The Crown of Dalemark

“So do a lot of people. If you mean that accounts for your mother’s standoffish vagueness,” Dad said drily, “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 on to 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 forwards 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 forwards 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 who 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 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 that 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 came 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 was 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 those 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.

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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.