike. 'No. Let me
 first ask who claims this
 crown. All but one of you
have a perfect right to it.'
  Nobody answered. Each
of them shot dubious looks
      at the others.
 'Oh come on!' said Hern.
'Isn't this what you came
           for?'
    Maewen cleared her
 throat. 'Yes. But I think
we were supposed to get it
   for Amil the Great.'
   Hern shrugged. 'That's
 news to me,' he said. He
    came towards them,
carrying the golden circlet.
 All of them made a move
  to back away, and then
  stood, feeling cowardly.
 But it was alarming. Hern
  was misty and shot with
   beams of light, but his
 personality was as strong
as it must have been when
 he was a king. As if that
 was the main thing left of
him, Mitt thought. And the
crown itself was thick, real
 and solid between Hern's
 misty hands, of such pure
gold that it shone orange in
      the golden light.
  Hern halted in front of
 Moril. 'Do you claim this
          crown?'
  Moril gulped. The others
could see him thinking that
his answer would really be
addressed to the One, and
he had Hern's example to
   show him that he had
  better say exactly the
right thing. 'No,' he said,
'I don't want to be king. I
 want to be a new kind of
Singer—a very good one, if
          I can.'
  Hern nodded and moved
   on to Ynen. 'You?'
  Ynen licked his lips. He
  was whiter even than
Moril. 'No, not me. I—I
 want to be a sailor, and
they wouldn't let me if I
was king, because I might
      get drowned.'
   Hern said nothing. He
simply moved on to Kialan.
        'And you?'
   'I—' said Kialan. He had
 to stop and try again. 'I
know I have a claim, and it
  isn't because of the way
  my father would hate it,
it's—Well, I don't feel big
      enough. Inheriting
Hannart's quite enough for
        me, honestly.'
   Hern frowned at this,
 which made Kialan flush
bright red and then stare
 unrepentantly. But Hern
  said nothing again and
moved on to Mitt. Mitt had
expected Hern to pass him
   by. He backed away.
'You're not including me in
     this?' Mitt said.
       Hern nodded.
   'Then include me out,'
  Mitt said. 'I'm not fit,
I'm common and—and—' He
searched for the feeling he
  had had just now in the
strangely scented parkland.
   'Listen, I don't mind
  helping in the war. The
  country needs a change.
 But all I want out of it is
a bit of peace and maybe a
     farm somewhere.'
 Hern frowned at this too,
    and Mitt looked as
  unrepentant as Kialan.
Hern turned to Maewen. 'I
 can't offer the crown to
    you,' he explained,
'because you are not really
   born yet. I'm sorry.'
   'I understand,' Maewen
   said, but she knew she
 sounded wistful. 'The only
thing I really want is to be
   allowed to stay—' She
caught herself up. The One
 alone knew what Mum and
  Aunt Liss would feel, but
 this was what she wanted
  and she knew, like Moril,
 that she had to phrase it
    right. 'Stay in Mitt's
        time, I mean.'
 Mitt turned and gave her
 a smile that warmed them
  both. Hern, meanwhile,
retreated, still holding the
 crown. When they looked
back at him, he was sitting
 in the stone seat, looking
        exasperated.
 'Let's get at this another
 way,' he said. 'We have
eliminated one of you. We
  know that the one who
accepts this crown will be
 king. Let's call him King,
for the sake of argument,
  Amil, since that is the
  name you seem to have
brought with you. Who will
         be Amil?'
     'If you like,' Ynen
  offered, 'we could take
the crown and give it to my
          father.'
   'Yes, or mine,' Kialan
         agreed.
    Hern gave them that
  bleak, ribby look again.
'You didn't attend to what
  I said at first. I am to
hand the crown to the next
king. That means to one of
  you, since no one else is
  here to claim it.' He let
   them think about this,
  uneasily, for a moment.
   Then he said, 'When I
made my unlucky request to
the One, what I had really
wanted was to give the new
   king the benefit of my
 advice, but since I didn't
ask that, that is something
  I am not allowed to do.
  Instead, I shall ask you
what advice you would give
  to this new King Amil.
 Think carefully. You may
  be advising yourself.'
 There was utter silence.
 Nobody could think of
       anything.
   Hern laughed. 'I shall
start you off. How about:
people's idea of what they
   can do is even more
important than what they
          can do?'
 'Oh, I know that!' Moril
 said. 'It's in the King's
 Sayings. The Singers all
       know those.'
    'There, you see?' Hern
 said. 'I couldn't give you
   that saying if it hadn't
     been out in the world
  already. I said it at the
battle with Kankredin. This
 is why I can't give advice
 to the new king. The One
   knew, though I didn't,
that a dead man's thoughts
stop with his life. Listen to
the Singer. He'll tell you
     my thoughts.'
  'Yes, but I didn't know
 they were yours,' Moril
          said.
  'Hang on a minute,' said
Mitt. 'What do you mean,
you can't give advice? You
 just gave us a whole load
           of it!'
    'Did I?' said Hern.
    He said it perfectly
neutrally. This made Kialan
 say, almost exasperated,
 'You did, you know. He's
    right. You warned us
 straight off to be careful
 what we said, or the One
would take us at our word.'
   'Roundaboutly,' said
  Mitt. 'Using yourself.'
  'A king should always set
  an example,' Hern said.
'That's in my Sayings too,
 isn't it?' he asked Moril.
 Moril nodded. 'And,' said
  Kialan, 'you told us to
   attend to your exact
words.' But Mitt broke in
across Kialan. 'No, before
  that! Didn't you listen?
There was that about not
    being bound like the
         Undying.'
   The two of them were
 leaning forward eagerly.
 Hern's face was intent.
    Oh, I see! Maewen
    thought, from her
      standpoint as a
  non-qualifier. We're in
   Round Two now. Ynen
  seemed to have dropped
 out. He was staring sadly
at Hern. Maewen saw Mitt
notice Ynen's sadness and
   wonder about it as he
          spoke.
   'Then you made a song
   and dance about your
  sayings being dead and
over with,' Mitt said, 'just
    so we'd notice they
         weren't.'
 'Yes, the exact opposite
of what you seemed to be
  saying,' Kialan agreed.
 'Your thoughts have gone
      on after you.'
  'That's not new,' Moril
 put in. 'It's in a song by
        Osfameron.'
        Moril would be
    disqualifying himself,
   Maewen thought, if he
  went on sticking just to
     what Singers knew.
Perhaps Moril did not mind.
  Maewen had thought she
 did not mind, but now she
  knew she felt sad and
   alone and left out.
 'I'm glad it's not new,'
 Hern said. 'I have no
   business having new
thoughts. It wouldn't be
       reasonable.'
    Mitt could not help
        grinning.
  'What are you smiling
   at?' Hern asked.
  'You,' Mitt said, 'must
have been a regular eel in
your day. Not reasonable,
   my big toe! You keep
  turning up new ideas.'
   A slight, enjoying smile
bent Hern's mouth. 'I was
always very hot on reason,'
  he said. 'If I had been
 able to give the new king
 advice, I would have told
him never to rely on things
  being reasonable. I did,
and it caused me no end of
          trouble.'
 'There you go again!' said
          Mitt.
   Kialan laughed. Hern's
smile grew slightly. 'I defy
you,' he said, 'to discover
  any other new thoughts
      I've shown you.'
  'Well,' said Kialan. 'You
  can have new thoughts.
   Osfameron may have
  written that song about
thoughts flying on, but you
 were dead when he wrote
            it.'
   Hern shook his head.
 'Won't do. Osfameron is
      my brother.'
  Kialan looked very dashed
at this and turned to Mitt
for help. 'He said shown,'
Mitt said. 'And he did tell
us to listen to every word.
 Let's see.' He looked at
  Hern. 'You've shown us
 what comes of asking for
the wrong thing, and then
 shown us yourself getting
   round that, and giving
 advice like you meant to.
  That's how to keep the
rules and break them too.
I like that. It takes a cool
 head. But there's more,'
 Mitt said, thinking aloud,
   which was the way he
    always thought best.
   'Maybe this was what
    Kialan was driving at.
   Yes—you're still at it.
    You're not beat yet.
 You're showing us that.'
    'Is it a new thought
  then, to say: keep on,
there's always hope?' Hern
said. 'I thought that was a
      very old saying.'
 'Yes, but you're the first
person I've met who's still
saying it when he's dead,'
 Mitt answered. 'That has
        to be new.'
   Hern laughed and stood
  up. 'I believe you. Bend
 your head, Alhammitt, so
 that I can put this crown
           on it.'
 'What!' Mitt backed away
 in horror. 'Now, look, I
told you. And I was only
saying what Kialan said.'
  Hern looked at Kialan.
      'Was he?'
    'Not really,' Kialan
        admitted.
 'Tidying it up then,' Mitt
said pleadingly. 'Take the
   thing away. I'm not
        qualified.'
   'Yes, you are,' said
Hern. 'I told you. Your
right descends from the
 Adon's son Almet, who
went to live in Waywold.'
   'Pretty sideways, I'll
     bet!' Mitt said.
    'Only as sideways as
   direct descent, from
father to son,' said Hern.
 'If that was not so, why
   does the Adon's ring
       accept you?'
  Mitt looked down at the
Adon's seal, snugly above
his knuckle. 'This is just a
           copy.'
    'No,' said Hern. He
 nodded towards Maewen.
    'Hers is the copy.'
    Mitt shot a disbelieving
 look from Hern to Maewen
  and rapidly tried the ring
on his little finger, then on
   his thumb. Each time it
     slid over his lump of
 knuckle and fitted as if it
   had been made for him.
'This is plain ridiculous!' he
said. He turned round. For
a moment it looked as if he
  was going to storm from
        the room.
  'Wait!' said Hern. It was
the voice of command, that
Navis was so good at using.
  Mitt almost stopped. But
 he shook his shoulders and
 put one foot on the steps.
 Hern said quickly, 'Accept
the crown and you may ask
    the One one favour.'
  Mitt turned back. 'You
       mean that?'
     'I do,' said Hern.
          'Now?'
 'Crown first,' said Hern.
    'Bend your head.'
 Mitt sighed and bowed his
head down. 'Extra bit of
 advice,' he said, looking
sideways at Kialan. 'Kings
  drive a hard bargain.'
     Hern chuckled as he
settled the thick gold band
 carefully over Mitt's lank
hair. 'A king should have a
   sharp mind,' he said.
    'That may be in my
 Sayings somewhere. I am
 sorry that I cannot give
 you the kingstone as well
as the crown. The stone is
  in the South. A man in
Holand called Hobin knows
     where to find it.'
   Mitt stared at him from
  under his own forehead.
'Hobin? Gunsmith? He's my
       stepfather!' He
 straightened up slowly and
  put one hand uneasily to
   the crown, thinking it
  might slip, but it seemed
  steady enough. Like the
   Adon's ring, it was an
exact fit. 'Hobin!' he said.
'You Undying really got me
 hemmed in, haven't you?'
    Hern nodded as he
 stepped backwards. 'It
was the same for me. Now
you can ask your favour.'
    'All right,' said Mitt.
'Then do you really have to
  sit here, century after
  century, waiting for the
   next new king to come
         along?'
   Hern went very still.
 'This I know is in the
Sayings of the King,' he
said. 'Never be beguiled
by pity. Are you talking
         pity?'
  'No,' said Mitt. 'You've
  been showing us you're
stuck here and you don't
 like it from the moment
     you first spoke.'
  'Mercy, then?' asked
Hern. 'This sits well on a
           king.'
 'No,' said Mitt. 'Flaming
Ammet, I don't know what
   it's called! I'll have to
  take a leaf out of your
book and show you. Take a
      look at Ynen. He's
 miserable, because all he
  can think of is that you
 have to sit here, year in
and year out, waiting for a
 king that may not come.
Only he doesn't like to say
so, because the One made
  you sit here. Isn't that
so?' Mitt asked Ynen. Ynen
went pink and nodded hard.
 'See?' Mitt said to Hern.
'I don't know the word for
what I'm doing, unless it's
  having the cheek to say
  things no one else dares
    say. Is that kingly?'
  Hern did not answer. He
         laughed.
 'Laugh away,' Mitt said.
'I'm going to ask the One
  to take you off duty.'
    Hern went on laughing,
but the sound was confused
    now, and fading. The
 beams of light, which had
   half hidden him if you
  looked at him sideways,
came to cover him however
  you looked, crisscrossing
and elongating confusingly.
 He was like a candle seen
  through tears. Then the
 beams separated and slid
 away. Each silvery streak
   carried a dim piece of
Hern's shape with it, as if
  he were dissolving under
  water. Mitt set his teeth
    and clenched his hands
  until the Adon's ring bit
 into him. This was exactly
   like his worst nightmare
when he was small. He had
been fairly sure this would
happen, but it had seemed
 worth asking all the same.
    He made himself watch
until Hern had rippled away
         into nowhere.
    The rippling did not
    vanish with Hern. It
        remained as a
  green-goldness, like air
shaking in heat. The stone
 seat, and that whole end
of the room, wavered as if
   they were under clear,
    shallow water. Mitt's
 hands remained clenched.
      The scent he had
recognised outside, of peat
 and farm, willows budding
and slow deep river flowing
  to the far-off sea, was
 back again, stronger and
   more potent. And the
   rippling had formed a
 shape, a huge gold-green
 shadow with a profile like
Hern's or Ynen's. Mitt had
 no doubt, nor had any of
the others, that there was
a presence standing behind
them, casting this shadow,
 but it was beyond any of
  them to turn round and
            look.
 When the One spoke, the
 voice came from behind
 them. 'Hern has long ago
gone down the River to the
          sea.'
     Mitt relaxed. Ynen
  murmured, 'Oh good!'
  Maewen wondered how
   anyone could mistake
Kankredin's voice for the
One's. This voice was like
 the whole land speaking,
the settling of rocks, the
  grind of water through
granite, the slow shift of
   earth, and the wind
  blowing, and it burred in
 your ears in the same way
as the low string on Moril's
          cwidder.
  'It is not easy,' said the
    One, 'for my mortal
 children to speak with me
       face to face.'
    This was true. All of
 them were aching to turn
  round and see the One,
and all of them knew it was
     quite impossible.
    'Witness this, all of
 you,' said the One. 'You
    have a new king.'
 No one was sure what to
do, until Moril led them in
  a ragged chorus. 'We
  witness we have a new
           king.'
  'I thank you,' said the
          One.
      The rippling shadow
 stooped then. It was as if
   the One bent to have a
 private word with each of
them, all at the same time.
 Maewen heard the great
 voice at her ear, saying,
'I cannot promise you what
   you asked. Too many
    imponderables lie in
  between. I am sorry.'
    To Mitt the One said,
'You have been offered the
 name of Amil, which is my
  name. Before you choose
between that name or your
 own, you must know that I
   have sworn to root out
Kankredin from my land. If
 you take my name, that
  will be your task, too.
    What name do you
          choose?'
    Mitt knew it was a real
choice, even if Maewen had
    told him which way he
  chose. He weighed it up.
    Alhammitt was a good
  name, except that it was
 the name of half the men
  in the South. Amil was a
 name no one else had, but
     it carried the One's
burden with it. Well, Mitt
had carried burdens all his
life. Kingship was another
one. One more seemed to
make no difference on top
 of that. 'I'll take Amil,'
          he said.
    Then he turned round,
  like someone waking up,
 wondering what the One
  had said to the others.
 The rippling shadow was
gone and, with it, most of
 the golden mistiness. He
     could see they were
   standing in a place that
was no more than an oblong
trench, with walls made of
    big blocks of yellowish
stone that were broken off
    at about waist height.
  Beside him, Maewen was
    fiercely blinking back
  tears. Moril looked much
  the same. But Ynen and
 Kialan both looked happy,
 in a stunned kind of way.
   'I think we have to go
 back through the stone,'
        Moril said.
           XXI
  When they turned round,
  they found three stone
    steps the colour of
  oatcakes leading into a
  green-gold landscape of
humps and hillocks. Had it
 not been for the silence,
 and the mist still clinging
to the near-distance, they
 would have thought they
     were back in the
 Kernsburgh outside the
       waystone.
     They walked, slightly
downhill, through a dip on
 the gold-green turf. The
  humps of Hern's palace
 were small behind them.
    Ruins were like that,
Maewen thought. Buildings,
  even palaces, seemed to
   take up far more room
    than they really did.
  At first, they were very
silent and sober. Everyone
   kept glancing at Mitt,
  walking in the midst of
    them with the crown
gleaming orange against his
  hair. He seemed taller.
Nobody knew quite what to
   say. At last, Maewen
decided that someone must
       say something.
  'Do you want us to call
 you Your Majesty?' she
         asked.
   'Flaming Ammet!' said
Mitt. 'Don't you dare!' He
 grabbed hold of her hand.
'Don't any of you treat me
  different,' he said. 'I'm
     going to need you all
      around for sanity.'
    Everyone broke into
 relieved laughter. After
 that, they were able to
    talk together quite
normally, until Moril said,
     'Hush a moment.'
 His cwidder was humming,
 and humming louder for
  every step they took
forward. Something dark
was rising out of the mist
 ahead. The cwidder was
 almost growling as they
  reached it. It was the
waystone, but it was not
    small any longer. It
towered in a mighty arch
 above them, even bigger
   than the one Maewen
 remembered outside the
          station.
  Moril murmured, 'Wider
than the world, or small as
  in a nut.' It must have
  been a quotation. Kialan
 recognised it and grinned
at him, as they all stepped
    through the waystone
 together, with Ynen, who
 was last, almost treading
   on Moril, who was just
      ahead of Kialan.
 They were back on green
    grass under a grey
morning. The waystone was
waist-high behind them and
  they were in a battle.
  The fighting was noisy, it
 was vicious, and it was all
  round them. Everywhere
they looked, people ran and
  struggled and hacked at
  one another. Riders and
 loose horses galloped and
   screamed. They had a
 glimpse of Luthan, still on
    horseback, furiously
  hacking at someone in a
   wavy helmet and shiny
  armour that gave him a
     chest like a pigeon.
 Luthan's face was bright
   with blood that clashed
     with the red of his
  clothes. One of his arms
  was the wrong red, too,
 and the mail was dangling
from it in strips. They just
     had time to see this
   before the horses and
 fighting swirled and both
  Luthan and his opponent
 vanished. The air was full
 of drifting puffs of white
smoke, shouts, clangs, and
   the slurring whisper of
crossbow bolts, which were
  even crueller than the
 guns, because you could
barely hear them coming.
    Kialan threw himself
behind the waystone. 'Get
     down, all of you!'
   The waystone was a tiny
 piece of cover, but it was
the only one available. The
  rest crowded up against
     Kialan, kneeling or
   crouching, Mitt on one
     knee with one hand
    steadying the crown.
  'What's going on?' Moril
  gasped. He was doubled
   protectively across his
 cwidder. 'Those look like
Southerners! That armour!'
 Ynen took a look through
the hole in the waystone.
 'They are, too! I think
they look like Andmark.'
     'Earl Henda!' Mitt
exclaimed. Everyone except
  Maewen bobbed up for a
 hasty look. 'Hundreds of
 them,' said Mitt. 'Where
have they all come from?'
  'It must have been them
       we heard in the
night—Ynen and me,' Kialan
 said, doubled over his own
    knees. 'I remember
   thinking I heard supply
          waggons.'
  Mitt bobbed up again to
 look through the savage
   smoky confusion. He
bobbed down again, almost
 at once, and a speeding
  crossbow bolt whizzed
above all their heads, but
 he had had time to see a
 row of big black waggons
drawn up some way beyond
 the green road. 'They're
   using the waggons for
cover,' he said. 'The ones
         with guns.'
    'Who do you think's
  winning?' Kialan asked.
  Mitt shook his head. It
felt heavy with the crown.
 The battle had obviously
gone long beyond the stage
where you could tell what
 was going on, but there
had looked to be far more
    Southerners than
 Northerners. He had a
 feeling the Northerners
  were getting beaten.
   There was another noise
 now. It was hard to pick
  out among the din. Mitt
thought he had only noticed
  it because he seemed to
feel it in his bones as much
as his ears. For a moment,
  he wondered if he had
accidentally said the name
of the Earth Shaker. The
   earth seemed full of
        drumming.
  There was a tremendous
     shouting behind.
  They all whirled round to
  find a wall of horsemen
 galloping down upon them.
 The world seemed full of
   thousands of pounding
horse legs, flying divots of
 turf and hollow drumming
thunder. Kialan spread his
  arms out and pulled the
four of them into a tight
 bundle in front of him. '
Down!' he yelled, and fell
     forward on top.
  Even so, they all ducked
    and flinched as the
   horsemen swept up to
  them. Horses were all
round them, all over them.
One rider actually hurtled
 over their heads, leaping
 the five of them and the
 waystone too. The ground
     shook in earnest.
   'Oh, great One!' Kialan
 groaned, with his head up
  to follow that particular
    rider. 'That was my
 father. Now we're in the
  soup whatever happens!'
     The noise of fighting
   suddenly doubled. They
could almost feel the riders
  from Hannart crash into
   the battle. Beyond the
   edge of the waystone,
Maewen saw a horse rear,
   screaming and gushing
   blood. Something else
 tumbled into view, with a
  clothy thwump, and she
    saw it was the rider,
 thrown down like a broken
 doll in a strange position.
He was not moving, but his
 horse went on screaming,
and so did others she could
     not see. She nearly
   screamed herself. She
  wanted to be sick. Her
eyes felt twisted and hot.
Mitt had been right to say
 she did not like war. It
   was horrible. And the
 worst of it was that she
had helped to cause it by
   riding the King's Road
 instead of Noreth. The
 only reason she did not
scream and kick and beat
 the grass with her fists
was because that would be
  letting Mitt down. She
   crouched, swallowing.
  A bullet went whang on
the edge of the waystone.
   That nearly hit me! she
thought. Beside her, Kialan
   yelled out an extremely
    filthy word. Maewen
  jumped round to find him
  clutching his arm. There
    was a slice of granite
    standing out from his
sleeve and blood was trying
   to flood out around the
    slice. His sleeve was
 soaked red already. Kialan
  repeated the filthy word
 and took hold of the piece
of granite to pull it out.
   'Don't do that!' Mitt
shouted at him. 'Stop the
     bleeding first!'
   'But it hurts,' Kialan
    said. There were
 grey-green smudges of
  shock under his eyes.
