her surprise, she found Prince Daralanteriel there ahead of her. He was standing and looking out to sea with his arms folded across his chest. As she walked up to him, her footsteps crunched on the sand among the beach grasses, and he turned to greet her with a wave of one hand.
‘Dar?’ Valandario said. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, not really,’ Dar said. ‘Just thinking about the road ahead.’
‘Will we be going to the trading grounds?’
‘No, we’ll be travelling north along the Cantariel. There’s a Roundear lord – Samyc’s his name – who’s my vassal now. We should make sure that he’s safe. I’m thinking of asking for volunteer archers to spend the summer in his dun, just in case Horsekin raiders come his way.’
‘Do you think the Horsekin will dare?’
‘No, but I’d rather not be proved wrong. And then we need to cut east to visit Tieryn Cadryc.’
‘That’s a long ride away.’
‘Yes, it certainly is.’ Dar got a harried look about the eyes. ‘I’m thinking that I need to build a winter residence up north. Not exactly a palace, though I suppose it amounts to one. The gods only know where I’ll get the stone to build it or the craftsmen, either. And then there’s Lord Gerran. I owe him a new dun as well.’ Dar paused to look miserably away. ‘I never wanted to be tied down to a town. Everything’s changing, Val. I don’t know what to do!’
‘That’s why you have us. Wise Ones, I mean. When Gavantar comes back from the Southern Isles he’ll bring new settlers with him, and they know all about building towns. Look at Mandra.’
‘Just so.’ He smiled, sunny again. ‘We’ll have one last summer of freedom, anyway.’
Is that what this is? Val thought. Our last summer as wandering Westfolk? Their lives would pass into legend, she supposed, a time wrapped in wistful mist that hid the mud and chill of winter, the black flies of summer, the constant search for wood or the collecting of dried dung from their horses and sheep for meagre fires, the endless striking of tents only to raise them again. She turned and looked out over the farmland around Mandra. In some of the fields the winter wheat stood a couple of feet high, bowing and rising like ocean waves under the south wind. No one would have to trade with Deverry men for the bread and porridge it represented.
‘To be honest, Dar,’ Valandario said. ‘I for one won’t miss the wandering.’
‘Carra said the same thing. So have a lot of the other women.’
‘But the men agree with you? Will they miss it?’
‘Mostly, yes. Well, maybe in the summers, those who love to wander can take the herds out, while the rest stay behind in wherever it is, town, farms, whatever we eventually have.’ He shook himself like a wet dog, then repeated himself. ‘We’ll have our last summer of freedom, anyway.’
‘So we will. Are we leaving today?’
‘On the morrow. It’s time for the Day of Remembrance, and I thought we should hold it here with the townsfolk.’
‘Yes, that’s an excellent idea. The more you can do to remind the townsfolk you’re their prince, the better.’
‘So Devaberiel said, too. He’s composing a special poem for the occasion. I’m not sure where to hold the gathering, though. There isn’t any town square or the like.’
‘I know!’ Val smiled at her own idea. ‘About a mile to the west there’s a ruined tower. Some Deverry lord built a dun out here, back when Calonderiel was a young man, I think it was. I wasn’t born yet, of course. Anyway, the People drove him out again. The ruin would be an interesting reminder in itself.’
‘Splendid! We’ll do that. I’ll just go tell the mayor.’
Some hours before sunset, the townsfolk and the alar, minus a few herdsmen who’d volunteered to watch over the herds and flocks, gathered at the ruined dun. Over the past few years, the People in Mandra had pulled down much of the outer wall to use the stone for their town, but the tower still stood inside the fragment of arc left. Brambles, ivy, weeds grew thick inside what had once been the ward. The wooden doors and outbuildings had long since rotted away, as had the floors inside the broch tower itself, or so Calonderiel told her.
‘We had a couple of stiff fights at this dun,’ the banadar said. ‘The first one was when we cleaned out the rats that had infested it.’
‘I take it you mean the Deverry lord and his men,’ Val said.
‘Just that.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘And then – not long ago, really, maybe ninety summers ago or suchlike – another Deverry lord had the gall to try to kill Aderyn here. That was because of –’ He stopped in mid-sentence.
‘Loddlaen. I know. I heard the tale from Aderyn.’
‘Um, well, my apologies anyway. Here, I’d better go help the mayor.’
Wrapped in embarrassment like a cloak, Calonderiel hurried off. Valandario watched him go and thought about Aderyn, dead for so many years now. He’d had the courage to kill his own son, something that made her shake her head in wonder. And now that son was about to be reborn – no! she told herself. Not Loddlaen. Someone new, and a girl child at that!
A few big blocks of stone stood at one edge of the remains of wall. Devaberiel climbed onto the highest of them. When he raised his arms into the air, the murmuring crown quieted. Mothers collared children and made them sit down in a little chorus of ‘hush, now, hush’. Devaberiel called out with the ancient words of the ritual.
‘We are here to remember.’
‘To remember,’ the crowd chanted, ‘to remember the West.’
‘We are here to remember the cities,’ Devaberiel continued, ‘Rinbaladelan of the Fair Towers, Tanbalapalim of the Wide River, Bravelmelim of the Rainbow Bridges, yea! all of the cities, and the towns, and the marvels of the Far West.’ He paused, smiling at the assembly in front of him. ‘But while we mourn what we have lost, let us remember new marvels. Mandra rises amid fertile fields. Ranadar’s heir lives and walks among us.’
The listeners cheered, a sound like the roar of a high sea breaking on the gravelled beach. Some clapped, some stood, all called out. When Devaberiel raised his arms again, the crowd quieted, but slowly.
‘The cities of the Far West lie in ruins,’ the bard went on, ‘but Mandra grows and prospers. I see what comes to us on the wings of destiny. Some day the West will be ours again.’
More cheers, more clapping, and despite all her careful self-control, despite her dweomer and her power, Valandario realized that she hovered on the edge of tears.
Since Devaberiel was the only bard in attendance, the ceremony that day was a short one. He retold the ancient tale of the Hordes, riding out of the north to destroy the elven civilization of the mountains, but he’d shortened the story, Val noticed. All of the adults among the listeners sat politely, attentively, making the ancient responses when the ritual demanded, yet it seemed to her that few truly mourned. The children fussed and fidgeted, un-entranced by the telling.
Once
