Induna pulled herself up on the pillows, discovering that she was wearing a finely embroidered linen nightgown. ‘It is an uncommon piece of magic, rarely performed by Tarnian healers. And I now feel well recovered. But who are you two ladies, that you have familiar congress with such a dread creature as a Morass Worm?’
Deveron said, ‘Where are my manners? Let me present Her Majesty, Casabarela Mallburn, daughter of the lamented King Honigalus, and rightful Queen Regnant of Didion.’
The fairhaired wench grinned. ‘My Uncle Somarus, that murdering swine, calls me Casya Pretender. He’d pay ten thousand gold marks for me, dead or alive, but I have a temporary safe refuge here at Castle Morass, among secret friends, while my broken wrist heals.’
Deveron said, ‘And may I also present Mistress Sithalooy Cray, who is a leader among the race of Green Men…and my newly discovered great-great-grandmother.’
‘You must call me Cray.’ The little woman held a cup to Induna’s lips. ‘Drink a little of this. It will strengthen you. Then we must discuss urgent matters, for our poor world is in a state of turmoil unknown since the days of that upstart human, Bazekoy. And we have been chosen to put it right – if such can be done.’
Deveron said firmly, ‘But first, Eldmama, before we deal with such momentous things, we will talk of a wedding.’
The tall, rawboned woman dressed in a dusty black magicker’s cloak and a broad-brimmed hat approached Beorbrook Hold with her heart full of hope – and feet that hurt like blue blazes.
It had taken Rusgann Moorcock two days and two nights, walking without stopping save for brief periods of rest, to negotiate the steep downhill track that led from Lord Tinnis Catclaw’s mountain retreat to the civilized regions of northern Cathra. Her witch’s disguise, coupled with her daunting height and fierce scowl, had warned off the few shepherds and other high-country denizens she’d met along the way. They had eyed her warily and kept their distance, wanting nothing to do with what appeared to be a wandering conjure-wife of Didion.
No one seemed to be pursuing her. Thanks to the cleverness of dear Lady Maude, it was probable that none of the guards up at Gentian Fell Lodge yet realized she was not lying sick abed. The weather had stayed fair and the lopsided moon had shone bright as day as she trudged through alpine meadows and valley forests with long and tireless strides. Finally, on the morn of the third day, she approached the gates of Beorbrook Town, above which towered the enormous Cathran fortress that guarded the approach to Great Pass. It was also the home of the Earl Marshal of the Realm, the Sovereign’s most trusted general, and his adopted son Prince Dyfrig.
She was too exhausted to go much further without a long sleep and good food. But if the prince was in residence, she was determined to pass on the secret letter from his mother as soon as possible. She’d have to tread cautiously to avoid raising suspicion, however; it would never do to simply approach the barbican of Beorbrook Hold and demand an audience. Lady Maude had cautioned her that more subtle means were called for. First she must make discreet inquiries. Then, if Dyfrig was at home, she would contact him by sending a note to the earl marshal’s daughter-in-law, Countess Morilye Kyle.
Rusgann stepped aside into a copse of alders, opened her pack, and set about altering her appearance. She tied her straggling grey-blonde hair into a neat bun, exchanged her black hat and cloak for the bright red headkerchief, fancy knitted shawl, and white apron of a north-country peasant woman, and rearranged her plain features into a more amiable expression.
Keeping her gaze lowered and her manner unobtrusive, she moved among other common folk through the eastern city gate into a lower-class commercial quarter with openair market stalls purveying fresh produce, poultry, and a wide variety of other inexpensive wares. She soon came upon a likely tavern situated next door to a stable. Sitting down with two other congenial-appearing female patrons who turned out to be an elderly mother and her buxom grown daughter, she ordered a hearty meal of chicken pottage with leeks and parsnips, rye bread, apple tart topped with clotted cream, and brown ale. Even before the food arrived, she and her table-companions were gossiping like old friends.
Rusgann pretended to be a mountain dweller from a remote steading, whose husband had recently died. Rather than endure a harsh winter alone in the highlands, she said, she’d sold off her goats and sheep to a neighbor and was on her way to join her sister’s family in a village far to the south, near Teme.
‘I’ve never visited a big city before,’ she admitted with naive enthusiasm. ‘Coming here is like a dream come true. What a wonderful market you have! A person could find anything her heart desired in such a place.’
The old woman cackled dismissively. ‘Why, this piss-poor little clutch of stalls is nothing compared to the grand market square over near Beorbrook Hold. Now that’s a market! Lords and ladies shop there for silks and jewels and fine wines from the Continent. And orn’ry bodies like us can buy real steel needles, and thread any color of the rainbow, and pastries and sweets good enough for a royal banquet.’
Rusgann’s eyes widened with simulated awe. ‘Might one see Marshal Parlian Beorbrook himself thereabouts? And his son, Prince Dyfrig?’
‘Nay,’ said the younger woman, speaking with her mouth full of meat pie. ‘They’re both up in Didion, fighting the Salka monsters with the Sovereign’s army – and so are most of Beorbrook’s warriors. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about the invasion?’
‘Invasion!’ Rusgann gasped, feigning dismay. ‘Saint Zeth preserve us! I heard nothing about this. My steading is so far up in the mountains –’
‘Now, don’t be all in a flowster, dearie,’ the oldwife said soothingly. ‘The great slimy brutes aren’t anywhere near here. Back in Thunder Moon they bogged down someplace way up north in the Green Morass. Just came to a screeching halt for reasons nobody can fathom. Good thing, too – since it gave our Sovereign time to muster troops from all over the island. There’s a whackin’ great mob of fighting men gathered up around Boarsden on the River Malle, ready to smash the red-eyed fiends if they start to move again.’
‘Thank God,’ Rusgann exclaimed. ‘I suppose the earl marshal and Prince Dyfrig are with the troops.’
‘Where else?’ the pie-eating woman said, reaching for her cannikin of ale. ‘At Boarsden Castle, likely, where the great Council of War carries on wrangling.’ She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s said the yellow-belly Diddlies refuse to march into the morass after the foe, and High King Conrig can’t shift ‘em. The Cathran and Tarnian warriors are left twiddling their thumbs!’
‘Oh, my,’ said Rusgann. ‘So the Sovereign’s army just sits and waits? That doesn’t sound very wise.’
A potboy came up with her meal on a platter and demanded payment. She took coins from her well-filled purse.
‘Without Diddly guides, it’d be suicide to go into the morass,’ the oldwife observed with a sniff. ‘It’s not for the likes of us to second-guess kings and war-leaders.’
Rusgann grunted and fell upon the chicken stew like one starving. Her companions finished their own food and drink, and the beldame said, ‘Well, it’s time my daughter and I were off. Good luck in your journeying, lass. Be glad you’re going south, away from Didion and the horrid Salka.’
‘Well,’ Rusgann said with a wry grin, ‘I can only hope that my sister’s children don’t turn out to be monsters of another sort. Farewell!’
The two women smiled at her and left the tavern.
Rusgann sat back, sighing, and took a long pull of ale as she studied her surroundings. The place was clean enough and reasonably quiet. She’d seek a bed and get some sleep, then buy a strong saddle-mule from the adjacent stable. It would take her at least three days to reach Boarsden via Great Pass.