   Maewen could see how
 much it hurt. And Kialan
 had had his arms spread
  out to keep them from
being trampled. He didn't
deserve this. She wanted
  to do something to help.
    She bobbed up. The
   fighting was a frantic
  seething out beyond the
 green road. The space in
 between was full of loose
 horses and quiet, doll-like
  dead people. One of the
horses wandering there was
   her own—or Noreth's,
  except that poor Noreth
would never have any need
    of it now. Here was
  something she could do.
     'I've got a roll of
bandage in my saddlebag,'
she said, and jumped up to
          get it.
    Mitt and Moril both
screamed at her to come
   back, but there were
scarcely any bullets now.
  The fighting had rolled
 back again, and was now
around that line of black
waggons. Maewen covered
the space to her horse in
 perfect safety, and told
    herself she was being
  brave at last. The horse
stood docilely. She heaved
 and fumbled at the straps
on her baggage roll. Quick,
quick, before Kialan bleeds
   to death! It seemed to
 take a hundred years just
    to undo two buckles.
   Then the voice spoke to
  her. 'There is a loaded
pistol someone has dropped
   on the ground at your
  feet,' it said. 'Take it
           and—'
   'Oh shut up!' Maewen
  told it. 'Kialan's hurt.'
     'Moril!' said Mitt.
   'I know. I heard him.'
 Moril bent hurriedly over
his cwidder, trying to make
  the power gather. Mitt
 could feel it was slow and
difficult to gather again so
soon, and the screams and
 roaring of the battle did
          not help.
   'I made sure the Adon
was injured,' the voice told
Maewen smugly. 'These are
my instructions. Shoot the
Southerner with the crown
     first, and then—'
  'I said shut up? Maewen
  screamed. The buckles
were undone. The bandage
was—where?—where? Oh,
here it was. She took the
   roll and backed away.
  Pistol? Oh yes. There,
 almost under the horse's
            feet.
    The voice rose to a
  blare. 'Pick it up, you
stupid girl. Shoot them all
   and take the crown?
   'Quickly!' said Mitt.
  'No,' said Maewen. She
  aimed her boot at the
  pistol and deliberately
 kicked it as far away as
         she could.
  Mitt groaned. Moril put
 all his fingers under the
lowest string and plucked,
desperately. The cwidder
  responded with a deep
brassy twang, as if Moril
had struck a gong instead.
     The horse in front of
    Maewen drifted away
    sideways. Although it
 seemed like a solid horse,
 it behaved just like smoke
 and shredded into the air,
in brown wisps. In its place
  was the ghost of a man,
 twelve feet high or more,
   bell-shaped and robed,
    bent over to glare at
 Maewen with human eyes
under fat eyelids. He was
hollow. She could see the
empty space in the middle
of him, and somehow this
 was the most horrifying
  thing about him. I was
riding that\ she thought.
 It did not seem to bother
  Kankredin that Maewen
could see him. He blared,
'I am the One! You must
    do as I command!'
Mitt made a movement to
    stand up. The ghostly
fat-lidded eyes caught the
movement. The vague hand
in the hollow sleeve made a
 small gesture, as Maewen
said, 'No, you are not the
One. And you never fooled
   me for a moment.' She
 was shaking, but she was
  glad to find she could be
brave in this way at least.
  The towering shape bent
towards her. The sheets of
 wriggly hair on both sides
  of its face fell forward
 and the huge, vague hands
  reached. Mitt found he
  could not move his legs.
 Beside him, Moril's hands
 seemed to be stuck to the
cwidder, in crooked shapes.
  But Mitt did not need to
 walk. He drew breath and
          shouted.
        'YNYNEN!'
   Then he moved, in spite
 of not being able to, and
  took off like a sprinter.
 Somehow he covered the
 distance between himself
and Maewen, just in time
to knock her over and fall
   on top of her before
Ammet answered his call.
 There was a howling wind,
 full of chaff. They were
   peppered with stinging
grains of wheat, first from
  one side, and then from
everywhere. It made them
both cringe. But in spite of
   that, in spite of grain
     coming at them like
hailstones, and flying straw
  and blinding chaff dust,
   Maewen and Mitt both
  craned round to see the
ghost of Kankredin spinning
in a spinning trumpet-shape
    of wheat-filled wind.
    It was over almost as
  they looked. The ghost
   drew tatters of itself
  together and dissolved
   away backwards. The
 trumpet-shape unravelled
and streamed away across
 the green land, carrying
 chaff and grain far and
          wide.
     'Did you get him?'
      Maewen asked.
  'Not sure.' Mitt dragged
himself to his knees. There
 was no sign of Kankredin.
  The gong note Moril had
 evoked from the cwidder
     was still in the air,
   sounding on and on. If
  Kankredin was near, he
 would be visible. 'Had a
  feeling Ammet only got
  part of him,' Mitt said
 regretfully, 'but I think
        he's gone.'
    Maewen scrambled up
   with the bandage. The
  crown had fallen beside
   her. She picked it up,
    thick and orange and
 heavy, and it left a bare
  oval-shape in the grain
that covered the grass. 'I
 knew there was something
strange about that horse,'
  she said, as they went
   back to the waystone
 among drifting chaff and
     pattering grain.
   Moril looked up as they
 came. Mitt nodded. Moril
    put one hand on the
  throbbing string to stop
the sound, and then flexed
both hands as if Kankredin
had cramped them. Behind
  Moril, Kialan had Ynen's
belt buckled round his arm
 to stop the bleeding. He
  was holding it tight for
Ynen while Ynen tore pieces
  off both their shirts to
 bandage the place where
   the slice of stone had
            been.
   'Rather a waste of two
 good shirts,' Kialan said.
   His face was a better
  colour. He looked up at
 Mitt. 'What happened to
        the crown?'
 Maewen realised that she
was holding it. 'Bend your
 head down,' she said to
          Mitt.
    None of them noticed
that the noise of fighting
  had all but stopped. As
  Mitt bent his head and
 Maewen fitted the crown
  carefully over his hair,
 Earl Keril came crunching
   towards them over the
scattered grain. He was a
 little dishevelled, but he
barely looked as if he had
    been in a battle. He
 hooked his thumbs in his
 sword-belt and watched
Mitt and Maewen. 'Well,
 now,' he said pleasantly.
    'I had five possible
 outcomes in mind when I
  sent you to Adenmouth,
  but this was one that I
confess never occurred to
            me.'
  Mitt straightened up. He
was slightly taller than Earl
 Keril. 'Get me hanged and
   make sure there's no
uprising,' he said. 'Right?'
 'Hanging you may yet be
 the solution,' Earl Keril
said in the same pleasant
 way. 'Let me put to you
  my point of view. The
North had been agog for
 some years with stories
       that Noreth
Onesdaughter—' he bowed
       pleasantly to
Maewen—'would take the
 royal road the year she
was eighteen. Then, all of
  a sudden, you arrive in
Aberath in a manner which
fulfils every prophecy ever
made, and all the common
 people are hailing you as
   the new king come at
           last—'
 'I never knew that,' Mitt
 said. 'I had no idea. If
   you'd let me alone, I
wouldn't be here now. But
 you set me on to murder
         Noreth.'
   'Naturally I hoped that
  the two claimants would
 cancel one another out,'
Keril agreed. He looked at
   Maewen again. 'Rather
  than the one crown the
    other. But we were
    prepared for other
outcomes too. To that end
 the Countess took you in
 and educated you, and I
  took steps to make sure
you would remain under the
sponsorship of Hannart and
         Aberath—'
  'Sponsorship is one word
 for it,' Mitt said. 'Nice
           try.'
   'I asked you to see my
    point of view!' Keril
   snapped. 'When I was
young and ignorant, I took
part in an uprising. I know
 better now. I would go to
 greater lengths than this
to stop another. People die
in uprisings, by thousands,
      most horribly.'
  'When I was young and
   ignorant,' said Mitt, 'I
lived in Holand. People died
   there all the time, only
 slowly. And the rest were
 too scared to help. There
   needs to be an uprising.
One that works this time.'
  The two of them stared
at one another unlovingly.
'If this is your attitude,'
Keril said, 'I shall see you
hanged at Harvest. There
  are plentiful grounds.'
   Moril, Kialan and Ynen
surged to their feet, Kialan
 saying, 'Listen, Father—!'
    and Ynen protesting,
 'Don't undo the belt yet!'
 'Be quiet!' said Keril. 'I'll
 deal with you two later.
 What I want to know—'
   Hasty feet crunched over
    the grain, and Alk and
     Navis arrived, one on
 either side of Keril. Alk's
leathers were torn all over,
  showing battered links of
   mail underneath, and he
 had a streak of blood on
   his chin. One side of
  Navis's face was black
  with powder. He looked
  tired to death, but he
  spoke to Keril with the
utmost courtesy. 'My lord,
 we have to thank you for
 your timely intervention.'
   Alk grinned. 'We were
goners without you, Keril.'
   Keril turned his unloving
 look on them. Navis said,
'Is there some trouble, my
  lord? May we assist?'
 'Yes,' Keril said grimly.
'I want to know how this
Mitt of yours contrived to
have a Southern warband
      to meet him.'
 'I did no such thing!' said
           Mitt.
  'Those are Henda's men,
 my lord,' Navis said. 'As
you surely know, Henda can
 be trusted to respond to
 anything that might be a
   threat to his earldom
   entirely on his own.'
  'But how did he know?'
 Keril said. 'Did you tell
 him, Navis Haddsson?'
  'Oh come now, Keril,'
  said Alk. 'You saved
Navis's life yourself. You
 heard the Southerners
   calling him traitor.'
 Keril hitched his shoulders
 irritably. Navis bowed to
  him. 'As to how Henda
knew, my lord, since I had
      heard of Noreth
Onesdaughter at least two
   years ago, I can only
suppose Henda's spies told
  him at the same time.'
Mitt stared. This was news
   to him. 'One of those
  secrets,' Navis said to
him, 'that my brother took
   good care not to have
known on the waterfront in
          Holand.'
 'So I am to understand,'
Keril said to Navis, 'that
      Navis Haddsson
    commandeered the
 hearthmen of Dropwater
   and Aberath to fight
Henda, knowing that Henda
    would oppose Navis
 Haddsson's candidate for
       the crown.'
  Navis's eyes went to the
 golden band round Mitt's
    forehead. He smiled
 slightly. 'My lord, I did
   not expect Henda. I
expected you. But you are
  right to believe that I
hoped Mitt would be king.'
  'Why?' Keril asked icily.
    Navis shrugged. 'Aside
    from obvious personal
wishes, my lord, one of the
   pictures in my rooms in
  Holand was a portrait of
the Adon. My impression is
   that you too, my lord,
    were struck by Mitt's
resemblance to the Adon. I
  thought about it much of
 the time we sailed North.
 But I would have waited a
 few years to do anything
 about it. You forced our
          hands.'
    'I'm glad I did,' said
  Keril. 'Your candidate is
not of age and has no right
to that thing on his head.'
   Alk had been exchanging
 looks with Moril. Now he
  said, 'Right, Keril. Why
   don't we ask?' And he
      nodded at Moril.
 Moril stood forward. 'The
 One called us to witness
just now,' he said, loudly
  and formally, 'that we
have a new king. The One
 gave Mitt the crown and
  his own name of Amil.'
 'I hereby witness this as
 lawful,' Alk said. 'Come
   on, Keril. Accept it.'
  Keril still seemed entirely
 unwilling. Moril, carefully
  and meaningly, arranged
his fingers on the cwidder.
'I could summon the One,'
           he said.
  Keril looked uneasily at
the cwidder. 'You always
 were a bit of a mystic,
Moril,' he said. 'But this
  is a reasonable age—'
    He was interrupted by
howls and yells and catcalls
in the distance behind him.
   'Traitor!' they heard.
   'Traitor! There's the
 traitor!' The shouting was
 coming from hearthmen in
    all three liveries. It
 seemed to have something
   to do with the row of
 supply waggons beyond the
  road. Navis set off that
way at a run. Alk and Keril
  followed. Mitt pointed a
   thumb at Keril's back.
'Never rely on things being
    reasonable,' he said.
   'Sayings of the King,'
   Moril said, laughing.
 They jogged towards the
 waggons, with Ynen and
   Kialan following more
 slowly. As Mitt reached
the crowd milling round the
   waggons, Navis waved.
       People fell back
   respectfully to let Mitt
 through. Everyone's eyes
     for a moment fixed
 wonderingly on the crown.
  'What is it?' said Mitt.
 'We invite you to look at
 this,' Navis said. And,
 with a smooth stare at
  Keril, he added, 'Your
         Majesty.'
  He waved again. Several
 hearthmen hauled on the
dark weatherproof covering
of one of the waggons. As
they dragged it away, the
  trim green-painted cart
underneath came into view.
    Hestefan was on its
driving-seat. When he saw
Mitt, Maewen and Moril all
staring at him, he writhed
away backwards. 'I didn't
  do it!' he said. His fine
 Singer voice cracked into
 hoarseness. 'I was made
   to! They forced me to
       come along!'
       'What do the
Southerners say about it?'
       Mitt asked.
 Alk nodded to the nearest
person from Aberath. 'Go
  and fetch the Andmark
   captain to the King.'
    The Southerners were
sitting in a large huddle a
 little way off with their
   hands on their heads.
       Luthan and his
hearthwomen were walking
round and round them with
   their bayonetted guns.
   Luthan's clothes were
ruined and his arm was in a
  sling. He looked warlike
and efficient as he nodded
     at the message and
beckoned someone from the
 midst of the Southerners.
     The man was most
 unwilling to move. In the
 end Alk strode over and
  brought him out of the
  huddle, almost dangling
from his big fist. 'Here we
  are, Majesty,' he said.
       'One captain.'
   The prisoner looked at
 Mitt and looked puzzled.
 'It was supposed to be a
woman we had to ambush,'
  he said. 'What's going
            on?'
 'Never mind that, Captain
Fervold,' Navis said. 'Just
  tell us what this Singer
    had to do with it.'
 'Never forget a name, do
you, Navis Haddsson?' said
 the captain. 'It must be
    ten years since— '
    'Twelve years,' said
      Navis. 'Tell.'
    'Simple enough,' said
Fervold. Alk let go of him
  and he straightened up,
 looking relieved. 'Orders
 were to land secretly at
Cressing Harbour, come up
by night to the green road
  and rendezvous with the
  Singer at dawn, and he
     would show us where
 Kernsburgh was. Then we
       were to ambush
   the—er—Anyway, get to
 them before they got the
 crown. And we'd have got
    you, too, if you hadn't
   been a day late. But we
  missed the green road in
  the dark both nights and
  the Singer didn't turn up
to put us right until well on
  in the morning. What did
 he do? Give us away? Our
 information was we'd only
   find five folk here.'
 'Your bad luck,' said Alk.
'So Hestefan was working
     for the South?'
   'Has been for years,'
      said Fervold.
   At this Hestefan cried
out, 'They made me! I tell
   you, they made me!'
 Alk turned to him with his
 lawman's look. 'And did
they also make you murder
  Noreth of Kredindale?'
Hestefan straightened up
 and jutted his beard.
'What nonsense is this?
How could I have done?
 Look. She's standing
 there!' He pointed at
        Maewen.
    'I'm not Noreth,'
  Maewen said. It was
embarrassing to say it in
front of all these people,
 but a great relief, too.
    'And I have seen
   Noreth's murdered
   corpse,' said Alk. 'The
   others who might have
killed her are proved clear.
   I accuse you in law and
     before the crown of
 cutting Noreth's throat.'
  'Never,' said Hestefan.
'On my honour as a Singer.
         Never.'
 'Better get that cup out,'
    Alk said to Navis.
  Maewen had a different
idea. She tugged at Mitt's
 sleeve. 'This may not be
   right, because it was
Kankredin who said it, but
if he did kill her, he may
    have stolen a golden
          statue.'
  'That statue!' said Mitt.
   'You know, that clean
  slipped my mind! Where
    would Hestefan hide
something really valuable?'
       he asked Moril.
   He had to nudge Moril
and say it again. Hestefan
 was saying, 'A Singer is
  honourable. Our word is
our bond. We are sworn to
 speak true and purvey no
  lies. Nor do we do dirty
 deeds and dastardly acts.
   This accusation soils all
          Singers.'
    Moril was staring at
Hestefan as if he could not
   believe what he was
  hearing. 'Sliding panel
  under the cart at the
back,' he said colourlessly,
   and went on staring.
   Mitt whispered to Alk.
Alk passed the cup back to
     Navis and, leaving
 Hestefan still ranting, he
 strode round to the rear
  of the cart. It heaved.
  There was the sound of
wood splintering. Alk came
   grimly back with gold
shining in one massive fist.
     'Shut your mouth,
 Hestefan. Where did you
       come by this?'
  Hestefan gaped at the
 statue. His face had gone
  grey and piteous. 'I tell
you, I did not kill her! The
  woman is of the Undying
and cannot be killed! I took
  that statue—yes, yes, I
   admit—the first time I
  tried to cut her throat,
   but she was alive again
  half an hour later on the
    green road. I had no
 choice but to go with her
and kill her again. And as I
 knew she would not die, I
 sent word in Kredindale to
  Henda's agent there to
 send a boat South for an
 armed band to cut her in
 pieces. And sure enough,
 she did not die, though I
     killed her twice in
Gardale.' He rocked about
on the seat of the cart. 'I
 had to do it. I had to do
        it for Fenna!'
   'Deranged, I think,'
Navis said, leaning wearily
 on the nearest waggon.
 'How come—you did it for
     Fenna?' Mitt said.
   Hestefan looked at him
  and did not seem to see
   him. 'Fenna is in Earl
  Henda's dungeons. The
Earl will kill her painfully if
 I do not do as he wants.'
   'Oh, nonsense!' said
 Navis. 'You and I both
  know that Fenna is in
Adenmouth recovering from
    a cracked head.'
   'That,' said Hestefan,
  'is not my Fenna. That
 Fenna is the daughter of
Henda's court musician. He
 sent her with me so that
 no one would know I had
    lost my daughter.'
  'You think this is true?'
  Alk asked Navis. 'Is it
true?' he said to Fervold.
  'No idea,' said Fervold.
'But knowing our Henda, it
      could well be.'
  'True or not, the man's
confessed to murder,' Earl
 Keril said, stepping in to
 take command. He nodded
to some of his hearthmen.
     'Take him down to
      Dropwater—it's
   nearest—and ask Earl
Luthan to see him hanged.'
  Mitt could see that Keril
 had stepped in because it
was what he was used to.
   Keril was thinking of
himself as the senior earl
here. It made him angry.
  In spite of all that had
been said, Keril was simply
  discounting the crown on
 Mitt's head. And it made
him even angrier that Keril
 had done to Mitt himself
exactly what Hestefan said
     Henda had done to
him—and Keril had not even
      seemed to notice.
 ''Wait a minute!' he said.
 'You can't hang him. We
 need him. Singers can go
where other people can't.'
 Keril stared at Mitt with
 his lips pressed together
hard. He glanced round and
  saw that everyone else,
including the hearthmen he
had nodded to, had turned
  respectfully to Mitt. He
 pressed his lips together
  harder still. But he said
          nothing.
    'Hestefan,' said Mitt.
  Hestefan looked up, still
   not really seeing Mitt.
 'Hestefan, I want you to
go and tell Henda that you
carried out his orders. Tell
 him Noreth is dead. Can
  you do that?' Hestefan
nodded, blinking, as if he
were beginning to be able
 to see again. 'But,' said
   Mitt, 'you're to go to
Andmark through Holand.
You're to go to Hobin the
  gunsmith in Holand—got
that?—and tell Hobin that
  I've got the crown and
   he's to bring me the
 kingstone. Understand?'
  'Well—yes—' Hestefan
 said slowly. 'But if Henda
hears I did that—No, no! I
           can't!'
   'Oh yes you can!' Moril
 said. 'My father did that
kind of thing all the time!
Do it!' Hestefan turned to
Moril, shivering so that his
beard juddered. This made
  everyone look at Moril.
  Moril was as white as a
  person can be, so white
that he was lurid, and the
  look of betrayal on his
  face made everyone look
away again quickly. 'Do it,'
  Moril said, 'or I'll curse
 you, Singer's curse, with
the power of this cwidder,
    so that the curse will
   follow you beyond your
 grave! You've betrayed all
          Singers!'
  'Ah, no.' Hestefan held
 up a shaking hand against
 him. 'I only did what any
          man—'
    'You aren't just any
   man!' Moril shrieked at
  him. 'You're a Singer! I
  thought you were a good
one. I trusted you. I know
    better now. So go to
Holand. Go now!' He turned
   his back on Hestefan,
 looking as if he was going
         to be sick.
 Keril turned to Mitt. 'And
 what about our Southern
prisoners?' he said, with a
politeness and sarcasm that
   outdid Navis. 'Are you
 finding a use for them,
           too?'
  This was enough to make
 Mitt find a use for them
  on the spot. 'Ofcourse!
This crown is the crown of
all Dalemark. I'm going to
 need an army that comes
 from the South as well as
  the North. They can all
swear to me on the Adon's
    cup, and the ones it
   doesn't shine for can
   flaming well stay here
under guard. I don't want
word out round the South
   until Hestefan's got
    through to Hobin.'
  'And what will they do
here? Sit with their hands
  on their heads?' Keril
          asked.
    Mitt laughed. 'No.
 They'll be digging. They
     can start on the
foundations for the palace
 I'm going to build here.
After that they can go on
  and flaming well rebuild
       Kernsburgh.'
   'That's the stuff!' said
   Alk. 'I'll be the guard.
   Want me to make some
drawings for the buildings?
 That's much more my line
     than fighting. Let's
  see—Luthan's scribe had
 pen and paper.' He looked
  at the statue in his hand
 and then looked round for
 somewhere safe to put it.
'Seeing you thought to look
for it,' he said to Maewen,
'just hold it for me while I
     do some sketches.'
    He passed her the
 statue. As soon as her
hands were on it, she was
  not there any longer.
          XXII
   She was not there any
 longer. She was back in
the museum gallery of the
   Tannoreth Palace, in
  exactly the same spot
   where she had been
  standing when she left.
 Wend, who was in the act
of locking the golden statue
 away again, jumped round
     and stared at her.
    Wend was as neat and
trim and handsome as ever.
    Maewen was instantly
 aware that she was dirty,
 and moist all through with
  showers of rain she had
 given up noticing days ago.
