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 upward 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 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 channeled 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 looked, Navis snapped, “I never believed you could be such a prig!”
Mitt answered, “Call me names! It was you took advantage!”
“It was not taking advantage,” Navis retorted. “Surely, with your background, you must have some idea of what it means to be married to a hopeless drunkard!” He turned haughtily away, 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 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 backward 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 fulfill 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 c
ooled 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.
7
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.