The Crown of Dalemark (18 page)

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 realized 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.”

10

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 gray scarves 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 made the kinds 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, practicing 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 cloud 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 gray 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 gray 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 backward 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 gray 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.