   Her mail smelt of rust.
Her boots were filthy. The
 livery of Dropwater smelt
   of wet wool, horse and
   person. Under the little
helmet, her hair felt damp
         and clotted.
 'You're back!' said Wend.
       'Yes.' The animal
 wariness she had acquired
in those days of journeying
  told Maewen that Wend
  had not expected to see
 her again. It was in every
    line of Wend, as he
carefully placed the statue
on its shelf and locked the
glass front. She noticed it,
    even though she was
      distracted by her
   hearthwoman's clothes
 dissolving away from her,
leaving her again in grubby
 shorts and shirt. Her hair
    tumbled back to her
 shoulders, and it still felt
damp and clotted. She was
  even more distracted by
  the shrill beeping of the
  radio clipped to Wend's
    uniform, but she still
         noticed.
 'What happened?' Wend
casually rattled keys, but
  that wariness showed
     Maewen he was,
underneath, very eager to
           know.
   'Hestefan the Singer
 murdered Noreth before
  she even set out from
Adenmouth,' she said. She
   was ashamed of the
 wariness—it showed her
Wend was full of fury and
  frustration, carefully
hidden—but she could not
 help knowing it. They all
had this wariness: Moril,
 Mitt, Hestefan, Navis,
everyone. It was the way
 you lived in those days.
  'I'd thought it was—one
of the others,' Wend said,
        across the
 wheep-wheep-wheep from
  the radio on his chest.
 Thought it was Mitt, you
 mean! Maewen thought.
 The wariness again. The
 noise from the radio was
 getting on her nerves, so
   she said, 'I think you
  ought to answer that.'
 Wend unclipped the radio
 and flipped the switch.
  'Orilson here. Over.'
    Major Alksen's voice
    blasted from it like
 someone talking into a tin.
'About bloody time! Wend,
  get down into the front
court soonest. There seems
to be something going on in
  Amil's tomb—animal or
   something shut inside.
          Over.'
 'Coming, sir,' said Wend.
'Over and out.' He clipped
 back the radio, forced a
smile at Maewen and said,
 'Tell me about it later.'
   Maewen watched him
  hurry away down the
    gallery. Tanamoril,
     Osfameron, Mage
 Mallard—he was all those
heroes of all those stories,
and he could be one of her
own ancestors, too—and he
 had come down to this, a
museum attendant in league
 with Kankredin. She knew
 how Moril had felt about
 Hestefan. It made a bad
 taste in your very bones.
Playing the good guy on the
  train so that she would
       trust him. Yuk.
  It was like knowing the
answer to a crossword clue
    by instinct and then
 working out the clue after
  that. That photograph.
  Aunt Liss had sent it to
Dad. Wend had seen it and
known she was like Noreth.
 It had to be Wend. How
  would Kankredin know to
            look?
   Maewen looked at the
 golden statue, a buttery
  shine from behind the
glass. She was fairly sure
 that if she hunted along
 the cases, somewhere she
 would find a lopsided silver
  cup and a ring with a big
   red stone that Lad the
Adon's profile on it—maybe
 two rings—but she had not
   the energy to look. Her
   boots had dissolved into
 sandals again, showing her
toes outlined in brown dirt.
  She needed a bath. She
 had to wash her hair. She
looked at her thumb. There
   was a clean white band
  round it where the false
ring had been. Yes, there
  would be two rings. The
One had turned everyone's
      cunning schemes
      round—Wend's,
 Kankredin's, Earl Keril's,
  that Earl of Andmark's,
Maewen's own ideas — and
     used them against
    themselves. Maewen
 herself had not been able
to change history: she had
just helped it happen as it
          should.
  She really had to have a
           bath.
     Instead, she set off
   round the gallery, very
slowly, towards the line of
 huge windows that looked
 over the front court. She
did not mean to look in the
cases as she went, but she
  could not help seeing the
sword. It seemed to throw
itself at her eyes, in spite
  of its dark colour, in its
   dingy, sombre sheath.
Maewen took a step back,
having almost walked past
 it, and read the label:
   One of several swords
reputed to be the Adon's.
Legends claim that only the
   rightful monarch can
   unsheath the Adon's
          sword.
 That's true, she thought.
 I couldn't draw it. Mitt
 had to do it both times.
 She dawdled towards the
windows, with heaviness on
 her heart. Ordinary life
  was so very ordinary.
   Everything was over.
    When she came to the
  first window, she looked
  cautiously out from one
  corner of it. There was
   the wide cobbled yard,
with its paved patterns and
  the absurd onion-domed
 stone tomb in the middle.
   A very fine example of
 Amilian stonework. There
was Major Alksen too, and
    all his people, Wend
   included, in a cautious
circle all the way round the
     tomb, slowly moving
  inwards. What did they
     think was in there?
   Whatever was in there
     squealed, a long
 descending hee-hee-hee.
Maewen could hear it quite
 clearly even through the
 glass. Horse. Something
began banging in her throat
 and she felt her face go
 pale as she realised which
horse. It had not whinnied
  much, but Maewen knew
 horses, and she knew this
   one only too well. She
 wanted to lean out of the
   window and scream to
  Major Alksen, Don't go
near it! That's Kankredin in
  there! Wend must know.
   He was letting them all
 move in on it, not knowing
what they were up against.
   Major Alksen was right
 beside the tomb now. He
was putting his hand on the
    grille over its door.
   There was a disturbance
  in the air over the little
domes of the tomb's roof.
 Major Alksen did not see
it. It was very faint, like
       the ghost of the
 trumpet-shaped whirlwind
  Mitt had summoned, but
     the new wariness in
Maewen had prepared her
    to expect it. She was
   looking right at it as it
 went spiralling up to hover
 level with the roof of the
  palace. She saw Wend's
head tilt slightly as he saw
   it too, but his face was
 expressionless and he did
not say anything to anyone.
   Meanwhile Major Alksen
  threw open the grille and
then the door, and his lady
helper threw open the ones
   at the other end at the
 same moment. They went
  in. They came out. They
walked with blank, puzzled,
  irritated movements.
  Nothing there. All the
other people in the circle
  moved uncertainly, let
down, but ready for some
       kind of trick.
  Maewen discovered she
    was watching this in
glimpses, mostly with her
 back to the wall so that
   the hovering cloud of
 Kankredin would not see
her. Her throat pounded
harder and her legs felt
weak as she caught up with
 the way her new wariness
  was making her behave.
   He's come for me! she
thought. He's not going to
forgive me in a hurry! Had
 Wend summoned him? Or
 perhaps, by the action of
coming and going back over
    two hundred years,
Maewen herself had opened
the way for Kankredin. Or
    again, with Onelike
 cunning, maybe Kankredin
  had used the force Mitt
had thrown at him to help
  him take that open way
through time. It could not
    be coincidence that
Kankredin had arrived just
 as she had taken hold of
the golden statue. It just
       could not be.
 She was very frightened
        indeed.
  This was worse than any
time on the green road. It
 was more horrifying than
  being attacked twice in
  Gardale. Why? At first
   Maewen thought it was
because that had only been
  Hestefan, and this was
Kankredin. But she had not
  known her attacker was
  only an elderly Singer in
    Gardale. No—it was
 because this was her own
time. This was modern life
 when things like this were
  not supposed to happen.
 And, worse still, she was
 alone. All the friends who
might have helped her had
been dead for two hundred
         years.
 That was when it hit her.
Dead. Two hundred years.
 It was Mitt's tomb she
had been looking at, down
   there in the court.
  Grief thundered down on
her, hard and continuous as
      the waterfall at
 Dropwater. Maewen fled
under it, round the gallery
  and up the stairs, and
   upstairs again to her
father's apartment. There
 she ran a bath. Even with
    both taps full on, the
    water did not pour as
fiercely as grief poured on
   Maewen. She sat in the
    bath and she washed
herself and she washed her
  hair without, for a single
 instant, thinking what she
   was doing. Instead, her
   mind was going through,
  going through that entire
journey from Adenmouth to
Kernsburgh. She found she
 remembered things about
  Mitt she had not even
 known she had seen until
          now.
 When the water was cold,
 she noticed it was with a
 dull sort of jump, and got
  out and dried, and dried
her hair. By that time, she
      had been through
 everything twice and was
 starting round again. She
   even laughed in several
places—that time when the
ring stuck, for instance. By
then the grief had stopped
 pouring and set into a full
  ache, so that her throat
 hurt, and her chest, as if
she was full, full of sorrow
 as a person could get. Her
hair dried wild and floating
   and fluffy, as it always
   did. It was a good inch
   longer. Aunt Liss would
 have noticed, but she was
 fairly sure that Dad never
   would. There was more
       than a touch of
Cennoreth's wriggliness to
     it—or Kialan's, or
 Kankredin's. She put on
her nicest dress. That was
not to let Mitt down when
she had to face Kankredin
  alone. She looked quite
    good in the mirror.
   I might have been the
 Queen, she thought, in an
experimental way, watching
   herself. And watched
  herself shake her head.
Somehow that was never a
possibility. So I might have
    been feeling like this
   anyway, even if I never
touched the statue and Alk
 passed it to someone else,
  she told herself. She did
   not believe that either.
   Whatever she believed,
    there was no point to
   might-have-beens. Now
    was enough—and bad
            enough.
     Mitt had left her a
legacy, although he did not
    know it (at the word
    legacy, Maewen had a
 moment when she thought
 she was going to cry, but
   she did not seem to be
 able to cry: she was hard
  and dry inside). She had
     heard the word Mitt
    shouted to bring that
 whirlwind, and she had no
   doubt it would work for
 her, too. She could use it
on Kankredin—and Wend—if
         need arose.
  Out on the leads, the
  pigeons were landing,
   taking off, circling
  uneasily. They knew.
Kankredin was hovering as
 a nearly invisible cloud
  somewhere near. But
  before she went into
battle, there were things
    she wanted to do.
Maewen let herself out of
the apartment again and
raced downstairs, down,
 and on down, until she
   came to the old part of
    the palace where the
   pictures were. She had
spent too long in the bath.
 The art students were all
there, and she had to edge
round their easels and step
  over them as they lay on
the ballroom floor, in order
 to look at the paintings on
  the walls and the ceiling.
   She shook her head at
the fair-haired Amil in his
 purple trousers. Whoever
painted that had not had a
 clue what Mitt looked like.
 Or had he? she wondered,
  remembering King Hern.
    Was it deliberate? she
 thought, looking up at the
battles in the ceiling. Navis
  was up there, and a huge
  man who was supposed to
        be Alk, and a
 fierce-looking woman. Was
 she the Countess? She did
look a bit like a horse. And
  now Maewen knew who to
   look for, she could spot
Kialan and Ynen, neither of
        them much like
themselves—and the young
man with red hair, carrying
 a cwidder and half-hidden
 behind a troop of horses,
 was surely intended to be
Moril, and that was nothing
 like him. She still had no
 idea who the savage type
   in fur was, down in the
            South.
     There was no real
portrait of Mitt, she knew
  that now. All the same,
    she went on into the
  polished room where the
 pictures hung. It was full
 of people, large men from
 Haligland, who all looked a
   bit like Kialan, talking
  foreign talk and wearing
  silly national-dress kilts
  and badges—a convention
   of some kind. Maewen
  pushed among them with
urgent curiosity. Here were
 the two old, old portraits
 of the Adon—quite right:
   one said it was from
 Holand, the other from
Aberath—and both were
 startlingly like Mitt, or
rather, like Mitt painted
by someone who had not
 got it quite right. She
could see why Mitt might
   not want his portrait
 painted. That bony, ill
  look. Or was that the
          reason?
  But here was Navis as
  Duke of Kernsburgh,
 staring keen and haughty
   over his shoulder. The
artist had got Navis to the
 life. And round here was
  Moril. Moril looked more
 than betrayed. He looked
    heartbroken. Maewen
wondered whether he ever
  got over what Hestefan
    had done. She rather
thought not. It was funny,
though, because it was not
   that Moril had been so
     enormously fond of
     Hestefan. No, she
thought, as her eye fell on
the cwidder in the picture:
 it was because they were
both Singers. If you were
    a Singer, there were
things you just did not do.
  Maewen pushed between
  two broad backs from
 Haligland to look at the
 real cwidder in its glass
 case. Yes. It really was
Moril's. And it had looked
 so much newer and more
used when she last saw it.
Shame that a thing of such
 power should lie crumbling
    in a glass case. But,
   though her name was
 Singer, Maewen knew she
 had not the least chance
 of using it as it could be
   used. Shame. Waste.
    She backed away and
worked her way out to the
 exit. And caught the eye
 of another portrait, one
she had never bothered to
  do more than glance at
  before. A woman. A thin
  white-faced woman with
black hair piled up high and
    an angry little frown
   between the eyebrows.
    Hildy. Oh, great One!
   Misery came thundering
   down on Maewen again,
more than she had thought
possible—and here she had
 thought she was as full of
     it as she could be.
  Memories came with the
  misery: Mitt brushing at
   the damp patch of her
tears in the Lawschool; the
  straight, greasy feel of
 Mitt's hair when she put
the crown back on him; the
  incredible knuckliness of
      Mitt's hands ...
   Maewen caught up with
  herself to find she was
   racing upstairs again,
pushing past a big party of
tourists, and then another,
  and then hammering on
upwards alone. By the time
   she flung through the
    doorway of the palace
   office, she hardly had
  breath left to pant. She
  leant against the wall to
recover, watching the usual
  frenzy, people rushing all
over, papers being passed,
 typing, telephones ringing.
Dad sensed she was there.
He put down a telephone to
     turn to her over his
shoulder and raise his chin
         enquiringly.
  That pose! Now Maewen
   knew who Navis had all
   along reminded her of.
  Both of them were short
  men. And, just like Dad,
  Navis was in his element
giving orders and attending
   to a thousand things at
 once. No wonder Mitt had
 made Navis a duke and let
 him organise the kingdom!
     Dad saw she needed
something and came over to
  the door. That was like
          Navis too.
    'What's the matter,
        Maewen?'
   Nothing, she wanted to
say, I'm only in love with a
   king who died over a
hundred years ago. Stupid.
  Keep your mouth shut.
  'Dad, who did Amil the
       Great marry?'
   He raised an eyebrow,
although, unlike Navis, he
  could not do it without
raising the other eyebrow
   slightly too. 'Is this
important? All right, I see
 it is. Well, she was never
very prominent. She seems
    to have been rather a
retiring character, because
  very little is known about
   her apart from the fact
   that she was very tall—
 and I believe she was also
     very kind-hearted—'
 'Her name, Dad!' Maewen
  said. 'Not a lecture.'
  'Didn't I say?' He was
surprised. 'Enblith—though
she is not of course to be
confused with Enblith the
           Fair.'
         'Thanks.'
     Fancy that! Maewen
 thought as she ran away
  downstairs. Biffa! Biffa!
   Well, Mitt had showed
some sense at least! And it
   was really a very good
    choice, she thought,
patrolling round the museum
gallery while she waited for
Kankredin to show himself.
 Biffa was nice — so nice,
    in fact, that it was
  entirely likely that Mitt
   had lived happily ever
  after. Maewen tried to
 feel glad. But in moments
 she was saying, 'I expect
    he forgot about me
entirely after a day or so.
I don't suppose he thought
 about me once in the rest
        of his life.'
    Her voice rang out,
peevish and hurt. Don't be
   so ridiculous! she told
   herself. Kings have to
 marry. Besides he had to
 remember you in order to
 get the waystone changed
 to a huge one, like I told
  Moril it was. And—well,
   the waystone was not
really a message, since it
   had to be there—but
  Maewen stood suddenly
  stock still, wondering if
Mitt might not indeed have
left her a message, buried
in history. She was on her
way upstairs again, before
 the idea had had time to
     be fully formed.
 'Dad!' she said from the
    office doorway.
 Dad was reading a bundle
 of papers, but he came
   over to her. 'Yes?'
    'Dad, how did the
 Tannoreth Palace get its
         name?'
    'Amil named it,' Dad
said. 'I'm sure I told you
  the first day you were
 here. Nobody knows quite
 where he got it from. The
first part, 'tan', is the old
    word for 'young' or
 'younger', and we assume
Amil was thinking of Hern's
 old palace which may have
  been on the same site.'
  'And the 'noreth' part?'
      Maewen asked.
 'Nobody knows. It seems
   to be just a name—
 Maewen, forgive me, but
  I must get this read
before the Queen's Office
       phones me.'
    Maewen galloped away
 downstairs again thinking,
   Young Noreth—no, the
    younger Noreth! Not
  Noreth, but the one who
  was younger. Great One!
  He named a whole palace
 after me and I'll never be
  able to say thank you! It
 made her eyes prick and it
   warmed the heavy hurt
inside her without making it
 any better. She walked
 twice round the gallery,
hugging Mitt's message to
  her. Then there were
other things that she just
had to know. Upstairs she
      dashed again.
           'Dad!'
    She forgot how many
times she rushed up to the
office, or quite what order
    she asked the other
  questions in. Each time,
    Dad was surprisingly
patient—like Navis was, if
     you really needed
  something. Or was it, in
 some confusing way, that
Navis had had some kind of
family feeling for Maewen?
One of the first things she
 asked was, 'Dad, who did
  the Duke of Kernsburgh
          marry?'
   Dad frowned. 'I really
don't remember the name
 of his first wife. But his
second wife was the widow
      of the Lord of
Adenmouth.' He clicked his
 fingers. 'What was her
 name? Eltruda, that was
            it!'
 'Thanks, Dad.' Noreth's
  aunt. It all fits. And
downstairs again to patrol
    round the gallery.
       Upon one of her
   reappearances in the
office, one of Dad's young
ladies handed her a cheese
     roll, saying it was
 lunchtime. Maewen had no
 appetite. She carried the
roll about as she patrolled.
  She was carrying it when
 she saw Wend coming and
  fled from him up to the
   office again. There she
  had to stop and eat the
roll, chokingly, for fear of
 offending the young lady.
      'Dad, who did
  Hild—er—the Duke of
   Kernsburgh's eldest
    daughter marry?'
  'Hildrida. Dear me. That
   family seems to be an
 obsession with you,' Dad
    said. 'I really can't
 remember. She certainly
  did marry, because her
    descendants are still
   Wardens of the Holy
  Islands, but— Not that
 Hildrida ever spent much
 time in the Islands. Amil
was there far oftener, and
 so was Hildrida's brother
Ynen, building up our navy.
  That was when Dalemark
  first became a big sea
  power, you know. Ynen
     tried out the first
    steamships there.'
       Bless Dad and his
 lectures! Maewen thought.
  You always got twice the
   answers you asked for.
Sometimes on her visits to
  the office, she got more
 than she wanted, like the
  lecture she got when she
asked who Hobin was. That
lecture started, 'You mean
 Bloody Hobin of Holand?
He was the centre of the
 uprising in the South at
the start of Amil's reign.
       Like so many
  revolutionaries, he got
  quite out of hand ...'
Maewen did not attend to
this one much, because it
 was all about Hobin and
    nothing about Amil.
   But there were times
  when she got next to
  nothing, as when she
 asked, 'Moril the Singer,
  Dad? Does history say
   anything about him?'
 'No,' Dad said. 'I never
     heard of him.'
   'Hestefan the Singer
         then?'
   'Nope,' said Dad. 'You
must remember that things
changed very fast in Amil's
 reign. Singers were right
  out of date by the time
        Amil died.'
   Poor Moril. Next time
Maewen charged upstairs,
 she asked, 'Earl Keril of
 Hannart, Dad. Was he a
great nuisance to Amil the
          Great?'
     Eyebrows up, like the
 image of Navis, Dad said,
      'Are you writing a
      historical novel or
something? Far be it from
   me to discourage such a
    venture. But let it be
accurate, please. Earl Keril
  supported Amil, like most
earls of the North, but he
 never seems to have been
    very deep in Amil's
   confidence. Historians
   usually put Hannart's
    decline down to this
          period.'
'Thanks.' Oh. So history
    had Keril as just a
politician who backed the
 wrong move. Right, in a
 way, but so wrong too.
 Maewen went thoughtfully
  away. She was tired.
Today had, literally, lasted
  two hundred years. But
   even if she could have
 borne to sit and wait for
    Kankredin, Maewen's
 misery would not let her
 keep still. She patrolled
 wider and wider, through
most of the palace by the
         afternoon.
    Halfway through the
afternoon, the loudspeaker
 outlets crackled all over
the palace. Here it comes!
Maewen thought, and stood
stock still where she was,
    between two State
        Bedrooms.
       'Attention. Your
 attention, please.' It was
 Major Alksen's voice. 'A
  bomb has been reported
  concealed on the palace
   premises. I repeat. A
  bomb has been reported
somewhere in the palace or
    grounds. I must ask
    everyone to leave as
    quickly and quietly as
possible. This applies to all
  visitors and staff alike.
Please leave the palace and
  its grounds as quickly as
 you can. Doors and gates
   have been opened front
 and rear. Please leave by
  the nearest exit you can
 find. Please do not return
 until the bomb is located.
    Attention, please ...'
 The message went on and
     on, repeating.
     The palace resounded
    softly as hundreds of
    people's feet hurried
  through rooms and down
  stairs to find the doors.
   Presumably Dad and his
  ladies were on their way
out too. Maewen wanted to
know. Once more her feet
  took her on the familiar
 journey to the office. But
the stairs were blocked by
  the office staff pouring
         down them.
  'Your father, dear?' said
 someone, barely stopping.
'Mr Singer's gone down to
  Security. He'll probably
  stay with them until the
bomb squad gets here. You
    come down with us.'
Maewen hung back and let
   them pass until the
stairway was empty. Dad
 was not safe, but there
was nothing she could do.
  She went softly down
  again. The palace was
    weirdly empty, much
emptier than she had ever
 known it. Maewen went on
   a zigzag course, quite
   unimpeded, from back
windows to front ones, and
 then back windows again,
as she went down. She saw
people pouring out through
 gardens at the back, and
  through the court at the
    front. Nothing would
 happen until everyone was
   gone. She was sure of
that. Kankredin was after
 her. Maybe he would also
   destroy the palace as a
  belated revenge on Mitt,
  but he would not blow up
 all the tourists. Kankredin
 valued power over people,
and you could not have that
    if all the people were
             dead.
     She went on down,
checking windows. By now,
she had come to the floors
  that opened on to the
 cloister balconies at the
  front. The windows were
     big glass doors, and
 Maewen had to go through
those, into a roofed space
held up by thin pillars, and
then lean over the parapet
    to see into the front
 court. When she did this
   at the highest balcony,
there was still a scatter of
    people hurrying away
 through the court and out
under the arched gateway.
      At the next floor,
     everyone had gone.
Everywhere was empty and
  still— No, it was not!
     Maewen leant on the
  parapet and did not dare
  move. Over the multiple
  domes of Amil's tomb, a
   big cloud of something
 nearly invisible rolled and
 coiled on itself. She could
see it mostly by the way it
 distorted the wall and the
  city buildings beyond, in
ugly, glassy waves. It was
  not person-shaped—yet.
     Kankredin was busy
assembling himself. Maewen
 licked her lips. There was
  so much of it. Kankredin
   seemed to have brought
    more of himself from
    somewhere. The ugly
   shimmer was easily five
    times the size of the
 ghost-thing that had been
  her horse. She supposed
   she ought to shout that
word, but she had a feeling
   that the thing hovering
   there was too big to be
   dealt with like that.
   On the other side of the
court, the gates in the big
  main gateway were softly
closing, switched by remote
   control from Security,
     shutting her in with
   Kankredin. But Dad was
 inside too. She had to do
          something.
    Before the gates had
quite swung closed, a man
 in an old leather jacket
slipped between them and
 pushed them shut with his
   back. He must be the
   bomb-disposal expert.
  Maewen had heard that
 bomb-men were daredevils
who dressed all anyhow and
enjoyed risking their lives.
  The trouble was, he was
not up against a bomb. She
 saw him realise. He stood
as still as Maewen, staring
up at the heaving, invisible
    cloud. Then his head
    switched- There was
   something odd about—
There was somebody else
  in the court, running.
Maewen could hear running
footsteps. Then see who.
   It was Wend, racing
  towards Amil's tomb.
 The man by the gate gave
a great shout. 'GET BACK,
  YOU FLAMING FOOL!'
  That was Mitt's voice!
 Maewen was head down,
 leaning far out over the
parapet, without knowing
she had moved. She knew
 she was right. Except it
couldn't be true. The man
was not gawky enough—was
           he?
    Above the tomb, the
  coiling movement, which
   had been bunching and
 bending over itself ready
 to move down on the man
 by the gate, now swayed
 round and turned to face
the movement Maewen had
made. She saw—no, felt—
  eyes in its midst. Eyes
 that knew her. Eyes that
hated her. Fat-lidded eyes
        she knew.
     Mitt's voice yelled a
word. It was not the word
 Maewen knew. This was a
word that made your brain
clench, and then prefer to
forget you had heard it. It
 was a word that dragged
  shivers from deep, deep
 under the earth. A word
that shook the palace. The
   invisibleness above the
tomb coiled hurriedly round
  to throw itself at the
         shouter.
    In the act of coiling it
 was caught, and held, and
  thrown high, high in the
air, mixed with and part of
a tremendous jet of water,
   a huge tsunami. Water
 burst from the tomb in a
 giant dark horn, throwing
pieces of building aside like
   a card house. Maewen
    stared, with her neck
 twisted, at the immense
 column of water hanging
 into the sky, darker and
   darker with dissolving
shreds of the coiling cloud,
 and all spouted to yellow
 froth at its distant top.
        Then it fell.
   Maewen threw herself
 flat beside the parapet.
Even so, she was soaked.
 The open balcony bucked
  under her. Salt water
stung her eyes. Salt? And
the roar of falling tons of
 water was more deafening
than any bomb. It went on
   and on, mixed with the
crashing of stone. Maewen
 scrambled up in the midst
 of it, unable to care that
  she was deaf as a post.
 Three pillars that held up
  the balcony were missing
  nearby, and there was a
 gap in the parapet where
    she had been leaning.
Unable to care about that
   either, she walked over
 balcony that swayed and
 grated, until she reached
 the nearest whole pillar.
 Clinging to it, she stared
  at the courtyard awash
 with angry, grey, leaping
waves. The gate was down.
  The gateway was mostly
rubble. Water was roaring
 out into King Street. The
salt that ran on Maewen's
face was partly tears. No
  one could have survived
            that.
 But he had. He must have
  been swept over to the
  side wall. She could see
   him, nearly out of her
view, where it was blocked
by the ragged edge of the
  balcony, clawing himself
    along the wall, first
shoulder-deep, then, very
 quickly, only waist-deep.
   The water was rushing
  away all the time, going
back underground. Maewen
could dimly hear the surge
   and growl of it running
away. But she was staring
at the man's soaking, lank
   hair. It did look like
          Mitt's.
     Then he had clawed
   himself out of sight.
Maewen had turned to dash
away down into the court,
    when she heard him
 speaking, right under the
balcony. 'Come on, get up,
  you fool. Walk.' It was
Mitt's voice, no doubt now.
  Wend's voice answered.
 'Let me go. I deserve to
         drown.'
   And then Mitt's voice
 again, 'If that was true,
the Earth Shaker wouldn't
 have left you alive. Come
       on, stand up.'
 Maewen heard splashing,
and coughing. Wend said,
'Don't you understand? I
    was working with
       Kankredin.'
 Mitt answered, 'Well, you
had the sense to phone and
 tell me when you realised
    how much of him he'd
   collected here. He's an
 expert in blackmailing and
tempting and all that. Stop
  kicking yourself. What I
 want to know— Watch it!
      These steps are all
     broken.' There were
flounderings, and the sound
  of wet stones rolling and
    splashing. Then Mitt's
    voice came from right
   underneath, where the
 palace door was. 'What I
want to know, is how did
   he persuade you?'
  'Noreth,' said Wend.
Maewen could tell he was
  crying. 'My daughter
Noreth! All these years, I
thought you were the one
    who'd killed her.'
  'Of all the idiots!' Mitt
  answered. 'There were
several hundred people you
     could have asked!
 Maewen found she could
 wait no longer. She had
  not dared believe it was
 really Mitt until now, but
this proved it. She dashed
   back through the open
  window-doors, and sped
  through the ballroom to
    the nearest stairs.
  Halfway down she found
  herself pausing—with an
impatient skip, because of
the vanity of it—to look at
  her draggled self in the
 grand mirrors: wet salty
 hair, tear-stained face,
damp rag of a best dress.
  Well, he's seen me look
just as bad, and he knows
I'm only thirteen. But, as
 she sped down again, she
 found herself repeating,
  Only thirteen. He's two
  hundred years old. I'm
  only thirteen. Over and
            over.
  Across the slippery grand
hall she sped. Rubble rolled
 under her racing feet and
  she splatted in pools of
 sea-foam. And there was
the open door at last, open
   on to heaved-up paving
stones and steaming water.
 A gust of sea-scent blew
    in through it. Maewen
    hurtled out of it, and
  stopped. There was only
   Wend, leaning against a
 pillar, soaking wet. In the
 distance, across uprooted
  cobblestones strewn with
   seaweed, blood red and
 olive green, Mitt was just
  climbing over the rubble
  that had been the gate.
   'Mitt!' she screamed.
       He heard her. He
stopped. She could see him
 think about it. He turned
    round and gave her a
  cheerful wave before he
   jumped off the pile of
  rubble and walked away
      down King Street.
  Maewen was left gazing.
   Between her and the
remains of the gate, there
was a scummy, odd-shaped
 pool, turgid with tainted
 waves, draining away into
 the ground as she looked
at it. That was where the
tomb had been, of course.
That tomb must have been
   one of Mitt's biggest
jokes. By the time he had
had it built, he must have
   known he was of the
  Undying. No wonder he
made it so absurd. Maewen
 almost smiled, in spite of
   her misery. He's two
  hundred years old. I'm
         thirteen.
    She turned to Wend.
 Wend was staring straight
ahead, dripping. 'I owe you
   an apology,' he said.
   'Yes,' Maewen agreed.
 'Did you take this job at
 the palace to wait until I
        turned up?'
  'No,' said Wend. 'I was
never sure where you came
 from. I took the job for
 something to do. There's
 so much time, you know.'
  He said it very drearily.
  Maewen could see time
stretch on and on, before
     and behind him.
 'Why did you tell Noreth
    she was the One's
  daughter?' she asked.
   'I didn't. That was an
  idea her mother had,'
 Wend said. He laughed, a
nasty hacking sound, like a
 bad cough. 'The One told
me she would ride the royal
      road. He lied.'
 'Are you sure that wasn't
Kankredin?' Maewen asked.
   Wend turned and stared
    at her, as if this had
   never occurred to him.
Beyond him, she saw Major
   Alksen in the distance,
 followed by Dad, gingerly
picking his way towards the
 empty slot that had been
        Amil's tomb.
  'Come with me,' Maewen
said to Wend. 'I've got an
  idea about you.' When
 Wend did not move, she
  took his chilly hand and
dragged. 'You ought to get
into dry clothes at least.'
  'No problem,' Wend said.
His clothes began to steam
  as if he were out in hot
    sun. But he made no
   protest when Maewen
 dragged him, in a trail of
 steam, through the rubbly
   hall and to the stairs.
    Thank goodness, she
thought. For what she had
in mind, it would be better
that Major Alksen and Dad
were busy outside. But why
   am I doing this? she
  wondered, as she towed
Wend upstairs. He thought
 he was sending me to be
  killed. He knew he was
 sending me to Kankredin.
Am I trying to be worthy?
 But she knew why, really.
 She knew how Wend felt.
  She dragged him through
the ballroom and round into
the smaller room where the
pictures hung. She pushed
 him in front of the glass
   cabinet where the old
        cwidder lay.
 'Get that out,' she said.
   'Play it. It's yours
        anyway.'
  'Oh no,' Wend said. 'I
gave it to my son. And it's
   the Queen's property
           now.'
   'Is it?' said Maewen. 'I
think Moril gave it to Mitt,
 not to Amil, and as Mitt's
 still alive it's his. I know
he won't mind you having it
 in the least. It's wasted,
         lying there.'
  'Maybe,' Wend said. He
  looked down at the old,
 beautiful instrument as if
   he were very tempted.
'But someone will notice if
        I take it.'
    'You are beginning to
 annoy me!' Maewen said.
   'From all I've heard,
you're one of the greatest
 magicians there ever was.
Surely you can make it look
  as if the cwidder's still
 there? Nobody's going to
 try to play it, after all.'
   'True.' Wend stared
down at his uniform, now
    dry and trim. In a
 hopeless, fussy way, he
  picked a piece of dry
  seaweed off it. For a
moment, he stared at the
red-brown spray of weed
 as if he had never seen
 such a thing before. Then
he smiled. He took his keys
 out, unlocked the cabinet
  and raised the glass lid,
 tossing the seaweed spray
 inside as he did so. Then
 he picked up the cwidder.
To Maewen, it looked as if
 he drew the ghost of the
    cwidder out of itself.
 There was a cwidder lying
in the cabinet, fat, mellow
  and glossy. Wend had an
   identical cwidder in his
   hands, and was hitching
    the strap over his
        shoulder.
    'You'd better replace
that strap,' she said. 'It's
      awfully frayed.'
      Wend smoothed the
strap. 'I know. I made the
 strap too. It'll hold.' His
     face already looked
  different. It was newer
  and happier. It became
serious-happy as he turned
 the pegs and brought the
  strings into tune. And it
    changed to a dreamy
pleasure as he picked out a
  little tune. The cwidder
  hummed, almost purred,
  with happiness. 'Forgive
me,' Wend said. He looked
up at the portrait of Moril,
    as if Moril was really
            there.
  'He will,' Maewen said.
'It was always a burden to
           him.'
  Wend sighed. 'Yes, and
  that's odd. Or perhaps
not. It was my power I put
in the cwidder—a good half
     of it.' He strummed
   another hasty tune. It
     made him stand in a
  different, easy way, and
    he looked stronger. 'I
  should never have passed
   that power on,' he said
 and, looking as dreamy as
 Moril often did, he turned
    and walked out of the
             room.
  'Oughtn't you to tell my
  father you're leaving?'
      Maewen said.
  'A message is on his desk
now,' Wend said, conjuring
 a small waterfall of notes
   as he walked off. His
 uniform had gone. He was
 wearing a shabby leather
jacket, rather like Mitt's.
    He was really going.
Maewen hurriedly called out
the selfish part of why she
had done this. 'Wend! How
  can I get in touch with
          Mitt?'
  Wend paused. 'Through
  Cennoreth, I suppose.'
     Then he turned and
   looked at her over his
 shoulder, like Navis in the
  portrait behind her. His
   face had gone beyond
 happy to become the face
 of a man of power. Oddly
enough, that made him look
  kinder. 'Mitt gave me a
   message for you—I'm
 sorry—I'd forgotten until
 now. I've no idea what he
 meant. He said, "Tell her
 to make it four years, not
two, to allow for inflation."
Does that mean anything to
            you?'
 It certainly did. Maewen
   almost laughed as she
watched Wend walk away.
 Four years! No way! She
was going to get the train
to Dropthwaite tomorrow,
  and, somehow, she was
 going to find Cennoreth
          there.

      A Guide to
       Dalemark
            A
Aberath, the northernmost
     earldom of North
Dalemark; also the town on
 the north coast, situated
on the Rath estuary at the
  mouth of the river Ath.
   Aden, the small river
running north to the sea at
  Adenmouth, thought by
some to be all that remains
 of the great River of the
        spellcoats.
  Adenmouth, a small town
and lordship in the extreme
   north-west of North
 Dalemark, and part of the
    earldom of Aberath.
Adon, the name seems to
mean 'High Lord' and has
  several applications.
   1. One of the secret
   names of the One.
  2. The name or title of
       the heroic King of
Dalemark about whom there
      are many songs and
 legends. The Adon was an
      Earl of Hannart who
married Manaliabrid of the
Undying as his second wife
   and went into exile with
       her and the Singer
  Osfameron, during which
  time he was murdered by
   his jealous half-brother
Lagan and brought back to
    life by Osfameron. He
  then became king, but on
his death his two children
   disappeared, leaving
 Dalemark without a king
  and riven by civil war.
 3. The title of the eldest
son and heir of the Earl of
         Hannart.
   The Adon's gifts, the
legendary gifts Manaliabrid
brought to the Adon as her
    dowry. These are:
 1. A ring, said only to fit
 the finger of those with
       royal blood.
     2. A cup, which was
believed to acknowledge the
true king and also to shine
  in the hands of anyone
      telling the truth.
 3. A sword which, it was
 said, only the true king
   could draw from its
        scabbard.
'The Adon's hall...' one of
    the old-style songs
     composed by the
singer-mage Osfameron, in
which Osfameron seems to
be thinking not only of the
 Adon in exile in a ruinous
    hall, but of his own
cwidder and of the Sayings
       of King Hern.
Al, the most common short
  form of Alhammitt, the
 commonest name in South
 Dalemark. The name of a
castaway picked up by the
    yacht Wind's Road.
Alda, the wife of Siriol, a
   confirmed alcoholic.
        Alhammitt
1. The true name of the
     Earth Shaker.
  2. The most common
  man's name in South
       Dalemark.
  3. Mitt's actual name.
  Alk, a lawman from the
   North Dales who took
office under the Countess
  of Aberath and shortly
 married her. His status
   then became that of
Consort of Aberath, with
 the courtesy title (which
 was seldom used) of Lord.
   Alk devoted his time to
inventing steam engines and
      eventually, almost
  single-handedly, brought
     about the industrial
   revolution of Dalemark.
Alksen, Major, the head of
 security at the Tannoreth
           Palace.
 Alk's Irons, the name
 given by the people of
 Aberath to the steam
machines invented by Alk.
The most notable of these
 were a plough, a hoist, a
   press, a pump, and a
        locomotive.
Alla, the elder daughter of
 Alk and the Countess of
         Aberath.
 Allegiances, the personal
ties of primitive Haligland.
 A man or woman would be
born into one clan, sent as
 foster-child to a second,
   swear friendship to a
  third, and marry into a
   fourth. This formed a
 network of friendship and
 obligation which you were
bound to tell to a stranger
 when you told your name.
   They defined you as a
person. If you did not tell,
 or had no allegiances, you
were either a criminal or a
       social outcast.
Almet, the son of the Adon
   and Manaliabrid, who
 declined to be king after
        his father.
   Amil, one of the secret
  names of the One, which
   appears to mean either
   'Brother' or 'River'. It
 later became the name of
    the line of kings that
began with Amil the Great.
   Ammet, a straw image
 thrown into the sea every
year at the Sea Festival in
Holand in South Dalemark,
  which was said to bring
   luck to the city. Small
images were also made and
sold for luck. Even greater
luck was supposed to come
  to any boat that found
Ammet floating beyond the
 harbour and brought him
  aboard. The name is a
 corruption of Alhammitt,
 one of the names of the
  Earth Shaker. See also
     Poor Old Ammet.
 Andmark, the earldom in
   the centre of South
   Dalemark which was
probably the wealthiest in
Dalemark. Henda was Earl
 of Andmark until he was
    killed in the Great
          Uprising.
  Anoreth of the Undying
 became the wife of Closti
the Clam. The name means
        'unbound'.
 Ansdale, a remote valley
   east of Gardale, the
birthplace of Biffa, whose
family kept the mill there.
Arin, a senior lord of the
 (Heathen) invaders from
   Haligland and chief
 warrior-minister of Kars
          Adon.
   Armour was markedly
different in the two halves
       of Dalemark.
   Southern soldiers wore
 helmets and breastplates
  with exaggerated curves
designed to deflect bullets,
  over tough leather, with
 knee-length boots and big
  gauntlets. Many carried
guns as well as swords, and
foot-soldiers carried pikes.
   Northern soldiers still
   used chain mail under
sleeved jerkins of leather
 or tough cloth. The mail
was long enough to protect
 the wearer to the wrists
and knees and the helmets
  were round, coming low
   enough in the back to
 protect the neck. Gloves
 were leather with mail or
    studs on the backs.
   Weapons were usually
  crossbows, swords and
 daggers. Guns were few
 and could only be spared
  for picked hearthmen.
    Arms Inspectors were
  employed by all the Earls
of South Dalemark to keep
strict watch on gunsmiths,
        armourers and
 weapon-makers, who were
not allowed to work without
 the Inspectors' seal on all
their equipment. The earls
   rightly feared that the
craftsmen might otherwise
sell weapons to the common
people or make weapons for
     the earls that were
     deliberately flawed.
  Despite the Inspectors,
 many armourers seem to
    have done both these
            things.
  Arris, a rough spiritous
 liquor brewed throughout
    South Dalemark from
    discarded grapes and
sprouting corn. All that can
 be said in its favour is
that it was much cheaper
        than wine.
 Ath, the river that runs
  north into the sea at
Aberath. It is thought to
be one of the remnants of
    the great River of
       prehistory.
Autumn Festival, the usual
  name in the South of
Dalemark for Harvest, the
feast that celebrated the
    gathering of crops.
    Autumn floods in the
   prehistoric Riverlands,
 were as regular as spring
 floods but never so large.
They were due to the rains
   that fell in the autumn
           storms.
   Autumn storms were a
     regular feature in
Dalemark. In historic times
they reached as far north
  as Gardale and could be
  very severe. The worst
 lasted for days, with the
     gale swinging from
north-west to south-west.
With a shorter storm, the
 winds tended to gust even
 stronger but not veer so
   much. If the gale was
southerly, the storms came
   repeatedly for several
           days.
            B
Bad luck gave rise to many
   superstitions all over
  Dalemark. Those which
 require explanation are:
       1. Giving. It was
   considered disastrously
unlucky to give, or promise
to give, something and then
  not give it. This is why
 Ganner was forced to give
Lenina to Clennen, and also
why he seems to have been
 certain she would one day
   come back—he had not
    incurred bad luck by
 refusing to give her away.
  2. Festivals, feasts and
ceremonies. Enormous bad
    luck was incurred if
   anything happened to
interrupt these. Note that
the Heathens interrupt the
One's fire-ceremony; that
      both Mitt and Al
    interrupted the Sea
  Festival; and that Fenna
interrupted the Midsummer
     Feast by fainting.
  3. A death brought great
 bad luck and could only be
countered by a marriage on
 the same day. Lenina and
Ganner take advantage of
       this belief.
  4. Speaking a falsehood
to the Undying brings more
 bad luck than any of the
        foregoing.
 5. An unlucky person can
bring bad luck to others.
Gull was considered to be
  doing this; and Kialan
 believed he was such a
         person.
 6. A person or group can
 carry their own cloud of
bad luck around with them
 and nothing will go right
 for them until the cloud
       passes away.
Barangarolob, the full name
 of the horse that pulled
Clennen the Singer's cart.
  Clennen, who loved long
 names, named him after
      the Adon's horse
   Barangalob, with the
    inserted superlative
   particle 'ro' meaning
    'youngest' or 'much
        younger'.
 Barlay, Lawschool slang.
  'No barlay' means 'no
      quarter given'.
Beat the water, as part of
the Holand Sea Festival in
  South Dalemark. People
pretended to beat the sea
with garlands of fruit and
 flowers. The ancient aim
  seems to have been to
  subdue the sea for the
      following year.
Beer was drunk throughout
   the North of Dalemark
 instead of water, wine or
 coffee until near the end
of Amil the Great's reign.
 One of Navis Haddsson's
many profitable enterprises
    was to set up a large
  brewery in the Shield of
 Oreth, but the best beer
  came from Hannart and
    still does. The lager
 brewed in Kinghaven is to
  be avoided at all costs.
Bence, Captain-in-Chief of
   the fleet of the Holy
Islands and commander of
  the Wheatsheaf. Bence
 was not a Holy Islander.
He was born in Wayness in
 the earldom of Waywold.
 Besting, Lawschool slang
    for 'best friend'.
Biffa, pupil at the Gardale
  Lawschool, a native of
Ansdale and best friend of
 Hildrida Navissdaughter.
 The name is a shortened
pet-name form of Enblith.
   Big Shool, one of the
larger of the Holy Islands.
    Black Mountains, the
highest range of mountains
in prehistoric Dalemark. It
   is possible, though not
  certain, that they were
    thrown higher in the
  mountain-folding at the
 start of the reign of King
Hern, to become the Black
    Mountains of historic
  Dalemark, in which case
the name may refer to the
large deposits of coal to be
       found there.
  'Both hands cut off...'
    refers to the law of
     primitive Haligland,
 whereby any member of
 the High Lord's (King's)
family who was suspected
of treason could be legally
 deprived of both hands,
 not as a punishment, but
 as a precaution against a
   threat to the throne.
 Bradbrook, a lordship on
 the coast of Waywold in
     South Dalemark.
 Brid, daughter of Clennen
  the Singer and sister of
Moril and Dagner, who fled
   North with Moril. Soon
after her arrival Brid went
to Gardale and trained as a
 law-woman, and thence to
 a professional appointment
in Loviath. After the Great
    Uprising she became
  Countess of Hannart and
  eventually the first head
  of the Royal Dalemark
 Academy of Music, which
  she helped her brother
      Moril to found.
Bull, the most usual form in
  which the Earth Shaker
  appears. For this reason
 bulls' heads are carried in
the Holand Sea Festival. It
   is said that the Bull is
most frequently seen in the
        Holy Islands.
             C
Canden, the younger of two
 brothers from Waywold in
 South Dalemark, devoted
   to freedom fighting. He
   moved from Waywold to
  Holand, where conditions
       were much worse,
    deliberately to foment
    rebellion. In Holand he
  joined the secret society
of the Free Holanders and
shortly proposed the firing
      of one of the Earl's
warehouses. The older Free
    Holanders refused and
     stayed at home, while
 Canden led the younger
 ones to the warehouse.
 Here he found that they
  had been betrayed and
that soldiers were waiting
        for them.
Canderack, the earldom on
 the west coast of South
Dalemark, where the best
wine was grown. Until the
 reign of Amil the Great,
 Canderack owned a fleet
  that rivalled Holand's.
Canderack Head, south of
   Canderack bay, an
 important landmark for
  shipping on the South
     Dalemark coast.
Carne Bank, a mudbank at
   the far east of the
 prehistoric Rivermouth,
 notorious for quicksands
       and shallows.
    Cenblith, a queen of
 prehistoric Dalemark who
first took the One for her
 lover and then bound him
   to the will of mortals,
   apparently either by
 forcing him to make the
great River or by carving
     an image of him.
   Cennoreth, one of the
 Undying, known in legends
as a witch and often called
 the Weaver. It was said
  that whatever she wove
  became truth. She was
  sister to the legendary
 King Hern and mother of
 Manaliabrid, wife of the
           Adon.
 Chindersay, one of the
 outer ring of the Holy
Islands, notable for the
dark colour of its rocks.
    Cindow, a village
north-east of Markind in
    South Dalemark.
City of Gold, King Hern's
 lost city of Kernsburgh,
  which gave rise to the
saying, 'The City of Gold
   is always on the most
distant hill,' meaning that
 your ideal is never here,
  under your hands, but
  always out over there.
Clans, the tribe-families of
the Heathens of Haligland.
  The clans are very large
   and contain all classes,
from aristocrat to lowborn.
  For instance, Kars Adon
 and Ked both belonged to
 Clan Rath, but Kars Adon
  was king, while Ked was
  lowborn and had no real
    relation to the royal
           family.
Clennen Mendakersson, one
  of the most famous and
     characterful of the
    old-style Singers, a
  musician, composer and
teller of tales. He married
 Lenina, niece of the Earl
  of the South Dales, and
was the father of Dagner,
  Brid and Moril. He was
 murdered near Markind in
     South Dalemark on
 suspicion of being a spy,
and bequeathed to Moril a
    cwidder with strange
powers, which he claimed
had been handed down to
 him from their ancestor
       Osfameron.
Climbers, Lawschool slang
 name for the cloistered
    court with steps.
Closti the Clam, father of
 Tanaqui the weaver and a
  native of Shelling in the
   prehistoric Riverlands
 kingdom of Dalemark. He
was called the Clam for his
          extreme
uncommunicativeness, which
 may have been caused by
the early death of his wife
Anoreth, or perhaps by the
 command of the One. He
was killed in the invasion of
 the Heathen Haliglanders
  before he could tell his
    children many very
     important facts.
  Collen, one of the two
  Southern forms of the
name Kialan; a name fairly
   common in Markind.
Collet, the steward of the
 King of the Riverlands,
     whose duty was to
memorise the King's debts
for lodging and provision.
    'The Colour Song'
  composed and sung by
   Dagner Clennensson.
  'Come up the dale with
    me...' an apparently
  innocent love song from
South Dalemark which was
actually urging rebellion. It
        was banned.
 'Come with me...' a song
being composed by Dagner
Clennenssen, which Clennen
objected to on the grounds
  that it could be seen by
 spies as urging rebellion.
  Coran, a townsman of
  Derent in Waywold in
South Dalemark, later well
   known as a freedom
         fighter.
         Countess
 1. A female who is earl in
  her own right, like the
  Countess of Aberath.
  2. The wife of an earl.
   3. Mitt's name for his
bad-tempered horse, which
   was not even female.
'Cow-calling', a traditional
    patter-song to a lively
   tune. Each verse is two
 lines longer than the last,
      until the singer is
addressing the whole herd
           of cows.
Crady, a large town in the
south of Andmark in South
        Dalemark.
  Credin, the tidal wave
which, at certain seasons,
  runs up the river Aden
 from the sea. A lesser
 wave usually runs up the
  river Ath at the same
 time. It is thought the
    name derives from
  memories of the mage
        Kankredin.
Cressing Harbour, a small
   fishing port to the
northeast of the Point of
 Hark. It was the nearest
   landing for ships from
 South Dalemark and much
involved in smuggling goods
    and people from both
            sides.
     Cruddle, one of the
   traditional instruments
 played at the Holand Sea
     Festival, a sort of
triangular fiddle with three
  gut strings. The player
 held the cruddle under his
    chin and scraped the
    strings with a loose
 horsehair bow. Cruddlers
  were seldom musicians.
Their sole aim was to make
as much noise as possible.
  'Cuckoo Song', a comic
 song with rather indecent
words composed by Clennen
        the Singer.
     Cwidder, a musical
  instrument rather like a
 lute but with some of the
  properties of an acoustic
guitar. Cwidders are found
   in all sizes, from small
       trebles, through
   medium-sized altos and
 tenors, to large bass and
deep bass. Moril's cwidder
  was a large bass, but it
 could be used as a tenor.
 Cwidders were much used
  by Singers because they
  were both versatile and
        easy to carry.
            D
Dagner, the elder son of
Clennen the Singer and a
   noted composer. Dagner
  became Earl of the South
Dales very early in his life,
   but was so reluctant to
leave his life as a travelling
Singer that he only took up
  his earldom after fifteen
     years, at the urgent
 request of Amil the Great.
  Dalemark, the fifteen
   earldoms of Aberath,
Loviath, Hannart, Gardale,
 Dropwater, Kannarth, the
  North Dales, the South
      Dales, Fenmark,
  Carrowmark, Andmark,
    Canderack, Waywold,
Holand and Dermath, with
the so-called King's Lands
   (the Holy Islands, the
Marshes and the Shield of
Oreth), together with their
 peoples and history, make
 up historic Dalemark. For
 prehistoric Dalemark, see
         Riverlands.
 Dapple, the mottled grey
    horse belonging to
 Hestefan the Singer. It
was blind in one eye. There
was usually something amiss
   with Singers' horses
  because they could only
afford to buy them cheap.
Dark Land, the place where
the souls of the newly dead
 gather before they make
      their way to the
 constellation of the River
     and on to oblivion.
 Dastgandlen Handagner,
 the full name of Dagner
  Clennensson, who was
   named for the twin
brothers of the Undying
encountered by the witch
 Cennoreth. It was said
 that Clennen could not
    resist long names.
Derent, a prosperous town
 in the north-east of the
  earldom of Waywold in
     South Dalemark.
 Dermath, the earldom in
the extreme south-east of
     South Dalemark.
Diddersay, one of the Holy
         Islands.
    Dideo, a fisherman of
 Holand in South Dalemark,
 one of the older members
of the Free Holanders, who
 knew how to make bombs.
Dideo put this knowledge to
 use for Mitt, and again in
  the Great Uprising, when
he had a hand blown off by
 one of his own bombs; but
 he survived this and ended
his days on the City Council
        of Holand.
  Doen, one of the Holy
         Islands.
 Doggers, Lawschool slang
   for top of the game
          league.
Doreth, second daughter of
 Alk and the Countess of
         Aberath.
  Dropthwaite, a secluded
valley at the source of the
river Dropwater where the
Adon is said to have hidden
 as an outlaw. A centre of
     tourism in modern
         Dalemark.
Dropwater, after Hannart,
     the richest and most
    influential earldom of
 North Dalemark, situated
facing south-west astride a
wide fjord that is ideal for
 shipping, and sheltered by
   the mountains from the
  normal harsh weather of
    the North. The chief
 riches of Dropwater come
    from wool and leather
 goods, but it was mostly
famous for its strong plum
brandy and, above all, for
   the spectacular giant
 waterfall at the head of
         its dale.
Duck, the pet-name of the
youngest son of Closti the
  Clam, who later became
 famous as Mage Mallard.
Duke of Kernsburgh, a new
 title created by Amil the
 Great and bestowed upon
  Navis Haddsson. It was
 designed to ensure that
 Navis outranked all the
          earls.
 Dyke End, the birthplace
  of Mitt, farmed by his
 parents for the first six
 years of Mitt's life. The
    name comes from the
 situation of the farm and
 the nearby village at the
   end of the great Flate
 Dyke, quite near where it
runs into the sea about ten
 miles west of the port of
         Holand.
            E
           Earl
  1. The aristocratic ruler
 of one large segment of
Dalemark. In the old days,
 prior to the reign of the
   Adon, earls held their
 places as officers of the
 king but, when Dalemark
ceased to have kings, each
earl became a small king in
    his own right, with
  absolute authority over
 everything in his earldom.
 Many misused this power,
some brutally, and all went
to great lengths to keep it.
   2. The title of a clan
chief among the Heathens
 of Haligland. This later
became the modern title.
   Earldom, a division of
Dalemark ruled by an earl.
It was said that earldoms
came into being when King
 Hern divided his kingdom
into nine and set nine men
 in charge, whom he called
  earls after the name of
 the clan chiefs, to govern
 under him. These divisions
he called marks. Later, six
 more marks were added in
  the South, when Hern's
conquests had reached that
  far. The system worked
 well provided the king was
strong. The common people
 traditionally regarded the
 earls as only the officers
 of the king and continued
   to think this way even
after there were no kings.
Earth Shaker, the title of
   Alhammitt, one of the
  elder Undying, who had
  become the god of corn
 and of the sea. The title
  might describe the sea,
but it possibly also refers
to what happens if any of
the Earth Shaker's secret
     names are spoken.
Edril, the younger grandson
of Amil the Great and one
  of Maewen's ancestors.
 Egil, a hearthman in the
 service of Earl Keril of
         Hannart.
'The Eighth March', the
last of a set of marching
 songs usually called 'The
Seven Marches', and only
 sung or played in North
  Dalemark because the
 words were offensive to
        the South.
  Eleth of Kredindale, the
  mother of Noreth, who
died soon after Noreth was
born, declaring to the end
that her daughter was the
    child of the One.
    Elthorar Ansdaughter,
   keeper of antiquities at
Hannart in North Dalemark
in the time of Earl Keril, a
     law-woman of great
 learning, who gave up the
 law in order to study the
 history and prehistory of
Dalemark. She was present
   at the discovery of the
  spellcoats and translated
 them, sometimes rather
      inaccurately.
   Eltruda, the Lady of
 Adenmouth, wife of Lord
Stair and younger sister of
Eleth of Kredindale. Being
 childless herself, Eltruda
 brought Noreth up when
 Eleth died. On the death
  of Lord Stair, Eltruda
 married Navis Haddsson
and became a considerable
force in Dalemark politics,
 and almost legendary for
  her quarrels with her
 step-daughter Hildrida.
Enblith the Fair, Queen of
Dalemark some hundreds of
 years after the reign of
King Hern, daughter of the
Undying and said to be the
 most beautiful woman who
       ever lived. The
 musician-mage Tanamoril
  found Enblith living as a
  pauper in the woods and
    tricked the king into
        marrying her.
            F
           Falls
      1. In prehistoric
Dalemark, the great River
rose as a waterfall said to
  be half the height of a
mountain. This was the site
 of Hern's battle with the
     mage Kankredin.
  2. In historic times the
 falls at the head of the
dale of Dropwater, where
 the river Dropwater fell
nearly three hundred feet
to the floor of the valley,
   were among the most
 admired sights of North
        Dalemark.
Fander, a revolutionary in
    Neathdale in South
  Dalemark, a grocer by
 trade, who provided the
   family of Clennen the
Singer with bacon, lentils
 and, for some reason, a
 large bunch of rhubarb.
Farn, the southernmost of
    the Holy Islands.
   Fayside, one of the
 dormitory houses in the
  Lawschool at Gardale.
 Fenna, the daughter and
apprentice of Hestefan the
          Singer.
Fenner, Ganner Sagersson.
 Fervold, Captain of Earl
  Henda of Andmark's
      private army.
Fire, a ritual bonfire which
 had to be lit for the One
every spring as soon as the
River ceased to flood. The
  fuel had to be specially
arranged with the image of
 the One at its centre and
kindled with coals from the
 hearth of the officiators.
  The lighting of the fire
   was celebrated with a
feast. When the fire died
   down and the One was
revealed in the ashes, only
   the eldest male of the
    family was allowed to
     remove the image.
Firepot, a clay pot with a
  lid and cunningly placed
vents in which a fire could
be kept alight and carried
   until needed. Until the
invention of the wheel and
 flint tinderbox, firepots
     were in use all over
Dalemark and continued in
     use by Singers and
   travelling traders until
some time after the reign
         of the Adon.
  Fishmarket, a broad
thoroughfare in Holand in
South Dalemark where fish
was sold until the days of
         Amil IV.
   Flags were considered
potent symbols in Dalemark
  from prehistoric times
         onwards.
 1. In the old kingdom of
  Riverlands flags were
religious symbols and only
  carried in the holiest
ceremonies to honour the
          Undying.
    2. To the Heathen
  invaders from Haligland,
 flags were equally holy as
expressing the honour and
   status of a clan. They
 were carried at all times
and defended to the death
         in battle.
  3. In historic Dalemark
 flags were nearly taboo.
 They were only flown at
 Midsummer Fairs and by
ships at sea. No earls and
few kings dared fly a flag
    until Amil the Great
   designed the royal
standard of the crowned
wheatsheaf. To this day,
only the monarch flies a
          flag.
  Flaming Ammett! an oath
peculiar to Holanders and a
 favourite of Mitt's. Since
  Ammet was an image of
the Earth Shaker made of
wheat straw, the notion of
   it on fire amounted to
         blasphemy.
Flapper, Ganner Sagersson.
  Flate, the general name
      for the flatlands
surrounding Holand in South
 Dalemark, most of which
  were at, or below, sea
            level.
    Flate Dyke, the main
   drainage ditch for the
lowlands around Holand. It
was wider than most roads
 and ran dead straight for
 nearly fifteen miles, the
  water in it flowing like a
river to an outlet ten miles
   west of the port of
         Holand.
Flate Street, a street in a
    poor but respectable
district to the west of the
  city of Holand in South
Dalemark, where Earl Hadd
     provided Hobin the
gunsmith with a house and
          workshop.
 Fledden, a small town to
 the north of Andmark in
   South Dalemark, the
 birthplace of Earl Henda
 and one of the few places
 where Henda could rely on
   absolute loyalty. The
inhabitants held the curious
   belief that the colour
    yellow was unlucky.
Flennpass, the last of the
    passes open in the
 mountains between North
  and South Dalemark. It
     was said that the
 musician-mage Osfameron
had closed the other three
 passes at the time of the
           Adon.
 Flind, a common name in
     South Dalemark.
    1. A vintner outside
 Derent in Waywold, who
brought Kialan and a supply
  of wine to Clennen the
          Singer.
  2. A non-existent person
mentioned in a password as
 part of Siriol's plans for
      Mitt's escape.
Flower of Holand, the boat
belonging to Siriol on which
Mitt served as apprentice,
 part of the fishing fleet
that sailed regularly from
  the port of Holand in
     South Dalemark.
 'Follow the lark', a song
about bird-catching whose
    secret meaning was
  'overthrow the earls',
 composed during the last
rebellion before the Great
          Uprising.
Fort Flenn, the fort at the
northern end of Flennpass,
in the hands of the North
 and designed to hold the
pass against incursion from
        the South.
    Fredlan, one of the
Singers, who travelled in a
cart with his family giving
   performances all over
        Dalemark.
'Free as air and secret', a
   song pretending to be
 about the delights of the
 countryside which secretly
 urged rebellion, composed
during an early uprising in
     South Dalemark.
   Free Holanders, one of
  many secret societies of
  freedom fighters in the
   city of Holand in South
Dalemark, the one to which
Mitt belonged from the age
   of eight. Its members
were mostly fishermen who
believed ardently that they
should free South Dalemark
  from the tyranny of the
earls, but who could seldom
  agree how this should be
 done. However, when the
Great Uprising finally came
     about, all the Free
  Holanders were active in
it, both in the fighting and
   in the reshaping of the
  government afterwards.
             G
Gander, Ganner Sagersson.
Gann, a great hero in the
   legends from South
Dalemark who performed
many great feats with his
 sword Soulmaker, which
   was forged for him in
  secret by the Undying
  smith Agner while both
   were captives of the
 mage-king Heriol. Some
 stories give Gann as the
   brother of the witch
        Cennoreth.
Ganner Sagersson, Lord of
Markind in the earldom of
the South Dales, who had
 been betrothed to Lenina
Thornsdaughter as a young
  man. When she left him
   for Clennen the Singer,
   Ganner did not, despite
      pressure from his
  household, marry anyone
   else. He seems to have
    expected Lenina would
  eventually come back to
him (see Bad Luck). Ganner
  was a just and efficient
  administrator and one of
    few Southern lords to
 survive the Great Uprising
    untouched. He became
regent for the South Dales
 on the death of Tholian.
 Ganter Islands, a cluster
of three islands in the Holy
          Islands.
   Gardale, a prosperous
valley, town and earldom in
 the south-east of North
   Dalemark, site of the
     famous Lawschool.
 Garlands of apples, corn
  and grapes, worn by all
  those taking part in the
  Holand Sea Festival and
afterwards thrown into the
           sea.
   Golden Gentleman, the
 name given by the King of
the Riverlands to the image
of the One, when he finally
 found it in the keeping of
   Robin Clostisdaughter.
Gosler, Ganner Sagersson.
 Gown, the distinguishing
  garment of the mage
 among the Heathens of
 Haligland. The gown had
 spells woven in it which
 appeared as words and,
 once put on by a mage,
was never taken off, even
      for washing.
 Grand Father, the most
respectful of the titles of
the One, possibly derived
 from the fact that most
   kings and many earls
 claimed to be descended
      from the One.
    Great Girl (or Boy),
  Lawschool slang for the
pupil who comes top in the
oral examinations held just
   before Midsummer.
Great Ones, the term for
 the Undying in the Holy
        Islands.
 Great Uprising, the name
    for the countrywide
   revolution in Dalemark
  which brought Amil the
 Great to the throne. The
   Uprising began in the
 North around Kernsburgh
and, almost simultaneously,
in the South in the city of
   Holand, where a mob
 stormed the palace of the
 Earl and then had to fight
     a bloody battle with
   soldiers hastily sent by
 Dermath and Waywold. In
  the North, a number of
lords and earls who did not
    at once side with the
    rebels were killed or
   forced to go overseas.
Green roads, the system of
highways said to have been
 made by King Hern. They
    remained for many
centuries, being remarkably
    well engineered, never
    steep, despite running
through the peaks of North
 Dalemark, and deliberately
 grassed for ease of travel
by horseback. Many people
 believed that the Undying
  made and maintained the
green roads, particularly as
   they continued to exist
long after the main centres
  of civilization had moved
  down to the valleys. The
 roads were used as drove
  roads and by those who
  wished to travel quickly
from dale to dale, until Alk
took them over as railways
  in the reign of Amil the
           Great.
   Gregin, Alk's valet in
     Aberath in North
        Dalemark.
 Grittling, the traditional
ball game of the Lawschool
        at Gardale.
Guilds, organised companies
     of craftsmen and
    merchants in South
   Dalemark. Most Guilds
 were formed at the time
of the Adon, when the men
  of many trades realised
    that the South was
   becoming increasingly
estranged from the North,
  while the Southern earls
 grew ever more powerful.
    Almost every trade,
including the Singers, took
 hasty steps to obtain the
   protection of the law,
 usually by petitioning the
Adon for a Royal Charter,
so that in after years the
    earls could not easily
 disband them. The Guilds
    generally kept a low
profile, looking after their
   own members and the
  widows and orphans of
     members, training
   apprentices, educating
children, saving money and
  paying taxes promptly.
   They had considerable
power, and were suspected
 by the Southern earls to
  be quietly financing the
 various uprisings, though
 nothing was ever proved.
In the North, Guilds were
      almost unknown.
 Gull, eldest son of Closti
 the Clam and Anoreth of
the Undying, the only one
 of Closti's sons to go to
    the wars. Gull was
   captured early in the
 fighting by the Heathen
invaders and interrogated
  by the mage Kankredin,
  who returned him to his
own side little better than
an idiot. Gull is thought to
be the same person as the
Southern hero Gann, and if
 this is the case, it seems
  that Gull did eventually
 recover from Kankredin's
     treatment of him.
Guns were invented at the
  time of the Adon, but
never much used in North
Dalemark. The South used
guns extensively, although
they were forbidden to all
 but earls, lords and their
hearthmen. The early guns
were clumsy and inaccurate
 and used mostly for sport
  until Hobin invented the
 rifled barrel, which had a
   spiral groove down the
inside that caused the gun
      to shoot far more
accurately. There was then
     a rush to buy guns.
  Waywold and Canderack
   drove a thriving trade,
    smuggling guns to the
          North.
 Gunsmith's Guild, to which
 Hobin belonged, together
  with all other gunsmiths,
    was a very sober and
  respectable body of men
   who, in fact, spent the
 majority of their meetings
laying careful plans for the
       Great Uprising.
             H
   Hadd, the angry and
tyrannical Earl of Holand in
South Dalemark who, after
  a lifetime of injustice,
   quarrelling with Earl
  Henda, terrorising his
family, and overtaxing and
 suppressing his subjects,
 was murdered at the Sea
  Festival by an unknown
         marksman.
 Halain, a spy for the Earl
  of the South Dales who
had infiltrated the freedom
  fighters in Neathdale in
      South Dalemark.
Halian Tan Haleth, Lord of
 Mountain Rivers, is an old
name for Tanamil. A legend
 about him was woven into
   the rugcoat given by
 Anoreth to Closti on their
 marriage, but is otherwise
         unknown.
  Halida, the wife of Keril,
  Earl of Hannart, who was
  born a poor relation of a
 lord in Canderack in South
 Dalemark. When Keril was
taking part in an uprising in
South Dalemark as a young
 man, Halida helped him
 escape capture and fled
     North with him.
Haligland, a country on the
other continent, peopled by
emigrants from prehistoric
Dalemark several centuries
  before the reign of King
 Hern. Once in Haligland,
   they developed a clan
    system, a science of
 magery, and a religion of
the One. Modern Haligland
is an oil-rich republic, still
 with a clan system and a
  fanatical religion, but
 which denies vehemently
 any connection with the
         uncanny.
Ham, the partner and mate
of Siriol aboard the Flower
   of Holand. Ham's full
   name, like so many in
Holand, was Alhammitt. He
was a large, good-natured,
 unintelligent man who was
    killed in the violence
 following the storming of
the palace in Holand during
    the Great Uprising.
Hammit, a South Dalemark
 name, one of the many
    abbreviations of
       Alhammitt.
  Hand-organ, a musical
  instrument with pipes,
bellows and keyboard, like
a very small church organ.
  It had a sweet, piping
tone, strong enough to be
heard above the noise of a
crowd. The player carried
 the organ on his or her
 right arm and pumped it
 with the left hand while
playing the keyboard with
        the right.
  Hands to the North, an
  unknown group of secret
freedom fighters in Holand
 in South Dalemark. They
     were quite possibly
  invented either by Harl
 Haddsson as cover for his
attempt to assassinate Earl
   Hadd, or by Harchad
 Haddsson as an excuse to
pull down buildings to give
his assassin a clear shot at
        Earl Hadd.
 'The Hanging of Filli Ray',
  a popular ballad about a
    young outlaw who was
   hanged for having the
 temerity to court a lord's
daughter. The version sung
in the South concluded with
the arrival of the Earl who
 reveals, too late, that Filli
   Ray is his son. In the
 North, it is the King who
     arrives too late.
    Hannart, the leading
      earldom of North
 Dalemark, famous for its
   music, its flowers, its
  buildings, and the frank
  outspoken nature of its
 people, and reputed to be
 the first civilised area of
 Dalemark. Certainly some
of the buildings in the town
   of Hannart itself are
  thought to date back to
   the days of King Hern.
Throughout much of history
      Hannart stood for
     freedom, justice and
opposition to the South and
  its ways. Its heyday was
from the reign of the Adon
to that of Amil the Great,
 when it was also a centre
 of learning, but it became
    steadily less important
from the time of the Great
Uprising, until it passed by
   marriage into the royal
 family and was adopted by
  the Crown Prince as his
     country retreat.
   Nowadays, Hannart is
mostly famous as a beauty
 spot and for the remains
 of the giant steam organ
  at the north end of its
           dale.
  Harchad, second son of
  Earl Hadd of Holand in
 South Dalemark, head of
 Hadd's secret police and
master of his spies, and to
  be the cruellest man in
        Dalemark.
Hardimers, the name given
to disciplinary officers at
 the Gardale Lawschool.
  Harilla Harlsdaughter,
   eldest girl-cousin of
  Hildrida and Ynen and
betrothed at an early age
 to the Lord of Mark by
  her grandfather, Earl
          Hadd.
Harl Haddsson, the eldest
 of the Earl of Holand's
  three sons, a fat and
  seemingly indolent man,
who became Earl of Holand
 for a year following the
   death of Hadd, during
which time Holanders took
 to saying that Earl Hadd
  was preferable. He was
    killed when the mob
   stormed the palace in
 Holand during the Great
          Uprising.
 Harvest, the Northern
  term for the Autumn
        Festival.
 Headman, the leader or
 chieftain of a village in
prehistoric Dalemark. The
   office combined the
functions of mayor, priest
and judge, and was usually
handed down from father
          to son.
  Hearthmen, a privileged
band of soldier-companions
sworn to a lord or earl and
  personally responsible to
him only, who lived in their
 hearthlord's mansion with
 him and formed a private
 army when need arose. A
  lord was also said to be
the hearthman of the earl
who was his overlord if he
  had sworn to follow the
 earl to war. In the South
 of Dalemark hearthpeople
were always men, but many
   lords and earls of the
North swore in women too.
     The maintaining of
hearthpeople was forbidden
   by royal decree in the
      reign of Amil II.
 Heathens, emigrants from
 Haligland who invaded the
    prehistoric kingdom of
   Dalemark and eventually
    intermarried with the
natives. They brought their
  women and children with
      them and the mage
  Kankredin and his college
 of lesser mages, intending
  to settle, and introduced
   to the country both the
   worship of the One and
    many magical practices
     that were previously
   unknown. Their main,
    disastrous invasion is
described in the spellcoats,
 but it seems certain that
     small boatloads of
Heathens had been arriving
  for decades previously,
  compelled by the harsh
 conditions in Haligland to
   find better living, and
possibly inspired by legends
  of their former home in
       the Riverlands.
Henda, Earl of Andmark in
central South Dalemark, a
 violent and paranoid man
who spent much of his time
quarrelling with the Earl of
    Holand and lived in
  constant dread of plots
 from the North. He was
   beheaded by his own
   hearthmen during the
      Great Uprising.
 Herison, Lawschool slang
meaning the right to start
grittling until the next full
            moon.
 Hern, the second son of
    Closti the Clam and
 Anoreth of the Undying,
   who became the first
 known King of Dalemark.
Most of what is known of
him is legend, like that of
  his defeat of the mage
 Kankredin, but numerous
laws, customs and sayings
are said to be his, and it
 is fairly certain that he
    founded the city of
  Kernsburgh, moving the
 seat of the throne there
  from his early base in
Hannart and constructing
the system of roads now
known as the green roads
   or the paths of the
Undying. The name Hern
     means 'heron'.
    Hestefan, one of the
travelling Singers, of whom
 little is known beyond the
  facts that he befriended
    both Dagner and Moril
 Clennensson and became a
    follower of Noreth of
 Kredindale during her bid
for the crown of Dalemark.
High Mill, a village twenty
 miles north-east of the
 port of Holand, on the
  rising ground towards
Dermath, well known as a
       beauty spot.
  Highside, the dormitory
   house at the Gardale
Lawschool to which Hildrida
 Navissdaughter belonged.
   High Tross, one of the
islands of the Holy Islands,
so called from its high and
       rocky outline.
  Hildrida Navissdaughter,
  one of the company who
sailed North to Aberath in
  the yacht Wind's Road,
  granddaughter of Hadd,
 Earl of Holand, betrothed
to Lithar, Lord of the Holy
   Islands, at the age of
    nine. After spending
    several years at the
   Lawschool in Gardale,
 Hildrida was able to annul
     this betrothal, and
 practised as a law-woman
  in the North Dales until
 Amil the Great appointed
  her Warden of the Holy
Islands upon her marriage.
   Hildrida seems to have
      preferred living in
    Kernsburgh, however,
where she became a leader
  of fashion and notorious
 for her quarrels with her
    stepmother, Eltruda.
 Hildy, the pet-name of
 Hildrida Navissdaughter.
  Hobin, known as Bloody
  Hobin, the elder of two
    brothers devoted in
different ways to freedom
 fighting. He was born in
Waywold in South Dalemark
of a family which seems to
     have been secret
hereditary guardians of the
 kingstone, and became a
  brilliant and innovative
gunsmith, highly respected
 by his Guild and much in
  favour with the Earls of
    Holand, Waywold and
 Dermath. He then moved
    to Holand, where he
   married Milda, Mitt's
   mother, and bided his
 time, building up a hidden
  stock of weapons and an
    organization of sober
revolutionaries like himself,
 until word came from the
North that Amil the Great
   had seized the crown.
Hobin sensed the time was
   ripe and at once led a
  massive revolt in Holand,
  which spread to Dermath
  and Waywold and rapidly
became a bloodbath. Hobin
killed so many people, many
   of them innocent, that
Amil himself was forced to
intervene. It was said that
 Hobin shot himself rather
than submit to a king. This
may be true, but the story
 that he shot his wife and
daughters at the same time
 is probably a fabrication.
Hoe, a village on the rising
 ground west of Holand in
     South Dalemark.
   Hoe Point, the second
 major landmark for ships
 sailing north-west out of
Holand. Sailors took care
to know it well, because a
   strong current flowed
  northwards from there.
   Holand, the leading
    earldom of South
Dalemark, a sizeable city,
a flourishing seaport and
  the seat of Earl Hadd,
  situated in the extreme
     south of Dalemark.
 Hollisay, one of the Holy
 Islands, named from the
  number of holly bushes
      that grow there.
 Holy Islands, a scatter of
 islands in the bay between
    the Point of Hark and
 Carrow Head, famous as a
   haven for shipping. The
    islands are home to a
strange, fey people and full
of legends of the Undying.
   They are part of the
 King's Lands and owe no
allegiance to any earl, but
  in the long interregnum
between the Adon and Amil
    the Great they were
regarded as part of South
 Dalemark and claimed by
whoever was the strongest
    earl. Amil the Great
rectified this by appointing
 a Warden of the Islands
and spent much time there
    himself helping Ynen
  Navisson build his new
fleet and experiment with
       steamships.
 Holy Isle, the centremost
island of the Holy Islands,
  and rightly named. Only
those who are meant to go
      to it can find it.
Honker, Ganner Sagersson.
     Horsehair drums,
  traditional crude drums
made of horsehide with the
   hair still on it, beaten
 loudly at the Holand Sea
Festival, probably because
Old Ammet was thought to
govern the wild horses of
          the sea.
 Horses of the sea were
   said to belong to Old
  Ammet and to appear
galloping round a ship that
        was doomed.
Hurrel, Lawschool slang for
 a big push at grittling, a
      real scrimmage.
            I
  Incantation, a measured
     alliterative way of
speaking, passed down from
 Singer to Singer and only
  used on the most solemn
          occasions.
 Irana Harchadsdaughter,
 one of Earl Hadd's many
  grandchildren, cousin of
     Hildrida and Ynen,
betrothed at an early age
to Agnet, third son of the
 Earl of Waywold in South
         Dalemark.
'I sent the hidden death
  ...' Kankredin's chief
mage, who seems to have
had no name apart from
 the boastful spell woven
      into his gown.
 'I sing for Osfameron, I
   move in more than one
world' are the words inlaid
   in Moril Clennensson's
cwidder in the old writing,
    by which the cwidder
 describes itself. Compare
  Tanaqui's weaving. It is
 possible these words cause
the cwidder to behave as it
            does.
      Island People, the
   inhabitants of the Holy
 Islands who are something
of a race unto themselves,
being small and brown, with
  dark eyes and pale hair.
  Their singsong accent is
      unlike any other in
Dalemark. They are said to
  be remnants of the first
  people ever to settle the
         country.
  Isle of Gard, the ruling
island of the Holy Islands
where the Lord's mansion
  and the main fleet are.
 'I tortured the beast...'
  one of Kankredin's two
chief mages, known only by
  the words woven in his
           gown.
            J
Jay, herald and captain to
the King of the Riverlands.
Jay seems to have started
as a minor, though trusted,
       herald, but he
distinguished himself in the
 wars with the Heathens,
 where he lost an arm and
  endeared himself to the
 King by his cheerfulness,
 and became the favourite
    of the King in exile.
  Jenro, a Holy Islander,
    coxswain aboard the
   flagship Wheatsheaf.
   'Jolly Holanders', a
sea-shanty that was known
  and loved all over South
         Dalemark.
 Justice, an essential part
of the corrupt legal system
 of South Dalemark before
  the reforms of Amil the
    Great. A justice was
  appointed and paid by an
   earl and did the earl's
    bidding, sitting as a
magistrate and hearing only
  such cases as interested
his employer or could bring
the justice himself a bribe.
  The South had no access
  to the Lawschool of the
 North and justices seldom
   had any legal training.
 They had to rely on their
  clerks, who were equally
 corrupt, to tell them what
        the law was.
             K
  K at the beginning of a
  personal name was only
used in North Dalemark. In
  the slurred and softer
   dialect of the South a K
       becomes either C
 (pronounced KH) or H. For
    instance, the Southern
  form of the name Keril is
      Harl; or there are
 sometimes two forms of a
  Northern name, as in the
name Kialan, which appears
in the South both as Collen
         and as Halain.
    Kanart, an Earl of
Dropwater killed in battle
 during the Adon's wars.
 Kanarthi, the conjectured
Northern form of the name
        Cennoreth.
Kankredin, an evil magician,
sometimes called the mage
of mages, who accompanied
the Heathen invaders from
 Haligland intending to use
them to help him usurp the
 power and position of the
One. Kankredin was himself
  of the Undying and had
  increased his powers by
 magically passing through
   death, which made him
virtually impossible to kill.
 Though legend claims that
 King Hern overthrew him,
Kankredin appears again in
   stories long before the
 time of the Adon and was
later said by the North to
   be the cause of all the
  evils in the South. It is
    claimed that Amil the
     Great frustrated an
  attempt by Kankredin to
 take over the North too.
Kappin, Lawschool slang for
fighting to hold the team's
          position.
  Karet, a hearthman of
         Aberath.
Kars Adon, son of Kiniron,
who became clan head and
High Lord after his father
  died in the invasion of
   prehistoric Dalemark.
  Though Kars Adon was
barely fifteen and crippled
from birth, he was held in
  great honour by all his
 subjects. This was partly
 due to the custom of the
  clans, but mostly to the
  character of Kars Adon
          himself.
 Kastri, the Adon's son by
his first wife and ancestor
 of Earl Keril of Hannart,
who accompanied his father
and Manaliabrid into exile.
Ked, a lowborn member of
  Clan Rath, aged about
  eight, who had a bad
   reputation as a liar.
  Keril, Earl of Hannart,
 descended from the Adon
 and generally considered
the most influential man in
  North Dalemark. As a
  young man he had high
ideals and set out to free
the South by helping in an
  uprising. The rebellion
failed, and Keril had to be
   rescued and smuggled
North by Halida, whom he
 married. He arrived back
   in Hannart to find his
 father dying and himself
with a price on his head in
 the South. This seems to
  have given Keril a strong
 distaste for revolution of
the violent kind. As an earl
he supported the Southern
       freedom fighters
surreptitiously, with money
   and advice, apparently
    hoping for a peaceful
 political solution, no doubt
    with himself as chief
      negotiator, for he
   possessed a lively and
   devious political mind.
 Unfortunately, this same
 deviousness caused him to
miscalculate gravely in the
  case of Navis Haddsson
and he had, as a result, to
 watch the gradual fading
 of Hannart as a power in
         the land.
 Kern, the Northern form
    of the name Hern.
   Kernsburgh, the capital
 city of Dalemark, situated
nearly at the centre of the
  country. Kernsburgh was
 founded by King Hern and
     flourished for many
centuries until the kingship
     shifted to Hannart,
 Canderack and elsewhere,
   after which it fell into
 ruins. At the time of the
Great Uprising, it was little
 more than grassy humps in
    the ground. Amil the
  Great's first act as king
 was to rebuild Kernsburgh
 and from then on the city
grew continually, to become
  the seat of government,
  centre of commerce and
 international metropolis it
is two hundred years later.
 Kestrel, the husband of
 Closti the Clam's elder
 sister Zara, an old man
 who married late in life
  when Zwitt refused to
 marry Zara after Closti
had jilted Zwitt's sister.
Kestrel, it seems, did not
 wish to see Zara suffer
 through no fault of her
           own.
  Kialan, younger son of
Keril, Earl of Hannart, and
       later his heir.
 King of the Riverlands of
   prehistoric Dalemark.
  Tanaqui never gives his
   name, perhaps out of
    respect, or perhaps
because she never knew it.
She clearly shows that he
 was not the correct man
    for dealing with the
Heathen invasion, although
he seems to have done his
  best at first, until his
 family was killed and his
      spirit broken.
 Kinghaven, in the earldom
 of Loviath, the main port
  city of North Dalemark,
and otherwise notorious for
     brewing bad lager.
King's Sayings, a collection
   of proverbs and wise
thoughts memorised by all
Singers and supposed to be
  the words of King Hern
         himself.
  King Street, the main
     thoroughfare in
       Kernsburgh.
    'The King's Way', a
   traditional song with a
     rousing tune which
 celebrates the customary
  journey of the new king
 down the green roads of
     North Dalemark to
  Kernsburgh to claim his
    crown. This song was
banned in the South, where
 the earls did not wish to
 remind people there had
    once been kings.
   Kiniron, the younger
  brother of the King of
Haligland who led the main
 invasion of the clans to
  prehistoric Dalemark,
 where he died of wounds
    from the fighting.
Kintor, Lord of Kredindale
   and cousin of Noreth
      Onesdaughter.
 Knots and crosses, one of
the oldest and most potent
charms of binding and, of
course, the basic pattern
        of a net.
 Konian, the elder son of
  Keril, Earl of Hannart,
   executed in Holand in
 South Dalemark after a
    travesty of a trial.
Korib, son of the miller in
 Shelling and an excellent
  shot with the longbow.
 Kredindale, a valley, town
and lordship in the extreme
   north-west of North
Dalemark where deposits of
coal were found very early
 in history. From the reign
     of the Adon, mining
became the main occupation
    of the valley until the
  mines were closed in the
      reign of Amil III.
      Kredindale was the
     birthplace of Noreth
Onesdaughter. Its name is
thought to be derived from
          Kankredin.
            L
Labbard, King of Dalemark
   prior to the Adon, an
 indolent and incompetent
 man who openly declared
 that he would rather sit
 and drink cider than rule
        the country.
Ladri, one of Kankredin's
mages, whose task was to
collect the souls caught in
        the soulnet.
Lady, the wooden image of
 a woman which the family
  of Closti the Clam kept,
 according to the customs
of prehistoric Dalemark, in
one of the niches reserved
     for the Undying.
    Lagan, the villainous
half-brother of the Adon,
a student of sorcery and,
 some legends say, a pupil
of Kankredin. Lagan seems
  to have been consumed
 with jealousy both of the
 Adon's status and of the
      Adon's love for
    Manaliabrid. Having
conspired to have the Adon
sent into exile, Lagan then
  followed him, disguised
  himself by sorcery and
stabbed him to death. The
  Adon was recalled from
   death and later killed
           Lagan.
   Lake, a large body of
  water in the centre of
     prehistoric North
Dalemark, which must have
 been extensive even when
the River was not flooding,
to judge from the petrified
remains of freshwater life
  to be found all over the
 central peaks. By historic
times, this lake had shrunk
  to a row of small tarns,
   the largest of which is
         Long Tarn.
  Lalla, housekeeper at
 Lithar's mansion in the
Holy Islands and an aspect
      of Libby Beer.
 'Lament for the Earl of
   Dropwater', an old
  ballad-song composed
 during the Adon's wars,
  mourning the death of
 Kanart, who was one of
 many earls who opposed
        the Adon.
 Lathsay, one of the Holy
         Islands.
  Lavreth, a coastal town
 north-west of Hannart in
     North Dalemark.
   Lawman, a position of
great power and prestige in
 North Dalemark. Lawmen
   served earls, lords and
town governors as advisers,
justices or planners for the
 future, and in many other
 ways, often for very large
 fees. Quite a few lawmen
  married into the families
of lords or earls. Since the
 law was open to everyone,
  however lowborn, training
     as a lawman was a
favourite way to rise in the
           world.
 Law of the Sea was very
 largely unwritten but was
 held throughout Dalemark
  waters to be much more
binding than the law of the
   land. It stated, among
other things, that all ships
 must go to the assistance
   of any boat in trouble.
  Lawschool at Gardale in
 North Dalemark, the only
such school in the country
until the reign of Amil the
  Great, very famous and
much sought-after. It took
 only those pupils who could
reach a very high standard
in its oral entrance exams,
  but a pupil could join the
school at any age from nine
   to fifteen and then be
  assured of the very best
 education, both in law and
 other studies, and nobody
   ever failed to get a job
    after graduating. The
Lawschool was well endowed
with funds and gave quite a
 number of scholarships to
 poor students every year.
   Students entering the
 school found it a world in
 itself, with many strange
  customs and words that
 were not found anywhere
else. When Amil the Great
founded lawschools all over
the country, the status of
     the Gardale school
diminished. In the reign of
Amil III, it became simply
     a part of Gardale
         University.
  Law-woman, a female
   lawyer, had even more
prestige in North Dalemark
 than a lawman and could
  command an even higher
            fee.
 Lengday, Lawschool slang
   for Midsummer Day.
  Lenina Thornsdaughter,
  niece of Earl Tholian of
 the South Dales, wife of
  Clennen the Singer and
  mother of Dagner, Brid
   and Moril. Lenina was
brought up as an aristocrat
 in the Earl's household in
     Neathdale in South
  Dalemark and left there
      when she became
    betrothed to Ganner
  Sagersson. Clennen saw
  Lenina at the betrothal
feast and persuaded her to
     marry him instead.
  Libby Beer, the name of
  the image made of fruit
that was yearly thrown into
  the harbour in Holand in
South Dalemark at the Sea
   Festival. The name is
 certainly a corruption of
  one of the little-known
names of She Who Raised
 the Islands, the Undying
mother of fruitfulness and
wife of the Earth Shaker.
 Licence, a legal document
  with the seal of an earl
attached, showing that the
   holder was allowed to
 exercise his or her trade
     anywhere in South
 Dalemark. Licences were
expensive. Their main value
     was the unspoken
assumption that the holder
   was allowed to travel
between the South and the
 North. Without a licence,
    a traveller would be
  arrested at the border.
Liss, Maewen's aunt, who
 ran a livery stable near
Adenmouth in the north of
        Dalemark.
  Litha, a woman of the
prehistoric Riverlands who
was killed by the Heathen
 invaders from Haligland.
  Lithar, Lord of the Holy
Islands, who was of special
value to the earls of South
Dalemark, both because of
 his fleet and because, as
lord of the one-time King's
   Lands, he was not the
  subject of any earl. He
 was betrothed to Hildrida
  Navissdaughter when he
  was twenty and she was
       nine years old.
 Little Flate, a village on
 the slightly rising ground
 south-west of Holand in
South Dalemark, which was
  the first landmark for
ships sailing out of Holand.
   Sailors gave it a wide
   berth because of the
  shallows just offshore.
Little ones, the name Holy
    Islanders give those
mortals under the Special
protection of the Undying.
 Little Shool, one of the
Holy Islands, barely yards
 from its neighbour, Big
          Shool.
Lord, a lesser ruler under
   the earls, who owed
 allegiance to the earl in
whose earldom his lordship
  was, paying taxes and
  providing fighting-men
when his earl required him
    to. A lord was also
 supposed to obey every
 other command from his
earl, but not all lords did
 so. Otherwise a lord lived
    in his mansion, kept
  hearthmen and ruled his
  subjects just as an earl
did, but on a smaller scale.
Lord of Mark, lord of the
 northernmost lordship in
 South Dalemark, a plump
and middle-aged widower,
   betrothed to Harilla
Harlsdaughter when he was
 thirty-eight and she was
       ten years old.
 Lovely Libby, one of the
 big merchant ships sailing
  out of Holand in South
Dalemark. Like most of the
 tall ships of Holand, she
 was named from the Sea
      Festival for luck.
          Loviath
   1. The earldom on the
north-west coast of North
        Dalemark.
  2. The name of Maewen
 Singer's physics teacher.
'Luck ship and shore', the
    ritual reply to the
 traditional greeting 'The
year's luck to you' at the
 Sea Festival in Holand in
     South Dalemark.
Lucky ship, any ship sailing
  out of Holand who could
retrieve the image of Poor
 Old Ammet from the sea.
  The yacht Wind's Road
   was doubly lucky from
having accidentally brought
the image of Libby Beer as
 well. Anyone noticing this
fact had to be a Holander.
 Luthan, Earl of Dropwater
  and cousin of Noreth of
 Kredindale. Because of his
  almost accidental support
  of the King's side in the
       Great Uprising,
   Luthan—and Dropwater
      with him—became
extremely important in the
  reign of Amil the Great.
Luthan was made Chancellor
    and was twice elected
       Prime Minister.
Lydda, Siriol's daughter, a
 plump, good-natured girl
who married a sailor from
  the merchant fleet of
Holand. Her husband later
took over Siriol's boat and
         business.
            M
Maewen Singer, a teenage
girl hijacked from modern
Dalemark to take the place
 of Noreth of Kredindale.
Mage Mallard, the Undying
 musician-mage, youngest
son of Closti the Clam and
brother to the Weaver and
        King Hern.
Mages were fairly common
 in primitive Haligland and
  much respected because
much feared. No one dared
insult a mage of any kind;
but the greatest fear and
 respect was reserved for
  the so-called college of
 mages, which was always
  made up of fifty of the
    strongest and most
 experienced enchanters in
 the land. When Kankredin
 came to head this college,
he seems to have made it a
 condition that every mage
should have passed ritually
  through death before he
 joined, which was not the
    case before his time.
 College mages were always
   male, but female mages
 also existed, with a coven
    of fifty of their own.
   'A man came over the
hill...' a rhyme woven into
     the skirt of Robin
  Clostisdaughter by her
    sister Tanaqui, but
hopelessly garbled. As far
as can be understood, the
rhyme seems to be about
the meeting of Closti with
Anoreth, or else it refers
 to a much older but very
       similar story.
       Manaliabrid
  1. The Undying wife of
 the Adon, daughter of
 Cennoreth the Weaver.
 2. The full second name
of Brid Clennensdaughter
   (her first name was
       Cennoreth).
'Manaliabrid's Lament', a
song in the old style, said
to have been composed by
  Osfameron after Lagan
 killed the Adon. It has a
  tune of strange broken
  phrasings, so unlike the
 usual style of Osfameron
 that many consider that
   Manaliabrid may have
 composed the 'Lament'
        herself.
     Mansion, the large
semi-fortified house of an
  earl or lord, always the
   most prominent in the
 area. Besides housing the
  lord's family and many
servants, the mansion had
   to be big enough for a
    band of hearthmen,
 advisors, lawyers, clerks
     and numerous other
         assistants.
  Markind, an area in the
 very south of the South
   Dales, the lordship of
   Ganner Sagersson, and
notable for its many little
hills and valleys which are,
  in fact, the worn-down
  remnants of volcanoes.
Marks, an old name for the
   fifteen divisions of
   Dalemark that later
  became the earldoms.
Mark Wood, a large forest
 at the northern edge of
     the third and highest
  Upland in the earldom of
  the South Dales, part of
  the lordship of Mark. It
      was full of clearings
 stockaded against possible
    invasion by the North,
  where wood was cut and
   charcoal was made. The
     inhabitants hated the
 North heartily and put up
the stoutest resistance met
  by the army of Amil the
 Great at the start of the
        Great Uprising.
   Marriage by proxy, a
  custom among earls of
holding a wedding without
the bride's being present.
 Her place would be taken
    by a woman who was
   married already. The
      practice probably
   originated to save the
    nobly born bride the
 trouble and expense of a
journey, but it was widely
   used if the bride was
  unwilling, or a child, or
            both.
 Marshes, a huge area of
volcanic swamp to the east
 of Dalemark. Throughout
    historical times the
 Marshes were considered
worthless, remarkable only
   for curious plants and
  birds, and they became
   King's Lands because
nobody else wanted them.
When, in recent times, oil
was discovered there, they
 remained the property of
   the Crown but added
considerably to the wealth
     of the country.
Mattrick, chief among the
  freedom fighters in
   Neathdale in South
        Dalemark.
 Mayelbridwen, a form of
the name Manaliabrid from
Fenmark, Maewen Singer's
        full name.
'May the clay purge from
 you ...' the start of the
  ritual spoken when the
image of the One was put
 into its yearly fire. The
speakers of this invocation
  had, for generations, no
 idea that what they were
uttering was a spell for the
   unbinding of the One.
Medmere, the valley where
  Clennen the Singer was
 murdered. The round lake
in the middle is the centre
     of an old volcano.
  Middle vokes, Lawschool
slang for the second stage
  of the training course.
     Midsummer flags,
 traditional bright banners
 flown at Midsummer Fairs
   all over Dalemark. The
 devices on them—the Eye,
  the Sheaf, the River et
cetera—are versions of the
Old Writing. The flags are
thought to be the debased
   remnants of flags once
      carried in religious
         ceremonies.
 Milda, the mother of Mitt
and afterwards the wife of
 Hobin the gunsmith, who
was the father of her two
 daughters. Sadly, neither
  Milda nor her daughters
     survived the Great
Uprising. Though there are
   several highly coloured
stories about their deaths,
  the most likely theory is
 that they perished in the
    terrible violence and
  confusion after the mob
 stormed the Earl's palace
 in Holand, when the Earls
 of Dermath and Waywold
sacked the city in reprisal.
Mitt, short for Alhammitt.
Mitt was born at Dyke End
in the earldom of Holand in
   South Dalemark, on the
  day of the Sea Festival.
  He moved to the city of
  Holand as a child, where
    he became a freedom
 fighter and was forced to
   escape to the North to
  avoid arrest. After just
under a year in Aberath, in
  training as a hearthman,
he left to follow Noreth of
  Kredindale in her bid for
        the crown.
Modes, Lawschool slang for
 a progress report on the
       term's work.
   Moril, younger son of
Clennen the Singer. Clennan
   bequeathed to Moril a
    cwidder said to have
  belonged to the minstrel
   Osfameron. After the
 death of his father, Moril
 went to Hannart in North
Dalemark, where he briefly
joined Hestefan the Singer
before leaving to take part
 in the Great Uprising. He
 played a considerable part
     in the Uprising and
  afterwards became court
      musician and chief
   architect of the Royal
    Dalemark Academy of
 Music, collecting travelling
    Singers from all over
   Dalemark and gathering
      them together in
  Kernsburgh. This caused
      such changes and
improvements in the making
of music that, by the end
of Amil the Great's reign,
 the old travelling Singers
   had ceased to exist.
 Mount Tanil, a very tall
volcano on the edge of the
  Marshes south-east of
    Gardale, thought by
unlearned people to be the
     home of the One.
Mucks, Lawschool slang for
 gloved hands, the gloves
often weighted by stuffing
them with metal or stones.
             N
Natives, the term given by
  the Heathen invaders to
the prehistoric inhabitants
   of Dalemark, who were
  mostly dark and squarely
  built. After the invasion,
many of these people went
       south where they
   inter-married with the
 settlers there to give rise
to the average Southerner,
       pale-skinned and
 brown-haired. Those who
    stayed in the North
interbred with the invaders
       to produce the
 brown-skinned light-haired
        Northerner.
Navis Haddsson, third son
 of the Earl of Holand, a
   brilliant and efficient
   soldier and a ruthless
politician, who was forced
to escape North from the
palace plots in Holand (he
 was disliked by both the
 old earl and the new for
   having shown too much
sympathy for the plight of
   the common people of
Holand). He spent nearly a
  year as a hearthman in
 Adenmouth before leaving
    to follow Noreth of
Kredindale and to take part
 in the Great Uprising. It
  was probably thanks to
 Navis that the bloodshed
 was not greater. Early in
   the reign of Amil the
  Great, Navis was made
Duke of Kernsburgh, partly
 in reward for his services
and partly because he then
outranked the earls it was
  now his job to control. A
    year later he married
   Eltruda, widow of Lord
    Stair of Adenmouth.
Neathdale, a large market
town in the South Dales,
the seat of Earl Tholian.
 Because it was the last
 major town before the
    North, Neathdale
 flourished both on legal
   trade and by smuggling
goods and people in and out
  of North Dalemark. The
  earls' spies and security
  forces were particularly
 active there, which led to
  the Siege of Neathdale
 during the Great Uprising.
Nepstan, a country in the
       far south.
 Nets, a potent item of
   magecraft, akin to
weaving. The net-maker,
working with power, could
  design his net to perform
 various tasks. Kankredin's
  soulnet, besides trapping
     departing souls, was
intended to draw Gull's soul
    to him and to bind the
     One. Tanamil's nets
     likewise had several
   purposes: concealing the
 army, blocking the mages,
and forcing them to assume
      their true shapes.
  New Flate, the drained
 flatlands some miles west
    of Holand in South
 Dalemark, where Halain,
grandfather of Earl Hadd,
was supposed to have had
dykes dug and drained the
 sea-marsh. In fact, the
 New Flate was probably
 older than that. It was
very fertile farmland, but
was denied prosperity until
   the reign of Amil the
 Great by the ridiculously
high taxes imposed by the
     Earls of Holand.
      Noreth, known as
 Onesdaughter, of whom it
   was said that the One
 spoke to her all her life,
telling her she was to take
     the crown when she
     reached the age of
 eighteen. She was born in
  Kredindale to the Lord's
unmarried daughter, Eleth,
    who died soon after
  Noreth's birth declaring
that the child's father was
  the One himself. If this
 was true, it gave Noreth
the strongest possible claim
    to be queen. She was
      educated first in
Adenmouth, where she was
   left in the care of her
 aunt Eltruda, and then at
   the Gardale Lawschool,
 from which she graduated
  early, spending the next
two years at Dropwater as
  junior law-woman to her
     cousin Luthan. The
    Midsummer after her
eighteenth birthday Noreth
   returned to Adenmouth
     where she formally
 declared her intention of
  riding the royal road to
      claim the crown.
North, the seven earldoms
   of Hannart, Gardale,
     Aberath, Loviath,
 Dropwater, Kannarth and
the North Dales, all these
being north of a line drawn
  east and west from the
 Point of Hark. This was
 the earliest part of the
 kingdom of Dalemark and
also the most mountainous,
  where the people, though
 generally poor, had a long
 tradition of independence
   and free-thinking. The
 earls of the North quickly
  learnt that injustice was
not to be tolerated (quite a
 few earls lost either their
    lives or most of their
 subjects to the mountains
 while this lesson was being
learnt) and the laws of the
 North were therefore fair
   and lenient, applying to
 earl and commoner alike.
From well before the reign
  of the Adon, the North
was known as the place of
   freedom. It was also,
perhaps because it was the
   oldest settled part of
  Dalemark, renowned for
  strange old beliefs and
 even stranger happenings.
 North Dales, the earldom
 immediately to the north
of South Dalemark. Though
  it was cut off from the
 South by a range of high
    mountains, the people
there were used to dealing
 with the South (often as
   smugglers) and were in
  some ways more akin to
   the South than to the
           North.
Northern Cross, the most
noticeable constellation in
    the night sky at all
   seasons, invaluable to
sailors because it revolved
  around the true north.
      Other well-known
constellations are Enblith's
Hair, the Flatiron, the Big
  Cat, the Kitten, Hern's
    Crown and the River.
 Astronomy was not much
 studied in Dalemark until
    the reign of Amil the
Great, so that although it
 was known that the world
 was round and circled the
   sun, little account was
    taken of the planets.
  Sailors called them the
    Unreliable Stars, for
 always moving about, or
   the Unchancy Ones.
            O
  Old Flate, the flatlands
 towards Waywold in South
   Dalemark, part of the
  earldom of Holand which
had once been drained and
   farmed, but allowed to
   return to marsh in the
course of the two centuries
 before the Great Uprising
   because of the ruinous
taxes imposed by the Earls
of Holand. The Old Flate
  became the haunt of
  snakes, criminals and
        disease.
   Old Man, the highest
 mountain in Hannart, at
the south end of the dale,
 thought to be named for
         the One.
  Old Man of the Sea, a
     seeming priest who
appeared to certain people
  in the Holy Islands, an
    aspect of the One.
 Old Mill, across the River
from Shelling in prehistoric
 Dalemark, where the first
   spellcoat was completed
 and the second begun. It
  had become a forbidden
    place for the villagers
    after the marriage of
 Closti and Anoreth. Some
said it was haunted by the
 ghost of a woman, others
  that it was the abode of
bad spirits, and still others
 that the River had cursed
  the place. As the King's
 men found mussels being
cultivated on a system of
 ropes in the millpond, it
appears that not everyone
in Shelling believed these
           tales.
Old Smiler, Mage Mallard's
derisive name for the King
    of the Riverlands.
 Old writing, a system of
syllabic signs in use before
  letters were developed,
 which came to be thought
of as magical. It was often
   used in spells, or for
inscriptions intended to be
           potent.
 Olob, the shortened name
 of Barangarolob, Clennen
 the Singer's horse, which
Clennen often said he would
    not part with for an
          earldom.
 Ommern, one of the Holy
   Islands, the greenest.
   Ommersay, one of the
larger of the Holy Islands.
 One, the greatest of all
 the Undying, whose face
 could not be looked upon
and whose names could not
 be spoken. The One was
said to have fathered the
  human race by his union
    with the witch-queen
Cenblith, at which time he
 made the great River of
  prehistory and was for
 centuries bound by magic
 at its source. He was at
   length unbound by the
   Weaver and shook the
  country into its present
mountainous state when he
   defeated the mage
        Kankredin.
   The One was worshipped
  as a god by the invaders
 from Haligland and, for a
 long time, remained a god
in the North of Dalemark,
   where many beliefs and
   customs about him still
remain, but he was almost
    unknown in the South.
  Nowadays he is regarded
       simply as an old
       superstition.
 Or, (er), (ro), a particle
  inserted into a name to
give the meaning 'younger'
or most often 'youngest'.
 Compare Barangalob and
Barangarolob; Tanamil and
 Tanamoril; Osfamon and
   Osfameron et cetera.
Oreth, one of the secret
 names of the One, the
least known, meaning 'he
     who is bound'.
Orethan the Unbound, the
name by which the One was
  known after the Weaver
   released him from the
   spells of Cenblith and
  Kankredin. This name is
    almost never spoken.
Oril, one of several names
taken by Mage Mallard to
disguise the fact that he
   was of the Undying.
   Orilsway, a town which
 grew up at the junction of
the green roads in the far
north of Dalemark, possibly
taking its name from Mage
Mallard in his guise as the
Wanderer. When the green
 roads were abandoned as
highways, Orilsway fell into
  ruin and was only rebuilt
  and resettled after the
   coming of the railways.
Osfameron, one of the two
   names taken by Mage
 Mallard in his guise as a
   minstrel and meaning
'Osfamon the younger'. It
is not known who Osfamon
  was. Under this name,
Mallard became the friend
  of the Adon, whom he
raised from the dead, and
 also created the cwidder
 with which he is said to
have made mountains walk,
later bequeathed to Moril
        Clennensson.
           P
 Palace of Earl Hadd in
Holand in South Dalemark.
 Most earls, even in the
   South, lived in much
humbler mansions, but Earl
Hadd, perhaps because he
    insisted on his entire
   family living with him,
 enlarged and renamed his
 dwelling. The palace was
  largely destroyed in the
       Great Uprising.
  Pali, a prison guard in
    Neathdale in South
Dalemark who was a secret
     freedom fighter.
  Panhorn, an intricately
   curled horn with four
  mouthpieces and eight
 valves, very difficult to
           play.
  Paths of the Undying, a
 name for the green roads
of North Dalemark used by
  those who believed that
  the Undying created and
     maintained them.
   Peace-piping, a very
 difficult form of musical
  magecraft in which the
  mage must first use his
pipes to echo the anger of
   combatants and then
 reduce their feelings to
  calm and shame. Moril
  Clennensson unwittingly
      used a form of
 peace-piping on Tholian,
 Earl of the South Dales.
 Peelers, Lawschool slang
for willow wands with the
     bark peeled off.
Penner, Ganner Sagersson.
Pennet, a village between
 Waywold and Holand in
    South Dalemark.
Piper, the name most often
used, from the time of the
Adon onwards, for Tanamil
 of the Undying, one-time
 lord of the Red River. It
    was said that, being
 released from bondage at
the same time as the One,
 Tanamil went to the Holy
 Islands, where his piping
   may still sometimes be
  heard on calm evenings.
  Point of Hark, the high
rocky peninsula that divides
    North from South
    Dalemark waters.
  Poor Old Ammet, the full
name of the image made of
   plaited wheat decorated
 with fruit and flowers and
 ribbons which was thrown
into the harbour in Holand
   in South Dalemark each
 year at the Sea Festival.
      Opinions vary as to
 whether this ritual echoes
 some personal sacrifice by
  one of the Undying or is
     simply a charm for
improving the harvest, but
what is certain is that any
 boat which picks Poor Old
   Ammet up beyond the
harbour has good luck ever
  after. This is rare: the
tides and currents have to
 be exactly right. Usually
   the image sinks in the
          harbour.
   Portable Organ, see
       Hand-organ.
 Porter, the main spy for
North Dalemark, operating
 under the noses of all the
  earls of the South, and
  the most wanted man in
the South. He reported to
 Hannart almost everything
 the Southern earls wished
 to keep secret, organised
freedom fighters and ran a
 rescue service for wanted
    men and women. The
  Porter was operating for
  most of the eleven years
     prior to the Great
          Uprising.
  Prest, one of the Holy
 Islands, large, with high
 crags. Prestsay, a small
 rocky island in the Holy
         Islands.
    Proud Ammet, a big
  merchant ship based in
 Holand in South Dalemark
where Earl Hadd's assassin
 seems to have been when
 he fired. Like all the big
 merchant ships, this one
 was named from the Sea
          Festival.
             R
  Ratchet, a cat found by
 the children of Closti the
 Clam on their journey up
  the great River, named
   from the sound of her
          purring.
Rath Clan, sometimes called
  the Sons of Rath, the
  royal clan of primitive
 Haligland into which Kars
 Adon and Ked were born.
  The clan colours, which
appeared on banners and in
  clothing, were red and
           blue.
  Rattles, rotating wooden
rattles, where the noise is
   produced by a wooden
 flange meeting a ratchet,
which are traditional at the
 drowning of Old Ammet in
  the Holand Sea Festival.
The rattle users are always
 small boys dressed half in
   red and half in yellow.
 A Reader for the Poor, a
  book designed to teach
working people to read. It
 was written by a clerk in
 Carrowmark who had little
imagination. A typical page
  begins, 'Ham beats the
  cask. He knocks in five
  nails. Will that make it
        hold water?'
Red One, one of the names
  for Tanamil the Piper.
Riss, a seaman aboard the
flagship Wheatsheaf in the
       Holy Islands.
Rith, a boy's name, fairly
common in North Dalemark.
      River, the mighty
   prehistoric watercourse
which flowed north through
   Dalemark from a source
 somewhere near Hannart.
 It was said that the One
 made the River, and that
   the River was both the
   One and the soul of the
  land, and that it was the
 path of souls on their way
 to the sea. The River was
destroyed by the One when
 he shook the land to rid it
of the evil mage Kankredin.
  It only remains nowadays
   as two small rivers, the
 Ath and the Aden, and in
the belief that the souls of
  the dead travel down the
  constellation of the River
   to oblivion in the sea of
         the universe.
 Riverbed, the spirit land
 behind the great River,
otherwise called the River
        of Souls.
  Riverlands, the correct
 name for the prehistoric
   kingdom of Dalemark.
    Rivermouth, the place
where the great prehistoric
 River of Dalemark ran out
 into the sea in the north,
 through a delta of marsh,
   quicksand and changing
   tides and currents. Its
remains can be seen today
     in the bay between
  Aberath and Adenmouth,
    where there are still
 treacherous currents and
constantly changing shoals.
 Robin, the eldest child of
     Closti the Clam and
  Anoreth of the Undying,
    whose birthright was
   knowledge. Unlike her
brothers and sisters, Robin
   passes clean out of all
  history and legend after
    the narrative of the
  spellcoats. It is possible
that stories about her have
been lost, or attributed to
 her more spirited sister
        Tanaqui.
    Royal road, the green
  roads of North Dalemark
   between Adenmouth and
 Kernsburgh. Tradition said
   that each new monarch
should make this journey on
    the old roads before
     claiming crown and
  kingstone at Kernsburgh.
Rugcoats, the poncho-like
 garment of woven wool
 worn by men and women
over their other clothing in
   prehistoric Dalemark.
Rugcoats for weddings were
  presented by the girl's
    family in prehistoric
      Dalemark to the
 husband-to-be as a sign
     that the two were
 officially betrothed, and
 the groom then wore the
  rugcoat at the wedding.
    These rugcoats were
  always of specially fine
weaving, usually with words
  all over. It was believed
 that the coat brought luck
to the wedding and possibly
    children, too. If the
  bridegroom did not wear
the coat at the wedding, it
  was a sign that the bride
    would soon be either
   deceived or a widow. If
  the groom gave the coat
 back before the wedding,
  the betrothal was broken
             off.
 Rushing people, the souls
  of the dead that hurry
along the Riverbed towards
         the sea.
 Rush mat, woven by Mage
Mallard to deceive the King
of the Riverlands. Weaving
  in any form is a potent
           spell.
   Rusty, a ginger tomcat
  found by the children of
   Closti the Clam on the
journey up the great River.
            S
Sailing in grybo, Lawschool
   slang for being in the
clear, without black marks.
Sard, a trusted soldier of
     the King of the
   Riverlands— trusted
because he enjoyed killing.
Scap, Lawschool slang for
   the spring solstice.
 Scarnel, a pipe made of
   pea or bean stalks,
 hollowed and varnished,
traditionally played at the
 Sea Festival in Holand in
  South Dalemark by any
number of amateur players.
 The sound is indescribably
         horrible.
Sea Festival, celebrated in
   autumn and called the
Autumn Festival or Harvest
elsewhere in Dalemark, and
  peculiar to Holand in the
South. Two images, one of
straw and one of fruit, are
    carried down to the
 harbour in a procession of
   men clothed in red and
     yellow, draped with
    garlands and wearing
      traditional hats,
accompanied by music from
traditional instruments and
  by other lesser images,
 where with solemn words
the two greater images are
 thrown into the sea. This
  is followed by feasting.
'The Second March', one
 of seven tunes used by
 soldiers to march to all
  over Dalemark. 'The
   Second March' has a
jaunty tune and is generally
   more in favour in the
          North.
Sein right, Lawschool slang
  for the right to start
 grittling. The team with
  sein right could choose
 weapons and set up the
         first move.
   Sending Day, at the
  Lawschool, the day on
which pupils returned home
 for the summer. Pupils'
  families were asked to
    attend the closing
  ceremony before they
    removed the pupil.
Sessioning, the Lawschool
 word for school term.
Sevenfold, a merchant ship
 based in Holand in South
  Dalemark which had the
 good luck to pull Poor Old
  Ammet out of the sea.
Every man aboard was said
 to have made his fortune
  subsequently. Sevenfold
herself was sold when she
became old to a merchant
 in Waywold who renamed
 her Fair Enblith and was
not particularly lucky with
           her.
 Sevenfold II, a merchant
 ship sailing out of Holand
   in South Dalemark, so
 called when the first ship
of that name was sold. Her
cockboat was found by the
  yacht Wind's Road. Like
   most Holand shipping,
   both Sevenfolds were
   named from the Sea
         Festival.
'The Seven Marches', the
set of lively tunes to which
 soldiers marched in both
North and South Dalemark.
Each march had well-known
           words.
Shelling, a village much like
 other villages on the west
bank of the great River of
 prehistoric Dalemark, the
  birthplace of Closti the
  Clam and his children.
 Shelling River Procession,
    held once a year at
 Midsummer to honour the
 River as a god. This was
     one of four yearly
 ceremonies in which flags
were carried, and probably
gave rise to the custom of
flying flags over the stalls
  at Midsummer Fairs all
  over historic Dalemark.
   She Who Raised the
Islands, the most common
  term for the lady of the
  Undying who, as wife of
   the Earth Shaker, has
  power nearly equal to his
  but, on the whole, more
 benign. As Libby Beer she
      provides fruit and
   nourishment, but in her
stronger aspects she is the
 earth itself, and the only
one of the Undying able to
 control the Earth Shaker.
 She is adored particularly
in the Holy Islands, where
 she takes the shape of a
beautiful red-haired woman
     dressed in green.
    Shield of Oreth, a
  mountain plateau in the
   south-west of North
 Dalemark that faces the
milder weather of the sea.
   The name is from the
least-known of the secret
names of the One, and it
 should perhaps be noted
that at least three of the
  Undying and the Adon's
  sword were to be found
   there. In early historic
 times the Shield was well
 farmed and populous, but
 fell into wasteland during
   the Adon's wars. Navis
 Haddsson was given ducal
lands here and was fond of
    saying that, of all his
    achievements, the one
     which gave him most
      pleasure was the
  restoration of the Shield
to farmland and prosperity.
Singers, a race of men and
    women, most of whom
    claimed descent from
  Tanamoril or Osfameron,
 who travelled the country
     of Dalemark singing,
  playing music and telling
  stories. Because Singers
were among the few people
     able to move freely
 between North and South,
   they also carried news,
letters and often fugitives.
 Some even acted as spies,
 but this was rare: Singers
had their own rigid customs
and standards, chief among
   which was always to tell
   the truth and never to
 perform a vile or a violent
act. They also passed down
      by word of mouth
  innumerable old customs,
     sayings, beliefs and
incantations, many of which
    were lost when Moril
 Clennensson disbanded the
   Singers in the reign of
       Amil the Great.
 Siriol, the owner of the
     Flower of Holand, a
 fisherman and a prominent
    member of the Free
 Holanders, the society of
secret freedom fighters to
 which Mitt also belonged.
   Mitt was apprenticed to
 Siriol for a while until his
indentures were bought out
   by Hobin the gunsmith.
 Siriol greatly distinguished
  himself during the Great
   Uprising and afterwards
  became first a councillor
  and then semi-permanent
     Mayor of Holand.
   Six steps up to a front
    door were standard in
 Holand in South Dalemark,
    where the land is only
 inches above sea-level and
there is constant danger of
flooding, particularly during
     the autumn storms.
 Skreths, Lawschool slang
 word for the cloister to
  the east of the school.
Small Western clan, any of
 several minor clans that
  sailed from Haligland to
prehistoric Dalemark during
the years before the main
          invasion.
  Soulboat, a small skiff
specially enchanted to hold
the souls of the dead once
 they had been retrieved
  from Kankredin's net.
    Soulnet, see Nets.
   Souls of mortals were
believed until quite recently
 to be the prey of witches
  and sorcerers, whether
  joined to a body or not.
   The mages of primitive
   Haligland claimed to be
 able to steal a man's soul
     while he slept, and
 Kankredin is said to have
      been able to take
someone's soul at any time
  he wished. Souls of the
      Undying and those
descended from them were
a different matter because
 they were believed to be
 combined not only with a
 body but with the entire
       country, too.
 South, the eight earldoms
     of Dermath, Holand,
    Waywold, Canderack,
   Andmark, Carrowmark,
   Fenmark and the South
      Dales. This part of
    Dalemark has a warm
climate, a rich soil and few
  high mountains. In early
 historic times it was very
     wealthy, but became
 steadily poorer under the
    oppressive rule of the
    Southern earls, until,
shortly before the reign of
Amil the Great, the South
 was actually often poorer
  than the North and only
 ruled by fear. The North
 regarded this regime with
   disgust; the South was
  deeply suspicious of the
North; and both considered
themselves superior to the
other. The South, in fact,
was noted for a number of
   virtues not seen in the
      North: efficiency,
     cool-headedness,
     perseverance and
    clear-sightedness,
  combined with a strong
     sense of humour.
 South Dales, the earldom
 closest to North Dalemark
and in many ways not unlike
  the North in climate and
 geography. But being this
 close to the free-thinking
North had a bad effect of
   the Earls of the South
Dales: they were the most
  tyrannical, warlike and
unjust of all the Southern
          earls.
Spannet, a stable-hand in
  Adenmouth in North
       Dalemark.
     Specials, guns made
    secretly by Hobin of
 Holand in South Dalemark
   which he sold only to a
 chosen few. Each gun had
 some unusual feature and
all were better than any of
   the weapons he sold in
         public.
  Spellcoat, a poncho-like
    garment woven with
 word-pictures that either
   told a story or stated
facts. The garment, in the
 weaving, became the spell
  that made the story or
      fact come true.
Spirits were thought to be
everywhere and to govern
 everything in prehistoric
   Dalemark and it was
  necessary to please or
 soothe them every day.
Some of the more powerful
   spirits almost had the
 status of gods and were
confused by many with the
Undying. The unusual thing
  about Closti's family is
 that they did not share
this belief. Hern, in fact,
  rejected spirits out of
 hand as 'unreasonable'.
Spring floods, as a result
 of the snow melting in
 central Dalemark, are
  extensive even in modern
 times. In the uncontrolled
 River of prehistoric times
   there was always much
   flooding, which not only
 devastated homes but also
     brought fertile silt,
  driftwood and fish. This
      violent mixture of
destruction and benevolence
    caused many people to
regard the River as a god.
 Square rigging is the old
type of sail which is simply
   a sheet of canvas hung
 between two yards across
 the mast and swivelled at
   both ends to catch the
wind. South Dalemark very
early gave this up in favour
 of the far more efficient
    fore-and-aft rigged
   triangular sail, but the
North still clung to the old
rig right up to the reign of
 Amil the Great when Ynen
  Navisson reorganised all
shipping to form his fleet.
 Square-topped pillar, a
waist-high primitive altar
 only found in the Holy
         Islands.
Squarks, Lawschool slang
   meaning 'being too
      bumptious'.
Stair, Lord of Adenmouth
  in North Dalemark, a
   confirmed alcoholic.
 Stapled, Lawschool slang
meaning to be posted on a
    notice board as a
wrong-doer. Any pupil who
  was stapled lost certain
  privileges for a month.
Steam organ, at Hannart in
   North Dalemark, a huge
music-making machine built
     into the side of the
  mountain, operating like a
  church organ but powered
  by steam. It was said to
have been the brainchild of
    the Adon and brought
sightseers to Hannart from
the moment it was built. It
 is clear that the people of
 the Adon's time knew all
  about steam power two
   centuries before the
 industrial revolution, but
     considered it only
 worthwhile for providing
      entertainment.
   Stirring, Holy Islands
dialect for 'rowing a boat'.
Stork, the totem-standard
of the King of prehistoric
Dalemark, where birds had
a significance and potency
  which it is now hard to
  define. No one but the
   King or his accredited
  agents dared carry the
 Stork. Thus the people of
Shelling knew at once that
the messengers were there
      by royal decree.
 Surnam, Lawschool slang
     for the one who
 spearheads an attack at
         grittling.
 Sweetheart, a black cat
rescued from an island by
the children of Closti the
 Clam on their journey up
     the great River.
Sweetrush, a pet-name for
   Tanaqui the weaver.
            T
  Talismans, charms for
  keeping the soul in the
body made for King Hern's
army by Tanamil the Piper.
   Many centuries later,
 Dalemark people still call
   pebbles found with a
     chance pattern of
  cross-hatching 'Piper's
         pieces'.
Tally, the Lawschool term
 for their list of prizes.
 Tan, a particle added to
  the front of a personal
    name to mean 'the
 younger' as in Tanabrid,
Tankol, Tanamil et cetera.
Tanabrid, the daughter of
  the Adon by his second
 wife, Manaliabrid of the
Undying, who married the
 Lord of Kredindale after
 the death of the Adon.
Tan Adon, Young Lord, one
 of the names for Tanamil
         the Piper.
 Tanamil, one of the elder
    Undying, whose name
means 'younger brother' or
 'younger river'. It is said
 that Tanamil was enslaved
  by Cenblith at the same
    time as the One and
 forced to create the Red
   River. There are many
legends about him, some of
   which confuse him with
       Tanamoril, the
  mage-musician. Tanamil
  however, is earlier than
 Tanamoril, for he is said
  to have played a major
part in King Hern's defeat
 of Kankredin, after which
 he is said to have gone to
the Holy Islands, where he
  can sometimes be heard
playing his pipes at sunset.
         Tanamoril
   1. Moril's full second
name. He was called after
   his famous ancestor.
   2. The name taken by
    Mage Mallard in his
   earliest disguise as a
 minstrel. Under this name
  he assisted Enblith the
   Fair to become queen
because, according to some
    stories, she was his
         daughter.
     3. The name means
'youngest brother' and also
  refers to both Mallard's
   and Moril's position in
      their families.
 Tanaqui, second daughter
   of Closti the Clam and
  Anoreth of the Undying.
  She was a skilled weaver
     who made the two
 spellcoats which were dug
 up from the hillside above
      Hannart in North
  Dalemark. Her name is a
 punning one, meaning both
    'scented rushes' and
'younger sister'. There has
   been speculation as to
whether Tanaqui is herself
of the Undying and, if so,
  is to be identified with
Cennoreth the Weaver, but
  this is probably without
 foundation: Tanaqui was
    plainly a real person.
tanaqui, the scented rushes
  that are nowadays rare,
   growing only in certain
     habitats in North
         Dalemark.
Tankol, otherwise known as
Young Kol, head foreman of
    the mineworkers at
    Kredindale in North
        Dalemark.
 Tannoreth Palace, built by
      Amil the Great in
Kernsburgh at the start of
  his reign, to Amil's own
 design, and still the royal
palace although the present
     monarch seldom lives
   there. Amil appears to
   have invented the name
  Tannoreth himself (as he
   invented so many other
things in the course of his
 long reign). It means, if
  anything, 'the younger
          Noreth'.
Tanoreth, the 'young bound
 One', a name for Tanamil
        the Piper.
  tears, a potent magic.
  When Mitt weeps on an
 image of Libby Beer, he
  unknowingly invokes her
        protection.
Termath, the southernmost
 port in South Dalemark,
  the seat of the Earl of
         Dermath.
 'The year's luck to you',
the ritual greeting between
  Holanders on the day of
     the Sea Festival.
 'This is my will...' a form
  of words used by a dying
king to name the next king.
These words had the force
  of law. King Hern, having
   named his son Closti as
     king, is said to have
continued, 'and it is my will
that I name all kings after
          you.'
   Tholian, the name of
several Earls of the South
   Dales. After the last
  Tholian perished in an
 abortive invasion of the
North a year or so before
 the Great Uprising, the
  name was discarded as
          unlucky.
 'To tide swimming...' the
ancient charm of invocation
  to the Earth Shaker and
     She Who Raised the
 Islands, spoken as part of
  the Holand Sea Festival.
Any who doubt that this is
indeed a charm should note
that the words 'go now and
    return sevenfold' are
    thrice repeated in it.
Trase, Lawschool slang for
a team attack at grittling.
 Trethers, Lawschool slang
 for roll-call, for which all
pupils had to be present to
    answer their names.
Tross, one of the largest
  of the Holy Islands.
Trossaver, one of the Holy
  Islands, held to be the
      most beautiful.
   Tulfa, the Southern
 spelling of Tulfer Island.
   Tulfer Island, a large
 island some eight leagues
off the coast of Dropwater
in North Dalemark, closely
    allied to Hannart by
          marriage.
            U
Undying, immortals. There
    are three kinds.
  1. The gods and closely
    related spirits of
  prehistoric Dalemark,
whose images were kept in
niches by the hearth and
 worshipped and placated
          daily.
   2. The Elder Undying,
who had the status of gods
   and whose souls were
supposed to be enmeshed in
     the land. They were
   worshipped in numerous
rituals throughout Dalemark
     which still remain as
  fragmentary customs and
  superstitions, particularly
in the North. Though there
   never was any organised
    religion and only a few
 buildings dedicated to the
   Undying, it is clear that
  everyone in early historic
     times, from the king
     downwards, joined in
     rituals of worship or
 invocation to the Undying
   at certain times of the
  year. The Elder Undying
   can be distinguished by
their ritualised names e.g.
The One whose names are
    not to be spoken, The
     Weaver of Fates et
           cetera.
   3. People who live for
ever. There seems to be a
gene of true immortality in
  the blood of Dalemark.
Such people—for instance,
        Tanamoril or
    Manaliabrid—are born
 rarely, possibly one every
  three or four centuries,
but do seem to exist. They
    nearly always possess
 unusual powers or abilities
  and often claim descent
from the Elder Undying. It
  has been said that these
immortals are the same as
 the Elder Undying, except
   that the Elder Undying
unwisely allowed themselves
 to be bound into godhead
  by mortals wishing to
worship them, but there is
 no proof of this theory.
'Undying at Midsummer', a
   very ancient tune of
 invocation to the One at
 the time of his greatest
          power.
 Updale, a small village in
 the centre of the second
Upland, north of Neathdale
    in South Dalemark.
    Uplands, the most
northerly section of South
 Dalemark. The land here
   rises in three steep
 escarpments to meet the
 mountains of the North.
             V
Virtue, power, life-force,
        or magic.
            W
Wailers, mourners, women
who traditionally sit over a
dead person making sounds
of grief. The sounds have
strict rules which have to
  be learnt. Wailers are
 usually elderly women or
those without children who
have had time to learn the
           rules.
Wanderer, the one of the
   Undying who walks the
   green roads of North
Dalemark, keeping them in
   good repair. He is the
patron of all travellers and
 invoked even in the South
at the start of a journey.
   Warden of the Holy
Islands, the title bestowed
on Hildrida Navissdaughter
    by Amil the Great.
 Warm Springs, mentioned
 in the spellcoats, halfway
along the southern stretch
   of the great River and
certainly of volcanic origin.
  Dalemark lies across two
   tectonic plates and the
land has always been prone
to earthquakes and volcanic
 upheavals. Most historians
believe that the shaking of
the land by the One was in
fact caused by the colliding
   of the two continental
plates. There is evidence in
 Markind of a much earlier
  upheaval accompanied by
 massive volcanic activity.
  Wars in Dalemark were
 frequent, but three only
     need concern us.
     1. The prehistoric
invasion by Heathens from
         Haligland.
 2. The Adon's wars when
    the Adon claimed the
crown, one of the few civil
   conflicts in which earls
from both North and South
  appeared on either side.
  3. The Great Uprising,
when Amil the Great took
the crown, which ended in
   the establishment of
 modern Dalemark as one
         kingdom.
    Watersmeet, in the
prehistoric Riverlands, the
  junction where the Red
River flowed into the great
           River.
  Waystone, a flat round
 stone with a hole in the
   middle, set up on its
 narrow edge to mark the
 start of a green road in
 North Dalemark. It was
 the custom to touch the
 waystone for luck at the
    start of a journey.
Waywold, the earldom next
  door to Holand on the
  south coast of South
        Dalemark.
 Weaver, the lady of the
 Undying who weaves the
  fates and fortunes of
 mortals. She is said by
 some to be the same as
  the witch Cennoreth.
'The Weaver's Song', a
 well-known nursery song
 that may originally have
been an invocation to the
         Weaver.
  Weaving was always to
some extent a magical skill
 and not simply to do with
   making cloth. In early
   historical times, each
 pattern woven was held to
  have significance. Note
 that Tanaqui takes it for
granted that whatever she
weaves will contain at least
some words, usually at the
   hem or wrists of the
garment, but quite often in
     bands throughout.
  'Welcome aboard, Old
    Ammet, sir!', the
 traditional greeting from
 the crew that found Old
Ammet floating in the sea,
showing respect proper to
   one of the Undying.
Wend, assistant curator at
 the Tannoreth Palace in
Kernsburgh, who claims to
 be one of the Undying.
  West Pool, the second
harbour of Holand in South
 Dalemark, shallower than
   the main harbour and
  protected by walls and
gates, where the rich have
always kept their pleasure
 boats. Harbour dues here
      are very high.
Wheatsheaf, the flagship
of the Holy Islands fleet.
  Wheatsheaf crest, the
 badge of Holand in South
 Dalemark, much feared in
  the time of Earl Hadd,
  when Harchad Haddsson
gave each of his paid spies
a small gold button stamped
      with this crest.
'Wider than the world, or
   small as in a nut...' a
 quotation from a song by
 the Adon, sung by Kialan
  on the road north. The
song is called 'Truth' and,
at one level, describes the
  working of the cwidder
    bequeathed to Moril
        Clennensson.
       Wind's Road
  1. An archaic term for
the sea, used in spells and
       invocations.
 2. The name of the yacht
   in which Mitt and his
  friends escaped north.
Wine, grown all over South
     Dalemark. The best
  vintages, red and white,
  are from Canderack and
  the worst from Holand,
 and there are one or two
superb reds from Andmark.
  The Holy Islands make a
strange sparkling white and
 brandy so good only earls
 can afford it. Apart from
 this, everywhere north of
   Markind tends to grow
   cider instead and distill
  from it the spirits called
gley. The main drink of the
  North is beer, except in
   Dropwater, where they
     make a sort of plum
           brandy.
  Winthrough, Lawschool
  slang for a scholarship
         student.
 Wittess, one of the Holy
 Islands, low and green.
   Words, a term used by
  Tanaqui and Kankredin in
    the spellcoats for the
   clusters of woven signs
 which only the learned or
 the initiated could read in
 the cloth. These signs not
  only formed words in the
   normal sense, but were
also potent ingredients of a
    mage-weaver's spell.
Wren, the headman of an
    unknown village in
prehistoric Dalemark who
led his people northwards,
fleeing from Kankredin. He
was the first man to swear
  allegiance to King Hern.
            Y
  Yeddersay, one of the
  outer ring of the Holy
         Islands.
    Ynen, son of Navis
  Haddsson, who became
Amil the Great's Admiral in
   Chief. Ynen not only
     experimented with
 steamships: he built the
conventional navy up to the
   extent that Dalemark
     quickly became an
   important sea power.
 Ynynen, the lesser of the
Earth Shaker's two Great
   Names. Readers are
strongly advised not to say
 this name beside the sea
       or in a boat.
 Young One, the red clay
 image of a smiling young
 man which the family of
Closti the Clam kept in one
 of their fireside niches
reserved for the Undying.
             Z
 Zara, the sister of Closti
the Clam, who was to have
    married Zwitt, the
  headman of Shelling, if
    Closti had not jilted
 Zwitt's sister. Zara was
   then forced to marry
    Kestrel or remain a
   spinster. Zara never
forgave Closti or his family
for this, though she seems
 to have retained a strong
    fondness for Zwitt.
   Zwitt, the headman of
  Shelling beside the great
     River of prehistoric
Dalemark. When Zwitt was
young, he was betrothed to
   Closti the Clam's sister
    Zara, while Closti was
    betrothed to Zwitt's
sister. Closti, however, fell
  in love with Anoreth and
married her instead. Zwitt,
   in revenge, refused to
 marry Zara. This caused
   continuing bad blood
between Zwitt and Closti's
          family.